Dormant Seed - Chetham's Library, Manchester (31/10-2/11/16)

People read

In a place which time forgot,

Frozen in aspect

Since its inception

In days of old.

Yet Manchester’s legacy

Has not allowed itself

To degrade in that time.

Its beams still ebony dark,

Shelves gated

And alphabetized,

The only atrophy evident

In those neglected tomes.

But as Henry Thoreau once said,

‘Decayed literature makes

The richest of all soils’ –

It only takes one reader

To revive a dormant concept;

Its only takes one seed

To start the growth within.

Times Have Changed - British Museum Reading Room, London (30/10/16)

A world within a world,

Past brushing shoulder with present,

Beneath a powder-blue Pantheon dome.

Wilde lounges tragically against his desk,

Looking more each day

Like the picture he hides.

Orwell and Wells

Discuss the room’s circular aspect,

Akin to an Apocalyptic craft,

While Lenin simply glares and tsks

As I enter without a ticket.

“Times have changed,” he says

Into his copy of War and Peace.

Wilde’s nose falls off.

“You can say that again.”

Dust to Dust - Trinity College Long Room, Dublin (29-30/10/16)

What is this quintessence of dust

Reiterated from shelf to shelf

Down an interminable hallway

Of darkened wood?

As they render, they float,

Hanging motes in the sunlight,

Disappearing into obscurity

And the penumbra

Of the embowed heights.

It is there he will be waiting,

A clotted shadow,

Until the light has faded

For fear of adding himself

To the floating film of the air.

He has only the name

The illustrious student gave;

Enough to warn off late night studies

Lest they become his midnight snack,

For the name upon their lips

Is that of Dracula.

Shakespeare on the Moon - Birmingham Central Library (28/10/16)

Willie Shakespeare stepped out of his room

And froze in a perplexed breed of fear.

“Where in the name of the Lord

Have they taken me now?”

He was quite used to the library

Having the occasional facelift,

Being packed and unpacked,

Relocated and recreated,

But this was another thing entirely.

Gone were the uniform free-standing shelves,

Replaced with sleek lighted casing

Pressed into circular walls.

No more were the strict heavy steps,

Now neon conveyors carried patrons

From floor to curvaceous floor.

Goodbye to the standard stone façade,

Hello to filigree, glass, and gold

Like a draping of ornate chainmail.

Willie Shakespeare stepped back in

And sighed theatrically.

“Maybe next time,

They will have taken me to the Moon.”

A Virgin Birth - Bodleian Libraries, Oxford (27/10/16)

Above a church in Oxford,

You can still hear history whisper

Of the fifteenth-century night

When an academic empire was born.

Invisible Congregation - Signet Library, Edinburgh (26-27/10/16)

If I should say ‘I do’

It will be among friends,

Those who have changed my life,

Whom I think of every day.

They will need no invite

But play host instead,

Welcoming my guests

With tacit grandeur.

I will see them as I walk

Down the aisle

And remember the adventures

We had at the turn of a page.

Imagine them shed a silent tear

Like my mother would,

To see me dressed in white.

To Feed a Poet - Scottish Poetry Library, Edinburgh (25/10/16)

Poetry exists on every level:

The thought, the written,

The spoken, the heard.

It must persist in every form,

At any time,

Simultaneously.

As the mind hates a vacuum,

It was a chance for Scotland

To insist

That such a place must be,

For the word to live both on

And off the page;

To coexist within the confines

Of the provided space.

A performance poet’s paradise,

The bread and butter

On which they subsist.

The Modern - Sir Duncan Rice Library, Aberdeen (24/10/16)

There’s something strange

About a building

That can disappear in plain sight,

On a bright cloudy day

It is nothing more

Than a trick of the light.

For those who penetrate

The illusion,

Another lies within;

What once resembled

An ice cube

Is melting beneath the skin.

Within the shifting layers,

The humble book

Appears,

Its form unlike

Its holdings

Unchanged for all these years.

Open Up - Bath Royal Literary and Scientific Institution (23/10/16)

This library is a zoo,

Its shelving is the cages,

And all one needs

To set them free

Is open up the pages.

This library is a hospital,

Its patients sit in rows,

Their symptoms hidden,

All bedridden

Until the doctor shows.

This library is a library

Of science and of more,

So if you may

Be in Bath one day,

Then open up their door.

Ode to the Librarian (22/10/16)

You make order out of chaos

So unassumingly

And live in a place

That I’d much rather be,

As keeper of the ledger

Of the cathedral of the mind,

Guiding the lost

To the books they cannot find,

Or prescribing a dose

Of something new to read

As the literary nurse

That every town needs.

Is This Hogwarts? - John Rylands Library, Manchester (21-22/10/16)

‘Don’t be fooled’ I tell myself,

‘This is no fantasy’

As I gaze up at a Neo-Gothic façade

Of blood red stone,

Lavish with black lace tracery,

Parapets and gargoyles.

The roar of city life falls away beyond the door,

To a cloister-like quietude I fear to break

By ascending the labyrinthine stair,

Yet each step I take is slow out of wonder

For the nature of what surrounds me:

So organic, skeletal, intricate, and fictional,

It forces me to the edge of disbelief.

I ascend faster in fear that it should move.

There is the briefest second

When I brush reality

As the ecclesiastical echo of the reading room

Is soft with the hum of book-lined alcoves,

Of the warm lights sprouting from every wall,

But beneath the cavernous rib-vaulted ceiling

I am insignificant, I am transported.

I stare hard into marble faces

Daring them to blink,

Unable to conceive of another explanation

For this hollow enchanted place.

‘Don’t be fooled’ I tell myself,

‘This is no fantasy.’

City Escape - Maughan Library, King's College, London (20/10/16)

It feels like the walls are rotating,

Like you’re falling down

The rabbit hole,

Like the Martians are hovering

To take you away.

When you’re surrounded by shelves

On every side

Is the door your escape

Or the book?

Apple Pips - Mobile Library (19/10/16)

The child needed a saviour.

In so remote a dwelling

A hamlet library had no place;

The mother had no time or money

To vaccinate against indolence.

The child was a dormant seed.

A van selling ice cream

Tinkled down the lane

But stopped for no one.

The child looked up from her apple,

To watch it with hungry eyes.

Another van did stop.

The child dropped her apple

As she covered her ears.

There was a commotion

And a man in a bed,

Before it wailed away again.

The third van was silent.

The child wondered at it,

The apple forgotten.

Its doors opened on greater things

Than frozen dairy and pain.

Things that could water the seed inside,

Things to answer the child’s questions.

The child was given a book.

She saw the ambulance again

And waved to the man on the bed.

The ice cream man saw her today

As she read on the garden wall.

Her mother smiled

As she watered her apple tree.

The child had found her saviour.

Mackintosh in Ashes - Glasgow School of Art, Glasgow (18-19/10/16)

Smouldering in sunlight

Streaming through heat-shattered panes,

Mackintosh lies burning,

Wrought-iron roses withered

Upon the sill in mourning.

Hellfire reduced his work

To charcoal and clinker,

Iconic lights dripped from the ceiling,

Furniture fuelled the flames

Of a geometric bonfire.

The reality of the loss as one sifts

Through blackened timbers and trusses

Searching for survivors,

Is stark, painful, pathetic,

And phenomenal.

They cry for not a volume,

not a page, not a line remains

Of the tenants of tulipwood shelves,

Their souls scorched, their binding burnt,

Incinerated by an Art Nouveau Apocalypse.

To Bee a Poet - Morrab Library, Penzance (17/10/16)

Poised on the south-west tip

Of an island,

Words poised on the tip

Of my pen,

I overlook the Cornish country

Penned within a garden.

Somewhere in the books

That surround me,

I could find their names –

The pinks and yellows,

Reds and blues

That populate my vision

With their gaudy blooms.

But I am here to press ideas

Not flowers between pages,

To satiate my own roots

On the Victorian history

Which permeates the very brickwork

Of this establishment.

A lone bee drones into view,

Pausing on the ample petals,

Leaving covered in pollen particulate.

He will probably pen a poem

Far greater than mine

With those flecks of history

Upon his back.

This is Not a Library - My Personal Library (16/10/16)

I have a lot of books

On a shelf upon my wall.

No, I wouldn’t prefer a Kindle,

No, you cannot borrow one,

But yes, I’ve read them all.

Hardback Magic - Orpington Library (15-16/10/16)

Book cases are towering mountains,

A chair my vessel across the seas,

An open expanse of floor is lava,

My parents’ legs the trunks of trees,

And all I need is hardback magic

To fuel my escapade,

Recruiting new friends each fortnight

By way of a reluctant trade

With the woman behind the counter

Who, with a familiar bleep,

Scans my little card and wakes

My companions from their sleep.

Cafe au Livre - Cafe Library (14/10/16)

Coffee and a book,

Such a simple combination,

The one I drink to stave off

The morning’s sedation,

The other I read to maintain

Mental stimulation,

And all the while surrounded

By a societal vibration

Sitting in a hub

Of pastries and percolation.

It never would have crossed my mind

To conceive of this conjugation

Had they not installed a shelf

Full of paperback creation,

And while I was never one for coffee,

It was merely an obligation,

The adding of literature to my latte

Has given me a caffeine fixation.

The Unquiet Quiet by Lord Byron - The Wren Library, Trinity College, Cambridge (13/10/16)

An artist must suffer for his art,

That much I know to be true,

But there is only so much

That one man can endure.

My surroundings are exquisite,

That I also cannot deny;

The disparity of warm wood

And supple leather

Against the chaste white walls

Is a visual ballad in itself.

Even the way the outside world,

Shining forth through stained glass,

Paints its image in myriad colours

Upon the tiled floor

Stills my marble heart.

Yet despite all that

The page before me remains blank

By reason of such inconsiderate souls:

Philosophers, scholars,

Scientists, and judges

Holding court all around me

At the top of their lungs.

They may be far apart

And their arguments impassioned

(and as before, I am subject

To the stresses of my craft),

Yet I cannot help but feel

One should learn to temper one’s voice

In a place in which the sound

Of dust settling is a crime.

They expostulate, remonstrate,

Deprecate, and moan;

Never quiet, never happy.

But I digress –

How may I assist you today?

Krishna Condensed - The King's Library, British Library, London (12/10/16)

There once was a man down whose throat

The whole universe could fit (no joke),

But King George the Third

Said he rather preferred

A universe not down a throat.

Thus he ordered his agents to find

Books and volumes of every kind,

So that young or old,

In a glass tower, may behold

The universe neatly confined.