Bookcase - Poem by S.A. Blair
There are books upon my bookcase
And though most of them are read,
One or two still have their spines
Intact. Not like me.
Loose from the get-go,
My contents not foreseen.
Not by me at any rate
This bookcase once felt like a pigeonhole
I struggled to get out.
I made it, though,
Others wouldn't think so
But they’re still dust-bound in the school library.
Although some kids,
Will move them,
From their Dewey abode
The school librarian cannot see them.
Her bosom too big, her glasses thick
So they remain.
Now I sit beside others, who are carrying me.
As Chekhov carries Hargreaves.
Singular of course,
To my bookcase.
Am I Mr. Bump?
But in the place of my choosing.
Comments about Bookcase by S.A. Blair
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
- Still I RiseMaya Angelou
- The Road Not TakenRobert Frost
- If You Forget MePablo Neruda
- DreamsLangston Hughes
- Annabel LeeEdgar Allan Poe
- Stopping By Woods On A Snowy EveningRobert Frost
- IfRudyard Kipling
- I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love YouPablo Neruda
- Do Not Stand At My Grave And WeepMary Elizabeth Frye
- TelevisionRoald Dahl