The Bookshelf


I sit crossed-legged

In front of my bookshelf

Inhaling the papery fragrance

And slowly sliding my finger over the well-worn bindings

I pause

Reliving my childhood

My memories of reading

Of devouring word upon word

Book upon book

And nostalgia grips my heart

When I open my favorite book

The pages are familiarities


And love

They are buttery under my warm palm

Ripped and stained and teared

They are thin and yellowed

But they are beauty

When something wet drips onto the paper

I flip to the beginning

And I begin the adventure

As I sit crossed-legged

In front of my bookshelf

Just something I wrote the other day.

I would love any constructive criticism you might have, but I won’t approve your comment if it isn’t in order to help me but rather just to criticize.


10 thoughts on “The Bookshelf

  1. 1WriteWay says:

    This is lovely. I like how you end the poem as you begin it, and use form to guide the reading. Even though you’re writing about bookshelves in a home, your poem reminded me of times I spent in university libraries, sitting in the stacks and getting lost in books.

    • Rose Tyler says:

      Thank you! I am so happy to have struck a sentimental cord for some many of my viewers. Bookshelves, for me, are the portals to millions of different worlds in one place.

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