Now and then while mindlessly scrolling on Facebook wasting time and killing brain cells, I come across one of those obscure words that causes me to smile as I recognise myself wrapped up in a single descriptive noun. Such was my delight at my latest find a few days ago, I couldn’t leave it alone. The ensuing spiral of thought and exploration had to lead somewhere, so this poem was born.
The Librocubicularist
turns on the lamp
positions the pillows
retires to bed and reads at night.
Or then again in case they missed
their nightly roam
to worlds unknown
they do the same as the sun comes up
fortified with a coffee cup
or maybe a mug of steaming Earl Grey
whatever their fancy I couldn’t say.
But bed is where you travel best
faraway with not a care
nothing to do but jump right in
and follow your characters
here and there.
As they play their roles
with each turn of the page
lives hang in the balance
the plot intertwines,
will the mystery be solved
and truth revealed
before your eyelids droop
and you nod off to sleep?
No matter, for when you
next pick up the book
they’re waiting right there
just where they were left
to come back to life
and pick up the threads
as the drama unfolds
and chaos reigns.
Tensions rise and the climax builds
you stave off feelings
of fear and dread,
but all is well
you’re safe right here
as you snuggle down
in the warmth of the bed.
My current night-time as well as afternoon on the couch read is Anne Fortier’s Juliet, a reimagining of Shakespeare’s classic, weaving characters across centuries in a fascinating tale of intertwined histories. Author Stephen King said books are a uniquely portable magic, and in reading Juliet you can believe that, for the tale of Romeo and Juliet comes alive in a whole new way, transporting us back to medieval times and the impact of possible consequences down through the ages on family histories and current events. You become invested in the characters and wonder if the ending is going to follow the same lines as Shakespeare’s fated couple or whether all the loose ends will be drawn together in a different conclusion. I’ve yet to discover how Fortier’s present-day Juliet becomes reconciled with her namesake from 1340.
American author and poet Eugene Field died aged 45 in late 1895, just two months before his novel The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac was published (ooh, bibliomaniac, there's another great word). He was best known for his poetry, but in this story following the lead character’s quest to acquire rare and antique books he wrote…no book can be appreciated until it has been slept with and dreamed over.
Ah, I like that sentiment.
Time for bed…now where’s my book?
