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by Ali Howarth 2 months ago in surreal poetry
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The transition

Photo by Boudewijn Huysmans on Unsplash

The pages whisper and rustle,

sharing the dreams of dead kings, the mutterings of philosophers, the fancies of writers.

The smell of the books evoke living history, crackling manuscripts.

The marks on the smooth, creamy whiteness, from your brain to mine,

across time and space.

Transitioning now to pixels and glass; the loss of sensory pleasure.

The whispering rustle is lost, the smell is faded.

In my mind now only: the dreams, the mutterings and the fancies.

The marks on the smooth, glassy whiteness, from your brain to mine,

across time and space.

An entire library edifice,

marble colonnades, towering shelves, a tribute to thought.

Captured now in the palm of my hand;

speed of light, from your brain to mine,

across time and space.

surreal poetry

About the author

Ali Howarth

Antipodean. Powered by tea.

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Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!

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Comments (5)

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  • Denise E Lindquistabout a month ago

    Nice 👍

  • Babs Iversonabout a month ago


  • Cathy holmesabout a month ago

    This is incredible. Well done.

  • Scott Wade2 months ago

    You have wonderfully captured my love of books, timeless capsules shared from one mind to another. Awesome! Now have I have answer for those who do not understand. Thank you. 🥰

  • Russell Ormsby 2 months ago

    A few words, yet thought provoking words like a well written song. I didn't realise how much I missed the smell of print on paper nor the texture and sound of a turning page until I read this. I agree technology has made the realm of diving into a story with all your senses into an almost sterile thing. The intimate privilege of sharing thoughts and ideas from one brain to another is another thing that you touch on that is quickly being taken for granted due to modern technology almost being able to write the story for you these days. Good job my friend. Deserves a heart from me.👍

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