What Stories Are Waiting To Be Found At The Library?
Edward Hirsch wishes to find that boy he once was, who flew around the library on Sundays, reading and scribbling notes and pictures and “singing with joy.” He’d give anything to find him, Hirsch tells us in his poem, “Branch Library.” I think I knew that boy. He was a runner—skinny legs and skinny arms—and everywhere he went he ran. It wasn’t because he was rushing, or couldn’t wait to get there, it was because he loved to run. He never told any of us that, but watching him we all knew. He bounced, he pranced, he flew, always with a pencil behind his ear and books tucked under his arm: an Archie comic, Calvin and Hobbes, a Gary Paulsen book, and probably Garfield. All the boys loved Garfield.
I never said a word to him, only watched him run.
One summer day though, I was in the library when he was there, too. It was one of those in-between seasons of life when something has ended but the next something hasn’t begun, and there’s not too much to do but listen to the cicadas’ song and wait. Well, I guess the other thing to do is go to the library, which is what I did. Probably I was wishing to find someone, too.
I was at the card catalogue when he showed up next to me. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. I just loved the order of the cards—how they were organized with their call numbers and one hole punched at the bottom so the bar kept them all together and in place. I liked the sturdiness of them. I liked pretending I knew what I was looking for.
He smiled and I turned red, and he smiled even bigger and moved to a section of the catalogue and filed through the cards with determination. When he found what he was looking for, he made eye contact with me again, then held up a finger, telling me to wait.
I stayed where I was and watched him dash silently over to the nonfiction books in the kids’ section. He pulled a slim, white book off the shelf and clutched it to his chest so I couldn’t see the title. Once he made sure I was watching him, he flipped the book around to reveal its title: “What’s happening to me?” the large, black letters screamed, and I smacked my hands over my mouth so as to prevent the laugh that wanted to escape. The boy’s face matched the title: confused, bewildered, agonized, and my hands became fists in an effort to stop all the sounds of hysterics that were begging to be set free.
He pivoted, stuck the book back on the shelf, and walked to the fiction section, his face a mixture of calm and curiosity—just like he looked when he was running. I watched him choose a worn paperback from the “Adventure is Waiting” display. I watched him check the book out, tuck it underneath his arm, and walk out the library’s front doors. I would’ve had to move to the window to continue to watch him—and I thought about it—but I stayed where I was, and instead turned to the display of books waiting to show me an adventure and felt a spark like a fire that’s just been started at the thought that I’m the one who gets to choose, while the boy outside ran; he flew.
Try It: Library Poetry Prompt
Who do you hope to find in the library? Who have you found in the library? This week, write a poem about being found, or maybe being lost and then found, in a card catalogue, a stack of books, a display promising adventure, and all you have to do is turn the page.
Photo by Bill Reynolds Creative Commons, via Flickr. Post by Callie Feyen.
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L.L. Barkat says
This was so sweet, Callie. I especially loved the ending (which felt almost like the ending of a YA book to me. 🙂 ) Very satisfying! 🙂
Callie Feyen says
Thank you! “felt almost like the ending of a YA book to me” is a HIGH compliment and dream. Thank you.
Dheepa R. Maturi says
Such magic in a tiny interaction! Lovely!
Callie Feyen says
Thank you, Dheepa. “Magic” is exactly what I was going for. 🙂
Sharmen Oswald says
I am a School Librarian. Therefore, I find students and children of all ages and walks of life in the Library. I even found one hiding in the Library one time! In my imagination, and in the students’ imagination, the Library is like an island where magic happens and where students’ lives matter.
Library Island
(A Pantoum)
Welcome to Library Island
Where all belong
Where everything is grand
Come join the song!
Where all belong
It’s who we are
Come join the song
Everyone’s a star!
It’s who we are
We welcome you
Everyone’s a star
Your dreams to pursue!
We welcome you
Come join the band
Your dreams to pursue
Welcome to Library Island!
L.L. Barkat says
Love the idea of Library Island (and somehow it was double playing in my mind as “Liberty Island” 🙂
Also, that is so cool that you are a School Librarian. Now I understand a little better how you plan to work with National Poetry Month and nature in the schools! 🙂
Sharmen Oswald says
I can also see Liberty Island as a metaphor when talking and writing about libraries – freedom of information, freedom to be who you choose, freedom to read what your choose….and the list goes on.
L.L. Barkat says
Ohhh.
LOVE that. 🙂
Katie Spivey Brewster says
YES, “where all belong” 🙂
Sharmen Oswald says
This Library poem melds my love of cooking with my love of Libraries.
Start with books, the more the better.
Cream in several magazines,
Mix well together.
Fold in children, one at a time,
Very slowly to allow their essence
To permeate the mixture.
Top off with a well-marinated librarian,
Seasoned with a love for igniting the spark
In the fire of reading for all children.
Cook for as long as it takes
To rise to the top and serve
To the community for a
Healthy diet of life-long learning.
John Davis Jr. says
When I was a university professor, I had a long midday break, and I’d use it to go down the street to one of the most phenomenal public libraries I’ve ever been to and get some writing done. Sadly, the place has gone downhill in recent years (they’ve even had to install security cameras in the bathrooms!). But my memory of how it once was is pretty well encapsulated in the following poem:
Quiet Study Area #2: Largo Public Library
These book-thick rafters have housed
a thousand whispers: shelf inquiries
and future hopes risen like moths.
Flitting phantom questions
mingle with day-lit dust motes,
linger and hover until their powdery
beige frames litter windowsills.
Fatigued from attempted escape, they rest,
paper-quiet until a whisk broom of sunshine
sweeps curiosities into particles.
Triangular trusses point wings upward
as hushed word-spirits ignite among beams,
glimmering like gilded pages, like answers
unbound from their spines. They fly.
Sharmen Oswald says
I can visualize Quiet Study Area #2 because of the imagery you used. I especially like “paper-quiet until a whisk broom of sunshine/sweeps curiosities into particles”. Not too many know what is a whisk broom, but I do and can appreciate it in your poem. So much more effective than just “a broom”.
L.L. Barkat says
I loved that part, too Sharmen. 🙂