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Books on a Plane By: Brian Webber on 9/22/2006; 1:49 PM Books on a Plane This is my poem in celebration of the written word This is my poem to say out loud I’m glad I had fiction and non-fiction Glad for political humor and history, glad I can read almost anywhere Even in the movie theatre just before the lights dim This poem is for Isaac Asimov who wrote “I write for the same reason I breathe,” For William Faulkner who said “Read, read, read!” For Oprah and her book club For Stephen King for teaching much of the craft through his memoirs For my parents, and step-father who also love to read and write and who passed it onto me For the inventors of the printing press, the typewriter, and Microsoft Word. This poem is for Anna Karenina For Joe Christmas For Mackenzie Calhoun For Ramses the Damned Some heroes, some not, all characters in books that I loved For the public library, for Barnes & Noble For used book stores and Hunter S. Thompson For paper and ink, For the sensation of turning the page For learning, laughing, crying For Mark Morgan for coining the phrase “Obeisance before the written word.” For historical fiction, the immortal question of “What if?” For Harlan Ellison, For J.K Rowling For the books of my childhood, some no longer with me For the fanning of the flames of the imagination For making me want to create, to share my visions by way of the written word. This poem celebrates literacy, Telling stories and telling truths Without books, how little would I know? How ignorant would I be? This poem celebrates the few movies that got it right That did their books justice That honored their authors. This poem celebrates the authors who made it and deserved to, It grudgingly acknowledges those who made it but shouldn’t have It celebrates Peter David and Terry Goodkind And Diane Carey and Eric Schlosser And Al Franken and Eric Alterman And Michael Moore and Richard Dawkins. To the writers of film and of songs as well To Dylan and Kurosawa To Larson and Mitchell To Lennon and McCartney To Kevin Smith and Cameron Crowe. This for the authors who left too soon. For Douglas Adams, who died on a treadmill, and never got to tell us about Dirk Gently’s trip through the nostrils of a rhinoceros. For Sylvia Plath, who met her end in an oven, who never lived to see the impact her work would have. To Frank Herbert, who left with several trips to the world of Arakis left unfinished. To Jim Baen who brought sci-fi to the masses like never before. To J.R.R. Tolkien who never finished his last journey to Middle Earth. To John Lennon who told his stories through song, And was taken from us most cruelly. To the poets who took their own lives, To Orson Welles who perhaps peaked too soon.v To Jay Gould who helped show us the wonders of evolution through his books. This is a poem against “I don’t read,” Against “books are for losers,” and “put that stupid book down,” and “it’s not polite to read in a restaurant.” This is a poem to say: I read and write for the same reason I breathe. For Plath, and Adams, and Faulkner, and O’Toole, and Tolstoy, their immortality through my reading. To Richard and Christi-Anne, fellow writers, acquaintances, who I know will make it someday. I can write. Not to do so would be to shame myself, and my family who love the craft as much as I do but never get to practice it. I’ve lived with bullies, with family squabbles, With wars and corruption and theft, With loss of friends to random circumstance. I’ve lived with heartbreak and uncertainty in my work, my education. But through it all, I’ve had books, and light by which to read, either the natural light of the sun, or the artificial of a lamp or a blank computer screen or flashlight. Understand I know exactly what I got: entertainment and knowledge And I will not justify it. I am not going to suffer the odd looks of fools who feel like I’m missing out on something by having my nose buried in a book. I have love. I have a home. I have a job, money with which to buy my books. I listen to music, go to the movies. I get buzzed with friends. I go on vacations. I live. Don’t say I don’t. I will read. I will write. But I will do more. I will work to make this world a better place so that we never again see books being burned. Not in my country, not on my watch, not when there is still so much left for me to read.
RE: Books on a Plane By: Brian Webber on 9/22/2006; 1:50 PM This is a poem I had to write for my English 1010 class at Metro, modeled after the poem Class Poem by Aurora Levins Morales. The title is a spoof of the overhyped movie Snakes on a Plane.
RE: Books on a Plane By: demonchild13 on 10/8/2006; 1:13 AM I love how you added J.K. Rowling to your list, most people think she's just some children's author. I don't believe that but you know... Anyways good poem.
RE: Books on a Plane By: Brian Webber on 10/8/2006; 12:00 PM Thanks. I love the Harry Potter books. Something that's kind of funny, when I was watching the Season 3 DVD of Gilmore Girls, and Rory gave her Chilton graduation speech, I realized that it had a lot in common with this poem. Here's the transcript (with the parts that reminds me of the poekm italicized): RORY: Headmaster Charleston, faculty members, fellow students, family and friends, welcome. We never thought this day would come. We prayed for its quick delivery, crossed days off our calendars, counted hours, minutes, and seconds, and now that it's here, I'm sorry it is because it means leaving friends who inspire me and teachers who have been my mentors - so many people who have shaped my life and my fellow students' lives impermeably and forever. I live in two worlds. One is a world of books. I've been a resident of Faulkner's Yoknapatawpha County, hunted the white whale aboard the Pequod, fought alongside Napoleon, sailed a raft with Huck and Jim, committed absurdities with Ignatius J. Reilly, rode a sad train with Anna Karenina, and strolled down Swann's Way. It's a rewarding world, but my second one is by far superior. My second one is populated with characters slightly less eccentric but supremely real, made of flesh and bone, full of love, who are my ultimate inspiration for everything. Richard and Emily Gilmore are kind, decent, unfailingly generous people. They are my twin pillars without whom I could not stand. I am proud to be their grandchild. But my ultimate inspiration comes from my best friend, the dazzling woman from whom I received my name and my life's blood, Lorelai Gilmore. SOOKIE: Uh oh. LORELAI: Hang in there. RORY: My mother never gave me any idea that I couldn't do whatever I wanted to do or be whomever I wanted to be. She filled our house with love and fun and books and music, unflagging in her efforts to give me role models from Jane Austen to Eudora Welty to Patti Smith. As she guided me through these incredible eighteen years, I don't know if she ever realized that the person I most wanted to be was her. SOOKIE: Not crying. LORELAI: Crying a little. SOOKIE: Crying a little, but not blubbering. That's what we meant when we said no crying, no blubbering. RORY: Thank you, Mom. You are my guidepost for everything. SOOKIE: On the verge of blubbering here. JACKSON: Not doing too well myself. LORELAI: Not you, too. LUKE: I'm blubbering, you're freaks. RORY: As we prepare ourselves today to leave. . .
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