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I was a librarian.

quote by Beverly Cleary
Added by Lucian Velea
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The librarian must be the librarian militant before he can be the librarian triumphant.

quote by Melvil Dewey
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I am not a librarian of my own work. It's a good thing not to be too involved with what you have done.

quote by Mick Jagger
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A book is a fragile creature, it suffers the wear of time, it fears rodents, the elements and clumsy hands. So the librarian protects the books not only against mankind but also against nature and devotes his life to this war with the forces of oblivion.

quote by Umberto Eco
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Google can bring you back 100,000 answers, a librarian can bring you back the right one.

quote by Neil Gaiman
Added by Dan Costinaş
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A book is a fragile creature, it suffers the wear of time, it fears rodents, the elements and clumsy hands. so the librarian protects the books not only against mankind but also against nature and devotes his life to this war with the forces of oblivion.

quote by Umberto Eco
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There were a lot of adventure books for boys, historical novels by Kenneth Roberts, and whatever mystery novels the alarmed librarian imagined might not corrupt an eager but innocent youth.

quote by Peter Straub
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I have a brother younger than me. My mother was a librarian, so from her, I got the taste to read.

quote by Shimon Peres
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A collection of good books, with a soul to it in the shape of a librarian, becomes a vitalized power among the impulses by which the world goes on to improvement.

quote by Justin Winsor
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My boyfriend thinks I lost my true calling to be a librarian.

quote by Paulina Porizkova
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Being a librarian certainly helped me with my writing because it made me even more of a reader, and I was always an enthusiastic reader. Writing and reading seem to me to be different aspects of a single imaginative act.

quote by Margaret Mahy
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I'm of a fearsome mind to throw my arms around every living librarian who crosses my path, on behalf of the souls they never knew they saved.

quote by Barbara Kingsolver
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When you are writing, of course, you have to do all that writing and correcting for yourself. When I was a librarian it was expected that I would know about a wide range of books.

quote by Margaret Mahy
Added by Lucian Velea
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There are distinct duties of a poet laureate. I plan a reading series at the Library of Congress and advise the librarian. The rest is how I want to promote poetry.

quote by Rita Dove
Added by Lucian Velea
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Great Children

Great-nephews married to the larger librarian,
His volumes mattered to him, his children were him;
These kids had missing demises, responsibility occurred,
Inclined to be highly medical and full of flair.

The pressing question lacked content, only lurking presence
Mastered them, children required passes for their examination;
Betrayed and undignified, they were heirs of a realm
They proceeded to acquire and master for themselves.

poem by Naveed Akram
Added by Poetry Lover
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Sunset (the One We Agreed Upon)

i like your sunset
flaming firmament
hues of fire, red hot iron and orange fruit combined
tasting like salt and sugar and vinegar to me
v-shaped seagulls like fighting planes

and the silence of the vast space
like i am in the library
the librarian on sick leave
and all the books are taken

did i forget the flavor?

(remember we agree on a poem with a color, taste, sound, smell
and whatever)

vanilla, and the sound, i already told you,

pssst, silence.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
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L For a memory of X

L.

L is a lid
-L is lit
before light:
but a late librarian of lyrics
liable even life to lend

L is not an abrupt inflection of levity
but a lampoon of a bad shampoo advert.

L is a leaf
not a liver
L is left to shiver in leather wrapped lies
L is a left-handed lass
L is lust:

but the last lost in the dust.

Lest I forget
L is not „ Lupus in fabula'
L is a lazy lad
but replies with your lips
to long not opened letters:
L is a lotus but looks like a lily
L is a lavender's petal

or maybe its sepal.

L lightens listening Luciano Pavarotti
But L is not an opera
L is a lump of bread
a piece of land
rather the rhythm of a poem's leap.

poem by Afrodita Nikolova
Added by Poetry Lover
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Humbling Habitat

The gray exhaust of twelve warm hearths
Chased the clouds into the afternoon sky.
There stood the stalwart mansion
At peace with its surroundings
And steadfast with its environs.
Beckoning an affectionate greeting
Just beyond the bridge, it appears
To give light the sublime levity
Of being a nuance of darkness.
Its façade is as prestigious and lucent
As a librarian’s bustline in her noblest estate.
Its walls of luminous windows
Sit still in a kinetic majesty of colors,
Like the yew tree in its bounty of crimson berries.

This refuge from the current disharmonies
Radiates from its midst an unheard music
And a conviviality suggesting a vicarious ecstacy.
Here, perhaps, is that first step in darkness
Of the empire prophesized to come,
Bringing its measureless song
Of the queen of the northern lights,
Whose monarch calms the most vociferous tempest
And warms the most bitter winter chill.
Here, under the clouds of mortal brevity,
Contained are the exotic reactions
To long suppers and golden evenings
From the replenishing of early traditions,
Beyond youth’s humblest dreams.

The twelve hearths fully aglow,
Fueled with only kindling atoms,
Tell of a future only they can know
And every human mind fathoms.
Within these high stone walls,
Lit by radiant lamps’ glare,
Every place an eye-beam falls,
There is the glory of confident flair.

poem by Albert Price
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Mr. Airing

I know someone,
Who will change your life.
He's sweet and nice,
Has a real big heart.
He cares for everyone.
He cares for everything.
He's the nicest man,
You'll ever meet.

Mr. Airing,
Thanks for everything.
You work really hard.
Funny and nice,
You make my day,
With your smile.
I've never met a more fun,
Librarian.

You read to us and help us.
You make everyone's day.
You're fun, happy, cheerful, and more.
I could say more,
But that would take all day.
So instead I'll say this:
Thanks for everything,
You've done for me.
And thank you for being the nicest,
Sweetest, Happiest Man I've ever met.
You're the best,
Mr. Airing.

poem by Dragon Crenshaw
Added by Poetry Lover
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Beware Of The Pie Cooker

There's never a dull moment as far as I can see
About a lady who's a librarian in Shrewsbury
Come what may she's a darling of the town
Always seen driving her Eos with the hood down
Hard as nails and an ass to match
She'll make someone a perfect- dare I say - catch
So anything you need to know is inside her head
Reading books to keep her brain well fed
But this Joan d'arc of the literary world
Has a secret that has yet to unfold
Given a chance she likes nothing more than to cook
Exciting things that turns heads and not pages of a book
So here's an example and you'll understand why
This lady loves making all sorts of pies
Be it vegetarian, pork or something special like Creole,
The main ingredient will always be soul
Whether it be human, dog or cat,
Who cares, she's enjoys herself and that's that
And whilst poor old Goober lies there waiting for fate
She's busy deciding what would be nice to put on a plate
Hot dog, burger, fish finger or cottage pie
No doubt thinking what to do when poor Goober dies
So, be not in haste
For if supper is late
Goober is not dead but is there licking his dinner plate.

poem by JeanJacques Evendon
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Monte Cassino. Terra Di Lavoro. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Fourth)

Beautiful valley! through whose verdant meads
Unheard the Garigliano glides along;--
The Liris, nurse of rushes and of reeds,
The river taciturn of classic song.

The Land of Labor and the Land of Rest,
Where mediaeval towns are white on all
The hillsides, and where every mountain's crest
Is an Etrurian or a Roman wall.

There is Alagna, where Pope Boniface
Was dragged with contumely from his throne;
Sciarra Colonna, was that day's disgrace
The Pontiff's only, or in part thine own?

There is Ceprano, where a renegade
Was each Apulian, as great Dante saith,
When Manfred by his men-at-arms betrayed
Spurred on to Benevento and to death.

There is Aquinum, the old Volscian town,
Where Juvenal was born, whose lurid light
Still hovers o'er his birthplace like the crown
Of splendor seen o'er cities in the night.

Doubled the splendor is, that in its streets
The Angelic Doctor as a school-boy played,
And dreamed perhaps the dreams, that he repeats
In ponderous folios for scholastics made.

And there, uplifted, like a passing cloud
That pauses on a mountain summit high,
Monte Cassino's convent rears its proud
And venerable walls against the sky.

Well I remember how on foot I climbed
The stony pathway leading to its gate;
Above, the convent bells for vespers chimed,
Below, the darkening town grew desolate.

Well I remember the low arch and dark,
The courtyard with its well, the terrace wide,
From which, far down, the valley like a park,
Veiled in the evening mists, was dim descried.

The day was dying, and with feeble hands
Caressed the mountain-tops; the vales between
Darkened; the river in the meadow-lands
Sheathed itself as a sword, and was not seen.

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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