down the rabbit hole...

I'm into poetry.
And since I talk a lot about libraries, information and whatever else... I have to include some straight up classic literature.

A new "Alice in Wonderland" book just arrived the other day. It's a reprint. Probably due to the psychotic-looking movie that just came out. No, I haven't seen it yet. I'm sure I'll make it there eventually. I think I need to read the book again first though.

Here is a poem at the beginning of this book. I had to read it silently and then I had to read it aloud, and now, I'm going to have to read it a few times more because it's a little intrigueing.

All below belongs to Lewis Carroll

All in the Golden Afternoon

All in the golden afternoon
Full leisurely we glide;
For both our oars, with little skill,
By little arms are plied,
While little hands make vain pretence
Our wanderings to guide.

Ah, cruel Three! In such an hour,
Beneath such dreamy weather,
To beg a tale of breath too weak
To stir the tiniest feather!
Yet what can one poor voice avail
Against three tongues together?

Imperious Prima flashes forth
Her edict 'to begin it'--
In gentler tone Secuna hopes
'There will be nonsense in it!'--
While Tertia interrupts the tale
Not more than once a minute.

Anon, to sudden silence won,
In fancy they pursue
The dream-child moving through a land
Of wonders wild and new,
In friendly chat with bird or beast--
And half believe it true.

And ever, as the story drained
The wells of fancy dry,
And faintly strove that weary one
To put the subject by,
'The rest next time--' 'It is next time!'
The happy voices cry.

Thus grew the tale of Wonderland;
Thus slowly, one by one,
Its quaint event were hammered out--
And now the tale is done,
And home we steer, a merry crew,
Beneath the setting sun.

Alice! A childish story take,
And with a gentle hand
Lay it where Childhood's dreams are twined
In Memory's mystic band,
Like pilgrim's withered wreath of flowers
Pluck'd in a far-off land.

Down the Rabbit Hole

Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, 'and what is the use of a book,' thought Alice, 'without pictures or conversations?'"

And this is mine below:

What is the use of a book without pictures or conversations in it?

The imagination builds itself,
The dreams take a fly,
The synapses spark,
The attention becomes hard to pry,
It may be a lie,
but to you it may be the only truth you really believe inside.

-A highly wired lady.