The Secret Stead is the pen name of a UK-based writer and
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about where I go to play.
Now don't be dismayed (though you could
be initially I'll admit) if I point
to the local library.
Of all things a library? your eyes
might roll past my foolish whim;
but I'll say nothing at first,
I'll just lead you in.
For the library
has taught me
silence is often seen
as the wisest form of speech
in disguise, and the silent
deemed the most wise.
2 - So let me persuade you (if you will)
to walk with me
through its leafy aisles;
where the wood of all things breathe
together under one cover;
to discover pages and pages
of the unknown and the already read;
teeming with a multitude of voices singing;
a wondrous forest of all things feasting
on all things said.
Forbidden fruits hang ripe from its shelves;
there are tables here where knowledge
is the staple bread for all.
This is a forest where we can sink our roots
like flowers; to grow with curiosity and awe;
and lift our heads skywards
from its forest bed enthralled.
3 - It's thick with trees from every age
that gave their lives
as markers; a gallery of spines
and pillars for druids of wisdom
to come and scythe the leaves;
or temples in which devout scholars
search for truth on earthly knees
in prayer - for every book
is a little bible
in this wordy lair.
Think of it as a temple of groves;
a chapel of wood
with no need of a steeple, no altar or pulpit
from which to preach,
(unless you take the book and stand on it)
for here in its forest
we are all at page level,
made equal by its ink.
4 - A well-read library is like no other;
where you can grab a slice of the real,
rather than the virtual for bed,
where daydreaming is allowed
to feed (I call it food for the head).
It has roads to thought and freedom
that stretch all across the world
in the short space it takes
to turn a page (instead of a click
of a button, just think!)
and it maps the hope
that no journey is a last journal,
or a final word to stop our travel
across its wooden stage.
5 - It's a forest with individual trails
for each follower; paper chases with sages
and pages of secret places,
studiously marked
by a system of thumbprint;
bookcases of privacy
where words spells are spun
as a spider weaves a glimmering web;
mystically intrinsical as storytelling,
and as deep as the drilling
of the oil for its ink;
and the fallible print of history
locked in black and white
which we unlock in the greys
to find a middle ground,
where it's just as important
to listen rather than speak,
and where you are invited to think.
6 - A library will guide, but has no agents
or parents, to tell you who you are,
or who you should be;
open books open minds
to let you grow with your imagination
as to all you can be,
where any triumphs
or failures to be had
comes from your own reading,
in unequal measure, depending
on the good or the bad of the author --
it can be illuminating -- copies of dead trees
reincarnated into kindles
of light and fire;
a forest of flesh bound together
to wire down the word; the pen resurrects
what was cut down
by a less mightier sword.
7 - Here the timber of books still live;
their insides change,
expand, and age, and discolour
with the reader and the reading,
they are living things recycling,
changing, inspiring, in connections
growing and fading; paging the past
with the future;
their corners creased
in possibilities and memories.
Here the word is the currency
we trade in:
from the pulp of trees
to the pulp of fiction;
and all the greatness,
and foolishness that lies in between;
and what becomes
literary celebrity
or merely the stuff to fill
the leaves of the library
depends on a word's credibility.
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it's a wood of play, but not all fun necessarily.
Its secrets are for everyone that can see
it's a sacrifice; it needs effort --
it won't come to you, you must go to it --
but you need to pay homage
to the hopelessly human
hearts worn on dust sleeves,
if you wish to understand yourself,
so come in and take your ticket
to this paper playhouse; be its audience;
breathe life
into the greatest stories its ever told;
in tribute to the tree
and the humanity on its shelves;
come with no deference
but to the reading itself;
and to the growing of your self
to reach your heights of knowledge,
(where no paper clips your wings)
so come in with me and take your place,
in this magical dizzying space, carved out
from the wood of all these things.
Published 1 May, 2012
Commissioned for a campaign to support local and national libraries in the UK
