Bibliotec(hnic)a
poems
by
Brian Phillip Kunde
Fleabonnet Annual 17
Copyright 1992, 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2013 Brian Kunde
Contents
Precis
Notice to Patrons
Portal Monitor
Library Scene
Reshelving
Borrower Blues
Library Labor
Back to Work
The Process
The Donor
Scaling Back
Non-Roman Materials
Serial Receiver
Ditch Diggers
Databasing
Computer Cries
Ebrary
System Freeze
Modem Operandi
System Change
Paperless Society
Electronic Blues
Elevator
Asbestos
Book Sale
Year’s End Doldrums
Credits
About the Author
Precis
Bibliotec(hnic)a consists of twenty-five poems on libraries in a world of increasing change and automation, not always for the better, as observed by a bemused and not altogether unbiased participant. Read warily, or you might find them amusing — and read straight through. The effect is cumulative.
Notice to Patrons
To any who could use a book;
They’re here, so come and read ’em.
It’s sort of silly not to — look:
We’ve got ’em, and you need ’em.
Materials for you are here;
Just enter and peruse ’em.
Unsure of which are best? No fear!
Our staff can help you choose ’em.
If you would exercise your mind,
And not let it get dated,
Then step right in. You might just find
You leave more educated.
And studying’s the way to do it;
Libraries, the spot to;
To stint your noggin is to screw it
Up, and so you’ve got to.
If you’re afraid our terms are strict,
You sorely misconstrue ’em:
Not finished with the books you’ve picked
When due? Then just renew ’em.
So come on in: to find a book,
Your very best recourse is
To try what many overlook:
The library’s resources.
Portal Monitor
Most every patron would prefer
We had no portal monitor:
What user ever celebrates
These dragons who defend our gates,
Whose eyes perceive potential crimes
And thwart iniquitous designs?
What patron of those passing by
Walks not in dread to hear the cry:
“Slow down, you! Let me see that pack!
This wasn’t borrowed: put it back!
You know you can’t bring in your lunch,
So hand it over. Thanks a bunch!
Your old I.D.’s no good this year.
No roller skates, you! Outta here!
Go back outside to drink that Coke.
Hey, you! You're not allowed to smoke!”
The monitor’s feared ocular
May never prove too popular
Among the folk its bearer’s cowed
By barking words like these aloud.
Not one among the crowd would dare
To meet that hard and gimlet glare,
Nor yet believe their foeman’s screed:
“I’m here to serve you, yes indeed!”
Library Scene
I looked into the library,
And what did I see there
But patrons lounging lazily
In every nook and stair.
One lad employed his pen, I saw,
Upon his study carrel:
Another exercised his jaw
Quite loudly, to his peril.
A few shot rubber bands at lights
Or paper airplanes flew,
While others still engaged in fights,
And some their noses blew.
Astoundingly, I did not see,
However I did look,
One member of that company
A-studying a book!
Reshelving
The Patrons must believe an elf
Restores their reading to the shelf:
While by and large they own the grace
Of tracking down the storage place
Of every book they’re yearning for,
Thereafter, they forget this lore.
Then wantonly, without a care,
They leave the books most everywhere,
No matter where they got them, so
They end up scattered to and fro.
What they pick up they don’t put back.
The lowly page takes up the slack.
In this new age, who’s sticking up
For those whose job is picking up—
A drudgery whose convolutions
Poorly fit high-tech solutions?
Without our pages, Heaven knows
If aught would get back where it goes.
Borrower Blues
This book’s off in storage,
that one’s in transit.
This one’s here, but checked out.
That one’s simply gone.
I’m just out of luck;
project’s nearly due.
Can’t complete it, now.
Got the borrower blues.
Portal jockey stops me
’cause I’ve lost my card.
Can’t get in my locker —
combination’s lost.
I’m plain out of luck;
project’s due today.
Can’t complete it, now.
Got the borrower blues.
Can’t check out that thesis
I need to consult
Till I bring the one back
lost a month ago.
I’m shit-out-of-luck;
project’s over-due.
Can’t complete it, now.
Got the can’t hack it,
hard case, no good, dead-beat,
bummed out, borrower —
buh-luuues....
Library Labor
The labor of the library in which we are employed
May sometimes seem a bit deficient in utility,
But if it does, be circumspect; we tend to get annoyed
Whenever what we do is likened to futility.
If what you see looks little, it’s a fraction of a whole
Much greater than you know, or may appear to one who spies
On any single person’s seeming minuscule role:
For those who take a broader view, it shows another guise.
Our efforts build on those of those who labored here before,
Accumulating slowly, like the knowledge we revere,
Correcting and improving any part remaining poor,
Until we reach perfection, or approach it pretty near.
And if perchance some portion doesn’t measure up, don’t worry:
The workers who will follow us will fix it — no big hurry!
Back to Work
Vacation’s over: now it’s back to work,
To labor at such labor as they send us,
Which multiplied, to bide, and hide, and lurk
In wait for us. The impact is stupendous.
Where could it all have come from? I confess
I wonder, but I haven’t any clue
As to the antecedents of this mess,
Which welcomeless winged in for us to do.
T
he reason makes no difference, I suppose,
However; wherefore ever it has come,
We have to deal with it. Heaven knows
Just how, but now we must, so hand me some.
While we were out, our desks got inundated:
A lengthy dig is plainly indicated.
The Process
A man there was who wrote a book;
A publisher who bought it,
And advertised the same to hook
The masses. Many sought it.
A flier reached the library,
Which hardly could ignore it.
So Acquisitions presently
Approved an order for it.
The book arrived, was invoiced, paid,
And date-stamped as our own,
And classified, and finally laid
Upon the shelves, for loan.
But fashions ebb and fashions flow,
And public interest faded
Before it reached the patrons, so
It sat there, and degraded.
It mouldered twenty years till one
Fine day the folk who must
Go through and weed the stacks found none
Had touched the thing but dust.
Unneeded, for a year or two
Its fate remained in doubt
Till someone took the plunge, and threw
The faded copy out.
It might appear that that was it,
But fashions changed again,
And since some patron wanted it,
We ordered it again.
The Donor
A donor gave a book to us,
And made of it a lot of fuss:
He said “I want this piece to go
Right into your collection.”
We didn’t, but he promised more
To follow, which we lusted for,
In light of which we took it, so
He’d keep up the connection.
But then, alas, our donor died,
His pledge not yet redeemed. We tried
To reel it in. We couldn’t, though.
Imagine our dejection!
And that, alas, was not the worst:
The piece of junk he’d sent us first
Remained to fill our hearts with woe
In all its imperfection.
We swallowed whole the bait before
Securing what we took it for,
And said we’d keep it. Now we’re low,
And sickly of complexion.
Beware the gifts a donor brings
Whenever they’re attached to strings
Which bind to you what you would throw
Away, allowed discretion.
Scaling Back
Our budgeters don’t sit the fence
In