Bibliotechnica

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