‘THE OLD BOOKS’ – A POEM
In the realm of literature, some poems have the remarkable ability to transport us to different eras, evoke powerful emotions, and make us ponder the timeless aspects of life. “The Old Books,” a poem by Vernon Scannell, is one such literary gem that captures the enduring charm of books, both as physical objects and as repositories of knowledge and history. The author left school at the age of 14 to work as a clerk in an insurance office. His experiences in various jobs influenced his writing and provided him with a diverse range of experiences that he drew upon in his poetry and prose. With this poem, he reminds us that books are not just vessels of information but also objects of art and cultural heritage. In an era dominated by digital technology and the convenience of typing, the art of handwriting may seem like a fading tradition. However, it is a timeless and deeply personal form of expression that gives us a glimpse into someone’s mind and has the ability to connect us with the writer.
They were beautiful, the old books, beautiful I tell you.
You’ve no idea, you young ones with all those machines;
There’s no point in telling you; you wouldn’t understand.
You wouldn’t know what the word beautiful means.
I remember Mr Archibald—the old man, not his son—
He said to me right out: ‘You’ve got a beautiful hand,
Your books are a pleasure to look at, real works of art.’
You youngsters with your ball-points wouldn’t understand.
You should have seen them, my day book, and sales ledger:
The unused lines were always cancelled in red ink.
You wouldn’t find better kept books in the City;
But it’s no good talking: I know what you all think:
‘He’s old. He’s had it. He’s living in the past,
The poor old sod.’ Well, I don’t want your pity.
My forty-seventh Christmas with the firm. Too much to drink.
You’re staring at me, pitying. I can tell by your looks.
You’ll never know what it was like, what you’ve missed.
You’ll never know. My God, they were beautiful, the old books.
Vernon Scannell (1971)