Poem of the Week: 'Books Make Good Pets'

Books make good pets
by John Agard

Books make good pets
and don't need
going to the vet

You don't have to keep
them on a lead
or throw them a stick.
They'll wag their tails
when you flick
their dog-eared pages.

Books make good pets
and don't need
going to the vet.

One curious look sets
them purring
on the cushion of your eyes
as if to say dear browser
you've picked me up before
and thrown me aside
but I have more than nine lives
and no need to keep twiddling
that piece of string.

Books make good pets
and don't need
going to the vet.

They'll burrow their way
through the dust of your mind
nibble at old ideas
to let in the new
and you don't have to empty
any droppings on a tray.
No thank you.

Books make good pets
and don't need
going to the vet.

They'll hibernate
in the shell of their covers
and patiently wait
as long as centuries
to be rediscovered
in their own good time
when some reader rolls them over
on their cracked spine.

Books make good pets
and don't need going
to the vet.

They're easier to care
than tropical parakeets
and sometime come in pairs
but they prefer to breed
in stacks and piles.
You don't have to feed
them sunflower seed
and just about anywhere
will serve as a nesting site
and from the perch of a shelf
they'll help you take flight
among the branches of yourself.

Books make good pets
and don't need
going to the vet.

They're as colourful as goldfish
in all their stillness
and believe me this is no whim
books can glow and swim

in the bowl of your imagination.

* * * *

John Agard was born in 1949. He came to England from British Guiana in 1977, and, since then, has held some of the most important jobs in poetry, and won some of the most important poetry awards. He lives in Brighton now, with his partner, the poet, Grace Nichols. The poem above celebrates BOOKS and READING - so no surprise why I love it so much. But Agard has also written books of poetry about two other school subjects: Maths (Einstein, the Girl who hated Maths) and Science (Hello H2O). To show that I am not TOTALLY obsessed with English, here is a poem by Agard about Photosynthesis:

When sunlight dances
on the tips
of leaves

and plants for joy
open their lips
and drink it in

and the breeze
makes a violin
of every tree

and even weeds
one by one
cry out for a kiss

of light and carbon -
a sheer spree of green.
Is this what they mean

by photosynthesis?