Skinny Dipping in Daylight by Cory Basil is a book of poetry and prose, words dancing from one to the next, in a melodic sort of way. Cory Basil is as talented with his words as he is with his art. I do not want to give too much away but if I had to choose a favorite poem, it would be The Searcher. It is a poem of struggle to find out who you are and trying to answer the question what is the meaning of life? In a way, it is written in a stunted sort of way, like each line drops off like a cliff of sorts, which lends to the emotional fear, the unknowing, we all face day to day in life, with the big questions, anyways. Read the book to find out why I loved it, and then come back, we can discuss it. You can also visit the author’s site...

Read Across America Poem You’re never too old, too wacky, too wild, To pick up a book and read with a child. You’re never too busy, too cool, or too hot, To pick up a book and share what you’ve got. In schools and communities, Let’s gather around, Let’s pick up a book, Let’s pass it around. There are kids all around you, Kids who will need Someone to hug, Someone to read. Come join us March 1st Your own special way And make this America’s Read to Kids Day. All rights reserved by National Education Association for the photo and the...

Love For This Book by Pablo Neruda translated by Clark Zlotchew and Dennis Maloney In these lonely regions I have been powerful in the same way as a cheerful tool or like untrammeled grass which lets loose its seed or like a dog rolling around in the dew. Matilde, time will pass wearing out and burning another skin, other fingernails, other eyes, and then the algae that lashed our wild rocks, the waves that unceasingly construct their own whiteness, all will be firm without us, all will be ready for the new days, which will not know our destiny. What do we leave here but the lost cry of the seabird, in the sand of winter, in the gusts of wind that cut our faces and kept us erect in the light of purity, as in the heart of an illustrious star? What do we leave, living like a nest of surly birds, alive, among the thickets or static, perched on the frigid cliffs? So then, if living was nothing more than anticipating the earth, this soil and its harshness, deliver me, my love, from not doing my duty, and help me return to my place beneath the hungry earth. We asked the ocean for its rose, its open star, its bitter contact, and to the overburdened, to the fellow human being, to the wounded we gave the freedom gathered in the wind. It’s late now. Perhaps it was only a long day the color of honey and blue, perhaps only a night, like the eyelid of a grave look that encompassed the measure of the sea that surrounded us, and in this territory we found only a kiss, only ungraspable love that will remain here wandering among the sea foam and roots. There is no frigate like a book by Emily Dickinson There is no Frigate like a Book To take us Lands away, Nor any Coursers like a Page Of prancing Poetry – This Traverse may the poorest take Without oppress of Toll – How frugal is the Chariot That bears a Human...

I loved these poems so much, I wanted to share more. Ode to Forgotten Authors What though your humble names are never heard In these ungracious days, Yet by your words were many bosoms stirred What time you piped your lays! Then, your quaint prose or long-forgotten verse Some student, it might be, Would to his comrades lovingly rehearse, So long ago, ah, me! Among you may be some who in their time Swayed many a heart, I trow; Not to have read you almost seemed a crime To those who prized you so! Your names were once upon the lips of men, Your volumes by their side; They praised those prosings of your fluent pen We “moderns” should deride! And others of you who in numbers chose To ease their teeming brain, For some had all the sweetness of the rose, The music of the rain. Your books were read by many a crystal rill, In sweet Julys long dead, Or gladly conned when winter nights were chill, And cheery fires burnt red. And now your works are overlaid with dust, They share oblivion’s night; Till in the same box some hand by chance is thrust, And drags one to the light! The page for centuries closed we turn once more Then, smiling, go our way, Harder to please than in the days of yore— Well, well, you had your day.1   Old Friends, Old Books Old friends, old books are surely best, Already long they’ve stood the test, In times of stress or indolence Have ministered to soul and sense, With grace responsive to each quest. Aye, every whim by us possest When winds blow east or winds blow west, They kindly humor—not incense— Old friends, old books! The new may touch with keener zest When we with ennui are opprest But only briefly; turning thence, With reawakened confidence, We seek—for peace, for joy, for rest— Old friends, old books!2   Ere Lamplight Dawneth When do I love you most, sweet books of mine? In strenuous morns when o’er your leaves I pore, Austerely bent to win austerest lore, Forgetting how the dewy meadows shine; Or afternoons when honeysuckles twine About the seat, and to some dreary...

I came across some book poems from the early 1900’s. This one is short and sweet, and would actually make a good sign or whatnot… This book’s one thing, My foot’s another; Touch not the one For fear of the other.1 And this one is rather clever. The man is clearly less impressed with his wife’s preoccupation with reading. He’d rather her be doing something a bit more domestic, as you will read, My Love in book lore’s very wise, She cons the ancient classics o’er, And talks of the “Immortal Four”— But never talks of making pies. She raves of Spenser’s “Fairy Queen,” And Chaucer’s “Canterbury Tales;” Says modern verse beside them pales— But mentions not the rare baked bean. Euripides and Socrates, Ovid and Homer, all, she quotes; Is busy with her, “Browning notes”— But not a note on biscuits sees. Of books I know not overmuch, But oft I with my darling plead, And beg that she will sometimes read Some books I value—they are such Juliet Corson’s “Cooking School,” “Buckeye Cook Book,” “How to Live” On half enough a week, and give Three square meals daily, cooked to rule. I cannot rave of Sappho’s wit, But Miss Parloa well I know, And Marion Harland’s worth can show, And Mrs. Lincoln quote a bit. Their works are equal, I maintain, To all the best of ancient books, For men are civilized by cooks, More than by Learning’s gentle reign. Success is work, and hungry men Few battles win or poems write; The well-fed mortal wins the fight In this old world, with sword or pen.2 And a poem that clearly demonstrates a bibliophile… O silent volumes on my shelves, That hold the deathless and divine, Ye have but to reveal yourselves, And I am yours, as ye are mine! Mere ink and paper though ye be, As shells wherein no life appears— If hand but touched and eye but see, Then mind meets mind across the years. Dante and Shakespeare speak once more, Beethoven sings his soulful strain; And in the unsealed tombs of yore Wake all the passion, all the pain. They are not dead, these silent ones, Nor dumb, but eloquent with light, And...

I happened upon some lovely book-related things… a picture and a poem. I am not certain who wrote the poem, I found it in a book but it says it was written anonymously (I found out who it was, see below). I will share them both with you. I hope you like them. The poem: I’ve travelled [sic] the world twice over, Met the famous; saints and sinners, Poets and artists, kings and queens, Old stars and hopeful beginners. I’ve been where no one’s been before, learned secrets from writers and cooks, All on one library ticket To the wonderful work of books. — Janice James (I found the author…with a little google...