1900’s Book Poems

Mar 21

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...

Read More

Book of Christmas Love

Dec 17

4/365. Book of Love., originally uploaded by Thomas Åsen. What better present than a book for the holidays? Another stunning bibliophotograph worth...

Read More

Book Cafe

Jul 22

I saw this picture on Flickr and went on a tangential imaginative journey where such a place exists… a book cafe, a literal book cafe. The Book Cafe. Where you can be nourished, filled to the brim with books. Novel sandwiches and paperback salad. Where all your hungers are sated within the shelved walls of this Book Cafe. A place where you can overindulge with only the worry of excess mental pounds making you think just a little bit more…where you can sink your teeth into a historical fiction or fall asleep into a plate of Simone de Beauvoir. Mmm… I am salivating...

Read More

Bury me in books x2

Jun 13

Books by Zora Cross Oh bury me in books when I am dead,    Fair quarto leaves of ivory and gold, And silk octavos bound in brown and red,    That tales of love and chivalry unfold. Heap me in volumes of fine vellum wrought,    Creamed with the close content of silent speech. Wrap me in sapphire tapestries of thought    From some old epic out of common reach. I would my shroud were verse-embroidered too —    Your verse for preference, in starry stitch, And powdered o’er with rhymes that poets woo,    Breathing dream-lyrics in moon-measures rich. Night holds me with a horror of the grave    That knows not poetry, nor song, nor you; Nor leaves of love that down the ages wave    Romance and fire in burnished cloths of blue. Oh bury me in books, and I’ll not mind    The cold, slow worms that coil around my head; Since my lone soul may turn the page and find    The lines you wrote to me, when I am dead. First published in The Bulletin, 1 March 1917 (Poem Source: http://www.middlemiss.org/matilda/2007/10/poem-books-by-zora-cross.html) Please do not use the photo above with permission from me. It is mine. =)...

Read More

Book refuge…

Jun 11

One of the nifty things about my Nook is that I am able to download samples of most any ebook. I do this often. I have read hundreds of samples of books and ordered a lot of them. Last week I ordered a sample of “The Scent of Rain and Lightning: A Novel” by Nancy Pickard but hadn’t gotten around to reading it until last night. I read it to my friend aloud and the story was engaging enough for me to purchase it right then. I continued reading some 130 pages before I went to sleep. Right before I gave in to my weary body and blurring vision from reading so long, so late, there was a passage I thought worth sharing and discussing. Here it is, The numbers looked friendly to him, because he liked them and because they wouldn’t avoid his eyes. And thus, his sterling academic career began that day in Heather Davidson’s classroom, where the only companionship was to be found in his teacher’s kindness and in the impersonal facts in the book on his desk. And so his love for scholarly pursuits began, and his love for learning and books…this boy who was ostracized because his father was a bad guy. This boy was alienated, teased and ignored because of no cause of his own. His mother was suffering and thus could not be there for him the way he needed but he didn’t blame her. His life was complicated but reading, arithmetic, school work was not. And his teacher was his only solace, she was kind to him when the whole world seemed cruel. This is what school and books were like for me. For many of us. How many lost children are forgotten, go to bed hungry, alone? How many have no one to care for them? This is a common theme throughout every culture, and every era. I was a forgotten child. A child left hungry. A child abused. A child neglected. I found comfort in the worlds within the books. I found solace and strength of character within the lines of the greatest and worst stories of printed literature. I learned how children can be loved and can be...

Read More