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THE JOY OF BOOKS
A book I see, a book I spy, a book beckons
me
With her many illustrations all hand-drawn
I realize I hold the very key
To open another with her detailed art by
Michaelangelo, Chagall, Matisse, and Giacometti
Still more and more I view, their inner worlds I behold:
Louis Quatorze, Henry VIII, The Pope, Madonna
Alexander The Great -- giant figures, small figures, figures that don't
matter at all
The history of the world -- its music, sex and violence
Beauty and Truth, virtue and vice
On cooking, wining and dining, conversation and Gaul.
These are all things I desire to learn about. To soak them in like an
endless sponge.
When I pass by a book I cry out, despondent
that it might not be mine to love
To cherish, to honor the words, to learn them and live them
To share with my friends the wisdom that reading brings:
A sense of peace, wonder, and joy though sometimes sorrow
For characters like Ahab and Hester who've been harmed
Or worse, the poor Albatross from Coleridge's yarn.
In any event, what I long to say is real:
Read a book, poem, or novel and let them tell a story be it Milton's allegory
or
Neruda's love -- it's all succulent and best of all free.
Rob Levit
1/09/02
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