My family home has a staircase with a built in bookcase. The books have never (in my lifetime) been removed from the shelves, except for dusting. But I love the landing with the bookcase. It faces a giant mirror, which reflected myself back to me kindly.

I decided to compose a poem using only the titles of the books on the shelf. ( Words in italics are the ones which I added).


Toward the morning,
a man called Cervantes
told of two paths:
then and now.

"Today is here,"
the townsmen of Ruskin*
said.

The night flight back to Venice
works in the dust.
And vagabonds study
books of Proserpina, Ariadne,
Claudius, the Complete Poems of Robert Frost.

Seven ethics
and a crown of wild olives,
I'll walk by
saints and strangers, modern painters,
the delight makers:
The noble prize of
stones from sea to sea.


* Ruskin: small town named after John Ruskin, the English philosopher. A real place!