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About Paul

Unique selections of books from our book buyer Paul Ingram. He compiles great lists of books on varying topics.

If you have any requests for recommendations, send Paul an email at

  • Paul's Corner: Poetry Month - James Galvin

    Resurrection Update: Collected Poems, 1975-1997 James Galvin


    Remember the night you got drunk
    and shot the roses?
    You were a perfect stranger, Father,
    even my bad sister cried.

    Some other gravity,
    not death or luck,
    drew fish out of the sea
    and started them panting.

    The fish became a man.
    The archer’s bow became a violin.
    I remember the night you searched the sofa
    for change

    and wept on the telephone.
    Some other gravity,
    not time or entropy,
    pulled the knife down for centuries.

    The archers dropped their bows,
    harmless as pine needles in the snow.
    The knife became a plow
    and entered the earth, Father.

    Later it became a boat
    and some other things —
    It isn’t a dream but it takes a long time,
    for the archer’s bow to become a violin.

    --James Galvin

  • Paul's Corner: Poetry Month - Vachel Lindsay

    Collected Poems of Vachel Lindsay Vachel Lindsay


    Factory windows are always broken.
    Somebody's always throwing bricks.
    Somebody's always heaving cinders
    Playing ugly yahoo tricks.

    Factory windows are always broken
    Other windows are let alone.
    No one throws through the chapel window
    The bitter snarling derisive stone.

    Factory windows are always broken.
    Something or other is going wrong,
    Something is rotten, I think in Denmark.
    End of the factory window song.

    --Vachel Lindsay


  • Paul's Corner: Poetry Month - Gwendolyn Brooks

    Blacks Gwendolyn Brooks

    The Children of the Poor


    People who have no children can be hard:
    Attain a mail of ice and insolence:
    Need not pause in the fire, and in no sense
    Hesitate in the hurricane to guard.
    And when wide world is bitten and bewarred
    They perish purely, waving their spirits hence
    Without a trace of grace or of offense
    To laugh or fail, diffident, wonder-starred.
    While through a throttling dark we others hear
    The little lifting helplessness, the queer
    Whimper-whine; whose unridiculous
    Lost softness softly makes a trap for us.
    And makes a curse. And makes a sugar of
    The malocclusions, the inconditions of love.


    What shall I give my children? who are poor,
    Who are adjudged the leastwise of the land,
    Who are my sweetest lepers, who demand
    No velvet and no velvety velour;
    But who have begged me for a brisk contour,
    Crying that they are quasi, contraband
    Because unfinished, graven by a hand
    Less than angelic, admirable or sure.
    My hand is stuffed with mode, design, device.
    But I lack access to my proper stone.
    And plenitude of plan shall not suffice
    Nor grief nor love shall be enough alone
    To ratify my little halves who bear
    Across an autumn freezing everywhere.


    And shall I prime my children, pray, to pray?
    Mites, come invade most frugal vestibules
    Spectered with crusts of penitents’ renewals
    And all hysterics arrogant for a day.
    Instruct yourselves here is no devil to pay.
    Children, confine your lights in jellied rules;
    Resemble graves; be metaphysical mules.
    Learn Lord will not distort nor leave the fray.
    Behind the scurryings of your neat motif
    I shall wait, if you wish: revise the psalm
    If that should frighten you: sew up belief
    If that should tear: turn, singularly calm
    At forehead and at fingers rather wise,
    Holding the bandage ready for your eyes.

    --Gwendolyn Brooks