Even though I do my best to support living poets, I am not above a good read of the dead ones.

When I hunt through a used bookstore for poetry, I usually stick with the dead ones (if I’m going to pony up for a living poet, I’d like some of my hard dollars to reach the actual poet).

Part of a finding a good, used book of poetry is the actually book itself – the binding, the cover, the feel of it. Even the smell. A good old book has a scent that beats “new car” any day.

At Capitol Hill Books, I found this copy of Byron’s poems. It’s not absolutely, ideal (one day, I’ll show you my copy of Shelley, also bought at Capitol Hill Books – because that’s what a perfect used book of poetry look like!), but more than serviceable. It’s well read, but not disintegrating and though the cover is pinkish (I suspect that it was actually red when new, but has faded to something less masculine), it is generally what I would call a dignified book.

What has this to do with the contents? Nothing at all.

But for the record, I chose to dive into “Childe Harold” rather than “Don Juan.” All things in time.