Like the tone of this, Max, generally esp the contrasts and camaderie
between the narrator and bookseller. The crash part might be announced more
in context perhaps, so interrupting the afternoon idyll so surprisingly. Is
the poem at the end one which the bookseller himself wrote? Slightly
unclear to me.
Bill
On Wednesday, 24 February 2016, Sheila Murphy <[log in to unmask]>
wrote:
> This is so pure, Max.
> I love what this shows. At the close, I might think of not saying directly
> "senior whisky-poet," but keep it subtle in the style of the rest.
> Beautiful.
> On Feb 23, 2016 11:31 PM, "Max Richards" <[log in to unmask]
> <javascript:;>> wrote:
>
> > Down in Horizon Books
> > 10th Avenue, Seattle
> >
> > With an afternoon to kill
> > I should find somewhere
> > to sit and read the book
> > in my shoulder bag
> >
> > but first why not check
> > the basement shop
> > where I like to chat
> > with the old book dealer
> >
> > before a good long browse
> > along his crowded shelves
> > and temptation mostly
> > resisted? I need my tiny
> >
> > pocket flashlight for his
> > lower shelves, and skip
> > entirely his upper ones.
> > No one about but me
> >
> > and him - he squeezes past
> > popping out for a smoke
> > (was that a whisky whiff?)
> > and squeezes back into
> >
> > his messy corner, ice-
> > hockey on his screen
> > yonder, book info on
> > his computer. Two coats
> >
> > on the backrest of his
> > old swivel chair, top-heavy.
> > Temptations pile up -
> > poets, books about poetry.
> >
> > Crash! - along at his end -
> > a quiet voice saying Help?
> > - help me up. The old man
> > is sprawled on the floor
> >
> > tangled in his swivel chair,
> > betrayed by it. To lift him up
> > would take a stronger man
> > than me. At least I can
> >
> > heave the tangling chair
> > aside. Can we grip each other’s
> > arms? - not well. He says:
> > leave me be a while to rest.
> >
> > I retreat to European history,
> > peeking at him now and then.
> > Shall we try now? Not yet.
> > We have the shop to ourselves.
> >
> > Settled on just four books, I check
> > my watch. Better get him up.
> > His gesture indicates some
> > stomach muscle weakness.
> >
> > He’s shifted to a possible
> > standing effort, and holding
> > one elbow, one armpit, I
> > ease him up and help him sit
> >
> > in that pesky swivel chair.
> > He asks after my dog.
> > I help him tote up my
> > purchase, stow books away.
> >
> > He says You taught? I
> > had a young instructor -
> > she told us she’d just sold
> > her first story - a hundred dollars! -
> >
> > to Playboy. They said We won’t
> > use your first name, just
> > U. K. LeGuin. You have
> > a future. Bookseller said:
> >
> > just now a young man put
> > a poem in my hand - it’s here
> > somewhere. But all he could
> > find was a xerox of his wife’s
> >
> > handwritten journal - Roma
> > to Venezia - what they saw,
> > where they ate, the brusque
> > waiter, the train fares.
> >
> > Long ago. The ice hockey
> > has morphed into some
> > animated program.
> > Here’s a poem. It’s good
> >
> > to write something every day.
> > He has the musical voice
> > of a senior whisky-poet
> > and I’m touched, and leave.
>
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