whoops, camaraderie
On Wednesday, 24 February 2016, Bill Wootton <[log in to unmask]>
wrote:
> 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]
> <javascript:_e(%7B%7D,'cvml',[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]>
>> 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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