The Bookmaker

He put it all down in books,

he loved the smell of ink and its stain

the permanence of the black

stuttered over the white

he got high on binding glue and

ran his fingertips over the gilt

fabric of the cover;

He put it all down in books, his

bad back hunched over, coffee stains

on his slippers and the ash

oh, the ash

from a thousand errors and

burned pages;

He put it all down in books

and in youth he loved the spice scent

of the little library hunched on the hill

in his small hometown,

but now he never leaves his house

or his binding glue

just bends over his books

getting it all out;

He put it all down in books

then closed them, each, softly with

his creased fingers falling

older every day,

he puts them up, with

all the others, a growing library

portrait of himself,

on the shelf, he

will never read any of them

again.

Reviews

[R.E. Ray]

JR, this is a sad one, but so well written. You've captured a sense of loneliness and disconnection from the community, maybe family and friends, too. I can imagine the scene, all the senses triggered. I keep going back to this:

he puts them up, with
all the others, a growing library
portrait of himself,
on the shelf, he
will never read any of them
again.

I must ask if he's at an age where he's more focused on the present than the past. At 51, I know the present is my focus. I flash back to the past occasionally, but my experience and limited years tell me to shelve the past and move on. Is that what's happening here, or has he just given up to shrink in the corner of his library and wait for death?

[JR]

More of the first, the idea being he's getting the past out into books... like a purge. But learning that the act of getting out is what matters, the past is worth shelving and not looking at it again. Something like that. I think at 43 I'm still learning to deal with the weight of the past, I haven't quite gotten to the point of living completely in the present. But that's the direction I'm heading in, and poems like this help.

[R.E. Ray]

That makes sense, JR. thanks for the clarification.

[Julie McCarthy (juliesp..]

o h this brought back memories of my grandfathers old bookcase (now departed in the late 1970s- he was 80) we lived with him all our lives and he had a beautiful old oak bookcase with glass inserts and a pull out desk and fountain pens and beautifully bound old musty books mainly shakespeare oh and I recall Dickens a lot I think.
I used to love walking past them every day opposite his room to my room down the hall.
it had a smell of musty old fashioned goodness something we never smell these days much
just the smell i can smell it now.
your poem reminded me of this thankyou. your poem was exquisitely written

[JR]

Thank you! Yes, that smell of a collection of old books... there is almost nothing more nostalgic than that.