< The Epistles of Stanhope St. >

[rayheinrich]

                   



                                                < The Epistles of Stanhope St. >
                               
                                I'm a small-town mouse from down South drawn into the maze of New York city.
                                A mad scientist's experimental maze; only the reward at the end isn't a tasty treat,
                                it's cheap books.
                                But finally I'm here. The enormous second-hand bookstore that they promised,
                                looks more like a warehouse filled with boxes.
                                Disappointed, I scurry in, but I find that the boxes are filled with books!
                                There must be thousands upon thousands!
                                Joy! Bookstores are magic.


                                a catacomb of unkempt jewels
                                whose riches could be had for just a dollar
                               
                                on the second floor
                                the shelves loom over mousey me
                                who's seeking comfort in these aisles
                                made narrow by the boxes
                                boxes of deserted books
                               
                                the smell of books
                                of old books yearning
                                willing to accept a common mouse

                                old books deserted by the dead
                                and thrown without a thought
                                into these ragged cardboard boxes
                                by the sons and daughters of the dead
                               
                                the smell of books
                                the silence of their desperation
                                yearning to be opened
                                yearning to reveal themselves to me
                               
                                            - - -






    photograph - ray heinrich


More about this bookstore:

It is/was an old warehouse where most of the books seem to come from evictions
and apartments that were deserted or where the residents died. A lot of the books
were in boxes, probably the ones they arrived in. People rummage through the boxes,
they get torn, and the books spill out on the floor. The roof above one of the
back corners has a small leak so the books below it are moldy and their pages
are stuck together. All the books were a dollar except for big ones with lots of
photographs. There're lots of chairs to sit in, randomly spread everywhere, probably
from the same apartments the books came from. The books are almost all in English,
but most of the workers there can't speak it. There's a small section of Spanish romance
novels by the counter. But the people are ok, friendly greetings every time I came in.
The gods have decided it's my kind of bookstore.

older version of poem:

                            < The Epistles of Stanhope St. >
                               
                                a warehouse in Brooklin
                                a crowded dirty place
                               
                                a catacomb of unkempt jewels
                                riches for a dollar
                               
                                be careful
                               
                                it's so easy to get out of hand
                               
                                and on the second floor
                                the shelves loom over me
                                a rat
                                seeking comfort in their narrow aisles
                               
                                the books of dead parents
                                thrown into boxes
                                by sons and daughters
                                old lives that wouldn't fit
                               
                                old lives are welcome here
                               
                                the quiet of the vault
                                the smell of the books
                                yearning to be opened
                                yearning to reveal themselves
                               
                                my prizes are the annotated ones
                                notes scribbled in their margins
                               
                                letters from the past
                                addressed to me
                               
                                their titles?
                                how little this matters
                               
                                            - - -

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