Neruda's Horses
I left work around 7:15 PM. It was warm outside still, and I knew that more often than not in the coming days, weeks, months it would be cold outside when I left work. Gene wasn’t around and didn’t need a ride home, and I had yet to see downtown Rochester, walk the East Avenue I keep hearing about. I searched for some bookshops because I have read all my books. One caught my eye because someone named Aryeh C. left a review for it. North Star Books. Named for the abolitionist paper or something. I got to town and parked on Elm Street, across from the book shop. I didn’t even go to the door of it because I figured it was closed, and I decided to walk along East Ave. Passing different bars and food options, stopped for a slice of pizza. Took it to go and ate it while looking at the movie listings at Rochester’s Independent movie theater called the Little Theater. It was playing some mystery drama film, and Don’t Think Twice - which I had already seen with my mother. I thought about hanging around for the 8:20 showing of the Rachel Weisz film but moved along.
Before going back to my car I figured I would at least look through the windows of the book shop. And then I saw the lights were on, and the open sign in the window. How cool so I walked in, and there was someone sitting at the end of the shelves at a little desk with nice lighting. Beyond the 4 rows of shelves or so, there was a little opening in the room, space for a circle of a few seats, with an arm chair against the wall and space beyond it looking like it could extend into an apartment, but I don’t think it did. But I called out asking if they were still open - and walked toward the man. He said they were - they referring to the two other men sitting on the other side of the desk. One in an arm chair and one in a regular chair, with a stool in the middle. He told me they were actually in the middle of a poetry reading, but I could browse around if I wanted to, or sit if I was a poet.
Well wouldn’t you know it, it seemed like I walked into a really incredible scene. I introduced myself and grabbed a chair, and met Barry, the owner of the shop, Joel, the person running the reading, and David, a published poet who read his poems out of his own published book called The Hairy Lollipop, and other poems. It seemed they weren’t too sure what to do at first, with my sudden arrival and excitement in joining in. They didn’t say much at first, and then Joel asked me if I wrote poetry. I said yes. He asked me if I could recite any from memory and I said no. But I had some on my phone, so I took my phone out and read The Lost Piano. Then Joel shared a deeply personal piece about Clouds and their imperfection, and his mother and her freezing genius lost deep inside the empty bottles. Something about grated or dusted roses. Barry read a Neruda poem off the computer about Horses and how their light remained and remembered, but the dark was not. And David read a couple poems, they were shorter, and I do not remember what they were about.
I must have sat there with them for around an hour. I read another poem, Tears of the World, and Joel explicated it better than I have ever done myself within a minute. Shed my second skin, I too was dead - Turns out it is about what we leave behind, struggling with our legacy, this furious wondering about how we can preserve ourselves without shedding our or anyone elses dignity. That last part is mine. Then they shared with me some information about the Rochester poetry and literary scene…a scene very conducive to late nights and indoors, which are both things that can fit into my schedule and work with the weather. I felt young there, but this is the age to start making things happen. It was inspiring, and made me think a bit.
At the very beginning Barry was telling me about a bookshop around the corner, and was trying to tell me exactly how to get there and I misinterpreted his intentions, and thinking he was suggesting I head over there because I had just walked in on their poetry reading, I suddenly jumped up and grabbed my bag, feeling a little awkward and foolish and blusteringly apologized for my sudden appearance. But Barry looked bemused and startled that that is how I had understood what he was telling me. He was only trying to tell me what other book shops were around! So I settled down, and felt like they genuinely did not mind that I was there, and more so might have even appreciated the serendipity of a young learning poet walking into their three person poetry reading in downtown Rochester in a little book shop called The North Star.
Before going back to my car I figured I would at least look through the windows of the book shop. And then I saw the lights were on, and the open sign in the window. How cool so I walked in, and there was someone sitting at the end of the shelves at a little desk with nice lighting. Beyond the 4 rows of shelves or so, there was a little opening in the room, space for a circle of a few seats, with an arm chair against the wall and space beyond it looking like it could extend into an apartment, but I don’t think it did. But I called out asking if they were still open - and walked toward the man. He said they were - they referring to the two other men sitting on the other side of the desk. One in an arm chair and one in a regular chair, with a stool in the middle. He told me they were actually in the middle of a poetry reading, but I could browse around if I wanted to, or sit if I was a poet.
Well wouldn’t you know it, it seemed like I walked into a really incredible scene. I introduced myself and grabbed a chair, and met Barry, the owner of the shop, Joel, the person running the reading, and David, a published poet who read his poems out of his own published book called The Hairy Lollipop, and other poems. It seemed they weren’t too sure what to do at first, with my sudden arrival and excitement in joining in. They didn’t say much at first, and then Joel asked me if I wrote poetry. I said yes. He asked me if I could recite any from memory and I said no. But I had some on my phone, so I took my phone out and read The Lost Piano. Then Joel shared a deeply personal piece about Clouds and their imperfection, and his mother and her freezing genius lost deep inside the empty bottles. Something about grated or dusted roses. Barry read a Neruda poem off the computer about Horses and how their light remained and remembered, but the dark was not. And David read a couple poems, they were shorter, and I do not remember what they were about.
I must have sat there with them for around an hour. I read another poem, Tears of the World, and Joel explicated it better than I have ever done myself within a minute. Shed my second skin, I too was dead - Turns out it is about what we leave behind, struggling with our legacy, this furious wondering about how we can preserve ourselves without shedding our or anyone elses dignity. That last part is mine. Then they shared with me some information about the Rochester poetry and literary scene…a scene very conducive to late nights and indoors, which are both things that can fit into my schedule and work with the weather. I felt young there, but this is the age to start making things happen. It was inspiring, and made me think a bit.
At the very beginning Barry was telling me about a bookshop around the corner, and was trying to tell me exactly how to get there and I misinterpreted his intentions, and thinking he was suggesting I head over there because I had just walked in on their poetry reading, I suddenly jumped up and grabbed my bag, feeling a little awkward and foolish and blusteringly apologized for my sudden appearance. But Barry looked bemused and startled that that is how I had understood what he was telling me. He was only trying to tell me what other book shops were around! So I settled down, and felt like they genuinely did not mind that I was there, and more so might have even appreciated the serendipity of a young learning poet walking into their three person poetry reading in downtown Rochester in a little book shop called The North Star.
Something about this piece feels like water, rushing over rocks, sipped in by the muddy banks, alive, gurgly and present. Beautiful piece!
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