I am on a world tour of independent bookshops
in the city where I grew up. It is disheartening
reading to sparse gatherings although it was nice
to see Mrs. Jones, even if she doesn’t understand
that a poem doesn’t have to rhyme. At least she
got the joke about the three triplets and knows
where Woolworths was. Probably the only one.
You would think people might like to hear about
themselves and where they live, be entertained
and informed. But apparently they don’t. Several
writers asked if there was an open mic but didn’t
stay when there wasn’t. Mrs. Jones was going to
buy a book but it was more than she could afford.
l let her take one free and signed it for her too.
It isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, this poetry lark.
Readers like Mrs. Jones are thin on the ground,
sales poor, and I have to provide my own wine.
People don’t seem to be able to listen to epics
or social commentary any more, don’t care for
local history or calls for strikes and revolution.
Mrs Jones says I’d be better off getting a job
and sometimes I think she’s right. Last time
I asked at the Co-op there weren’t any and
the post people want you to get to work early,
well before I get up. Anyway, how would I find
time to write down my ideas and type them up,
let alone organise and publicise my readings?
People like Mrs. Jones still need poets like me.
.
© Rupert M Loydell
.