Off the hot street and down
the narrow stairwell,
I entered the smell of books—
a musty scent of paper and ink.
How I loved entering the stacks,
shelves taller than I was.
Loved running my hands
along hardcover spines
wondering at the worlds inside.
I was allowed twelve thin books,
that meant twelve chances
to travel to realms where monkeys
stole hats and the Whangdoodle snoozed.
Twelve chapters in which I
was no longer an awkward girl
but a baker in an old village
or a mouse in an attic befriending a girl
who was something like me,
or at least like the girl I wished I could be,
a girl who was brave, a girl
who couldn’t help but stumble
every single time
into happily ever after.
And what of the middle-school you who entered Old Stone Library’s basement? And the high-school you? University you? Married you, mother you, now you.
Methinks you’ve more to say about the “girl who was something like me,” and “the girl I wished to be.” And oh, so very much still to say re: “[stumbling] every single time into happily ever after.”
An evocative, visceral poem; one that leaves the reader(s) to discern the stories behind the poem’s—the poet’s and their own. You’ve tapped into something rich and fecund (and musty). I know there’s still more.
It was fecund, perfect word, the memory of the library, how it hit me. I guess if I had any hope for this poem it’s that it would help others remember their early library experiences, too.
I’m chuckling at the last 4 lines, particularly…They are so honest, so charming!.
yeah, still wishing I were that girl!
The highlight of my college years was being granted a stack pass. The library smelled wonderful and the floor was made of glass tiles so you could semi see down a floor. Thanks for conjuring that up.
oh yes–the smell of the library–and wow, what a wild thing to see through the floor! Libraries and the feel of them can be such a strong memory. Thanks for sharing yours!