The Poetry Alcove

I live in an older suburb of St. Louis, the oldest suburb, in fact, incorporated in 1857. Just a few blocks from our house are four used bookstores, kept well supplied no doubt, by local estate sales and the numerous used book fairs held every year.

The oldest of the four, and the one with the most prosaic name, is The Book House. I used to frequent it more often years ago when I collected texts about speeches and speechwriting, but now I make an occasional visit to see what’s happening with poetry. (I can say that I don’t attend the every-other-Friday Tarot card readings; booksellers have to do strange things these days to market themselves.)

The Book House occupies an old farmhouse dating from the 1800s. Poetry is on the second floor, so I have to take the stairs, which are steep and narrow enough that one has to climb the steps almost sideways. They are also rickety. Reaching the top, I make a u-turn and walk straight to the poetry room, where I find more than poetry.

To continue reading, please see my post today at TweetSpeak Poetry.