The Poetry Room
March, 2009
The Poetry Room at City Lights Bookstore is sacred ground. I can feel it. As you move towards the back of the store a sign says, “Have a seat and read a book.” The two guys at the front desk waved away my offer of a bag, telling me to keep it with me, as if they knew I needed to sit and write today.
I climb the steps to the poetry room and it is wood and quiet and the shelves are trembling with life. I pick Rilke’s letters to a young poet. While at age 40 I now wake sometimes to find that a foot or knee or shoulder muscle no longer functions, I am still a young poet in geological terms.
“Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write…”
You know a room is sacred when it can absorb the frequent arrival of loud tourists and bring them to a place of quiet contemplation. As I sit on my small wooden chair, reading hungrily through the pages, loud footsteps approach with excited German chatter. Two women with similarly curly hair reach the top step, giggle, and slide quickly into silent browsing. I read on.
“Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you feel and see and love and lose…”
Out the window there is an old fire escape. Beyond that, a rooftop. Clothes hang from pipes and wires but I can’t see how someone got them there. They hang before a gray sky.
Now a group of four loudly climbs the stairs up to the Poetry Room. They are happy, young, well-dressed and cocky. They too are absorbed. They break apart to peruse shelves, crack books of poetry and beat literature. United we talk, divided we read.
“Write about what your every day life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty.”
The Poetry Room is empty now. The rain is falling out on the fire escape and invisible hands have removed the hanging clothes from the rooftop. I hadn’t noticed the rain.
They come in pairs and small groups, never staying long. They are loud at first, then split, read in silence, reform and make a loud, nervous remark as they take the first step back down, out of the Poetry Room. Some came awfully close to finding beauty. They pulled at different books, snapped a picture of the Beat Literature sign, murmured something clever to a mate, but then they left.
I’ve been here before and made the same mistake. It’s OK. Hopefully they’ll get another chance.
Today I sat in the wooden chair on those hardwood floors. I pulled a book off the shelf. I read. The room became instantly sacred, a place of absolute beauty. It is ironic but not at all surprising that we humans buzz around rooms like these and then hurry off, never unlocking the mystery. More often than not, the key was right there before us, maybe downstairs, painted on a sign in large, happy letters: “Have a seat and read a book!”
