In a bookshop under rotting eaves
I found the grail edition, pirated
out of Brussels as was the way in 1863—
a troop of neat, sumo volumes: d’Artagnan
the bane of Jesuits, the death of Porthos,
all, Dumas in a travesty translation,
but rare.
Characters are redeemed, where departure
salvages honour from disgrace, as Damien Hirst
morphs pathology into Art.
The light falling across the pages
is abstract, the way frost glistening
on holly leaves reminds us of the snowy hills
beyond the window, or as on pages here,
siege guns firing on the Dutch frontier
through winter fog.
My buyer is romantic; her penchant
for George Meredith, fair women
with fair names, neither here
nor there—I have accounts to settle,
and this week her preference is French.
It is thought, no good book without morality,
but there is nothing on my laptop
about virtue, nothing of the drawing-room
or natural civility.
Horace, Burns, Hazlitt, second tier
but worth a look: the day is what it is, and will not
be dissuaded from its prize—a Molière
in calfskin, or illustrations by Beardsley
at a hotel in Nice.
The heart
taken by storm is only ink and paper,
and names its price.
Estill Pollock | Bloodlines
Contents | Mudlark No. 74 (2023)