Poetry (6)

Hello Escritori,

Here is a frankly HUGE narrative poem of mine that just… happened after a walk. Dickens did it a lot. I tried editing this I swear.




The Girl in the Bookshop

Regards the shelves

With quick eyes,


For the meticulously


Endeavours of selves

And lives.


She stands swaying gently

From side to side

In this singular

Two-step of

Trying to decide.


Is she

Uncertain of the quality

Of promised ecstasy

In this courtship

Of decadence

With text and pages?

The books confer,


Appreciative of her

Considerate touching.


Is it nervousness

Or mal de mer?

Should I to tell her,

(As a public service)

That her lovely sea legs

Are joined to her pelvis?

Or would she merely say:


“Merci Monsieur

Je adore un Pirate

Qui je l’aime

Pour toute l’éternité…

Mais voudriez vous


Une Siréne 

En secret?”

And I would

Again be perplexed

To no avail,

Fruitlessly searching

For her tail.


I watch those considerate fingers

Slipping with ease

Between covers and sheets

Waiting to see if her interest flowers.

Will she take them to bed,

And keep a courtesan’s hours?

I am jealous of the books

And their breathless anticipation.

I have breath!

Shit. She looked.


She is gentle from regret

The books say,

Her love for us is faithful

But when felt, violent

Although her actions are


She would like 

To be benign

For pleasure to be mutual

And sublime

But she regrets

That she must

Break our spines.


She admits to us

That she loves

The cracking sound

On billows

Of pillows before

We are drowned.


I watch her secretly.

The Girl in the Bookshop

Is stroking a cover,

Opening a book

And her mouth

(Full of curves)

And mouthing words.


I think I’ve been struck

By erotomania.


She moves on,

I brush what she touched

Because I cannot touch her:

We were made to be

Lovers before bibliophiles

My love.”

I want to cry,

You should let books fall,

In concertinas to the floor

While I

Kiss you…

And you


With surprise.

(© Copyright Pola Negri 31/07/2015.)


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