My sister Esmé


came to visit the other week and we did all the usual unusual things of which more later — pics and all 🙂
We were in Barter Books in Alnwick and looking at some of the more expensive/rarer books when I was reminded of a poem I wrote from an experience I had when I was still at school and had a summer job at the local library. It was published in The Shine Journal I believe but I can’t find it there which makes it more than relevant here. Because I was saying to my sister that I hoped whoever purchased some of the old and less expensive books on offer really looked after them — after all who knows just how rare The Lost Treasure by Gonfor Goode may be? You may be buying the very last copy without even knowing it.

I have been feeling the weight of this recently more and more (as a woman in her sixties who has no book to hold). I was looking at my work in various archives and I realised some it is simply GONE.

Static Movement GONE
Every Day Poets (where I was editor) GONE
MicroHorror (where I just celebrated 100 stories) Now CLOSED (but still extant so please do read them before they’re gone!)
(Did you know even KINDLE books are not permenant?)
And I am also in 100 issues of Bewildering Stories — the latest poem this week is another archaeological poem — In His Boots — about a man whose name is lost though his boots survive!

Horseshoe Crab in Zoomorphic Magazine fits well too! It’s all about species threatened with extinction.

“Caste Diva” is a story about endings too. It is in the Summer Issue of FINE LINEN which is a most unusual literary magazine and well worth a look and a subscription though single copies may be purchased too.

Several more poems are coming up and one soon at The Fat Damsel (long may she live!)

I am accumulating quite an archive at Postcard Poems and Prose now too. My latest Purgatory of Ideals seems to fit right in… it’s another collaboration with Walter Jack Savage’s brilliant artwork.

Eggses and basketses are clearly not my forte, precious!

Endings — It’s a lesson I revisit time and again and I never seem to learn it. But one day… one day… Anyone I temporarily saved this poem from oblivion and here it is. Who knows — someone may like it and it may yet survive!

The book would not leave my hand.

I viewed its tired cover
cracked spine
yellowed leaves
eagerly fingered pages turned at the tip.

Its faded front had not the
vivid colours of today.
Blue bleached by years,
gilt embossment
almost disappeared.
Braille for dead eyes.

I ran my thumb along its
spine to give it
one last thrill then
relinquished it to flame
as I’d been told to do
expunged it from the
for all time.

I wish now
I could

the author’s name.

©2008 Oonah V Joslin

the game we play.

All things
must pass
must pass away.

Sweet is the moment.

Bright is the light
but night
will come.

That’s the game.

There’s no
putting bubbles back
in champagne.

a spur of the moment poem — ©today — 2015 Oonah V Joslin