Lord, what fools these mortals be.

I really like the smell of books.  Especially, old or used books.  And something that a good used bookstore can be sure to have is a wide variety of works by obscure (and popular) poets, and an unnecessarily large selection of poetry anthologies.

If you’re local to Boston, I like Brookline Booksmith (new and used books) and Rodney’s Bookstore.

One of my favorite ways to discover new writers is poet roulette (i.e. randomly choosing a poet I’ve never heard of, and reading on for a bit).  That’s how I stumbled onto John Godfrey, an urban-influenced (Manhattan) poet who published primarily in the 80’s.  As of late, I’ve been all over Boston and Cambridge, largely underground (“The world made of this city / dark when she steps out of her jeans”), engrossed in Midnight On Your Left.  I almost forgot to get off at my T stop today.

The book is a mix of poems and prose, and both are pretty trippy.  Godfrey’s imagery is a colorful ride that you find you’re more than happy to get on– here, there, within, without, city-steeped, celestial, idealist, terrestrial… His diction is entrancing and well-chosen on all accounts, even when it’s rather opaque… and his moments of utter lucidity, when they peek in through fascinatingly obscure dialogues (which, by the way, he conducts with equal confidence), resonate with some sort of stirring, mystical authority that makes you tingle just a bit.

“When was the last time you passed on a secret specific to sighs and gasps, a pleasure so exquisite you identify yourself by the memory of it?“

I was surprised to find that many of Godfrey’s poems aren’t accessible online, so I’ve reproduced two of his more “lucid” ones from Midnight On Your Left:

“This Train”

I could have had you lie down
on a railroad coach

I could have had you in my heart
when I’m too old to dream

After six years of bright
cocktail sun through that window

It lights up the fleece
on the back and thighs

you carry in such a way
you must inspire yourself

i can’t see you with justice
i can assist your freedom

“Encore”

You are so wonderful in the ordinary
You stand on a corner
fresh from the desert island
where you were lonely
and secure in your beauty
Now there is this all around you
Your neighbors name the grime
behind their ears as they
develop it on the hairs
of their forearms, while you
step back from the vase of
apple blossoms with paint
all over your hands
You feel who you are
You cling to life the
same way I do from
hour to hour by the airshaft
I count the nights of
aurora borealis and collaborate
on the highly absorbent
surface of the moon
Otherwise, I go my way singing
the song that names the stairs
At the top I am there
as the you that is yours