George rules from his riverside bookshop
four storeys high along rue de la Bûcherie
Proudly claiming Walt Whitman as his ancestor—
Shelf after laden-shelf rising like wine racks in the city
The roving eye can soft focus anywhere—
a Faber translation of Laments by Jan Kochanowski
for free accommodation upstairs—you must read a book a day
tend the shop now and then, live on pancakes
chocolate croissants or whatever your budget will allow—
two Londoners outside the kitchen on clarinet and fiddle
play Jazz suite No 2 (Shostakovich)
George seems oblivious among the backpacked youth at table
facing a cracked plate
a fork with sugar on the prongs and a pot of honey (miel)
as he plans another week's rota
for this Shangri-la
where the living and the dead
confront each other
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem