The Book Palace on Thomas Street Poem by Gerard Smyth

It was like Kavanagh's garden of the golden apples -

the book palace on Thomas Street.

I went to seek the news from Parnassus,

searching among slim volumes

of Clarke and Hughes and Gunn.

On a long-ago afternoon I opened one and knew

from the dates of its return

that it had passed from hand to hand,

received the imprimatur of the reader who was careless

with a cup that left a stain,

a tea-stigmata on the author's name.





Through the book palace on Thomas Street

I stepped lightly after school.

Sunlight through the glass shone on a mood of lassitude.

Nobody made a sound, and if they did

a poker-faced Miss Jones would put a finger to her lips

to remind us of the edict not to speak

or even whisper, not to drag the chairs but lift them

to the table where I flicked

through many pages. Some musky from the years,

some so fresh

you could be in the forest with the trees.