One Holy Day


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The breeze blows green kisses

Across bare skin

We spread our arms to feel each breath

Everything lifts and flutters:

Hair, dresses, shirts, spirits

Feet dance across the drenched grass

In the distance, the mountain sighs

Someone flies a dragon kite

This is a day for grace and glory

A once-upon-a-story time

Weeks later, we will say

Remember that hallelujah day?

Shakespeare and Company, Paris



Today I returned some books to the library and picked a new one to read: The Paris Bookseller by Kerri Maher.  It’s a fictionalized biography of Sylvia Beach, the founder of the first Shakespeare and Company bookstore in Paris. 

I was drawn to the topic because I had been to Shakespeare and Company, although, as I know now, it was not the original bookstore started by Sylvia Beach.

How did I end up at this iconic bookshop in Paris in 1971?  I’ve been trying to remember but it’s a long time—fifty years—ago.  I was twenty, attending the University of Bordeaux, and hitchhiking to Paris with a friend whenever we could.

Perhaps we were looking for a free place to sleep.  At the time, the proprietor was George Whitman.  He was slim, slightly hunched, missing some teeth, wearing disheveled clothes.  He drifted through the store eating a soft-boiled egg out of a glass.  The yellow yolk stands out in my memory.

The bookstore itself was perfect: musty, cluttered, stuffed with books.  The clientele ranged from older history buffs, writers, and literary tourists to unwashed youthful travelers. 

We were directed upstairs where the travelers crashed.  My friend and I looked around at the backpacks, rumpled sleeping bags, dirty dishes, and agreed that this was not for us.  We’d find a cheap hotel room instead.

Here’s a bit of history, excerpted from the link below:

Shakespeare and Company is an English-language bookshop in the heart of Paris, on the banks of the Seine, opposite Notre-Dame. Since opening in 1951, it’s been a meeting place for anglophone writers and readers, becoming a Left Bank literary institution.

The bookshop was founded by American George Whitman at 37 rue de la Bûcherie, Kilometer Zero, the point at which all French roads begin. Constructed in the early 17th century, the building was originally a monastery, La Maison du Mustier. George liked to pretend he was the sole surviving monk, saying, “In the Middle Ages, each monastery had a 
frère lampier, a monk whose duty was to light the lamps at nightfall. I’m the frère lampier here now. It’s the modest role I play.”

When the store first opened, it was called Le Mistral. George changed it to the present name in April 1964—on the four-hundredth anniversary of William Shakespeare’s birth—in honor of a bookseller he admired, Sylvia Beach, who’d founded the original Shakespeare and Company in 1919. Her store at 12 rue de l’Odéon was a gathering place for the great expat writers of the time—Joyce, Hemingway, Stein, Fitzgerald, Eliot, Pound—as well as for leading French writers.

Through his bookstore, George Whitman endeavored to carry on the spirit of Beach’s shop, and it quickly became a center for expat literary life in Paris. Allen Ginsberg, William Burroughs, Anaïs Nin, Richard Wright, William Styron, Julio Cortázar, Henry Miller, William Saroyan, Lawrence Durrell, James Jones, and James Baldwin were among early visitors to the shop.

And a little more:

It’s Paris’ second Shakespeare and Company bookstore

This bookstore takes its name from an older store which was started in Paris in 1919, by a lady called Sylvia Beach, another US expatriate. It was at 12 rue de l’Odéon and in the years leading up to World War II, it became a literary haven and a publisher in its own right – it was the only place that published James Joyce’s Ulysses in its entirety when no one else would. The store was closed by the Germans in 1941 and Sylvia was interned. Ernest Hemingway is said to have arrived at the shop after Paris’ Liberation and personally declared it reopen, but it never did. At least not in the same location or with the same owner. Sylvia Beach bequeathed the official name to George Whitman in the late 1950s and upon her death, he renamed his bookstore, Shakespeare and Company, in her and the store’s honour. He had originally called his store Le Mistral.


I’ve only begun to read Maher’s book, but it’s promising to be a good one. 

And, if you go to Paris, check out this historic bookseller.



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Before he lost his license,

we traveled.

In Mexico, he braved insane traffic,

maneuvered a Ford Fiesta

through bullying buses.

Before he lost his profession,

he saw clients,

put out brochures

in three counties.

Before he lost his skill,

he could fix anything

with a motor.

Before he lost his agility,

he was a fourth-degree black belt.

Before he lost his past,

he sent out dozens

of holiday cards.

Before he lost his bearings,

he led the way.

Covid Finds Us


Photo by Yaroslav Danylchenko on


reach for the air

the hair unwashed sweat

stale sheets, moldy bread

no one wants to eat, so

coleslaw slimes, melon oozes

meals cooked with kindness, no,

freeze it all, tv vacant

naps if breath is freed

hot dark dreams

or lie awake until light


water, Gatorade, tea

five senses distant,

in Central America, perhaps,

walk the dog

on the driveway

retreat breathless

to the wrinkled bed

Five of us succombed in July: my husband, my daughter, two granddaughters and myself. All at once.



Photo by Aleksandar Pasaric on


down in the basement of must and mold

lives a slow-burning fire

connected by wires and tubes

to the thunder-maker

life-support, hearth heartbeat

an ancient system, obsolete

a necessary antique

not mine to critique

its warm water saltsweet


down in the chest cavity of blood and bone

lives a slow-burning flame

connected by prayer and intent

to the liberator

keystone spirit, seven stories high

an ancient path, evergreen

not ours to refuse,

only when to choose