Happy Weekend Light Chasers! Another Typewriter Poem my friends, another entry into this long and sprawling series that has quite literally changed my life. As I mentioned last time, I’ve been tasked more than I ever thought possible with writing some of YOUR stories. After COVID ruined our entire employment for an entire year, I jumped into this, and it’s still something I am so thankful I did. You, all of you, are inspiring me in ways I never thought possible. Your stories of heartbreak, of loss, of immense joy, of hope, of friendship, of family, of pets, of adventure, of so many things, have challenged me and served as this beautiful alarm clock to the world around me. I’ve LOVED doing these, translating your stories into my words, and this one, today’s, is another of those.

This poem, for this client, was about a couple that fell in love while flying, while miles above the surface of the earth. Their love grew through shared adoration of the libraries of the world, over old books, over words and words and so many words. I am fascinated, in truth, with the interests that bind us to one another, the things we share that can unite. The line that started it all for me in this poem was very last line, as the gentleman who asked for this poem said it was poetry that connected them in those stacks and stacks of books, that he hears it when she speaks. Another random tidbit: The smell of old books, that scent that lures us into used bookstores time and again, comes from a chemical compound that seeps out as the paper in books breaks down. Lignin, as it’s known, is almost identical in its properties to vanillin, the active one in vanilla. This is why we adore this smell, this slightly sweet, faded aroma that carries vanilla, grass, and so much life in its wake. I imagined him smelling that, smelling her, as she spun through his days. Hope you dig it, if you have any questions, fire when ready! If you wanna join our community, it’s only $5 a month and I know we’d all love to have you!

We were made above

cloud bank,

half a breath below

the reach of

starlight.

Called you winged

ever since,

be you dove, be you

butterfly,

be you angel?

We were made between

library stack,

candlelight shadow

on cover and

spine.

I smell vanilla

when you dance,

hear poetry read

softly aloud

every time you

speak.

-Tyler Knott Gregson-

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