11 December 2020 at 14:57

From a poet that does not write poems:

I was told you make books by hand. I am 92 years old and never wrote anything in my life. Once I thought life was something to be lived. I didn't understand until now what I had lived through. Maybe you will find my poem interesting

I am 17 years old. I am in love. She does not love me. I wrote this poem. Maybe you can make a book out of it that I can give to her

A friend told me that you create hand made books out of poems. I wrote these poems when I was in Afghanistan. I didn't think they were worth much. But I saw the last book you made and it was so lovely and so private I thought...perhaps this would be the perfect book for my poems

I am in the so called risk group and my journal is the last true possession that I have. Perhaps you can make a little book out of it...Enclosed are some pictures of people I love...maybe they could be in the book

I was at a gallery some months ago and I saw one of your handmade books. I would really love to meet you. Nothing romantic. I just would like to know more about you. Perhaps we could meet for a coffee

I was at my girl friends house and she showed me one of your little books. She got mad at me because I just kept asking her about who you were and finally she told me to leave

Your handmade books will last a thousand years because you put your heart into them and once the heart has entered something nothing can destroy it

I heard about soldiers taking the poems of Lorca into battle during the Spanish Civil War...I would take your book of poems into battle

I went to a little gallery and saw one of your books under glass. I asked who the artist was. And she said...oh that was a young woman from China who lived in Berlin over 30 years ago. I asked where she was now...She said she didn't know...out there somewhere

I had a dream I was reading a little handmade book and then as I continued turning the pages I noticed they were empty and that I had to fill them with my words and sometimes I felt as though the empty page was waiting and I could almost feel breathing or just a breeze passing

A poem is nothing to be proud of and nothing to be ashamed of and nothing more or less than what it is

I don't remember exactly how I met her. She was suddenly just there. I remember a yellow jacket or coat... a sunflower...

I was told you made books by hand out of the skin of lost continents

Out of the flesh of recovering patients

Out of the years of suffering

I was told that you could make books to specification

That in your books you could provide access to gardens

To scaffolds

To playgrounds

To prison cells

To childhood