Bookselling Barber
When Rueben Martinez, another MacArthur Foundation recipient, was a child, he lived in a town without a public library and with parents who didn’t read to him.
Still, Martinez’s teachers inspired a love of literature, and when he became a barber in the Los Angeles area, he provided books for customers to read.
Noticing the books he lent out were rarely returned to him, Martinez started selling books in his barber shop. Now, his Santa Ana, Calif., bookstore — called Libreria Martinez Books and Art Gallery — is among the largest commercial sellers of Spanish-language books in the country.
Martinez, 64, regularly tours schools and appears on Spanish-language television, urging parents to read to their children, and his shop serves as a touchstone for community activities promoting literacy.
“I made more money cutting hair than selling books,” said Martinez. “But the joy of my life is what I’m doing now.”
Some news worth noting down!
Collected Noise
... link (no comments) ... comment
Sudden Happiness
A man in thought walking
Unhappy with himself
Unhappy with all the desperate
Need he couldn’t combat
Muttering the beginning of a poem
He had read in frenzy, in a meaningless
Reading binge, is stopped suddenly
By a blue black Siamese kitten – That old superstition about being crossed By a cat that he believes in, as he believes In ghosts and apparitions, stops him.
And then as suddenly he Finds the kitten running towards him And rubbing its silky sleek fur Over his ankles, his meowing Joins her meowing, becomes poetry And his bitter curled lips Break into the first unforced smile Of the day.
My Poems
... link (no comments) ... comment
Waiting
Day is taking earth
Into it’s speedily length-
-ening arms.
In a grove of pine trees And their spearing shadows I wait for this embrace of lovers To end, for the horizon’s Door to close, for city towers To preen like high class Whores as those mostly unseen Stars hurtle farther away
From the half moon yet to
Come on blinking behind
The clouds, like an exit light
Above an empty (except for me)
Theatre’s double doors
And for the boogeyman
Night, with his sack of crickets
Singing all night in wells,
To come.
My Poems
... link (no comments) ... comment
Next page