In Defence of Trash

“I’m a meat-and-potatoes man, myself,’ he explained to Theodora. ‘Don’t drink, don’t smoke, don’t read trash. Bad example for the fellows at the school. They look up to one a bit, you know.” - from The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson

Those who read for pleasure
and not just self-esteem,
not breaking our wrists
on hardback chunks
of raw Elizabethan text
we’re not prepared enough to feel,
are just as tactile as carpenters,
just as appalled by bad design
as cloth-makers or anyone with taste.

We like the lurid, gaudy, bright,
contrasting colours, wafts of cheese...
the sensual music of papers scratching
against each other. The current fashion calls
for every book, regardless of genre,
to wear a scholar’s cloak and cap;
no paint and easel, please,
but poorly composed photographs
of models aligned with generic standards.
Or little silhouettes, symbols,
and other plywood confections,
for people ashamed to admit that they read
for reasons other than to prove
that they’re respectable.

Godspeed to little paperbacks
that do not strain the wrist,
that end up in jumble sales
or on front steps, marked FREE.

That use English numbers
to delineate sequels.

That exploit common fears, and joys,
and needs, reminding us we’re family.

That show an artist’s hand at work
to give a certain thrill and joy,
which is a need as true as art.