Between These Shores Literary & Arts Annual

06/12/2024

This is Mohamed Aziz, 72 years old, the world's most photographed librarian, in the Medina of Rabat, Morocco.
Selling books in a country where 26% of the population still can't read is an act of love for your city, the literature of your country and the world. Orphaned at 6, Aziz had a rough life; he couldn't even finish high school because textbooks were too expensive for him. At 15 years old, in 1963, he began his bookkeeping career with just a mat stretched under a tree with 9 books.
Now his bookstore sells thousands of books and he spends his days immersed in books and devouring stories. Spend 6 to 8 hours a day reading, stopping just to eat, pray, smoke and help clients. The rest of the time, he walks around the neighborhood looking for books that he will then sell at his bookstore. He says it is his revenge for his childhood and his poverty: “I have read more than 4,000 books in Arabic, French, English or Spanish, which means I have lived more than 4,000 lives. Everyone should have that chance! I just need two pillows and a book to enjoy my day.”
After more than 43 years at the same place, it is Rabat's oldest bookstore. When asked for the number of books he owns, he replies: "Not enough."

Q: When asked why he left books outside, where they could be stolen, he replied that those who can't read don't steal books, and those who can read aren't thieves...
📚📔📕

23/11/2024

14/10/2024

This morning we note the birth date of Ciaran Carson (October 9, 1948 – October 6, 2019).

Born in Belfast, Northern Ireland and speaking Irish as his first language, Carson was a member of Aosdána, a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature, and one of the "Belfast Group" of poets that included Seamus Heaney, Michael Longley and Paul Muldoon. Carson was influenced by poet Louis MacNeice but equally by classical poetry of Baudelaire, Rimbaud and Mallarme.

While his debut poetry collection, The New Estate, was originally published by Blackstaff Press in 1976, it was for his later collections – particularly The Irish for No; Belfast Confetti; and The Twelfth of Never – that he gained greater prominence. Many of his poems captured the local lived experience of the Troubles with a sharp caustic lyrical force.

His prose writings included The Star Factory, a memoir of Belfast, Shamrock Tea (which was long-listed for the Booker prize) and translations of The Tain; The Midnight Court; and Dante's Inferno (for which he won the Oxford-Weidenfeld Translation prize in 2002).

Here’s a selection of poems by Ciaran Carson for your consideration:

Belfast Confetti

Suddenly as the riot squad moved in, it was raining exclamation
marks,
Nuts, bolts, nails, car-keys. A fount of broken type. And the
explosion

Itself – an asterisk on the map. This hyphenated line, a burst of
rapid fire…
I was trying to complete a sentence in my head, but it kept
stuttering.
All the alleyways and side-streets blocked with stops and colons.

I know this labyrinth so well – Balaclava, Raglan, Inkerman,
Odessa Street –
Why can’t I escape? Every move is punctuated. Crimea Street.
Dead end again.
A Saracen, Kremlin-2 mesh. Makrolon face-shields. Walkie-
talkies. What is
My name? Where am I coming from? Where am I going? A
fusillade of question-marks.

--Ciaran Carson
[from The Irish for No (Gallery/Wake Forest University Press, 1987]
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Fear

I fear the vast dimensions of eternity.
I fear the gap between the platform and the train.
I fear the onset of a murderous campaign.
I fear the palpitations caused by too much tea.

I fear the drawn pistol of a rapparee.
I fear the books will not survive the acid rain.
I fear the ruler and the blackboard and the cane.
I fear the Jabberwock, whatever it might be.

I fear the bad decisions of a referee.
I fear the only recourse is to plead insane.
I fear the implications of a lawyer’s fee.

I fear the gremlins that have colonized my brain.
I fear to read the small print of the guarantee.
And what else do I fear? Let me begin again.

--Ciaran Carson
[from The Twelfth of Never (Gallery/Wake Forest University Press, 1998]
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Catmint Tea

The cat and I are quite alike, these winter nights:
I consult thesauruses; he forages for mice.
He prowls the darkest corners, while I throw the dice
Of rhyme and rummage through the OED’s delights.

He’s all ears and eyes and whiskery antennae
Bristling with the whispered broadcast of the stars,
And I have cruised the ocean of a thousand bars,
And trawled a thousand entries at the dawn of day.

I plucked another goose-quill from the living wing
And opened up my knife, while Cat unsheathed his claws.
Our wild imaginations started to take wing.

We rolled in serendipity upon the mat.
I forged a chapter of the Universal Laws.
Then he became the man, and I became the cat.

--Ciaran Carson
[from The Twelfth of Never (Gallery/Wake Forest University Press, 1998)]
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Snow

Snow

A white dot flicked back and forth across the bay window: not
A table-tennis ball, but ‘ping-pong’, since this is happening in
another era,
The extended leaves of the dining table – scratched mahogany
veneer –
Suggesting many such encounters, or time passing: the celluloid
diminuendo
As it bounces off into a corner and ticks to an incorrigible stop.
I pick it up days later, trying to get that pallor right: it’s neither
ivory
Nor milk. Chalk is better; and there’s a hint of pearl, translucent
Lurking just behind opaque. I broke open the husk so many
times
And always found it empty; the pith was a wordless bubble.

Though there’s nothing in the thing itself, bits of it come back
unbidden,
Playing in the archaic dusk till the white blip became invisible.
Just as, the other day, I felt the tacky pimples of a ping-pong bat
When the bank-clerk counted out my money with her rubber
thimble, and knew
The black was bleeding into red. Her face was snow and roses just
behind
The bullet-proof glass: I couldn’t touch her if I tried. I crumpled up
the chit –
No use in keeping what you haven’t got – and took a stroll to Ross’s
auction.
There was this Thirties scuffed leather sofa I wanted to make a bid
for.
Gestures, prices: soundlessly collateral in the murmuring room.

I won’t say what I paid for it: anything’s too much when you have
nothing.
But in the dark recesses underneath the cushions I found myself
kneeling
As decades of the Rosary dragged by, the slack of years ago hauled
up
Bead by bead; and with them, all the haberdashery of loss – cuff
buttons,
Broken ball-point pens and fluff, old pennies, pins and needles, and
yes,
A ping-pong ball. I cupped it in my hands like a crystal, seeing not
The future, but a shadowed parlour just before the blinds are
drawn. Someone
Has put up two trestles. Handshakes all round, nods and whispers.
Roses are brought in, and suddenly, white confetti seethes against
the window.

--Ciaran Carson
[from Belfast Confetti (Gallery/Wake Forest University Press, 1989)
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All content of this post is for educational purposes.
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Bookstore Hours This Week

Wednesday through Saturday
12 Noon to 4:30 PM

Indigenous People/Columbus Day Weekend
Sunday & Monday, October 13 & 14
12 Noon to 3:00 PM

14/10/2024

This morning, we note the birth date of E.E. Cummings (Edward Estlin Cummings), (October 14, 1894 — September 3, 1962), American poet and painter who first attracted attention for his unconventional punctuation and phrasing.

Cummings wanted to be a poet from childhood and wrote poetry daily from age 8 to 22, exploring assorted forms. He graduated from Harvard University in 1915. While there, he developed an interest in modern poetry, which ignored conventional grammar and syntax, while aiming for a dynamic use of language.

In the 1920s and ’30s Cummings divided his time between Paris, where he studied art, and New York City. His first book of verse was Tulips and Chimneys (1923); it was followed by XLI Poems and & (1925), and in that year he received the Dial Award for distinguished service to American letters.

In 1926, Cummings' parents were in a car crash; only his mother survived, although she was severely injured. His father's death had a profound effect on Cummings, who entered a new period in his artistic life. He began to focus on more important aspects of life in his poetry. He started this new period by paying homage to his father in the poem "my father moved through dooms of love".

In all, Cummings wrote 12 volumes of verse, assembled in his two-volume Complete Poems (1968). His linguistic experiments ranged from newly invented compound words to inverted syntax. He varied text alignments, spaced lines irregularly, and used nontraditional capitalization to emphasize particular words and phrases. In many instances his distinct typography mimicked the energy or tone of his subject matter.

His moods were alternately satirical and tough or tender and whimsical. He frequently used colloquial language and material from burlesque and the circus. His erotic poetry and love lyrics had a childlike candor and freshness and were often vividly infused with images of nature.

Cummings expressed transcendental leanings his entire life. As he matured, he moved to an "I, Thou" relationship with God. His journals are replete with references to "le bon Dieu", as well as prayers for inspiration in his poetry and artwork (such as "Bon Dieu! may i some day do something truly great. amen.").

He died of a stroke on September 3, 1962, at the age of 67. At the time of his death, Cummings was recognized as the second most read poet in the United States, behind Robert Frost.
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Quotes and Poems by E.E. Cummings

“We do not believe in ourselves until someone reveals that deep inside us something is valuable, worth listening to, worthy of our trust, sacred to our touch. Once we believe in ourselves we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight or any experience that reveals the human spirit.” ― e.e. cummings
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a connotation of infinity

a connotation of infinity
sharpens the temporal splendor of this night

when souls which have forgot frivolity
in lowliness, noting the fatal flight
of worlds whereto this earth's a hurled dream

down eager avenues of lifelessness

consider for how much themselves shall gleam,
in the poised radiance of perpetualness.
When what's in velvet beyond doomed thought

is like a woman amorous to be known;
and man, whose here is alway worse than naught,
feels the tremendous yonder for his own-

on such a night the sea through her blind miles

of crumbling silence seriously smiles

--e.e. cummings
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And What Were Roses

and what were roses. Perfume?for i do
forget....or mere Music mounting unsurely

twilight
but here were something more maturely
childish,more beautiful almost than you.

Yet if not flower, tell me softly who

be these haunters of dreams always demurely
halfsmiling from cool faces,moving purely
with muted step,yet somewhat proudly too—

are they not ladies,ladies of my dreams
justly touching roses their fingers whitely
live by?
or better,
queens,queens laughing lightly
crowned with far colours,

thinking very much
of nothing and whom dawn loves most to touch

wishing by willows,bending up streams?

--e.e. cummings
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Because i love you)last night

because i love you)last night

clothed in sealace
appeared to me
your mind drifting
with chuckling rubbish
of pearl w**d coral and stones;

lifted,and(before my
eyes sinking)inward,fled;softly
your face smile breasts gargled
by death:drowned only

again carefully through deepness to rise
these your wrists
thighs feet hands

poising
to again utterly disappear;
rushing gently swiftly creeping
through my dreams last
night,all of your
body with its spirit floated
(clothed only in

the tide's acute weaving murmur

--e.e. cummings
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cruelly, love

cruelly love
walk the autumn long;
the last flower in whose hair,
they lips are cold with songs

for which is
first to wither, to pass?
shallowness of sunlight
falls, and cruelly,
across the grass
Comes the
moon

love, walk the
autumn
love, for the last
flower in the hair withers;
thy hair is acold with
dreams,
love thou art frail

-walk the longness of autumns
mile dustily to the people,
for winter
who crookedly care.

--e.e. cummings
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i have found what you are like

i have found what you are like
the rain,

(Who feathers frightened fields
with the superior dust-of-sleep. wields

easily the pale club of the wind
and swirled justly souls of flower strike

the air in utterable coolness

deeds of green thrilling light
with thinned
newfragile yellows

lurch and press
-in the woods
which
stutter
and
sing
And the coolness of your smile is
stirring
ofbirds between my arms;but
i should rather than anything
have(almost when hugeness will shut
quietly)almost,
your kiss

--e.e. cummings
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in the rain

In the rain-
darkness, the sunset
being sheathed i sit and
think of you

the holy
city which is your face
your little cheeks the streets
of smiles

your eyes half-
thrush
half-angel and your drowsy
lips where float flowers of kiss

and
there is the sweet shy pirouette
your hair
and then

your dancesong
soul. rarely-beloved
a single star is
uttered, and i

thinkof you

--E. E. Cummings
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my father moved through dooms of love

34

my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height

this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if(so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm

newly as from unburied which
floats the first who,his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots

and should some why completely weep
my father's fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.

Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead called the moon
singing desire into begin

joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice

keen as midsummer's keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand,
so strictly(over utmost him
so hugely) stood my father's dream

his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn't creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.

Scorning the Pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain

septembering arms of year extend
yes humbly wealth to foe and friend
than he to foolish and to wise
offered immeasurable is

proudly and(by octobering flame
beckoned)as earth will downward climb,
so naked for immortal work
his shoulders marched against the dark

his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he'd laugh and build a world with snow.

My father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing)

then let men kill which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine,passion willed,
freedom a drug that's bought and sold

giving to steal and cruel kind,
a heart to fear,to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am

though dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit,all bequeat

hand nothing quite so least as truth
--i say though hate were why men breathe--
because my Father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all

-- e.e. cummings
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i thank You God for most this amazing

i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any—lifted from the no
of all nothing—human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

--e.e. cummings
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“...remember one thing only: that it's you-nobody else-who determines your destiny and decides your fate. Nobody else can be alive for you; nor can you be alive for anybody else.”
― e.e. cummings

All poems from E. E. Cummings: Complete Poems, 1904–1962, Liveright; Expanded edition (2016)
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All content of this post is for educational purposes.
___________________________

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Monday, October 14

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Wednesday through Saturday
12 Noon to 4:30 PM

18/05/2024

13/04/2024

A bookshop owner in Southampton, England has asked for help as he moves his library due to high rent and wants to move the books to the new location. The person is surprised by the presence of more than 250 young people, elderly, and special needs people who were also involved. They form a human chain where they take thousands of books and transfer them hand in hand from the old place to the new place at a distance of 500 feet. The job was done in just an hour.