Poets and storytellers this week is all about revisiting “Old Favourites”, and within that context I have chosen “Beloved Books”. I have about 20,000 books, which I have been collecting since I began to read — precociously, as I was taught to read by my mother before I went to school. Some of these books are in several rooms in my house, some in my mother’s house, a few in storage (as there is no more space, but I cannot part with them…). Yes, I am Nick and I am a bibliophile… And it doesn’t look like I’ll be able to ever kick that addiction!
When you read a book, and begin to gobble up those written words, hearing their sounds, forming mental images, experiencing emotions, devouring the plot, learning new things, taking pleasure in that simple act of reading, have you ever wondered what it would be like to be illiterate? When I was about 20 years old I travelled to Egypt, alone. I went up the Nile and ended up in Aswan. At that time, it was not very touristic and there were very few people speaking English, a few that spoke a little French (and with whom I was able to communicate more or less). But as far as the written word was concerned, I had trouble finding anything written in English or French, for that matter. All was Arabic! That lovely flowing, calligraphic, drawn out, wonderfully squiggly script that looked fantastic, but made no sense whatsoever to me! I then realised what it would be like to be illiterate!
Here’s a poem about the joys of literacy. And if you can read thank your teacher, thank your lucky stars for even now in the 21st century, it is estimated that approximately 750 million adults globally lack basic reading and writing skills, with two-thirds of them being women, particularly in sub-Saharan Africa and Southern Asia…
The Words I Write
The words I write are full of gratitude,
Each rounded letter a thank you,
Each line a heartfelt appreciation
Of my teachers’ tireless persistence.
The pages I read are full of knowledge,
Each word a bird in flight,
Each phrase a new friend, a new acquaintance
Met in distant places, wandering through fabled cities.
The books I read are full of pleasure,
Each page full of new-felt emotion and senses;
Each sentence a laugh, some tears,
Some gentleness, some fiery argument.
The verse I write is full of thought and heart,
Of pain and joy, of brain and soul, love, friendship.
I write and read, and with unconscious ease effortlessly
Take for granted this precious gift of literacy.
I thank my luck for this privilege, this gift of providence,
That I was amongst the chosen to experience
This mystery of written word, of imprisoned sound,
Of captured language and word-pictures.
The present of literature, the happiness of calligraphy
The indulgence of a memoir, the work of words,
The magic of communication,
This richness of script.
No song this week. Just read the poem!
