reader & writers #1: a letter to some man
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E N G L I S H P E N
R E a d E R S & W R I t E R S
V OL U M E t WO
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a L E t t E R t O S OM E M a N
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E N G L I S H P E N
R E a d E R S & W R I t E R S
V O L U M E t WO
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Contents
First published in Great Britain in 2010 by
English PEN, Free Word, 60 Farringdon Road,
London EC1R 3GA
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Collection copyright English PEN, 2010
The moral right o the authors has been asserted. The views
expressed in this book are those o the individual authors,
and do not necessarily represent the opinions o the editors,
publishers, or English PEN.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under
copyright reserved above, no part o this publication may
be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any orm or by any means (electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without
the prior written permission o both the copyright owner
and the publisher o the book.
A CIP catalogue record or this book is available rom
the British Library.
ISBN 978-0-9564806-1-3
Typeaces used: Headers set in 10/13pt Neuzeit S. Published
by Linotype, 1966. Text set in 9/13pt Archer. Published by
Hoeer & Frere-Jones, 2001.
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Aldgate Press,
Units 5&6, Gunthorpe Street Workshops, 3 Gunthorpe
Street, London E1 7RQ www.aldgatepress.co.uk
Designed by here www.heredesign.co.uk
Temple Works, Brett Road, London E8 1JR
On Falling Asleep Monique Roey
Writing Passages Nii Ayikwei Parkes
The Migrants Marie Eveline Lavoile
I am in England Helmut Ogbeni
The Egg in the Cofee Ennio Bollici
The Terrace and the Sky Alessandra Marucci
From a Diferent Place Nidhal Al Jibouri
You Carry Michael Tesamariam
Ode to My Engagement Ring Sviatlana Istamianok
Joy Marie Eveline Lavoile
Her Brother, My Uncle Bayan Karimi
25, Aternoon Enrico Sibour
The Letter o the Lord o the Rascals Alessandra Pirovano
trees Jaoa Da Silva
On the Bridge Nidhal Al Jibouri
Silence Malika Booker
The Day Beore Pierangelo Vidotto
The Hoopoe Bird Yaya Yoso
The Cloud Tree Alessandra Pirovano
Dementia Praecox Merima Brkic
From Adult to Child Joao Da SilvaMemories o Rainall Michael Tesamariam
Mango Guava Yaya Yoso
Chilly Light rom the Window Enrico Sibour
A Letter to Some Man Nidhal Al Jibouri
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On Falling Asleep
Monique Roffey
A writer spins a world in which the reader alls into, as i alling into
a dream. When captivated by a story, I oten eel as though I am about
to all asleep, or, about to all into the dream o the narrative. Ive been
somehow hypnotised, thrown into a trance-like state. Good writing
makes me want to all asleep.
During the eight-week course I taught or English PEN, I ound
mysel saying this out loud a ew times. Ahhhhh, I would exclaim, dreamily,
ater a student had read something out. I elt as though I was about to
all asleep.
This was meant as high praise. So I was a little thrown when this
comment was met with looks o puzzlement and surprise. O course it
must sound odd, that what theyd read made me sleepy, that maybe Id
ound it so dreary I wanted to snooze. Quite the opposite. So indeed, I had
to explain my way o seeing things.
Much good sleep-inducing dream-like writing was written on this
course, most memorably Saras angry tree, Johns piece about his soul
room, Enricos urious turkeys, Wilsons philosophical essay, Sivas orest...
Which reminds me. One session, I introduced my students to a piece
o lie writing rom Henry David Thoreaus Walden, a book written in 1845
by a man who lived in a small cabin in the woods or two years. His memoir
is written in small exquisite essays. I showed my students an extract rom
the essays called Solitude. In it, Thoreau talks o walking alone in the woods,listening to bullrogs trump, the uttering o the alder and poplar, the ox
and the skunk roaming the elds. He ends with: There can be no black
melancholy to him who lives in the midst o nature and has his senses still.
Does anyone know what it eels like to be alone and yet peaceul?
I asked.
Everyone put up their hands.
Great. Id like you to write about how this eels. Many tender words
were written, sleepy stories about being alone late at night, about
spending ones rst months in London walking around the squares and
parks alone.
I loved being on my own when I rst came to London, said Svetlana.
I loved walking around and looking at things. But now I am ready to
be more sociable and go out more, you know meet people.
I think I know how this eels. I also lived alone in London once, oooh,
decades back. Funny, I eel a story coming on, I must sit to write; I eel
a little sleepy too.. .
Sweet dreams.
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A Letter to Some Man
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Writing Passages
Nii Ayikwei Parkes
Running a creative writing workshop is always an ambivalent occupation,
i you believe as I do that you cant teach creative writing; you can teach
eective writing and hope that the group that you work with has what it
takes to create beautiul narratives rom the techniques that you teach.
What it takes has so much more to do with how one thinks than how one
writes and that act was proved so elegantly during the weeks I spent at the
Migrants Resource Centre working with a group so diverse that it was not
at all absurd to hear them call themselves the United Nations. As was to be
expected, the command o the English language was not uniorm across
the group, but to hear them respond to a poem or phrase, or to hear them
describe how they came to write a particular passage, was enough to make
me realise that migration and exile orced or unorced sharpens the very
elements that combine to shape a good writer.
To my mind, a good writer has three primary qualities a huge
capacity or empathy, heightened powers o observation and a strong
belie that the world is or can be dierent rom what the majority say that
it is. And the boy who remembers reshly harvested maize in Eritrea, and
the girl who remembers sunrise in Italy, and the woman who remembers
the Galician inection o her grandathers voice, and the man-boy who
held a spear in Sudan all have markers, displaced benchmarks against
which everything shits and comes into sharper ocus. The language
o expression is secondary to that unique regard, although in this casethey have written primarily in English; our job as readers is to listen with
empathy and attention to these passing strangers who have chosen to
begin their journey as writers in the linguistic port o England.
Our jOb asreaders is tO
listen withempathy andattentiOn
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The Migrants
Marie Eveline Lavoile
The Migrant Resource Centre is a place where people rom dierent
countries and nationalities come to do courses on various topics. At the
MRC you can nd all shades and colours o people around the world.
As soon as you enter the centre, you can hear Spanish, Italian, French
and Portuguese accents. The classrooms are bright and airy making the
students eel at ease. Those doing creative writing have tea breaks and
tasty ood provided by the centre. Like the people on the course, the ood
too is very colourul. In one corner o the classroom is a table which looks
like a banquet ull o wonderul dishes such as green and black olives,
pickled chillies, hummus and a variety o breads. People are very riendly
and kind. Whatever part o the world they come rom, they all have one
thing in common they are oreigners seeking to improve their lives in
one way or another.
Out o breath and completely exhausted enters Marie in the class.
She has completely orgotten that there was one more class today. So the
lessons she booked with a dierent teacher had to wait or another week.
She arrived in class carrying a heavy shoulder bag which contains the
exercise books she used or Italian the previous evening. From a distance
nobody could guess whats inside the bag until she started looking or
her pen. Then she took her mobile phone out, her diary, scar and hat.
Marie is overwhelmed with the stress o the journey to the Migrants
Resource Centre: queuing at the train station to buy a ticket, sitting onthe bus which is crawling like a baby because o the trafc and the
endless road work which is going on or ever and ever.
Today we have a visiting speaker Romesh Gunesekera. The whole
class listens attentively to the writer reading rom one o his novels.
Marie thinks it is such a privilege or the creative writing students to
have dierent authors coming and sharing their skills and talents with
them. Now that the course is ended, whats next? What will the migrants
do? Will there be a ollow up course to take them to the next level?
I am in England
Helmut Ogbeni
I am in England
The land o roots, oundations,
And history and beginnings
The battleground o bloodless wars,
England the land o greenery,
Courtesy, the Queen.
England, where nature has rights
As trees bring delights.
Where people give with a smile.
I am in England,
The poor are content,
You smile and say, Isnt it wonderful?
I am in England.
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The Egg in the Coffee
Ennio Bollici
I that day was a picture, it would be ull o light. It would capture the
sun a moment beore collapsing and die.
I remember Dawn sneaking through the green shutter, gently posing
its shiny stardust touch all over the place.
We were sitting in the tiny kitchen: me, mum and my brother, waiting
or the daily ritual to come.
I cannot remember what we said and i we said anything to each other.
I surely remember we had never been as united as in that moment.
The coee whistles while we stare at dad painting yellow waves with
yolks, beore plunging them into the black boiling sea.
We were humble disciples daily struck by the Shamans magic in the
poor childhood house.
My senses enchanted by the unexpected blend, a rapture birding us
towards spring blessing.
I remember peach blossom raining down the tree around which we
played, long walks along daisy elds.
A starry night cycling with mum while reies lit the night on; the red
velvet airytales book she used to read us in bed.
Then we let the poor house and its wooden shutters. Sun ceased to
shine and died.
Wealth came stealing us happiness and unity.
The new decent house: a mile and thousands o light years away rom
the old one. Its walls soaked with silence, our rooms windows shut in
the morning, darkness all over.
I was poor once. I wish I was, still.
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we managetO laugh at
Our cOuntrywallOwing inthe mud
The Terrace and the Sky
Alessandra Marucci
Your terrace is the cosiest venue to meet riends,
a bubble between the city and the sky:
it protects us rom the cold and the toughness,
rom the vastness and the opportunity o breathing so deeply.
A small, sae bubble: we still share our lives with delight
and irony, we manage to laugh at our country wallowing in the mud.
We almost eel as i our childish dreams came true.
We dont mind our lives uselessness,
because sharing our eelings makes sense.
I could save my cheerulness, i I was able to save the warmness o the oor,
our unny wools and the strong thread between us and our several pasts.
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From a Different Place
Nidhal Al Jibouri
Ater a long torment,
Ater bitter privations,
I enter a new town,
New in everything
Streets, houses,
The people here are not like others.
Where am I?
Am I dreaming?
No, I am awake!
Everything is great
Beauty, tranquillity, happiness
I am in the love with the world,
Jealousy doesnt exist here
Decipher doesnt exist here
Termination, no one knows,
And me!
I am lost in the new world,
I can see lovers, couples,
And I am alone,
searching or someone!
I have nobody in this world
I cant live alone here,And I dont want to go back to the past,
What do I do?
How do I behave?
I dont know about the law,
Nobody looks at me,
Maybe they dont understand my language?
Or they dont like to speak to strangers?
I am close to someone,
Could I ask?
Will they answer me?
He might say I am too curious,
Must I agree about this world?
Please let me be here
As a migrant,
I said that to mysel.
He looked at me and said,
You are wanted or investigation,
I said I didnt do anything,
The court said Go back where you come rom!
I returned crying,
Not knowing my destiny.
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You Carry
Michael Tesfamariam
You carry with you all the glory and the beauty o the world. My eyes wide
opened I stayed xed on you. For a moment, rather an eternity or I have
lost all notion o time, your world was the only thing that the windows o
mind, my eyes, allowed.
The glittering city was or you like the stars to the moon. You moved
but I stayed inert.
Suddenly, the gentle touch o someone on the street woke me up rom
my dream.
i am writingand there
is sOmeOnebehind mydOOrA Letter To Some ManNidhal Al Jibouri (p.46)
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Ode to My Engagement Ring
Sviatlana Istamianok
Robert bought me an engagement ring.
He put it on my nger and asked me to become his wie.
This dream ring shines majestically on my nger, enlightening
everything around.
Its elegant shape pleases my eye.
It makes me proud and happy.
Im closing my eyes and Im in the magical country
With paradise birds and hypnotising music.
Im ying.
This luminous ring gives me this sense o lightness.
Symbol o love proudly shining on my nger.
Joy
Marie Eveline Lavoile
On a white, cold and gloomy day in London, here I am standing in ront
o a travel agent. The ofce is close to the Migrants Resource Centre in
Churton Street. The building is painted white and red. The window is
covered with colourul posters advertising holidays in Algeria, Tunisia
and Morocco. The smiling aces o people bathing in the sunshine are
quite the opposite o those in the ofce, booking their holiday probably
trying to get away rom the misery o the British weather.
Although I cant aord to go on holiday on any o the cruise liners
eatured in ront o me, in my minds eyes I am transported to Morocco.
I am there on its beautiul beach, looking at its white houses under the
blue sky and surrounding dark green palm trees. Just or a minute or
two, I was there.
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Her Brother, My Uncle
Bayan Karimi
I went to see her the next morning, a day ater she ound out. She was not
in a state to talk; she was traumatised. She avoided directly looking or
talking to me. She spent most o the time by hersel: making hersel busy
with housework; washing and cleaning, mostly. Cooking, she let it or me
(nally entrusting me with it). Other times I ound her in her bedroom,
crying or talking quietly to hersel. I was becoming concerned, I eared
that her grie would be everlasting. But gradually her grie lessened and
she began talking about it.
There was no easy way or her to nd out why her little brother
committed suicide in such a manner. Her parents back home reused to
elaborate on it. And she could not go back to nd out by hersel she was
a political reugee in exile, expelled rom her home. At the end she had no
choice but to rely on the rumours that already swept through the Kurdish
community in London.
Three rumours in particular had some credibility or her. One was
people said: he killed himsel ater suering rom shell-shock (a psychological
disorder caused by the sound o the explosion) it happened ater his house
was bombed during the war. The second story was that he was in love; some
unullled love story (not so uncommon in his country). The third rumour
was about a dispute with his ather over land he was supposed to inherit.
Overpowered by his ather, he nally hanged himsel in the basement o his
house, right under his nose. An act o revenge, perhaps.For months she listened careully to the rumours one by one; trying
to make sense o them. She wanted to understand the suicide o her brother.
But deep down she knew that there was no simple answer. Her brother, my
uncle, was a typical product o his own time; he then became its typical victim.
He was born and grew up during the 1960s and 1970s the dictatorial
era o Mohammad Reza Shah in an impoverished urban centre o the
Iranian Kurdistan. Growing up he witnessed deprivation, terror, silence,
and the constant presence o the army and security police in his streets,
bazaars, schools, and his playgrounds even his mothers Khaneqa
was not exempt rom the iron st o the Shah. He grew up learning o
notorious prison cells, tortures and mass executions o the enemies
o the Shah. He grew up in a harsh and militaristic environment.
He went through an education: in school they taught him to love
the Shah and obey his state, but instead he learnt to hate them both.
They indoctrinated him, disciplined him, bullied and beat him trying
to make him a civilized citizen. In his classroom, in the living-room o his
home and in his athers tea-house, they placed pictures o the Shah.
He went through a Revolution when he was barely a teenager.
He joined demonstrations and shouted slogans. He was there when the
crowds destroyed the state; and how they mocked its ideology. He was
there when they brought the statue o the Shah down and he cheered
when they burnt his pictures and the ag.
But reedom was short lived, and as he was about to nd out who
he was, a new regime took over with new ideas o who he was. The post-
evolution regime brought or him urther terror; again he was silenced,
terrorised, stripped o his reedom and sense o being, imprisoned and
marginalised. Finally he was sent to the south to ght a lengthy war
with Iraq.
Her brother, my uncle, was also a typical victim o his own time.
He did not die during the bombardments (gas or colossal), neither on the
land mines. Luckily enough, he did not die in some trench in a arawaydesert or a mountain. He also survived the Kurdish resistance the mass
arrests o the 1980s, and the scores o executions that ollowed. But he
became a dierent kind o victim. He hanged himsel in the basement
o his athers house. He became its latest victim.
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the glitteringcity was fOr
yOu like thestars tO themOOnYou CarryMichael Tesfamariam (p.19)
25, Afternoon
Enrico Sibour
The kitchen, a structured mess,
like every Christmas aternoon:
the green tea towels on the table beside
the embroidered napkins, the worktop
cluttered with porcelain tea cups and dessert plates.
Mum washing up the silver spoons in the sink,
putting them on a sot white blanket.
Meanwhile the ripe pineapple looks like a dead ruit,
the skins brown scales, the burnt green leaves
show its golden heart as much as Dad slices it.
I can see it now, like on a screen, here in Baghdad,
at my desk, in ront o the window overlooking
the green yellow gardens along the brown Tigri.
I can hear the door bell ringing, see Mamo opening the door,
Marisa entering the kitchen, hands ull o pastries boxes.
She is grateul or the tuna pt delivered to her place beore lunch...
and the chat begins...
A quick look at the watch and I come back to the report:
it has to be nished soon and its almost dusk,
but I know that there is a Christmas aternoon tea on its way,
amilys tradition, the shiny crystals, the sparkling wine,
the dancing candle ames, the pine resin smell. ..A small kind stage with a role or everyone,
a pause at least once a year.
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The Letter of the Lord of the Rascals
Alessandra Pirovano
Royal Geographical Society
1 Kensington Gore
London SW7 2AR
Dear President and Council Members,
I would like to thank you right away or the kind attention that you are
going to grant my words, and in the near uture I hope to greet you as my
honoured guests in the Garden o the Five Senses.
Let me briey tell you about mysel, so that you might better
understand the reasons that have obliged me to honour the debt I owe to
the ora o my childhood.
I had long been a sick child, growing up all alone, a child who learned
about lie rom the trees o a grove: the sense o time, the pleasures o
contemplation, the apparent death and the joyul rebirth and above all,
respect or the sel, or ones own sacred and worthwhile existence. I like to
think that the trees that witnessed my childhood liked the spell cast by my
words, the sheer delight o my playing, the pride and the tiredness in my
growing sense o sel and my shyness in approaching the world.
Once I became adult, I wanted to honour the promise made to the
trees o my childhood by saving the lie o the Rascal Trees and o all
their brothers scattered around the world that had dared disobey the lawso nature. At rst I had some trouble guring out how to make it happen,
but over time I discovered a whole inventory o extravagant lives: I learned
that you can be born a tree and then decide to become something else,
sidestepping the obligatory roles and the grotesque obtuseness o certain
men who deend the illusory order o their constructed world.
The rst Rascal Tree I met was the Wave Tree. It was born in a tiny
trafc owerbed in a big city where an epidemic had robbed men and all living
beings o their ve senses. So it ed to Guadalupe, and its luxuriant mane
became a huge and ever-shiting multicoloured wave the local children loved
to play with.
The Cloud Tree used to live in Buthan and was the one and only Rascal
Tree duly honoured by a whole people and their king. It had become a
cloud. I am the head o a nomad, the hair o a dishevelled traveller.
She made a statement or you here attached. The Lea Tree, the
Flower Tree and the Fruit Tree are Algerian triplets that just loved to
contemplate the world and in order to have the time to do so, they decided
to give the best o themselves all at once: as a single huge lea, as a lone
ower most intensely perumed, and as a big juicy ruit. Long prisoners o
cramped hothouses, theyve been ghting a long battle against a certain
ghoul, namely a trafcker o out-o-season ruit.
The Book Tree in the park o the University o St Petersburg discovered
the world o knowledge by learning to read whatever students and
proessors were studying under the shade o its oliage. I only I could tell
the other trees and all men about the humility and the power o the word.
So strong was its desire that it became a Book Tree.
So I repaid my debt by making room in my garden or all the Rascal
Trees I had encountered and then I invited in the children and amilies
o the nearby towns. Wrong move! The result was uproar and strie: the
children had great un indeed, but the parents savaged me and threatened
to burn down my magical grove. They reproached me or having created
a grove celebrating disobedience a bad example or children meant to
learn that in lie there are duties but no desires.My grove is in danger, and is sorely in need o your protection,
because our world has to be made to acknowledge that these creatures
have ull rights o citizenship.
Ladies and gentlemen, believe me, in the whole wide world there is no
comparable garden o such intelligent beauty.
Faithully yours,
The Lord o the Rascals
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trees
Jaoa Da Silva
when the men decided
to
destroy most o the beautiul trees
(god regretted)
why did I make these guys?
we have tricks to make un
and
god knows
but
he can not believe
we use the trees to make a house
to cross the highest river by chips
and
to make million things
and
god just look
we think
that
we are strongwhen we use the machine to cut the trees
and
god believe
years go and come
but
the bible still says
stop and worship me
without an instrument
we are weaklings
can I cut one more tree, please?
just to make a guitar
or my spirit to be happy
and
god sits down
on
his throne and says
I am tired
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On the Bridge
Nidhal Al Jibouri
I stood dreaming on the bridge,
Looking at the rain alling down the bridge,
Tiger water passed in ront o my eyes,
And my memories passed under the bridge,
I asked mysel
Are you thinking o me?
Are you missing me?
The clock is ticking and I am waiting,
My day has passed and the night is coming,
The days passed happily,
It reminded me o the old days,
Quietly, smoothly, in windy warm days,
Like the wave o a great Tiger in a long day,
I love to stand or long hours on the bridge,
Seeing the Tiger, a great view rom the bridge,
You promised me with water,
But what you said is a mirage,
My dreams led me to meet on the bridge,
But even the water dried rom the Tiger,
However my ways took me to stand on the bridge.
what did hethink?/stand
ing naked Onthe rOOf Of/the cOuncilblOck,/getting ready
tO jumpDementia PraecoxMerima Brkic (p.38)
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Silence
Malika Booker
She does not talk about that time,
has buried it beneath earths mud
where you bury shit; She erased it,
olded it up neatly and tucked it away
with no wake, uneral or anare,
buried it whilst it was raw and resh.
I remember early September:
the phone ring, jerk out o sleep, umble,
the red sky o pre-dawn through my bare window,
my cousins Guyanese tones, voice broken,
she sobs. Till I too begin to cry.
She stutters, stops, starts, tells me
about an advert, a plane ride.
They promised her work and a US visa.
All lies, I am a prisoner, somewhere in the south
they take my passport, work us long hours,
deduct our pay or ood and board,
Then give us a trickle. I made more back home.
We pick ruit all day.
She let her girl child at home
in her mothers care,
now cant send no money.
I cant see me way... help me, she sobs.
I do nothing except worry then
make phone calls to older aunts
in New York, not new to this,
who tell me they will take care o it.
A month later they call to say
we have her. How? I ask.
But they have buried it,
on top o their own shit.
They too do not talk.
she dOes nOttalk abOutthat time,/has buried
it beneathearths mud/where yOubury shit
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The Day Before
Pierangelo Vidotto
Im sitting beside his bed in a very uncomortable chair. I have to stay
there a long time.
Im holding his wet and cold hand. Our arms, along his side, are placed
on a coarse abric.
He is singing aloud in this silent white hospital room. War songs rom his
comradeship during the Second World War and oten sung, in riendly
meetings, with many drinks.
On this night the other suerers cant sleep and they ask themselves
why Im not trying to silence him.
I cant stop his last voice, it is his way to say goodbye to this real world.
The Hoopoe Bird
Yaya Yosof
The cherry tree blooms
Angelic and Faithul,
A supernatural lovely Hoopoe bird,
Supermodel o Shaba kingdom,
Queen o Sweden eyes,
Strawberry cheeks
Sweet resh harmonic
Tamarind smile,
Gazelle ip quick turns
Jumping between the stairs
To splash the smiles lights
hot blood, soul and special purple scar
It is the Hoopoe,
The lovely Hoopoe bird,
With a sparkling tail.
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like thewave Of a
great tigerin a lOngday/ i lOvetO standfOr lOng
hOurs Onthe bridgeOn the BridgeNidhal Al Jibouri (p.31)
The Cloud Tree
Alessandra Pirovano
I am wood and a steam o silk,
Soil, stones, an ashram o milk.
I am a gentle matter, a mother-o-pearl ate.
I am a house o words, almonds and slate.
I am the guest o a cobalt exile,
I am a bread cathedral, a golden alphabets hive.
I run. I run in skies I cannot belong.
I am a blast urnace, a dance in the elds, a scented song.
I am a hoarse water diviner, a coral continuance.
I am a deaening silence, a dreams transhumance.
I am the Cloud Tree.
Majestic white mass, the cloud moves, slow and proud,
like an old sage on an island promenade.
The tree trunk stands, waiting or the spring to come back.
The Cloud Tree was the daughter o a love marriage:
the love o a pure tree or a brave cloud on a mountain .Long, long time ago.
Once upon a time...
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Dementia Praecox
Merima Brkic
I. You have to escape!
they shouted.
Flapped away with their arms
and inhaled
beore the next warning.
There is an eye hanging on your window!
I thanked
my small, invisible riends.
So I hid behind
a new ace
a new voice
someone elses words
and was sae.
II. As long as you get rid
o the others,
you will become like us.They said.
The others
did not want to get rid
o me.
They argued with them
and it became us.
I bite mysel in the knee.
Yes.
I am still here.
III. Little bird, you claim:
that you live on a star,
skies are your station
and you are always
closer to heaven
than me.
Little bird,
one more word
and I might just
dip your wings in tar.
IV. What did he think?
Standing naked on the roo o
the council block,
getting ready to jump.
What did he think?
Shouting my name so all the neighbors
could hear him.
What did he think?
Climbing down, curled in the arms
o a reghter?
Did he think
it wasnt high enough?
1. A severe mental disorder characterized by some, but not necessarily all, o the ollowing
eatures: emotional blunting, intellectual deterioration, social isolation, disorganized speech
and behavior, delusions, and hallucinations. 2. A state characterized by the coexistence o
contradictory or incompatible elements.
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From Adult to Child
Joao Da Silva
We care about you
and
we x our eyes on you
(100%)
We ought in the past
to
see you in the present
and
we are still looking to your uture
()
You give to us a dierent eeling
more
than being blessed
(&)
You are a little person
but
strong in aith
(@)
We are here until you grow up
Memories of Rainfall
Michael Tesfamariam
Suddenly, the gates o heaven
Opened up, releasing torrents o natures
Massive tears, cries o a million eyes,
Each with their own personal stories
People hurrying to hide,
Like oxes in their caves
While the bridge remained,
Complacent and tranquil,
Listening to the terriying music
O the swell and rush o the river
Exploding underneath it,
Like the Big Bang
At the beginning o the universe.
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i am inengland,/
yOu smileand say,isnt itwOnderful?/i am in
englandI Am in England Helmut Ogbeni (p.11)
Mango Guava
Yaya Yosof
I do not know where to start
Mango or Guava to say
Guava
I preer it white
you might get them red too
Look grandather special Guava tree!
Guava ruit hanging like...
hanging like Neyala train passengers
who preer the train deck with goats and chickens
with and without ticks mostly.
Pick what you catch
and catch your eye
I take the special light green
White rom inside
The seed painted in it
like a woman wearing gloves
and diamonds
I still eel the taste,
the seeds in my teeth
From the last one in 1985,
Well, it is the last
To see all o them The village, the moon and the light
The melodies, the drum sound, the gazelles,
the birds and the songs
jumping rom one to take another,
turning around, tasting delicate Guava juice
Haj Abdulaahi Jeneyna in Gour Abasha village,
at the heart o Daarour.
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Chilly Light from the Window
Enrico Sibour
No bread, only some grissinis in a basket,
serving plates ull o dierent kind o cheeses,
hard, sot, creamy, white and pale yellow, blue veined,
and two jugs o milk already on the table.
Almost noon and the light...
the light is like one old ar amiliar light:
like a white rozen light coming rom the window,
reected rom the near mountains walls,
smoothed passing by the misted windows glasses,
when the warm kitchen was ready to guest the riends.
The big pan sizzling on the scorching stove:
the smell o tasty tomato sauce lling the room.
The stewed meat was almost ready: he put back the big lid.
Meanwhile with an eye or the copper pot: the polenta was bubbling
and bubbling, with yellow hot splashes.
A sudden sound rom the courtyard and he asked Flavio to open
the rst riends were already at the door.
People chatting in the lounge and Cesca came in the kitchen,
arms ull, holding a big plate covered by a cloth:
she ound an empty corner on the table to put it down.
Olive oil, vinegar, and salt she asked or.Also a big wooden spoon and ork and
the cloth taken o began to dress the salad,
mixing careully all the vegetables.
Andrea ound the corkscrew in the rst drawer,
opened a red wine bottle and poured it in the glasses.. .
The voice rom the radio: someone switched it o.
The light.. .
the light is like the one old ar amiliar light,
the same bubbling polenta and stewed meat,
also the cheeses, also the riends,
riends but dierent people,
chatting together in many dierent languages.
Like in the memory, the windows glasses covered with condensed steam,
the snow alling outside, the garden and the New River,
but not the amiliar walls, the mountains.
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A Letter to Some Man
Nidhal Al Jibouri
Dear Sir,
This is my letter rom a woman,
She is maybe a oolish woman
Did a oolish woman write to you beore?
My name? Doesnt matter what it is!
Maybe my name is Nadia, Nidhal, Hind, Wasan,
Sir, I am araid to say anything,
I am araid to do anything
Because the sky may burn,
Dear Sir, Your Orient conscates,
The blue letters also conscate
The dreams out o a womans closet,
Your Orient turns womans emotions into stones,
Your Orient speaks to woman with violence,
It slaughters spring, emotions and the black plates,
Your Orient, my Sir, makes crowns out o womens skulls,
Sir, dont critise me or my bad hand writing,
I am writing and there is someone behind my door,
And outside I hear the sound o winds and dogs,
Dear Sir, there is some one behind my door,
He shall slaughter me i he sees my letter,
He shall cut my head i he sees my see-through dress,He shall cut my head i I express my torture,
Your Orient, dear Sir, sentences women,
nominates men as prophets, buries women alive,
Dont be upset, Sir, i I say my eelings,
The Orient man will not care about my poetry or eeling,
Forgive me Sir, i I was rude,
Sorry Sir, i I overstepped my right and spoke about the kingdom o men,
The rich literature is or men, love is only or men,
The hidden reedom is or women in my country,
Say anything you want to say: I am mad, stupid, oolish, I dont care,
Because I know a woman is oolish to write in the logic o men,
Didnt I tell you at the beginning, this is a letter rom a oolish woman?
i am afraid tOdO anything/because thesky may burn
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A Letter To Some Man
From Readers & Writers the literature development
programme o English PEN.
Edited by the writers and Philip Cowell, Readers & Writers
Programme Manager
The English Centre o International PEN, the worldwide
association o writers, exists to uphold the values o literature,literacy and reedom o expression. The frst PEN club was
ounded in London in 1921 to promote intellectual co-operation
and understanding among writers, to create a world community
o writers that would emphasise the central role o literature
in the development o world culture, and to deend literature
against the modern worlds threats to its survival. Readers &
Writers is English PENs literature development programme
which brings these international values home to London in
the orm o creative writing workshops or reugees, asylum
seekers and migrants.
The programme o workshops, out o which this book comes,
was supported through the 2012 London Cultural Skills Fund,
unded by the London Development Agency and managed
by Arts Council England. Thanks to Nii Ayikwei Parkes,
Monique Roey, Malika Booker, Miriam Halahmy, Romesh
Gunesekera, Mimi Khalvati, Blake Morrison, George Szirtes,
Choman Hardi, Daljit Nagra and Esther Freud or supporting
the workshops.
English PEN is a company limited by guarantee, number
5747142, and a registered charity, number 1125610
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