warsan shire.

ten minute freewrite at 4.20 am

2011-07-28T06:03:00.001+01:00

-

I have thrown my body around like an old excuse

I have thrown my heart out like a kite

like rice confetti

like milk teeth behind me

like salt behind me

I have thrown away all of my pride

I have thrown all of my prayers into the deep

well of your mouth.

You catch me,

you’ve caught me

honey

I have nothing left.

-

the water.

2011-07-28T05:58:00.002+01:00

-

i’ve been angry for awhile. some days i try to write it down. things like ‘i’m bloated with salt water’ or ‘there is a sink in the middle of my chest and it’s flooding.’ 11 million people in the horn of africa are thirsty. and hungry. and dying. 11 million people. i chew on the insides of my cheeks until i draw blood. the spit in my own mouth humiliates me. there has not been a drought like this in 60 years.

when language becomes inappropriate, i can only use water to describe the lack of water. a reporter on the tv says ‘the famine in somalia is biting’. my mother holds her face in her hands. my stomach hurts.

someone leaves me an anonymous post with the word ‘drought’. all lower case. the word stares back at me. i don’t know what this person meant. a taunt, a reminder or a fragile shallow attempt at depth? my anger is tidal.

a few weeks ago a tipsy guy leaned into me after a reading and asked ‘so where are you from?’. when i tell him, he says ‘you know, of all the africans to be in the UK, that one is the worst’.

an eight year old boy at school calls my six year old sister a ‘smelly somali bastard’. she comes home crying. i taste copper in my mouth. press my face into her hair, she is a small beautiful thing with curls down to her waist.

i read a comment online under an article about the victims of the drought and famine ‘there’s so many of them anyway, it’s not like it’s going to wipe them all out’.

i am twenty two years old, my whole existence my country has been suffering. for twenty two years i have been an immigrant, a refuggee, i have been elsewhere and homesick, i have been in mourning and defending everything that i am.

‘why don’t they get the money from their pirates’ and ‘they done this to themselves’.

i’m heart broken. i’m resentlful and i’m angry and the only way to explain it is by using language about water. but there is no water, just tears pooling in the hollow of a collar bone. my friend calls me and says ‘where have you been, how are you?’ and i say ‘i’m just so angry leyla, i’m angry all the time’ and she says ‘good, you care, when you care, you must feel something’.

in somali when we see injustice we say ‘dhiiga kuma dhaqaqo?’ which translates into ‘does your blood not move?’.

dear (name of every person who does not care) when the rain fails you, i hope the world does not do the same.

-

talking to city boys on the phone.

2011-06-17T12:28:00.005+01:00

freewrite. written in seven minutes.
-

we do breathing exercises over the phone
because you like to
punch people in the mouth.

i know,
fighting is easier
than dancing
or making love.

when i'm alone
i think of suckling on
your fractured knuckles.

just close your eyes and imagine a meadow
breathe in deep
pushing out your stomach
i hear you hesitate on the other side
of the darkness.

we should take a train out of the city
i want to name you after tall trees
compare your strength to a thick bark middle
even though the colour green just reminds
you of a two day old bruise climbing up
the side of your body like moss.
-

2011-06-17T12:18:00.002+01:00

after fajr it is raining a little bit. it’s sunday morning, i’m still awake. insomnia means i never miss that prayer. my body is calm water. i find myself standing at the window for a long while, until the rain quiets down. my hand against the glass, like a gentle touch upon the shoulder of the sky. i’m overwhelmed. my biggest downfall is my brightest blessing, i feel too much, all the time. ya Allah, if it’ll keep my heart soft, break my heart every day.

my beloved has ninety nine names, nothing ever more beautiful, more balanced.

2011-06-17T12:16:00.000+01:00

the greatest name, the all compassionate, the all merciful, the absolute ruler, the pure one, the source of peace, the inspirer of faith, the guardian, the victorious, the compeller, the greatest, the creator, the maker of order, the shaper of beauty, the forgiving, the subduer, the giver of all, the sustainer, the opener, the knower of all, the constricter, the reliever, the abaser, the exalter, the bestower of honor, the humiliator, the hearer of all, the seer of all, the judge, the just, the subtle one, the all aware, the forebearer, the magnificent, the forgiver and hider of faults, the rewarder of thankfullness, the highest, the greatest, the preserver, the nourisher, the accounter, the mighty, the generous, the watchful one, the responder to prayer, the all comprehending, the perfectly wise, the loving one, the majestic one, the resurrector, the witness, the truth, the trustee, the possessor of all strength, the forceful one, the governor, the praised one , the appraiser, the originator, the restorer, the giver of life, the taker of life, the ever living one, the self existing one, the finder, the glorious, the only one, the one, the satisfier of all needs, the all powerful, the creator of all power, the expediter, the delayer, the first, the last, the manifest one, the hidden one, the protecting friend, the supreme one, the doer of good, the guide to repentance, the avenger, the forgiver, the clement, the owner of all, the lord of majesty and bounty, the equitable one, the gatherer, the rich one, the enricher, the preventer of harm, the creator of the harmful, the creator of good, the light, the guide, the originator, the everlasting one, the inheritor of all, the righteous teacher, the patient one.

the 'i like you' poem

2011-05-18T09:03:00.001+01:00

-

if you gave me
half a moon of a chance
i would
kiss the incisors
out of your mouth, clean
and hold them in my
own, like chippings
from an old mug
then
pray my tongue into
a bowl of holy water
and ask god to never
leave you thirsty.

brooklyn freewrite two.

2011-04-24T02:34:00.001+01:00

free write poem written in ten minutes using a chris abani line chosen randomly; I felt my body sigh like a flower opening to the sun.

-

I felt my body sigh like a flower opening into the sun
it was always like this whenever you touched me
my body may be dirty but my mouth is a clean mouth
and your forehead, an expansion of veins
your forehead, like a map of train lines
our legs over lapping like train lines
on a map
show me where your father is on a map
show me how far you travelled to look like him
on my body I can show you pockmarks
scars from things I should have never touched
and stretch marks
again like our legs, like the veins on your forehead
when you’re above me and your eyes are closed buds
like your father jumping borders on maps
this is what my body looks like naked
over lapping from a distance
mottled skin from tight bras and leather belts
you can fake my skin into constellations
you can fake me into beauty
you can tell me I’m worth loving
but at my peak I’m sapling
seedling
dandelions
only coming alive when you touch me.

-

bad milk

2011-04-24T02:33:00.000+01:00

-

since you moved out
i have not returned to the apartment.
i sleep in my old bedroom
in the house i outgrew the moment
you flexed your fingers inside of me.
my mother and her henna fingered friends
move out my belongings
like handfuls of water
from a sinking boat.
the entire city tastes of your
cowardly mouth.
i pray like a photograph left out in the sun
bent at the edges
stiff at the centre
stained
trying to remember what i looked like
before you ruined me.

-

how to wear your mothers lipstick

2011-04-24T02:30:00.002+01:00

15 minute free write.

-

you must wear it like she wears disappointment on her face
you must hide the surprise of tasting other men on your lips
your mother is a woman and women like her cannot be contained.

you find the black tube inside her beauty case, where she keeps
your fathers old prison letters,
you desperately want to look like her
film star beauty, you hold your hand against your throat
your mother was most beautiful when sprawled out on the floor
half naked and bleeding.

you go to the bathroom to apply the lipstick,
somewhere no one can find you
your teeth look brittle against the deep red slickness
you smile like an infant, your mouth is a wound
you look nothing like your mother
you look everything like your mother.

you call your ex boyfriend, sit on the toilet seat and listen to
the phone ring, when he picks up you say his name slow
he says i thought i told you to stop calling me
you lick your lips, you taste like years of being alone.

-

Envelopes.

2011-04-24T02:26:00.001+01:00

ten minute brooklyn freewrite.

-

All of my brothers ex girlfriends agree on one thing;
when he kissed them, he was thirsty.
I meet them all in one day
use my entire weeks pay on coffee they won’t drink
I give myself a twelve minute rest between each girl
spend it pouring sugar sachets into the mouth of my skirt.
When they come into the coffee shop
I stand up, catch the sugar between my toes.
They hug me harder than they should
we don’t talk about all the things they know about my home
the alcoholic step father
my mother’s miscarriages
whatever it was that happened to my brother
to make him so angry.
They ask how is he?
Is it true what they’re saying he did?
When will he be out?
Did he say anything about me?
I count the eight year sentence over my hands like missing children
I see his last girlfriend at the end, her nose begins to bleed
I sit across the table from her
comparing her skin to the manila envelopes
his letters visit me in.

-

praise the soft belly

2011-04-24T02:25:00.002+01:00

-

why do you live in your body like you will be given another? as if it were temporary. you starve it, you let anyone touch it, you berate it. tell it that should be completely different. you tug at your soft flesh, wish it thinner, wish it gone. you fall in love with those who praise the way it sighs under their hands, but who praises the way it holds up your weight, even when you are falling apart?

-

the dream

2011-04-24T02:25:00.001+01:00

-

i just woke up from a dream about an ex boyfriends sister. she was beautiful and small with very dark lips. in the dream, her and i were sitting in a restaurant at separate tables waiting for the men we thought we loved to remember us. they never did. we walked out of the restaurant empty bodied. the street was an american summer, not the british one her and i knew well. by the time i could feel the air on my face, i had somehow already decided that i was going to try to make her happy. near by a tree had unripe dragon fruit hanging, i picked them for her, held them in the open mouth of my dress, told her that if she waited a few days, the way they taste would make her forget, if only for a few seconds, the pain of always trying to love the wrong person. then i walked her into a small bookshop, bought her book of photographs that were the colour of fire flies caught in mason jars and honey still in your mouth. she smiled at me. then she went home. i wake up and i think of her brother, about how he had tried to find the right words to say to me for two years, how we both ignored that he never could. i think about the loneliness that sometimes makes me want bite into my mattress. i think about holding close to me a woman that has been hurt in a very real way. i don’t know why i am always trying to save other people. even in the dream i was being for her, the man no man could ever be for me. i am just a body begging anyone and anything to hold me. quick while i am still soft to touch and easy to impress, tell me that all this love i carry by default belongs to someone worthy.

-

update.

2011-04-24T01:54:00.002+01:00

-

i'm in brooklyn. i've been here for a long while. i call home and make a joke about how i don't want to kill myself anymore. my mother laughs into the phone and i realize how much we sound alike. distance has changed the shape of my body. my eight year old sister recites a poem she has written for me you are the air in my balloon . i cry a little. i call her baby. my chest hurts. i tell her i'm writing a story about her, she giggles. we are quiet for a small moment, suddenly i feel shy. i press the phone into my neck, i tell her i'll call home tomorrow. i think about all the ways i've complicated things for no reason. i walk to my bedroom gently, my body a borrowed thing.

-

if it's love that you want.

2011-03-20T09:47:00.000Z

The absence of an unnamed thing.

2011-03-13T06:07:00.001Z

-

I

We googled clitoris
and found a diagram,
every numbered, labelled fold,
then spent hours with a small mirror,
comparing.

II

That one night when Sara
got into a car with a boy,
we all knew it was a mistake.
No one said anything when she
walked back smiling, limping.
We sat there for five minutes, ruined,
watching her spit knuckle clean
her bleeding skirt.

III

At lunch, a boy in our class tells us
what it feels like. Imagine
he points to my mouth, pushing
an entire finger into the gap
between your front teeth.
The girl beside me shudders,
I look at my hands.
She begged me he says.
What did she say? we ask.
Make me normal, please
open me up.

-

the mathematics of your body.

2011-02-28T05:37:00.001Z

-

the ninth month into your fourteenth year
your breasts began to grow around the
initialled gold necklace that
your uncle had bought you for your
seventh birthday.
your body could be divided into handfuls
you wrote in your diary a lot about how
you felt like you were going to explode.
there were nights when womanhood left you feverish
you ached across a childish bed like a shameful secret
as though all the blood leaving your body would kill you soon
and no, you didn’t have an older sister to speak to and
your mother was busy being strong.
it was that same year when you began to count
the stretch marks on your hips
like they were a tally of surviving
when you began to measure your thighs
with two open palms, when you learnt how to
throw up at night, begging the body back to innocent.
your lips became two halves of something
you couldn’t open
no one warned you about how girls voices also change
there was nothing to prepare you for it
how some words would feel dirty in your mouth
how you would shy away from calling your father
‘daddy’.

-

tell your mother i fell out of love.

2011-02-28T01:26:00.004Z

the birth name.

2011-02-25T06:05:00.003Z

-

the name warsan means good news in the somali language. i hated it. i despised my name. i wanted to be called something soft, something that ended with an "ah" sound. my name is difficult to whisper into the side of my face. my name is easy to use with a hard voice. i appreciate that now. the hesitation on the other side of the phone. the way they would replace my name with 'baby'. give your daughters difficult names. give your daughters names that command the full use of tongue. my name makes you want to tell me the truth. my name doesn't allow me to trust anyone that cannot pronounce it right.my mother calls me 'warsanay'. if a man ever tried to call me that, it means he understands that i am someone's daughter. it means i'll let him call me down from a long building. praise my grandmother, warsan baraka. my father's mother. the woman i was named after.

-

the letter your mother couldn't write.

2011-02-16T09:19:00.003Z

-

dear daughter,
if you’ve inherited my heart
then don’t be ashamed
of how desperate you sometimes feel
or how you stain sheets and shirts
that you are sopping wet
a walking haemmorhage
curious hands in the shower
the first menses of a young girl
a virgin writhing on a bed
you are on fire
you are like your mother.

so how could i ever talk about sin or damnation
when you have legs like creaking doors?
you welcome ghosts home
so i know you will know hell intimately
men who like to punch women in the face
who tongue kiss girls who look like their mother
men who hold you down, face in the mattress.

daughter with a soft body
the hardest ones will fall for you
and you will usher them in
seek out their sharp edges
the abrasion
and by the time they’ve finished
you will be bloody and sore
teeth marks on your thighs
your torso a burnt house of worship.

habibti, you do not deserve it but
you will be loved in fragments and fractions
until you no longer look like yourself
until your mouth is just the shape of his quiet name
oh my little girl
rip him out of your body
you come from a long line of women;
hawa who doused herself in petrol
ayan who pulled out her own teeth
khadija who fell asleep in the river
forgetting is the hardest thing in the world,
remember that.

-

dear mogadishu

2011-02-02T02:52:00.001Z

-

your old anthem burns a hole in stomach
i am the daughter of immigrants
my home is a home of longing
i am swollen with language i cannot afford to forget
i am homesick for a home i have never lived in
last night i dreamt of you
your warm mouth on the soles of my feet
you were humid
your palms flat on my bare shoulders
you carried me home
my mothers village
my fathers first kiss
dear god,
was this what belonging felt like
my god,
i’d never wanted anything so bad.

-

tuesday morning freewrite.

2011-02-01T10:08:00.001Z

-

after ‘Freedom of love’ by Andre Bretton

my husband with the throat of a gun tossed into a river
with the beard of a boy who can’t look at his mother
my husband who doesn’t resemble my father until he begins to walk away
with teeth like a row of ants beside a white line of salt
with fingers like a virgins inside her own body
my husband with the fist fight for a mouth
with a bag of ice for a father
my husband with burning hasheesh for arms
my husband with the face of a liar caught between my thighs
with scaffolding for a stomach
with the stomach of a man going away for winter
with the eyes of a bleeding skirt
with the iris of a skirt lined with wet rocks
my husband with the mouth of woman stoned to death
my husband with the voice of a secret wedding
with the nape of riots and dogs
my husband with the alley way of a navel
with a line of spit down his torso
my husband with the skin of turmeric
with the skin saffron
with the voice of granite against your face
with the voice of gravel in your mouth
with the tongue of a bullet
with a tongue of a long shadow
my husband with a tongue of burning myrrh on my skin.

-

stills.

2011-01-30T23:13:00.001Z

-

the other day, on my way back home from somewhere on a night bus, sitting under the dull light, surrounded by strangers with cold hands and small sad secrets, i thought about how this could be a scene from a film about nothing. about loneliness. about how we are all living towards that one person who can touch us and make us forget our own name. the film could follow any of the passengers home. but it would choose me, a close up of my head against the window. the city a blur of artificial light. what would i be going home to? what have i lost? the camera would see me fumbling for my keys. it would follow me into the dark corridor of my home. you would see the flush of colour on my cheeks, what the cold has done to my lips. you would see me take off my boots. you would note that they were not feminine looking. i would put the keys on the side table. take off my jacket. i would go into the kitchen, warm up the water for some tea. the camera would settle on the steam, the camera would show the static of my hair. it would show it’s unruliness, you would think about touching it. i would rub my hand across my face. i would look weary, restless, stubborn. the light of the shot would force you to want to find out what’s wrong. but when i am stirring the tea and you see that my nail polish is chipped, you notice that i use brown sugar instead of white. you compare the brown of the sugar to my skin. the camera would move and focus on the nape of my neck, the plaid of the shirt i am wearing. you would notice how loose it is on my body. how it looks like it belongs to my father. you would think to yourself, why is this girl wearing her fathers shirt? then the way i would drink my tea would make up your mind for you -my front teeth clinking against the porcelain. you would lose all hope. you would feel alone. you would want to lie beside me in a bed that we both could not fall asleep in. you would have the thick beard of boy who doesn’t want to look like his father. either way, you would know way before i do, how the film will end. how it would never work. how we would grow empty attempting, how i would never want to be anywhere else.

-

small mercies

2011-01-24T05:01:00.005Z

-

bismillah.

so i wrote eleven poems in eleven days for the year two thousand and eleven. also my life began again in the beginning of this year, which was shocking because i had no idea that i wasn't living.

so now that you are alive warsan what do you do differently?

well, i wear lipstick every single day, like my mother.
when i hear music, i dance. no matter where i am or who can see.
i eat fruit with both my hands.
i cry whenever i need to.
i am open, less closed.

as a kid, i studied ballet. i believed that i was going to be the ultimate african ballerina, until my father put a stop to it. he thought it would make me grow into an immodest girl. and maybe he was right, maybe i would either be much more comfortable in my body, or even more messed up than i already am. but god knows. how does this link in? well i watched black swan. i watched it on friday and it's now sunday and i can't move on. scenes keep coming back to me. it was perfection. i'll come back to
this film, a few times. because it so deeply resonates on so many levels. i haven't trembled while watching a movie before in my life.

i've also been taking one photo a week of myself. i want to do this for the rest of my life. why? because i'm insecure. god, everyone is, just no one really wants to look their insecurities dead in the face. so this is what i am going to do, until one day one photograph stares back at me and i look like the girl i always wanted to be. the one who is in love with herself, and for all the right reasons and the love is unconditional. i'm learning myself more, need to know what i look like, when and why.

the body. the body. the body.

i have a crush on a man called yannis philippakis.

i'm reading a book called - the unbearable lightness of being.

i sleep in my brothers bedroom every night, because people say the room is haunted and that it has bad energy but this is not true. and i am proving this.

i just came back from bristol. i spent a few days with my lovers muneera, sarina and sukina. my sisters with the complimentary names. we went to a relaxation centre. how kind the almighty is, for blessing me these women. when i look at our friendship, i really honestly know that we are a minority. that few people feel and experience friendship like that.

i'm starting a joy blog on tumblr. http://www.tumblr.com/warsanshire

why? because always we look back on our lives and remember the times when we were at our most chaotic. who documents a delicous meal. who documents a moment. a stranger that smiled at you. who documents laying down in the park with the soft heat on your arms and face. i want to remember the good. just because there has been so much bad doesn't mean that there has not been equal amounts of good.

be good to you.

xx

poem eleven

2011-01-11T17:39:00.003Z

-

for women who are 'difficult' to love.

you are a horse running alone
and he tries to tame you
compares you to an impossible highway
to a burning house
says you are blinding him
that he could never leave you
forget you
want anything but you
you dizzy him, you are unbearable
every woman before or after you
is doused in your name
you fill his mouth
his teeth ache with memory of taste
his body just a long shadow seeking yours
but you are always too intense
frightening in the way you want him
unashamed and sacrificial
he tells you that no man can live up to the one who
lives in your head
and you tried to change didn't you?
closed your mouth more
tried to be softer
prettier
less volatile, less awake
but even when sleeping you could feel
him travelling away from you in his dreams
so what did you want to do love
split his head open?
you can't make homes out of human beings
someone should have already told you that
and if he wants to leave
then let him leave
you are terrifying
and strange and beautiful
something not everyone knows how to love.

poem ten

2011-01-10T22:42:00.015Z

-

the day you miscarried

we flushed it down the toilet
sat you down on a stack of newspapers
i remember you every month
when the skirt beneath me blushes
my skin is warm with memory
no one likes to think of blood
but i bite my lip until i can taste it
anything to feel alive
when everything else seems to be dying.

poem nine

2011-01-10T22:42:00.013Z

-

haiku
when near my heart

you aren't a thief but
it's easy to leave with things
that aren't yours to take.

poem eight

2011-01-08T21:06:00.002Z

-

bloom

your first kiss was in a car
with a man too old to be called a boy
you were fifteen and terrified
his mouth mossy
your teeth clinked
at home you cried into your hands
no one can tell that
you haven't been the same since.

poem seven

2011-01-07T06:13:00.003Z

-

maps

dad is an atlas
so we keep discovering
new places where he does not exist,
like in the bodies
of all the men we have ever
tried to love.

poem six

2011-01-06T02:19:00.004Z

-

haiku

in preparation for war

to my daughter i
will say, when the men come, set
yourself on fire.

-

poem five

2011-01-05T06:37:00.008Z

-

sutures on the bedside table

no one can teach you
how to greet an empty body
if you should fall down
to your knees when she walks in
or break down in the waiting room
all of this is up to you.
you won't ever know
if it's okay to
reach out and touch
the tight scar running
across her pelvis like
a row of sleeping ants
all i can tell you is that
in a few weeks she will stop
leaking milk and blood
but how you weigh the moment
her face, her voice
if she she wants to be touched
if is she crying
all of that belongs to you
again i can't give you
instructions on how to disobey
the ache, no one knows how to
keep from folding
how to keep your face
from burrowing into her
soft belly, begging it back
to bloated, her body has
betrayed her
please keep calm,
no one knows why the womb
sometimes chooses to let go.

-

poem four

2011-01-04T10:10:00.002Z

-

first night since

Cinquain

I am
alone in bed
skin smells of catar and
war, my mouth an open door, wel-
come home.

-

poem three

2011-01-03T15:12:00.013Z

-

the unbearable weight of staying

i don't know when love became elusive
what i know, is that no one i know has it
my fathers arms around my mothers neck
fruit too ripe to eat, a door half way open
when your name is a just a hand i can never hold
everything i have ever believed in, becomes magic.

i think of lovers as trees, growing to and
from one another searching for the same light,
my mothers laughter in a dark room,
a photograph greying under my touch,
this is all i know how to do, carry loss around until
i begin to resemble every bad memory,
every terrible fear,
every nightmare anyone has ever had.

i ask did you ever love me?
you say of course, of course so quickly
that you sound like someone else
i ask are you made of steel? are you made of iron?
you cry on the phone, my stomach hurts

i let you leave, i need someone who knows how to stay.

-

poem two

2011-01-02T04:50:00.008Z

-

bone

i find a girl the height of a small wail
living in our spare room
she looks the way i did when i was fifteen
full of pulp and pepper
she spends all day up in the room
measuring her thighs.

her body is one long sigh
you notice her in the hallway
later that night while we lay beside one another
listening to her throw up in our bathroom
you tell me you want to save her
and of course you do
this is what she does best;
make you sick with the need
to help.

we have the same lips,
her and i
the kind men think about
when they are with their wives
she is starving
you look straight at me when she tells us
how her father likes to punch girls
in the face.

i can hear you in our spare room with her
what is she hungry for?
what can you fill her up with?
what can you do, that you would not do for me?
i count my ribs before i go to sleep.

-

poem one

2011-01-01T08:07:00.006Z

-

Dear Moon

We blame you for floods
for the flush of blood
for men who are also wolves
and even though you could pull
the tide in by its hair
we tell people that we walked all
over you
we blame you for the night
for the dark
for the ghosts
you cold unimaginable thing
following us home,
we use you
to see each others frail
naked bodies beneath your blue light,
we let you watch; you
swollen against the glass
breath a halo of steam
as we move against one another
wet and desperate
like fish under
a waterlogged sky.

little birds and water from the river inside my body

2010-12-31T03:09:00.000Z

amir

2010-12-29T06:07:00.002Z

-

dear god, thank you for beautiful people.

BLACK SWAN :: Amir Sulaiman | Mustafa Davis from Mustafa Davis on Vimeo.

sunday.

2010-12-29T03:58:00.000Z

nice to meet you

2010-12-29T03:29:00.002Z

-

my name is warsan abdulqadir shire farah ciise nur koshen dalal deenie. i was born in nairobi, on the first of august 1988. i'm a leo but i don't believe in horoscopes, i believe in Allah and that prophet Muhammed is his last messenger (peace and blessing and love and light upon him.) i like making things, like laughter and food and stories and poems. melancholy finds me easily, i enjoy sleeping til mid afternoon but i also like early mornings because the sky changing colours always knocks the breath out of me. my parents are somali, it's my first language, my first love, i pray he heals my country, so many of us have never seen our home. i'm always homesick, i drink a lot of tea, i love my family, sometimes they are my whole life. i have my fathers cheekbones, he is a writer. i have my mothers skin colour, she is a lover. i come from a lot of love.

-

gardens

2010-12-29T03:06:00.002Z

i could live inside this song for a long long while

2010-12-29T02:43:00.000Z

the other persons absence

2010-12-28T04:26:00.006Z

-

from top to bottom.
mark steinmetz
lise sarfati
robert adams

the light

2010-12-28T04:12:00.001Z

-

Allah is the Light of the heavens and the earth. The Parable of His Light is as if there were a Niche and within it a Lamp: the Lamp enclosed in Glass: the glass as it were a brilliant star: Lit from a blessed Tree, an Olive, neither of the east nor of the west, whose oil is well-nigh luminous, though fire scarce touched it: Light upon Light! Allah doth guide whom He will to His Light: Allah doth set forth Parables for men: and Allah doth know all things.

24:35 Quran

oh.

2010-12-27T07:16:00.002Z

the disappearance.

2010-12-27T03:19:00.002Z

-

No sympathy really here
All the sweetness is left somewhere
On some street miles from where we seem to be
No love, no love

No compassion really here
Even the reason why we met
Has vanished in the air
You keep talking as I sit and glare
Just cant understand how it disappeared no

No love in this room
No love left in here
No love in my soul left for you

So I sit and wait till it appears
Hopefully someday soon
Hopefully before next year
I just sit and I glare
It’s a mystery how it vanished
How it left me here

Oh my heart so bare
Nothing left to share
Oh where did it go
Withered away
Give me love that will stay

peace, unity, love - life is good!

2010-12-25T13:52:00.004Z

-

disclaimer; if you are listening to this and you aren't dancing, something is weighing you down, come on love let it go. life is good! ALHAMDULILAH!

your loved one has left

2010-12-25T02:54:00.005Z

-

a new one will come, do not despair, do not despair.

-

leila's daughter

2010-12-24T18:26:00.002Z

-

this is my girl. she is brave and clever and funny. she will have none of the problems i have. her heart will never be broken. she will never be humiliated, self doubt will not devour her dreams. - miranda july

sleep

2010-12-20T05:52:00.004Z

-
a few days ago i read the first line of a poem, i can't remember where i found it or who it belongs to but this was it; When I think of everything I’ve wanted, I feel sick. and it won't leave me alone, it follows me around, even when i had that strange dream that i told B about, the one where my mother was trying to kill me by throwing acorns, the one where i boarded a plane wearing a sun dress, but she shot the whole thing down. we survived of course. me and all the faceless passengers.we laughed about it later, my mother the loudest, the beauty mark on her top lip like an ant wearing a top hat staring directly at me.

desperate conversations

2010-12-19T05:02:00.008Z

-

how are you?

i'm fine, i'm good alhamdulilah. the weather is crazy huh?
look, i'm sorry i haven't been in contact. and i know you
want poems. and i know you want me to be more present,
to commit to you. you deserve it, i know. i could blame
it on my childhood, but i won't. there is no need for me
to bring up my parents divorce. i should take responsibility
for myself. but listen, and i'm serious- i've got a whole month
of poems coming for you. from january the first. if god keeps me alive.yeah, 30 poems, it won't be easy but i just want to make it up to you,no one looks at me the way you do. and i remember how much you enjoyed it,that april two years ago when i made you swoon.you want the old me back,but i have to tell you i'm different now, i've grown up, i like the colour mauve, i recycle, i think of death every day.

i hope you still want me.

warsan shire

my parents.

2010-11-23T16:27:00.000Z

leaving.

2010-11-23T06:14:00.006Z

-

freewrite

she never unpacked, your mother
any morning and she could be gone
but she liked to be touched
liked to be taken on window sills
or against front doors.
i met her at the airport,
i guess it was damned from the start
it just wasn't right how she left
wearing a night gown and my work boots
gripping her suitcase, the neighbours
still joke about it; how maybe the umbilical
cord was still between her legs while
she waited for the bus.

i can't say much other than,
all the doors are locked and
you look just like your mother.

i walk out a wiser, weaker man.

2010-11-23T06:06:00.000Z

-

-

candy cigarette

2010-11-22T23:53:00.000Z

freewrite

2010-11-22T23:39:00.005Z

-

You're more than just a boy
who likes to punch girls in the face
your body is just like your fathers at your age
and maybe you drank too much; was much too angry
but your ex girlfriend told everyone about
the way you held her, she even described your lips
and how you said she was illuminated, that her skin
was the colour of Manila envelopes sent from someone
who could not find their way back home.

overcome.

2010-11-22T23:06:00.003Z

-

I'm writing poems today and listening to...

the dysfunction.

2010-11-11T14:48:00.011Z

-

somewhere between being tough and tender, i realized i was in a lot of movies.

-

-

Ai

2010-11-11T14:43:00.003Z

-

rest near him, in peace xabibti.

Thursday

2010-10-28T14:51:00.003+01:00

--

i'm writing poems today that feel all to honest.
some that shame the memory out of my body
others that are just breaking my bloody heart.

im listening to music that i never ever
listen to. drake? its nearly three in
the afternoon and i'm still wearing
pyjamas.

my mother means the world to me. i'd do anything for her,
i've done everything for her, but not enough, never enough.

if you're muslim then maybe you've been raised with the image of
carrying your mother on your back around the ka'ba a thousand times.

every poem i have ever written has been in her name.

my mothers heart is so large,i pray that my children
see my kindness as clear and as evident as i see hers.

god preserve my precious leyla, the world has never been kind
but he keeps her close and i can see it in her gap toothed smile.

my pilgrims.

2010-10-28T01:26:00.003+01:00

--

hey lovers,

i want to share some ladies that are really close to my heart.
my beautiful sisters muneera and sukina, who together make up
poetic pilgrimage.

this is their exclusive new video. they literally released it today
and i haven't even been able to call them to tell them how bloody
incredible it is. but i'll share it with you guys first and hug
and squeeze them up later.

may he keep them safe. AMEEN.

--

you should care for me.

2010-10-23T21:36:00.002+01:00

romaaaaaaa

2010-10-17T03:44:00.002+01:00

--
salaam folks,

sending you bright energy and warmth. hope you are all well.
i have a lot of compiled goodies comming your way.
like a review of a book i randomly picked up at heathrow airport
a few days ago which was just bloody amazing.

so i just got back from italy. i done a couple of readings there.
saw some lovely people that i fell in love with on my last visit
and met some good new people.

i find it a tad strange how easily i seem to make really beautiful connections
with people who don't live in london.

stiff upper lip and all that malarkey.

-

BTW --- i'm editing submissions but just want to quickly say that dead line for the magazine entries has been extended to the 31st of OCTOBER.

so if you saw my post too late or second guessed yourself, well my love,
send it on my way.

love and ease

warsan

the door

2010-10-17T03:33:00.004+01:00

--

what will you be wearing
the day your lover leaves you?

i will be wearing my mothers disappointed smile.

From stone.

2010-09-18T16:31:00.003+01:00

-

use to go years without tears
now he is moored in my throat
the levee has been broken.

i spend afternoons mourning
the floodgates, the cement
turned cream by his hands, his mouth
his breath and warm body.

i am medusa -
i eat dried fruit in front of the telly
all of my diets do not work
my belly, my breasts

and eyes are begging.

--

2010-09-15T02:37:00.002+01:00

-

i keep dreaming about a girl with blood cancer
who hangs out at bars in the afternoon.

(craig cowling photograph)

What Gabriel saw

2010-09-06T16:55:00.001+01:00

It's the last few days of Ramadan.

In my head I am thinking of a small town with one church, one school, one bar and one butchers.

Then B reads out a Hadith from a book he is reading.

When God created the fire, he sent Gabriel to look at it. Gabriel saw that it was encircled with desirable and pleasing things.

Gabriel returned to God and said - By your might, I fear now that no one will be saved from entering it.

Thirst.

2010-09-06T05:44:00.001+01:00

When b talks about home, his eyes well up. When he talks about the nile, he licks his lips.

His Arabic is fragile, his tongue is careful when translating songs- 'he said, you make my heart thirsty'.

After, we listen to the shipping forecast on the radio. The womans voice is like warm water.

I remember being young, being pollen and sherbet. I remember wearing swimming goggles in the bathtub. Tonight I feel closer to embodying my soul.

Calling all my beautiful writers!

2010-08-23T21:57:00.006+01:00

Lovers, email this out and share the link/facebook/twitter.

--

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS

Young Writers issue of Sable LitMag.

We invite young writers of colour from all over the world to submit work from all genres and styles, for our Young Writers issue of Sable, including Fiction, poetry, memoir and essays written by writers between the ages of 16-25.

The editor for this issue is Warsan Shire, a 22 year old writer and poet based in London. Her poetry has been translated into Italian and Somali. She has performed internationally in North America, South Africa and all over Europe. Her first collection Teaching mother how to give birth is soon to be published with Flipped Eye. Her work will appear in the forthcoming Black British edition of Wasafiri magazine.

Deadline for submissions - 31st October 2010.

SABLE SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
• Must include a short bio (maximum of 150 words)/ high res photograph.
• Work submitted must be attached in the email and not in the body of the email.
• ALL work must be labelled clearly with your full name and the title of work.
• Work must not exceed the word limit.
• All work must be in this format or will not be accepted
• Times new roman font
• size 12 font
• double spaced
• one side of A4 paper
• Your full name must be on each page of your work (Header or footer)

Fiction
Short stories, extracts from a novel or flash fiction.
Other styles within fiction also welcome.
Length- 2500 words

Poetry
Send up to 15 poems (no more than 15 pages)
Any style, any length
Poetry must be 1 1/2 inch spaced

In Translation
All veteran and budding translators or writers who produce work in
their native language and in English, (fiction or poetry) should send
translations and other information including a brief write up on
author and translator. For translators, what qualities attracted you
to the work? We will give ten pages to each writer featured to publish
some of their best pieces along with a photo, biography and any other
images that illustrate their work. A sample of your work will also
appear on the SABLE website in the future. In Translation submissions
should follow the same guidelines for poetry and prose in both their
chosen languages of submission and in English.

Memoirs
Memoirs of home, family, or country. Childhood memories, coming of
age, change of life. Complete pieces or excerpts. Stimulating,
exciting, informative, experimental. Any or all of these are welcome
within your piece.
Length: 3000 words.

Travel Narratives
There are no boundaries in terms of place or style. Complete pieces or
excerpts. Stimulating, exciting, informative, experimental. Any or all of
these are welcome within your piece
Length: 3000 words

Essays
We are looking for contributions on historical or contemporary aspects
of literature or culture. The work should reflect original thought of
work by writers of colour. It can be a piece of deconstruction,
post-structuralism, post-modernism, feminism, post-colonialism (or a
combination of these and other theoretical frameworks).
Length: 3,000 words

Expressions
Expressions is our opinion section - a debatable literary or cultural
issue that you wish to voice. As Sable is diasporic in nature, your
piece has a better chance of being accepted if it reflects this, or if
it is educational and informative of a particular culture or community
that a global readership will find instructive and illuminating.
Length: 1000 words (flexible)

Classic Review
What's in a classic? We're seeking submissions of literary reviews for
this review essay section of classic reviews. If you've read a body of
work by a non-Western writer that moved you, we are interested in
receiving a piece on it. Sable Classic Reviews are opinionated,
critical, and to the point. More casual than scholarly, they cite text
and summarise plot to convey a sense of the author's purpose and the
impact of the work itself. Poetry, fiction and Non-fiction are all
acceptable. Please make your piece as concise as it is expressive. For
completed pieces, we need you to supply titles of books featured,
their ISBN's and publisher details.
Length : 1000-1500 words

Note: Please email if you would like to present something new and exciting within the context of literature and poetry, if you are a photographer or artist who also writes, we welcome your work in the form of comic strips, anime, photo journalism ect.

All Submissions and queries should be sent by email to sableten@gmail.com by 31st October.

Couscous

2010-08-12T19:52:00.001+01:00

It's the night before Ramadan, I'm watching a French-Tunisian film. The women have soft bodies, bellies rounded with couscous and loving. I'm watching how they eat with their hands, talk whilst eating. How they laugh with full mouths.

Look below at an earlier post titled day 4. It is about an earthquake, a small dainty thing I wrote after haiti. How the earth could shake, make you bite off and swallow your own tongue, like a lover.

I haven't blogged in such awhile. But tonight I found a comment after that particular poem. A self righteous comment, by a girl who evidently read something else in the poem. According to her, I must remember that I am a Muslim woman and therefore using the word - lover and tongue in the same poem is immodest.

It is the night before Ramadan and I am watching this french Tunisian film- the girl is belly dancing, she is a body of soft quivering flesh. I am thinking of modesty and how it can look completely different on each person.

I'll be blogging each day of fasting. Ramadan Kareem lovers.

May the almighty use us for good and keep us close.

Ameen.

Day 8

2010-04-21T23:00:00.002+01:00

Pride

I do not beg you to stay
because I am begging god
that you do not leave.

Day 7

2010-04-21T16:10:00.006+01:00

Hair

like many of the women back home
you have hair that reaches your waist
or the ground if you are bent over a chair
or the dimples of his back
if you are over his shoulder.

like many of the men you have loved
he was obsessed with your hair,
once even wrapped it around
his arm like rope, another time enjoyed
mouthfuls of it while you made love.

Day 6

2010-04-21T15:46:00.005+01:00

Tea with our grandmothers

the morning your habooba died
i thought of my ayeeyo,
the woman i was named after
warsan baraka, skin dark like
tamarind flesh, who could squat
into her eightieth year grinding
cardamon and loving her sons,
from the distance and dust of
lonesome.

or my mother's mother, noura
with the honeyed laugh, who
broke cinnamon barks between
her palms, nursing her husband's
stroke, her sister's cancer and
her own bad back with broken
swahilli and stubborn italian.

and doris, the mother of your
english rose, named after
the daughter of oceanus and tethys
the welsh in your blood, from the land
of cymry, your grandmother who
dreams of clotted cream in her tea
through the swell of diabetes.

then your habooba al-sura, god keep her,
with three lines on each cheek
like a tally of surviving, the woman
who cooled your tea for you, pouring it like
the weight of deeds between bowl and cup,
until the steam would rise like a ghost.

Day 5

2010-04-16T03:07:00.002+01:00

Untitled

the pill sticks to the roof
of your mouth like altar bread,
earlier the pharmacist
had asked you to repeat
yourself, and louder please,

because she didn't have all day.
then with the same voice,
do you suffer from kidney
problems, when was the last
time you enaged in sexual

intercourse. take one of
these and come back if you
feel sick or vomit, have a nice
day. at home you google if
what you had done today is
the same as abortion, then you
google if you're going to hell.

Day 4

2010-04-16T02:54:00.002+01:00

capital cities

I named the first tremor
after a lover,
the one who shook me
until i bit my own tongue
and forgot my own name.

Day 3

2010-04-12T01:24:00.003+01:00

Your mother's mistake

She married a man the
same summer your breasts
grew from nubs to a dry
knuckled hand full.

day 2

2010-04-11T23:20:00.003+01:00

Maymuun's Mouth

Maymuun lost her accent seven months
into the evening english classes she
took at LaGuardia community college.

She calls me long distance and we
discuss the pros and cons
of heating molasses in the microwave
to remove body hair, her new voice
is sophisticated, she says the word
"naturally" a lot.

She lives in an apartment next
door to a Dominican guy who
speaks to her in spanish whenever
he sees her. I know she smiles at him,
front teeth stained from the fluoride
in the water back home.

She's experiencing new things,
we understand that. We've recieved the
photos of her standing by a bridge,
the baby hairs she'd hated slicked down
like ravines.

Last week her answer machine
picked up, I imagined her hoisted up
by the waist, wearing stockings
kissing someone with her new tongue.

Day 1

2010-04-11T13:36:00.005+01:00

-

Translating fire

Have I told you about my uncle Olol
who they named after fire?

How his actual name translates thickly into
it's worst moment. When it is at its most hungry,
before ash or smoke, after the flame, after
it buckles, after it spits, licks houses down, squats
over entire cities, how it can remove whole things
from existence.

Or the irony that his first wife on hearing
that he had left the country and married again,
drank lighter fluid and swallowed a match.

I want you to imagine how his name
took advantage of every breath in her body,
how he reduced her to ash from the inside out.

Now take all these things my love
and use them selfishly to describe
either the burn of being away from me,
or the bearable heat of being touched.

and in gratitude

2010-03-19T02:43:00.007Z

-

here's a gift. something i've been listening to lately.
eerie, odd but so beautiful. god, is it beautiful.

-

on returning from a nap.

2010-03-19T02:17:00.002Z

-

lovers,

it's been awhile.

all the late nights and travelling and touring and performing and reading and constant need for inspiration, the turning everything into poetry by default, the searching, the filling and emptying to fill again, the writing myself into existence has finally caught up with me.

and i needed to just sleep.

not literally, because i'm an insomniac. but to just lay down on the living room floor, star fish like. and not make that moment into a poem. just be empty headed for a little while. (didn't work)

so, the book is done.

it's on it's way. going through the normal process of publication.

just wait till you see the front cover.. i usually don't make a big deal out of anything that has anything to do with me. but this front cover is so special and is hand drawn by THE most amazing artist in the universe.

watch this space.

hope you are all feeling beautiful, i hope the world is treating you well.

in begging spring to commit,

warsan.

my lover is stronger than my pride.

2010-01-07T04:52:00.005Z

-

my lover is stronger than my pride.

one.

i remember lonely and
what it tasted like before
your name took root in my throat,
before everything reminded me of
your mouth, the feather of your beard
against lips, i don't know how
i lived that way.

two.

eight months into us and
you are warm, the winter
bites at the space
between our palms
do you remember dandelions,
my brother was born in this city,
i visit home every time my name
leaves your mouth.

three.

our dreams travel
damascus to dakota then
back to our mothers pantry's
hidding sticks of cinnamon
in the curl of my hair,
jasmine on limp wrists,
almond and harmattan
hajj and demerara,
i begged god for you.

happy new year

2010-01-01T01:06:00.003Z

-
from the bottom of my heart, love.

i'm a happy woman on the birth of 2010, i'm at peace, i'm humbled, i'm loving. i'm thankful.

and sharing some cobain living through amos.

questions for miriam.

2009-12-31T02:46:00.012Z

thank you caits meissner, for writing
"questions for yusef" for stealing my breath and inspiring me.

--

Questions for Miriam

were you ever lonely?

did you tell people that songs weren't
ever the same as a warm body or a soft mouth
did you know how to say no to the young boys
who cried outside your hotel rooms
did you listen to the songs they wrote
mouth's bloody with praise for woman like you
miriam, did you see them holding bottles by the neck

hair on arms raising as your notes hovered
above their heads, what sweaty bars did you begin in
whose husbands did you first love
miriam did you know of the girls who sang into their fists
mimicking your brilliance
did they know that you were only human

did your songs taste different when your daughter died
was burying her a township burning in your stomach
how did you keep the pain off your face and
why didn't your clicks become howls

my own parents played your music at their
wedding called you makeba never Miriam
never first name always singer
never wife never daughter never mother
never lover aching

did you tell people that songs weren’t the
same as a warm body or a soft mouth
miriam i've heard people using your songs as prayer
begging god in falsetto, you were a city exiled from skin
your mouth a burning church, i've carved my own body
into districts, rioting my throat sore
your songs fed starving women miriam
made quiet the need to hate my own body

tell me, who kissed your mouth silent
who helped moan the songs out of your stomach
did you ever spit out blood,
were you ever silent for days
were there months when your husband

grieved your voice, did you ever hate them
the arms thrusting out of crowds
did you ever hate us
the banshees in the audience
the little girl dervishes in their small
living rooms, dish cloth tied to head swirling
like their skin depended on it

did we want too much of you
did our love make it hard for you to sing
did it fill up the air
arena panting a thousand people
who tasted the salt of their lovers through you

is there a man walking around somewhere
beard clotted with your lung
did you ever pat down your body for limbs after a
concert and find your torso a cathedral of ribs

did you ever write drunk elegies for your heart
were you too embarrassed to sing them for us
was your strength a show piece of staccato and timbre
did you howl belly up in rented rooms, open suitcase
air thick with cigar smoke and roses

oh, miriam who we made sing at her own funeral
was a song warmer than a body, were you
lonelier than those sobbing over your cassettes
and can you forgive us if we still want
your voice singing us out, at our own funerals.

the kiss that burned chicago down.

2009-12-29T04:14:00.003Z

-

when you are my husband, i'm going to play this song in our kitchen.
i'll sit cross legged, i'll have a real guitar in my lap.
i'll pretend to sing the whole song, i'll pretend to play the guitar.

i just need you to look at me like the guy with the moustache is looking at her.

my inner mounting flame.

2009-12-15T16:41:00.002Z

lay down in the middle of my bedroom floor, early morning light.
air play all the different instruments, your hair a halo of curls around your head.

berlin berlin oh berlin

2009-12-02T01:34:00.005Z

so, tomorrow im off to berlin for a few days. after a long haul flight to cape town which went through dubai airport, aka diamond studded neck ties and socks, i came back with swollen ankles.

i would like to just lay down and sleep but with deadlines and planes to catch, theres no chance of that.

so, cape town. i will post all the pictures, just not tonight because im packing. ooh, and i found a beautifully cowardly comment by someone who obviously did not share my opinion on cape town and its false post-apartheid image.

for some people, it may be an incredible city, and in many ways it is, stunning, beautiful, incredible weather. that's if you ignore the people starving to death across the road from the wine lands.

but for the people living in shack lands and town ships, i doubt apartheid is a mythical creature from the past, or rather it is class now and not skin colour that separates the people.

out there i met aryan kaganof, a poet and film maker, a white south african, the only person who seemed to be on stage saying everything alot of people seemed to be too afraid or too content to say.

so, mr/mrs anonymous poster, if you think im pretentious for saying that apartheid wasn't over, i wonder what kind of names you would throw at mr kaganof himself.

"whats all this talk about this post apartheid, post colonization south africa, we are still going through it!"

when dorothea and i asked him why he wasnt reading his poetry and instead dancing in the background, he answered -

"i'm a self effacing white boy,something this country has little of"

visit his website- www.kaganof.com and don't be a coward, coward.

love and light beloveds,
be good to your hearts.

x

cape town.

2009-11-27T23:55:00.004Z

i'm going to miss this place.

on my return to london, i will share my photographs and stories and poems and experiences.

it wasn't what i expected, or ideally had hoped for (what with apartheid not being "over").

but i have met such beautiful people here and ugnh! it looks so beautiful, subxanallah.

anyway will be back soon, i can't get into what im feeling right now and what this place has done to me, but i am so deeply moved.

shortly,
wellness.

x

2009-11-21T18:29:00.002Z

december me and my beloved are gonna go see little dragon live in london. wooo!!

so giddy, insha allah we live that long.

yukimi is one of my many non-lesbian marital relationships.

soon i'll blog the rest- but warning, i don't share my women and i am a very jealous person.

thunder love
xx

i'm performing at ronnie scotts jazz club

2009-11-15T02:31:00.002Z

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click on image to read details!!

warmth,
warsan.

whilst waiting for fajr...

2009-11-15T02:14:00.003Z

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i'm listening and smiling and smiling and smiling.

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on recognizing my love.

2009-11-15T01:17:00.007Z

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it is the winter of my twenty first year and by his mercy i have stripped down my life and my loves down to the most pure, most loving, most honest, most sincere.

the women in my life- my real friends and family,my aunts, sisters, friends, mothers and grandmothers - who have proven, after many years and many heart breaks, through puberty and poverty, death and new borns,sickness and marriage that they are and will always be the only women who will want the best for me, love me. these are the same women who have grounded me, made me aware of my god, my skin, my culture, my rights.

these women hide my shame and keep my secrets hidden under their tongues, god fearing women who i share my life with,who i love and honour.

the man in my life, my beloved, who guards my modesty, my integrity, supports me, respects my body and mind, who calms and teaches me. who loves me through all faults with dedication, who nurtures me, heals me.

the only man who could make me love wholly, fully, holy, staggering. a old love, of a time before divorce and displacement and mistrust. the kind that makes you want to forgive your demons and ghosts. a selfless love.

life can be such an ugly place when you are sharing it with people who wish you the worst, friends with envy on their breath, family who spite you when you turn, lovers who take from you sexually and spiritually, who disrespect you, men who you have to build into men, who are boys who do not know how to love a woman. men that you are with because they are good looking, men that you are with because you do not know how to be alone, or because you think you have spent too much time to walk away now, or because you honestly think that this is your only chance at love.

we can control nothing else in this life, only who we share this life with and i will kneel down every day in dedication to the almighty for blessing me with love, blessing me for recognising my love, finally. for blessing me with the courage it took to remove those that were waiting for my fall.

"And of His Signs is that He created mates for you from yourselves that you might find peace of mind in them, and He put between you love and compassion"
Chapter 30, verse 21 of The Holy Qur'an

"it is He Who created from a single person, and made his mate of like nature in order that he might dwell with her – in love"
Chapter 7, verse 189 of The Holy Qur'an

beloved, this one is for you.

2009-10-30T19:50:00.000Z

memoir poem one.

2009-10-22T22:54:00.002+01:00

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freewrite

The song of old lovers

My father will always love my mother,
above all, that is one thing we all know
and she will always compare all the men
she will ever love, to him.

Some songs will always be his,
he will always be the first man to have
honoured her body, the first who had taught her
the sweet heat of matrimony,
he will always be the reason why she
is so sure of her beauty.

I am a selfish daughter,
tugging at my mother’s heart
all her old honeymoon pictures are
blue tacked to my bedroom walls,
a shrine she no longer worships at
I rub wine on her lips waiting for
the churchyard to signal the fire.

In a car driving through Amsterdam one winter
my mother tells me what song she wants played
at her funeral, I am a child, I cry.
Now as an adult I am looking for that song.

In a West London hospital
my father’s a sheet of bones under dusty skin,
his body a hospital bed
his eyes large, desperate,
I don’t know how to touch him,
even with my small hands
he looks like something I would break.

My mother jokes all the way back home,
on the phone to a friends she says,
“oh you wouldn’t even recognize him
if you saw him now, he’s so frail,
no longer the big burly man walking like a bully
who just won the school yard fight.”

I’ve found the song,
played it to my father in his flat
on his dark green cassette player
he took off his glasses and looked at the small
window of spooling black tape for a long time,
then came back, sober, younger
“this is the song I played for your mother on
our wedding night, where did you find it?.”

My mother will always love my father,
and above all things,
we should always remember that.

i dont believe that anybody feels the way i do about you now.

2009-10-20T17:53:00.001+01:00

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current obsession.

dedicated to my beloved,

2009-10-19T21:38:00.000+01:00

memoir poetry.

2009-10-17T17:53:00.002+01:00

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project.

ten poems, ten lines each. in ten days about ten true to life things.

trouble is, i'm not sure when i will begin,
but tonight is a good night and god is kind god.

love,
me.

how many heroes died in the summer?

2009-10-10T23:48:00.004+01:00

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the beautiful split screne scene song.
me and him were like-
"oh, wow this is so well done."
then i cried a little.

goldilocks and the three bears at st pauls cathedral.

2009-10-09T01:45:00.002+01:00

only by way of god, did i find you. i am so thankful, god i am so grateful.

throw back.

2009-10-07T20:07:00.001+01:00

i'd want to live inside there with you.

mirror girls.

2009-10-03T17:05:00.001+01:00

depression-
a mental state characterized by a pessimistic sense of inadequacy and a despondent lack of activity .

my depression is my most narcissistic trait.

tell me what led you on, i'd love to know.

2009-10-03T17:00:00.002+01:00

anyone who knows me, should know that i am completely obsessed with little dragon.
heres a dubstep remix to their masterpiece "twice". months ago i posted the original on here. can't explain how it makes me feel. something like magic on speed inside a gold coloured rainbow of sad good times.

shima's heroes.

2009-10-03T04:03:00.002+01:00