Poetry

Three poems by Ambrose Musiyiwa
What is the puzzle behind my name? by Roza Omed
Jelly Fish by Roza Omed
Blue Mountain River by Hina Gillani
What it feels like by Sahar Khan
My home land by Maryam Sadat
Poems by Ahmed Khaleel
A moment that made me a better person by Joseph pal Char
FOUR YEARS by Elizabeth Phiona Achola

Three poems

Ambrose Musiyiwa

The Man Who Ran Through The Tunnel

When I heard
how he ran
across continents
over rivers
through forests
through deserts
and through tunnels,
how could I fail
to be inspired?

(Over Land, Over Sea: Poems for those seeking refuge, Five Leaves Publications, 2015. p.1)

journeying

we threw
things that were heavy
overboard

they sank
we stayed afloat
we lived

they turned
into creatures of the sea
and stayed below the surface

when we reached dry land
they turned
into creatures of shadow

and followed us everywhere

(Over Land, Over Sea: Poems for those seeking refuge, Five Leaves Publications, 2015. p.54)

Martians, Effing Martians

Shall we blame Martians
for everything that is wrong
with the world?
Shall we scan every building
every meeting
living
breathing
space
for signs of Martians?
Shall we prod Earthlings
ask them to be on guard
and report
round up
or bash
any Martian
sighted
or imagined?
Shall we bring out spaceships
and start patrolling the streets?
Shall we fit PA systems to the spaceships
and play messages on a loop
telling Martians to go back home
that if they do not leave voluntarily
we will come for them
and forcibly remove them?
Shall we round up all Martians
put them in detention centres
put them on the next spaceship to Mars?
Shall we gas them?
Shall we nuke them?

(Poetry and Settled Status for All, CivicLeicester, 2022. p.106)

In this poem, I am not calling for violence towards Martians. (I think Martians are awesome and have as much right to be here as anyone else.) The poem is a comment on the hostile environment that successive governments put in place in the UK designed to make life as difficult as possible for people who moved here from elsewhere. ‘Effing’, in the title, is a polite reflection of the violence with which some people speak about those who moved here from elsewhere.

What is the puzzle behind my name?

Original version in Kurdish. Translated into English by Sameerah Mahmood.

Roza Omed

I often thought about my name and wondered
Why has my father chosen this name for me?
What was so compelling about it?
What the reason was.
Was it the beauty of the flower or something else?

He said, Roza, I named you after its beauty,
Yes, it is alien but its purity, like yours, is endless in my eyes,

I was surprised at the factor uncovered,
A beauty of a flower was not enough as an answer,
I dwelled on it to find what else should be a reason.

Son, as Kurds, we vaticinate when choosing names,
When children migrate to foreign lands,
Their rootless names, make them welcome. As homeless strangers.

Jelly Fish

Roza Omed

Come and fly me away

Fly me far away

Fly me to the sky

Fly me to the light

Hold me tight to feel you

Hold me like my mother

Calm me like I'm the only one you want to be with

Feel me like my father

Come and rescue me

Come and brighten my path

brighten my heart

brighten my destination

as far far far

Blue Mountain River

Hina Gillani

I'm like a blue Mountain river,
Well ! Feel like that blue Mountain river, the
noise, the coldness, the deepness.
'I AM YOU........blue Mountain river, the noise
and aggressiveness of mixed emotions and
feelings of sadness, uncertainty, stress,
hope, happiness, lightness yet again covered
and overlapped by the blanket of sadness
and darkness.
I'm confused what to say? What to share,
what to speak? I Am Yes ! Indeed very
confused. I feel theurge to cry out, and yet
be peaceful too.....
I want to lay down my thoughts and hopes to
the side, as I'm tired of lifting the burden and
pressure of them, just ..... just want to lay my
head down, away darkness, far away from
this world, the world fulll of anxiety and
depression and darkness, yet want to open
my eyes in the world of beauty, admiration ,
hopefulness...... I wish and open my eyes,
and see joys in the air, birds chirping,
children playing, roses and flowers blooming
in rainbow colours and making everything
smell beautiful Everything beautiful ! Yes
beautiful....I have healed my broken past, I
have gathered my shattered dreams bit by
bit and healed them... I have healed my
broken wings..... I have healed and now it's
time to reveal ......it's time to Rise and Shine
and to reveal my strength.

What it feels like

Sahar Khan

What it feels like to be a women?
What it feels like to see sad faces when you are born?
What it feels like to be thrown out on the street in the middle of a night?
What it feels like to be on your toes to avoid make any mistake?
What it feels like to be get bullied by your own parents?
What it feels like to be feel less then your brother?
What it feels like to be get humiliated in beaten up on the street and ripped off clothes?
What it feels like to think for other before as what others will sat?
What it feels like to wear colorful clothes?
What it feels like to eat chewing um?
What it feels like to dress up the way you want?
What it feels like to see your face in the mirror with bruises?
What it feels like to live with your abuser?
What it feels like to be beaten up by and at no fault?
What it feels like to be getting slaps on your face for no reason?
What it feels like to be a commodity which is transferred from one man to another?
What it feels like to be degraded?
What it feels like to be in prison where you are not allowed to talk to anyone or meet anyone?
What it feels like to be not allowed to pursue a dream of what you wants to study?
What it feels like to be hungry and dependent on someone to give you money for food?
What it feels like to be humiliated by your own family?
What it feels like to be excluded from the family because you are divorced?
What it feels like to be seen as a failure because you are divorced?
What it feels like to be a baby making machine?
What it feels like to be of not having control of your body and abused by the one who is your protector?
What it feels like in the body which holds sexual abuse?
What it feels like to be ashamed of your body?
What it feels like to lose your baby without meeting him?
What it feels like to see your unborn baby for the last time?
What it feels like to be a burden?
What it feels like to be feel unworthy?
What it feels like to be feel not good enough?
What it feels like to not able to feel the rain drops on your hands?
What it feels like to not appreciated?
What it feels like when your achievements are not being celebrated?
What it feels like to to see your self as a server?
What it feels like to not able to ask for help?
What it feels like to expect help from another, to take you out from the situation?
What it feels like to be in detention center in new country all alone?|
What it feels like to leave everything behind?
What it feels like to leave the known street, cities and country?
What it feels like to come to another unsafe place from an unsafe place?
What it feels like to be humiliated because of your immigration status?
What it feels like to be not treated as a human?
What it feels like to lose your dignity?
What it feels like to fight so many battles at the same times?
What it feels like to see your self drowning?
What it feels like to be a number instead of human being with emotions and life?

My home land

Maryam Sadat

ای وطن که اغوشت کلبه ی یتیمان گشته است ای وطن که اغوشت مزار شهیدان گشته است
کیست ان کس که مداوای توست ای وطن چیست ان چیز که مداوای توست ای وطن
مریما از طاقت این جنگ خسته تا دم صبح نشسته
با این دیده هایش دیده دیده این دیده های مریما خشکیده و خشکیده و خشکیده
این وطن مادر است که هنوز خندیده و خندیده و خندیده

Translated from the Dari by Rohullah Esmati

Hey, my homeland, which has turned into an orphanage
Hey, my homeland, which has turned into a martyr's graveyard

Who will be the one to heal you, my homeland?
What is it that cures you, my homeland?

Mariama is sick of fighting.
She stays awake until dawn.

She saw everything with her own eyes.
Mariama's eyes are dried, dried, and dried
But still, the mother who laughs, laughs, and laughs is the homeland.

Poems

Ahmed Khaleel

1.

In Baghdad
I always liked winter
I used to say:
It is a "British" weather.
In Britain, I always pray
For a sunny warm summer
It reminds me
Of what I call today
"Iraqi" weather.

2.

Home
Is where you wake up an' see
Your family with you
Under the same dome
Home
Is an oud perfume
A date palm tree
A sky blue
The smell of afternoon tea
With neighbours, friends and family.
Home
Is playing football
Barefoot in the street
Climbing a tree
To pick a treat
Sit on the wall
To watch sunset.
This is what I know of Home
As far as I recall.

3.

Translation of a poem by By Muzaffar al-Nawab (Iraqi poet, B. 1934- D. 2022). This iconic Iraqi poem and song was written by al-Nawab in the 1960s while he was on the train, trying to flee Iraq, and the police were chasing him. Opposite his seat on the train, sat a lady. al-Nawab noticed tears in her eyes and asked her what was wrong. She said the train is now passing by her village, from which she escaped because her family refused to allow her to marry her beloved Cousin, Hamad. As the train passed by the village, she remembered her family and her beloved Hamad. Al-Nawab was deeply moved by the story and wrote this poem, which also mirrors the pains of being a refugee:

للريل وحمد (مظفر النواب)
مرّينه بيكم حمد , واحنه ابقطار الليل,
واسمعنه دك اكهوه ... وشمينة ريحة هيل
يا ريل ... صيح ابقهر ...
صيحة عشك , يا ريل
هودر هواهم , ولك ,
حدر السنابل كطه
آنه ارد الوك الحمد .. ما لوكن لغيره
يجفّلني برد الصبح ..
وتلجلج الليره
يا ريل باول زغرته...
لعبته طفيره
وهودر هواهم ولك ..
حدر السنابل كطه
يا ريل طلعوا دغش...
والعشك جذابي
دك بيّه كل العمر...
ما يطفه عطابي
تتوالف ويه الدرب
وترابك ..
ترابي
وهودر هواهم ولك..
حدر السنابل كطه

4. Lil Rail wa Hamad (For the Train and Hamad)

By Muzaffar al-Nawab (Iraqi poet, B. 1934- D. 2022)

On a late night train, Hamad, we passed by you,
Heard the sound of coffee grinding, and smelled cardamom.
Do whoop in grief
A cry of lost love, O train,
The sigh of passion, behold:
Flew away along the field
Like a scared away flock of sand grouse.
I am worthy of Hamad, not any other,
The morning’s chill startles me, and gold's glitter
Hopscotch was his favourite game
O train, since he was a toddler.
And the sigh of passion, behold,
Flew away along the field
Like scared flock of sand grouse.
It is fake after all, O train,
And love is but a shadow,
I do need a lifetime, however,
To put out my sorrow,
Your fate is mine, O train, as well as your course
And the sigh of passion, indeed,
Flew away along the field
Like a flock of sand grouse.

Translated by Dr Ahmed Khaleel

29 October 2015, York

5.

ياوطني:
كل العصافير لها منازل،
إلا العصافير التي تحترف الحرية
فإنها تموت خارج الأوطان..
((نزار قباني))

O my homeland,
All birds have nests, to which they eventually return,
Except those that fly too far away…
They die homeless.
((Nizar Qabbany))

Translated by Ahmed Khaleel

A moment that made me a better person

Joseph pal Char

My name is Joseph pal Char.

I am in Kakuma, Kenya.

I have finished high school and got a grade of B+ in my Kenya Certificate of secondary Education. My goal and wish is join campus and get support in my post secondary education as i am currently unable to.

My story is a Poem that talks about the reality of refugees and how education transform our lives. Enjoy. Thank you.

Amidst teak and mahogany forests,
Lies our mud-hut, beautiful and small,
Next to the house is cattle-shed,
Millions sing every morning call.

Born in no education,
Farm and adventure we go,
Swimming and herding,
That was the definition of fun.

In realms of dreams, where life takes form,
Duty whisper beckon’s, cultural norm,
Born to be a soldier, born to be a man,
Adulthood calls, at the age of five.

Amidst duty calls, lies tears behind,
Dreams go away, life is left behind,
We lose folks, we lose homes,
Poverty and hunger knock, doors wide opened.

We flee to new homes, in lands uncharted and free,
Greeted by script and quill, we burry arrows and pistol-tees,
We script our fate each day, art of change swifts’sweet range,
Highest amongst the class, keen and meek in school domain.

Years flew, pals withdrew,
We chased the paper, crafting the paper,
Out where it’s real, dressed to appeal,
Fighting for generations to come, as millions stay numb.

It cradled me, found me a new home,
I gaze above and think, Is that me?
Smiles as I climb, progress I undertake,
With pen at hand, I was a better person.

By Joseph Pal Char
JRS-Kakuma
Student ID:2502766

FOUR YEARS

Elizabeth Phiona Achola

Four Years. Just four years!
Four Years of love and war
Four Years of life and death
Four Years of fire and ice
Four Years – Black!
Four years of deafening silence from the African gods
Brexit! British dream?
No. Four years of living the African reality in the United Kingdom.
Four years of walking with my beautiful weaved African hair and being comfortable in my silky shiny black skin I was born with.
Four years of being sick and tired of being sick and tired.
No journey is linear however just like Ed Sheeran and Justin Bieber, “Who wants to fit in anyway?
Four years bearing the blunt of the cold winters, months of spring, weeks of autumn and eight minutes of summer.
Four years of hating something you hate being a part of.
Four years of being an apostle without a pulpit.
Four years of standing in solidarity with people seeking sanctuary.
Four years of trying to navigate an already broken asylum system.
Like trying to break the walls of Jericho.
Seeking asylum feels like opening a murder book…. of ballistic evidence, of dusting of fingerprints, witness statements, tears, memories, the obsession with every detail…. Only to be stashed away in a cold case file.
The long wait. An agonising mystery!
The limbo. An invisible chokehold!
An illuminated limbo.
Four Years of popping antidepressants like popping corn. A fatal vow!
The fear of detention and homelessness. An emotional roller coaster!
Being at the bottom of the barrel and treated like the very scum of the earth.
The system chews and swallows you for months or even years. A tear in the fabric of resilience.
Knitted in an intricate web of financial disaster - £9 a week? Hmm!
The best thing since sliced bread.
Apologies for my vulgarity, I was raised by wolves. Winks!!
Four years of digital breadcrumbs and being forced to accept the new normal – the wait!
A gaping hole that sticks out like a sore thumb.
There’s no battle stronger than the battle with the Home Office.
However, the valour and efforts of Asylum seekers to succeed, is beyond admirable.
Hate has spoken loudly for so long. Love needs to stop whispering!