Confession – Poem by Ghayath Almadhoun

As the wonderful Richard Söderberg said while he was on the Guldbagge awards, (Swedish Oscars) In order for women to take a step forward, men need to take a step back. It was a wonderful, true and very aware statement from one of Swedens coolest people. I thought about that statement, and about #metoo which he was, of course, referring too when I read this poem written by Syrian born Palestinian and now Stockholm resident poet Ghayath Almadhoun. It’s a beautiful poem of sadness and repentance for his part in the oppression of women everywhere, even in countries in which he has never set foot, in centuries long past and yet to come, for crimes against women he has never seen committed by men he has never met. If we are to grow past this oppression, men everywhere need to stand up and acknowledge their part in it, and take a step back so that women can take that so very important step forward.

 

Confession – Poem by Ghayath Almadhoun

 

You;

women who have trampled grapes

with bare feet

since the beginning of history

who were locked in chastity belts

in Europe

who were burnt to death

in the Middle Ages

who wrote novels

under male pseudonyms

in order to get published

who harvested tea

in Ceylon

who rebuilt Berlin

after the war

who grew the cotton

in Egypt

who covered your bodies with excrement

to avoid rape by French soldiers

in Algeria

virgins

in Cuba

who rolled cigars

on their naked thighs

members of the Black Diamond guerillas

in Liberia

samba dancers

in Brazil

women who have had faces destroyed

by acid

in Afghanistan

my mother …

 

Forgive me.

 

Translation from Swedish: James Blake

Ghayath Almadhoun

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Hope, (A Lament From The Trail Of The Refugee)

There can be no I here,

And I can see

There is to be no you,

But soft, that we go together

As friends

To where the dogwood will flower

And the scent of lilac fills the breath of

The disappointed and

The forever tired

With calm. And

We shall bathe in the universe,

Bask in the glories of the sun.

Sweeping aside

Who we were, what we are,

As the day laps on our skin

Gently like a kitten

On a path.

We can’t look behind us.

It is but a sad illusion for those such as us.

We can bring no oil, no wine, no myrrh.

No more of the streets of our youth

No more of the wine vats

In our once luscious gardens.

There is but small growth among them.

Olive trees, dark, like skeletons,

Scorched and barren.

All growth for them is finished but for

The light we afforded their charred roots.

Nothing is there but exile for us.

Let us go.

Let us hasten our renewals.

Now is the time to be kind.

Let us not have this darkness now.

Their suns and moons are no longer ours,

Let us go, as friends should.

Our clouds will flow immaculate over the hills

And leave their traces gently on their souls

With the softness of the freshest cotton,

Lambs wool in the pink morning sun.

Let us go on our way

With nary a backwards glance,

But there, towards our own new present.

Me, the poet

You the eternal traveler.

No longer reticent, but brave in our pace.

Let us go to that place

As friends to the day.

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Backwards by Warsan Shire, a poem that reminded me of my fathers death last month

Yesterday I received a copy of my fathers last will and testament in the mail as is a required part of the probate of his estate. I won’t go into the contents publicly, but it brought the loss once again very much to mind, as well as the years of absence we both endured from each other.

 

I found this beautiful, sad poem written by one of the best young poets I have found in quite some time, Warsan Shire. It brought a needed calm to me, as it embraced the emotions I feel as well.

 

 

Backwards

by Warsan Shire,

 

for Saaid Shire

 

The poem can start with him walking backwards into a room.

He takes off his jacket and sits down for the rest of his life;

that’s how we bring Dad back.

I can make the blood run back up my nose, ants rushing into a hole.

We grow into smaller bodies, my breasts disappear,

your cheeks soften, teeth sink back into gums.

I can make us loved, just say the word.

Give them stumps for hands if even once they touched us without consent,

I can write the poem and make it disappear.

Step-Dad spits liquor back into glass,

Mum’s body rolls back up the stairs, the bone pops back into place,

maybe she keeps the baby.

Maybe we’re okay kid?

I’ll rewrite this whole life and this time there’ll be so much love,

you won’t be able to see beyond it.

You won’t be able to see beyond it,

I’ll rewrite this whole life and this time there’ll be so much love.

Maybe we’re okay kid,

maybe she keeps the baby.

Mum’s body rolls back up the stairs, the bone pops back into place,

Step-Dad spits liquor back into glass.

I can write the poem and make it disappear,

give them stumps for hands if even once they touched us without consent,

I can make us loved, just say the word.

Your cheeks soften, teeth sink back into gums

we grow into smaller bodies, my breasts disappear.

I can make the blood run back up my nose, ants rushing into a hole,

that’s how we bring Dad back.

He takes off his jacket and sits down for the rest of his life.

The poem can start with him walking backwards into a room.

 

Warsan Shire, “Backwards.” Copyright © 2014 by Warsan Shire.

 

Backwards, a poem by Warsan Shire

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And The Gods Told Our Fathers

And the Gods told our fathers

Give us your sons

And we will trade their smiles for death.

Send us their coats of many colours

And we will change those colours to red,

Give us their sandals

And we will exchange them for boots with which

To tread upon the lives of nameless mothers.

Give us their shirts and

We will smother the children in them.

And they will hate us for it.

 

We will lie to them,

We will never set them free.

 

We will take the lives of your sons

In wars over greed and lust.

Our altars of sacrifice will bleed once more

With glorious blood.

The spilled blood of your sons

The sons of the poor, the sons of the illiterate,

The sons without hope, and the foolishly brave.

 

And we will teach you deception,

We will teach you loss

We will teach you sorrow and

We will desert you when you grieve

And you will thank us for it.

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Racist friend

I have a new favorite song!! The lyrics are strong but so very correct. We all know, or most of us know, or have met at least one racist in our lives, or someone who is “soft” about racism. They tell you they aren’t, but laugh at racist jokes, maybe even tell them, but they assure you, they “don’t believe this way”. I remember when I lived in NW Portland. I had just repainted and refurnished my flat. I threw a party. A boyfriend of one of my cowokers told me and my guests a racist joke, he made sure he had everyones attention. I was mortified!! I looked him right in the eye and told him that racism is forbidden in my house and my life. I asked him why he would think it was acceptable. We had never met before that night. I apologized to my coworker and tgen told him he needed to leave, immediately. He then said that he “wasn’t that way, but wanted to see my reaction”. I responded; ” Well, now you’ve seen it. I hope you hesitate the next time you want to tell such a crass joke”. 

This is one of the strongest ways to help people realize just how unacceptable racism is. It hits in the head like a baseball bat and we need to stand up with all of our strength against it. The more we make it known PRECISELY how unnacceptable it is, the more uncomfortable it becomes. Education is a strong tool. Use it in positive ways. Use it with strength.  

Here are the lyrics; 
If you have a racist friend

Now is the time, now is the time

For your friendship to end

Be it your sister, be it your brother

Be it your cousin, or your uncle, or your lover

If you have a racist friend

Now is the time, now is the time

For your friendship to end

Be it your best friend, or any other

Is it your husband, or your father, or your mother

Either change their views

Or change your friends

If you have a racist friend

Now is the time, now is the time

For your friendship to end

So if you know a racist who thinks he is your friend

Now is the time, now is the time

For your friendship to end

Call yourself my friend

Now is the time to make up your mind

Don’t try to pretend

Be it your sister, be it your brother

Be it your cousin, or your uncle, or your lover

So if you have a racist friend

Now is the time, now is the time

For our friendship to end

#NowPlaying Racist Friend – P3 Version by Naomi Pilgrim 

https://open.spotify.com/track/72OqDR7ynES3bChfTMNRzW

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Postcard from America Trying to process. By Kate Zambreno

This is so spot on!  A fascinatingly scary article about Trump, and the hatred behind his election. Written BEFORE the election, it so accurately reflects Americas state of mind. To quote a part of the article; ” This is not my grief, I do not own it, I cannot appropriate it, but it is my grief as an American, and I’m reminded of that line in David Wojnarowicz’s jeremiad, Close to the Knives, lines that I could tattoo on my ever expanding and discontented body, I’ve quoted them so often: “I want to throw up because we’re supposed to quietly and politely make house in this killing machine called America and pay taxes to support our own slow murder and I’m amazed we’re not running amok in the streets, and that we can still be capable of gestures of loving after lifetimes of all this.” ”

 

Read and be afraid!

/Postcard from America Trying to process. By Kate Zambreno

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Don’t Bite The Hook, a Buddhist look at the election

This is the first of posts about the US election and the victory of Mr. Trump. I must admit I’m still processing my feelings, dealing with my shock, my bitterness, my anger and a very deep sorrow, among other feelings. I hope to post my own reactions soon, and am hoping, dear reader, that they will be something more positive, as much as possible, than what I’ve been writing on the privacy of my own computer.

I hope you find the article helpful, if not enlightening.

Don’t Bite The Hook

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