I Am Not From Here E-Book

Amerah Saleh

• Herausgeber: Verve Poetry Press
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Seitenzahl: 46

Beschreibung

This book has taken a long time writing. Amerah has long been a fundamental part of the burgeoning Birmingham poetry scene – producing, mentoring, making things happen in the city. She is a wise old poetry head in the body of a young woman. She has rarely put her own incredible poetry first. And yet here it is, in book form at last. I Am Not From Here is a collection that twists and turns through the complexities of being Birmingham born but of Yemeni decent and culture; of being Muslim in a city of mixed faiths and in a country of little faith; of spending time in Yemen only to find that as a result you are refused entry to other countries and have forgotten how to live in yours; of losing loved ones too young (and when are we ever old enough for that?); of being split between the language and words of two tongues, and often finding that neither has the words you need; of facing hatred for acts that were none of your doing, and inner turmoil as your mind and body seek the solace and comfort of belonging to enable you to turn and face the world. This book contains and engages with all this. That it doesn't burst is down to the unique and unifying voice of Amerah's poetry. Brimming with emotion, anger, frustration, grief and love – the beauty of the imagery, the often breath-taking turns of phrase, the soaring imagination, the gently woven structure, all help to turn the torments and confusion of a fractured experience into something unique and compelling. Amerah, against so many odds, has achieved something whole here – a complete and vibrant piece of work. A consummate performer of great skill and passion, we know that hearing Amerah read these poems will take them to another level again. We can hardly wait!

Leseprobe

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Amerah Saleh is a British Yemeni poet homed in Birmingham. She has been writing and performing for 10 years across spoken word and theatre. She has taken her poetry all around the world to share messages with young people. She is a Board Member at Birmingham Repertory Theatre, Co-founder of Verve Poetry Press and a Producer at Free Radical as part of The Beatfreeks Collective.

This is her first collection.

Twitter: @Voiceofthepoets

Instagram: voiceofthepoets

www.amerahsaleh.com

PUBLISHED BY VERVE POETRY PRESS

Birmingham, West Midlands, UK

www.vervepoetrypress.com

[email protected]

All rights reserved

© 2018 Amerah Saleh

The right of Amerah Saleh to be identified as author if this work has been asserted in accordance with section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

No part of this work may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, recorded or mechanical, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

FIRST PUBLISHED APR 2018

Printed and bound in the UK

by TJ International, Padstow

ISBN: 978-1-912565-01-6

ePub ISBN: 978-1-912565-70-2

Dedications:

•        For my mother

Everything is for you, always.

•          For Yemen

My heart is forever yours.

•              For you

It has been a long time coming.

CONTENTS

I Am Not From Here

i) Grief // Heartbreak

Intro poem by Raza Hussain

1st September 2005

12th June 2013

7th April 2017

31st October 2017

UNTITLED

Graveyards

The Homeless Man Who Dreams

Naeema

ii) Home // Yemen

Intro Poem by Afrah Yafai

Donald Trump

A Sorry Kind Of Note

Fire-breathing Butterflies

Not Enough

Stolen Land

Birmingham 2 Aden

iii) Womxn // Identity

Intro poem by Ahlaam Moledina

Womxn

A Prison Guard And A Prisoner

No Man

Hatija

Nagiba

Noor

The Only Thing My Father Taught Me

Forgive Me Father

iv Love // Heartbreak

Intro poem by Adjei Dsane

Solace In Strangers

We Stand Still

Let Me Go

Your Therapist Is Your Lover

I Just Want To Hear Your Voice

Mi Amor

I Am Not From Here

1993

“I could never hold a child in my hand one day and regret his existence the next.”

You are born by accident.

You never shy away from saying this because

Yemeni’s don’t know how to translate “Planned

Parenthood” into Arabic.

You are named princess.

Mum told dad it was all his fault, in the delivery room

of Sorrento Hospital.

Near a roundabout on the Bristol Road is where

home found you.

Birmingham, UK.

1996

“She aligns the overused curtains across the balcony to dry. The long grandfather clock dangles its existence into the room to remind her of time.”

In hindsight, it was only 8 hours on a direct plane to

where my mother had reminisced about for as long

as I could remember.

To me,

It was more like 8 days,

On a cramped plane heading to Yemen.

I may have been too young to understand what

people meant by home but I sure did know that this

language wasn’t the one the postman spoke to me in.

I was introduced to mosquitos, grandparents,

lots of uncles and aunts.

To Bifq, cold watermelon and banana farms.

To an actual mosque that was made for actual prayer

and not for tourists.

To beaches,

seas so clear you could see the reflection of the Elephant

Mountain in them.

I was introduced to my mother’s smile for the first time.

2002

“8 hours in the sky counting how many Gods I’d need to fix us.”

We had Happy Meals™ the night before.

We had met when you first came here,

tied at the hip.

Despite the Happy Meals, you cried a lot.

Not because I was leaving.

Because your ink stamp from the happy meal didn’t work

and mine did.

I didn’t care.

On the morning of us leaving,

you stood outside my dad’s shop.

We were naïve in our byes but the tears of grief on our

cheeks matured us.

I handed you my ink toy, told you not to forget me friend.

The 8 hours this time only felt like a couple of days.

I guess that’s what growing up feels like.

Things that felt so long get smaller and shorter

as life does.

Mum’s smile was back.

It rained the first day we got there.

Mum said it never rains.

2004

“I have been wandering through a graveyard of your promises.”

English was now secondary to our identity.

I knew how to think in English and respond in Arabic.

I learnt Adeni tea was far better than ‘The English

Breakfast.’

I learnt that my family in Yemen couldn’t separate the

British in me from the Queen.

I learnt that Sook sellers hadn’t forgotten what was

stolen from them.

I learnt that Yemenis are proud, that Mochas originated

there even though no one drinks it.

I learnt about my mother being adopted, the history of

my family.

My grandparents running a market stall selling

mattresses to feed 13 children in a two bedroom flat.

My mum used to say they’d stay up late at night

watching the stars top the mountains.

And that her and her siblings, ‘real’ or adopted, only

ever spoke to each other like their blood was the same.

I learnt here, that although a daddy’s girl

I would become a woman of my mother.

2007

“My stage is a bilingual picnic on a platter. A culture shock of Aseed and Full English. All my tongues sit together proudly.”

I am questioning what language I think in.