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Poems informed by and immersed in politics. Everything has significance beyond the surface. Beautiful, hair-raising words and form. Emma Lee's The Significance of a Dress moves from Refugee camps in northern Iraq via beaches in Greece and Northern France to dark streets in London and elsewhere, and asks questions about where to find hope, and how to overcome adversity. 'A wedding is a party, a welcome, a sign of hope. The dresses sparkle with sun-reflected diamanté but the gravel paths of the camp leave the hems stained.'
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I Saw Life Jackets Left on the Beach
Stories from The Jungle
Bridal Dresses in Beirut
Dismantling The Jungle
Outside the Photograph
The Significance of a Dress
A Boy’s Text Message in Headlines
I’m Here, Wherever that is
Uniforms Contain Humans
Diary from Holloway February 1907
Reptiles in Texas
His Mother was Told to Leave Him Out to Die
How do you Rehearse for This?
Saving Grace
Standing on Ice
Staircase of Knives
The Quilt With 598 Squares
He Did/She Did
Today’s Lesson Misses the Target
This is how Rapunzel Ends
Gone Midnight and I Needed to Press Reset
Wishing not to be Stalled
The Landmarks Change when you Walk Home
Icon in Red (#C0362C)
Put a Spell on Those February Blues
When Your Name’s Not Smith
The Sea Remembers
Where No One Operates the Lights
How a Dress Lost its Sparkle
An Elephant in Atlantic City
The Doctor from Aleppo’s Book Keeping
Kos, Summer 2015
I asked the waiter, but he shrugged.
Later he loaded crates into the manager’s car.
She looked dead on her feet, said something
about an extra sitting at dinner.
But there weren’t any new guests.
It was my two weeks in the sun.
I’d eaten nothing but lettuce
for weeks to look OK in my bikini.
The waiter stopped flirting, went quiet.
I followed him to the derelict hotel where tents
had sprung up like mushrooms overnight.
He didn’t want to talk. I didn’t push it.
You learn that at a call centre. Some people
think you’re a machine and they just poke buttons.
Others, you’re the only person they’ve talked to all day.
I’d only come to sunbathe
so helping give out food didn’t seem much.
One mother told me men drifted around
and she didn’t think her daughters were safe.
After their journey, they didn’t want confinement
to a crowded room. I became a chaperone.
I taught them hopscotch on the beach.
Their laughter such a strange sound.
Paperwork’s slow at the best of times.
I left my euros for the hotel to pass on.
I hope it helped. I bought them sanitary pads.
People don’t think about that:
their bodies capable of creating life.
Everything Abdel sees is smeared, despite his glasses.
With the sleeve of a dusty shirt, he pushes grime
from the middle to the edges of his lenses.
They’ve witnessed family fall victim to war crimes.
He could shower for a fortnight and never feel clean.
English is an official language in Sudan.
At sixteen he wants to join relatives already in England.
To dodge military conscription, Sayid, 20, fled from Syria.
Inspired by the story of one of his heroes, William Gibson,
Sayid got to Egypt, then packed on a small boat to Lampedusa,
through Italy to France, from where he can only move on.
On a borrowed laptop he listens to Syrian pop music.
He’d love to cook. He still has to pay a trafficker
weekly for the right to chase lorries to his brother in England.
With a bandaged hand Abdul, 21, tells of imprisonment
and gestures to describe the electric shocks he received
after his arrest by the Sudanese government.
His tribe also harassed by rebel militia. He feels deceived
by traffickers. Despite his razor-wire injury,
he’ll try again. Sudan was an English colony.
He wants to stop looking over his shoulder.
When a tiger stalks, play dead. But it’s hard not to run.
When his friends were arrested in Eritrea, Hayat fled