reader & writers #1: a letter to some man

8/3/2019 Reader & Writers #1: A Letter to Some Man

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E N G L I S H P E N

R E a d E R S & W R I t E R S

V OL U M E t WO


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a L E t t E R t O S OM E M a N


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E N G L I S H P E N

R E a d E R S & W R I t E R S

V O L U M E t WO


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Contents

First published in Great Britain in 2010 by

English PEN, Free Word, 60 Farringdon Road,

London EC1R 3GA

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Collection copyright English PEN, 2010

The moral right o the authors has been asserted. The views

expressed in this book are those o the individual authors,

and do not necessarily represent the opinions o the editors,

publishers, or English PEN.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under

copyright reserved above, no part o this publication may

be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system,

or transmitted, in any orm or by any means (electronic,

mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without

the prior written permission o both the copyright owner

and the publisher o the book.

A CIP catalogue record or this book is available rom

the British Library.

ISBN 978-0-9564806-1-3

Typeaces used: Headers set in 10/13pt Neuzeit S. Published

by Linotype, 1966. Text set in 9/13pt Archer. Published by

Hoeer & Frere-Jones, 2001.

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Aldgate Press,

Units 5&6, Gunthorpe Street Workshops, 3 Gunthorpe

Street, London E1 7RQ www.aldgatepress.co.uk

Designed by here www.heredesign.co.uk

Temple Works, Brett Road, London E8 1JR

On Falling Asleep Monique Roey

Writing Passages Nii Ayikwei Parkes

The Migrants Marie Eveline Lavoile

I am in England Helmut Ogbeni

The Egg in the Cofee Ennio Bollici

The Terrace and the Sky Alessandra Marucci

From a Diferent Place Nidhal Al Jibouri

You Carry Michael Tesamariam

Ode to My Engagement Ring Sviatlana Istamianok

Joy Marie Eveline Lavoile

Her Brother, My Uncle Bayan Karimi

25, Aternoon Enrico Sibour

The Letter o the Lord o the Rascals Alessandra Pirovano

trees Jaoa Da Silva

On the Bridge Nidhal Al Jibouri

Silence Malika Booker

The Day Beore Pierangelo Vidotto

The Hoopoe Bird Yaya Yoso

The Cloud Tree Alessandra Pirovano

Dementia Praecox Merima Brkic

From Adult to Child Joao Da SilvaMemories o Rainall Michael Tesamariam

Mango Guava Yaya Yoso

Chilly Light rom the Window Enrico Sibour

A Letter to Some Man Nidhal Al Jibouri

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English PENReaders & Writers Volume 02

06

A Letter to Some Man

07

On Falling Asleep

Monique Roffey

A writer spins a world in which the reader alls into, as i alling into

a dream. When captivated by a story, I oten eel as though I am about

to all asleep, or, about to all into the dream o the narrative. Ive been

somehow hypnotised, thrown into a trance-like state. Good writing

makes me want to all asleep.

During the eight-week course I taught or English PEN, I ound

mysel saying this out loud a ew times. Ahhhhh, I would exclaim, dreamily,

ater a student had read something out. I elt as though I was about to

all asleep.

This was meant as high praise. So I was a little thrown when this

comment was met with looks o puzzlement and surprise. O course it

must sound odd, that what theyd read made me sleepy, that maybe Id

ound it so dreary I wanted to snooze. Quite the opposite. So indeed, I had

to explain my way o seeing things.

Much good sleep-inducing dream-like writing was written on this

course, most memorably Saras angry tree, Johns piece about his soul

room, Enricos urious turkeys, Wilsons philosophical essay, Sivas orest...

Which reminds me. One session, I introduced my students to a piece

o lie writing rom Henry David Thoreaus Walden, a book written in 1845

by a man who lived in a small cabin in the woods or two years. His memoir

is written in small exquisite essays. I showed my students an extract rom

the essays called Solitude. In it, Thoreau talks o walking alone in the woods,listening to bullrogs trump, the uttering o the alder and poplar, the ox

and the skunk roaming the elds. He ends with: There can be no black

melancholy to him who lives in the midst o nature and has his senses still.

Does anyone know what it eels like to be alone and yet peaceul?

I asked.

Everyone put up their hands.

Great. Id like you to write about how this eels. Many tender words

were written, sleepy stories about being alone late at night, about

spending ones rst months in London walking around the squares and

parks alone.

I loved being on my own when I rst came to London, said Svetlana.

I loved walking around and looking at things. But now I am ready to

be more sociable and go out more, you know meet people.

I think I know how this eels. I also lived alone in London once, oooh,

decades back. Funny, I eel a story coming on, I must sit to write; I eel

a little sleepy too.. .

Sweet dreams.


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09

Writing Passages

Nii Ayikwei Parkes

Running a creative writing workshop is always an ambivalent occupation,

i you believe as I do that you cant teach creative writing; you can teach

eective writing and hope that the group that you work with has what it

takes to create beautiul narratives rom the techniques that you teach.

What it takes has so much more to do with how one thinks than how one

writes and that act was proved so elegantly during the weeks I spent at the

Migrants Resource Centre working with a group so diverse that it was not

at all absurd to hear them call themselves the United Nations. As was to be

expected, the command o the English language was not uniorm across

the group, but to hear them respond to a poem or phrase, or to hear them

describe how they came to write a particular passage, was enough to make

me realise that migration and exile orced or unorced sharpens the very

elements that combine to shape a good writer.

To my mind, a good writer has three primary qualities a huge

capacity or empathy, heightened powers o observation and a strong

belie that the world is or can be dierent rom what the majority say that

it is. And the boy who remembers reshly harvested maize in Eritrea, and

the girl who remembers sunrise in Italy, and the woman who remembers

the Galician inection o her grandathers voice, and the man-boy who

held a spear in Sudan all have markers, displaced benchmarks against

which everything shits and comes into sharper ocus. The language

o expression is secondary to that unique regard, although in this casethey have written primarily in English; our job as readers is to listen with

empathy and attention to these passing strangers who have chosen to

begin their journey as writers in the linguistic port o England.

Our jOb asreaders is tO

listen withempathy andattentiOn


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11

The Migrants

Marie Eveline Lavoile

The Migrant Resource Centre is a place where people rom dierent

countries and nationalities come to do courses on various topics. At the

MRC you can nd all shades and colours o people around the world.

As soon as you enter the centre, you can hear Spanish, Italian, French

and Portuguese accents. The classrooms are bright and airy making the

students eel at ease. Those doing creative writing have tea breaks and

tasty ood provided by the centre. Like the people on the course, the ood

too is very colourul. In one corner o the classroom is a table which looks

like a banquet ull o wonderul dishes such as green and black olives,

pickled chillies, hummus and a variety o breads. People are very riendly

and kind. Whatever part o the world they come rom, they all have one

thing in common they are oreigners seeking to improve their lives in

one way or another.

Out o breath and completely exhausted enters Marie in the class.

She has completely orgotten that there was one more class today. So the

lessons she booked with a dierent teacher had to wait or another week.

She arrived in class carrying a heavy shoulder bag which contains the

exercise books she used or Italian the previous evening. From a distance

nobody could guess whats inside the bag until she started looking or

her pen. Then she took her mobile phone out, her diary, scar and hat.

Marie is overwhelmed with the stress o the journey to the Migrants

Resource Centre: queuing at the train station to buy a ticket, sitting onthe bus which is crawling like a baby because o the trafc and the

endless road work which is going on or ever and ever.

Today we have a visiting speaker Romesh Gunesekera. The whole

class listens attentively to the writer reading rom one o his novels.

Marie thinks it is such a privilege or the creative writing students to

have dierent authors coming and sharing their skills and talents with

them. Now that the course is ended, whats next? What will the migrants

do? Will there be a ollow up course to take them to the next level?

I am in England

Helmut Ogbeni

I am in England

The land o roots, oundations,

And history and beginnings

The battleground o bloodless wars,

England the land o greenery,

Courtesy, the Queen.

England, where nature has rights

As trees bring delights.

Where people give with a smile.

I am in England,

The poor are content,

You smile and say, Isnt it wonderful?

I am in England.


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13

The Egg in the Coffee

Ennio Bollici

I that day was a picture, it would be ull o light. It would capture the

sun a moment beore collapsing and die.

I remember Dawn sneaking through the green shutter, gently posing

its shiny stardust touch all over the place.

We were sitting in the tiny kitchen: me, mum and my brother, waiting

or the daily ritual to come.

I cannot remember what we said and i we said anything to each other.

I surely remember we had never been as united as in that moment.

The coee whistles while we stare at dad painting yellow waves with

yolks, beore plunging them into the black boiling sea.

We were humble disciples daily struck by the Shamans magic in the

poor childhood house.

My senses enchanted by the unexpected blend, a rapture birding us

towards spring blessing.

I remember peach blossom raining down the tree around which we

played, long walks along daisy elds.

A starry night cycling with mum while reies lit the night on; the red

velvet airytales book she used to read us in bed.

Then we let the poor house and its wooden shutters. Sun ceased to

shine and died.

Wealth came stealing us happiness and unity.

The new decent house: a mile and thousands o light years away rom

the old one. Its walls soaked with silence, our rooms windows shut in

the morning, darkness all over.

I was poor once. I wish I was, still.


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15

we managetO laugh at

Our cOuntrywallOwing inthe mud

The Terrace and the Sky

Alessandra Marucci

Your terrace is the cosiest venue to meet riends,

a bubble between the city and the sky:

it protects us rom the cold and the toughness,

rom the vastness and the opportunity o breathing so deeply.

A small, sae bubble: we still share our lives with delight

and irony, we manage to laugh at our country wallowing in the mud.

We almost eel as i our childish dreams came true.

We dont mind our lives uselessness,

because sharing our eelings makes sense.

I could save my cheerulness, i I was able to save the warmness o the oor,

our unny wools and the strong thread between us and our several pasts.


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17

From a Different Place

Nidhal Al Jibouri

Ater a long torment,

Ater bitter privations,

I enter a new town,

New in everything

Streets, houses,

The people here are not like others.

Where am I?

Am I dreaming?

No, I am awake!

Everything is great

Beauty, tranquillity, happiness

I am in the love with the world,

Jealousy doesnt exist here

Decipher doesnt exist here

Termination, no one knows,

And me!

I am lost in the new world,

I can see lovers, couples,

And I am alone,

searching or someone!

I have nobody in this world

I cant live alone here,And I dont want to go back to the past,

What do I do?

How do I behave?

I dont know about the law,

Nobody looks at me,

Maybe they dont understand my language?

Or they dont like to speak to strangers?

I am close to someone,

Could I ask?

Will they answer me?

He might say I am too curious,

Must I agree about this world?

Please let me be here

As a migrant,

I said that to mysel.

He looked at me and said,

You are wanted or investigation,

I said I didnt do anything,

The court said Go back where you come rom!

I returned crying,

Not knowing my destiny.


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19

You Carry

Michael Tesfamariam

You carry with you all the glory and the beauty o the world. My eyes wide

opened I stayed xed on you. For a moment, rather an eternity or I have

lost all notion o time, your world was the only thing that the windows o

mind, my eyes, allowed.

The glittering city was or you like the stars to the moon. You moved

but I stayed inert.

Suddenly, the gentle touch o someone on the street woke me up rom

my dream.

i am writingand there

is sOmeOnebehind mydOOrA Letter To Some ManNidhal Al Jibouri (p.46)


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21

Ode to My Engagement Ring

Sviatlana Istamianok

Robert bought me an engagement ring.

He put it on my nger and asked me to become his wie.

This dream ring shines majestically on my nger, enlightening

everything around.

Its elegant shape pleases my eye.

It makes me proud and happy.

Im closing my eyes and Im in the magical country

With paradise birds and hypnotising music.

Im ying.

This luminous ring gives me this sense o lightness.

Symbol o love proudly shining on my nger.

Joy

Marie Eveline Lavoile

On a white, cold and gloomy day in London, here I am standing in ront

o a travel agent. The ofce is close to the Migrants Resource Centre in

Churton Street. The building is painted white and red. The window is

covered with colourul posters advertising holidays in Algeria, Tunisia

and Morocco. The smiling aces o people bathing in the sunshine are

quite the opposite o those in the ofce, booking their holiday probably

trying to get away rom the misery o the British weather.

Although I cant aord to go on holiday on any o the cruise liners

eatured in ront o me, in my minds eyes I am transported to Morocco.

I am there on its beautiul beach, looking at its white houses under the

blue sky and surrounding dark green palm trees. Just or a minute or

two, I was there.


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23

Her Brother, My Uncle

Bayan Karimi

I went to see her the next morning, a day ater she ound out. She was not

in a state to talk; she was traumatised. She avoided directly looking or

talking to me. She spent most o the time by hersel: making hersel busy

with housework; washing and cleaning, mostly. Cooking, she let it or me

(nally entrusting me with it). Other times I ound her in her bedroom,

crying or talking quietly to hersel. I was becoming concerned, I eared

that her grie would be everlasting. But gradually her grie lessened and

she began talking about it.

There was no easy way or her to nd out why her little brother

committed suicide in such a manner. Her parents back home reused to

elaborate on it. And she could not go back to nd out by hersel she was

a political reugee in exile, expelled rom her home. At the end she had no

choice but to rely on the rumours that already swept through the Kurdish

community in London.

Three rumours in particular had some credibility or her. One was

people said: he killed himsel ater suering rom shell-shock (a psychological

disorder caused by the sound o the explosion) it happened ater his house

was bombed during the war. The second story was that he was in love; some

unullled love story (not so uncommon in his country). The third rumour

was about a dispute with his ather over land he was supposed to inherit.

Overpowered by his ather, he nally hanged himsel in the basement o his

house, right under his nose. An act o revenge, perhaps.For months she listened careully to the rumours one by one; trying

to make sense o them. She wanted to understand the suicide o her brother.

But deep down she knew that there was no simple answer. Her brother, my

uncle, was a typical product o his own time; he then became its typical victim.

He was born and grew up during the 1960s and 1970s the dictatorial

era o Mohammad Reza Shah in an impoverished urban centre o the

Iranian Kurdistan. Growing up he witnessed deprivation, terror, silence,

and the constant presence o the army and security police in his streets,

bazaars, schools, and his playgrounds even his mothers Khaneqa

was not exempt rom the iron st o the Shah. He grew up learning o

notorious prison cells, tortures and mass executions o the enemies

o the Shah. He grew up in a harsh and militaristic environment.

He went through an education: in school they taught him to love

the Shah and obey his state, but instead he learnt to hate them both.

They indoctrinated him, disciplined him, bullied and beat him trying

to make him a civilized citizen. In his classroom, in the living-room o his

home and in his athers tea-house, they placed pictures o the Shah.

He went through a Revolution when he was barely a teenager.

He joined demonstrations and shouted slogans. He was there when the

crowds destroyed the state; and how they mocked its ideology. He was

there when they brought the statue o the Shah down and he cheered

when they burnt his pictures and the ag.

But reedom was short lived, and as he was about to nd out who

he was, a new regime took over with new ideas o who he was. The post-

evolution regime brought or him urther terror; again he was silenced,

terrorised, stripped o his reedom and sense o being, imprisoned and

marginalised. Finally he was sent to the south to ght a lengthy war

with Iraq.

Her brother, my uncle, was also a typical victim o his own time.

He did not die during the bombardments (gas or colossal), neither on the

land mines. Luckily enough, he did not die in some trench in a arawaydesert or a mountain. He also survived the Kurdish resistance the mass

arrests o the 1980s, and the scores o executions that ollowed. But he

became a dierent kind o victim. He hanged himsel in the basement

o his athers house. He became its latest victim.


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25

the glitteringcity was fOr

yOu like thestars tO themOOnYou CarryMichael Tesfamariam (p.19)

25, Afternoon

Enrico Sibour

The kitchen, a structured mess,

like every Christmas aternoon:

the green tea towels on the table beside

the embroidered napkins, the worktop

cluttered with porcelain tea cups and dessert plates.

Mum washing up the silver spoons in the sink,

putting them on a sot white blanket.

Meanwhile the ripe pineapple looks like a dead ruit,

the skins brown scales, the burnt green leaves

show its golden heart as much as Dad slices it.

I can see it now, like on a screen, here in Baghdad,

at my desk, in ront o the window overlooking

the green yellow gardens along the brown Tigri.

I can hear the door bell ringing, see Mamo opening the door,

Marisa entering the kitchen, hands ull o pastries boxes.

She is grateul or the tuna pt delivered to her place beore lunch...

and the chat begins...

A quick look at the watch and I come back to the report:

it has to be nished soon and its almost dusk,

but I know that there is a Christmas aternoon tea on its way,

amilys tradition, the shiny crystals, the sparkling wine,

the dancing candle ames, the pine resin smell. ..A small kind stage with a role or everyone,

a pause at least once a year.


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27

The Letter of the Lord of the Rascals

Alessandra Pirovano

Royal Geographical Society

1 Kensington Gore

London SW7 2AR

Dear President and Council Members,

I would like to thank you right away or the kind attention that you are

going to grant my words, and in the near uture I hope to greet you as my

honoured guests in the Garden o the Five Senses.

Let me briey tell you about mysel, so that you might better

understand the reasons that have obliged me to honour the debt I owe to

the ora o my childhood.

I had long been a sick child, growing up all alone, a child who learned

about lie rom the trees o a grove: the sense o time, the pleasures o

contemplation, the apparent death and the joyul rebirth and above all,

respect or the sel, or ones own sacred and worthwhile existence. I like to

think that the trees that witnessed my childhood liked the spell cast by my

words, the sheer delight o my playing, the pride and the tiredness in my

growing sense o sel and my shyness in approaching the world.

Once I became adult, I wanted to honour the promise made to the

trees o my childhood by saving the lie o the Rascal Trees and o all

their brothers scattered around the world that had dared disobey the lawso nature. At rst I had some trouble guring out how to make it happen,

but over time I discovered a whole inventory o extravagant lives: I learned

that you can be born a tree and then decide to become something else,

sidestepping the obligatory roles and the grotesque obtuseness o certain

men who deend the illusory order o their constructed world.

The rst Rascal Tree I met was the Wave Tree. It was born in a tiny

trafc owerbed in a big city where an epidemic had robbed men and all living

beings o their ve senses. So it ed to Guadalupe, and its luxuriant mane

became a huge and ever-shiting multicoloured wave the local children loved

to play with.

The Cloud Tree used to live in Buthan and was the one and only Rascal

Tree duly honoured by a whole people and their king. It had become a

cloud. I am the head o a nomad, the hair o a dishevelled traveller.

She made a statement or you here attached. The Lea Tree, the

Flower Tree and the Fruit Tree are Algerian triplets that just loved to

contemplate the world and in order to have the time to do so, they decided

to give the best o themselves all at once: as a single huge lea, as a lone

ower most intensely perumed, and as a big juicy ruit. Long prisoners o

cramped hothouses, theyve been ghting a long battle against a certain

ghoul, namely a trafcker o out-o-season ruit.

The Book Tree in the park o the University o St Petersburg discovered

the world o knowledge by learning to read whatever students and

proessors were studying under the shade o its oliage. I only I could tell

the other trees and all men about the humility and the power o the word.

So strong was its desire that it became a Book Tree.

So I repaid my debt by making room in my garden or all the Rascal

Trees I had encountered and then I invited in the children and amilies

o the nearby towns. Wrong move! The result was uproar and strie: the

children had great un indeed, but the parents savaged me and threatened

to burn down my magical grove. They reproached me or having created

a grove celebrating disobedience a bad example or children meant to

learn that in lie there are duties but no desires.My grove is in danger, and is sorely in need o your protection,

because our world has to be made to acknowledge that these creatures

have ull rights o citizenship.

Ladies and gentlemen, believe me, in the whole wide world there is no

comparable garden o such intelligent beauty.

Faithully yours,

The Lord o the Rascals


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29

trees

Jaoa Da Silva

when the men decided

to

destroy most o the beautiul trees

(god regretted)

why did I make these guys?

we have tricks to make un

and

god knows

but

he can not believe

we use the trees to make a house

to cross the highest river by chips

and

to make million things

and

god just look

we think

that

we are strongwhen we use the machine to cut the trees

and

god believe

years go and come

but

the bible still says

stop and worship me

without an instrument

we are weaklings

can I cut one more tree, please?

just to make a guitar

or my spirit to be happy

and

god sits down

on

his throne and says

I am tired


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31

On the Bridge

Nidhal Al Jibouri

I stood dreaming on the bridge,

Looking at the rain alling down the bridge,

Tiger water passed in ront o my eyes,

And my memories passed under the bridge,

I asked mysel

Are you thinking o me?

Are you missing me?

The clock is ticking and I am waiting,

My day has passed and the night is coming,

The days passed happily,

It reminded me o the old days,

Quietly, smoothly, in windy warm days,

Like the wave o a great Tiger in a long day,

I love to stand or long hours on the bridge,

Seeing the Tiger, a great view rom the bridge,

You promised me with water,

But what you said is a mirage,

My dreams led me to meet on the bridge,

But even the water dried rom the Tiger,

However my ways took me to stand on the bridge.

what did hethink?/stand

ing naked Onthe rOOf Of/the cOuncilblOck,/getting ready

tO jumpDementia PraecoxMerima Brkic (p.38)


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33

Silence

Malika Booker

She does not talk about that time,

has buried it beneath earths mud

where you bury shit; She erased it,

olded it up neatly and tucked it away

with no wake, uneral or anare,

buried it whilst it was raw and resh.

I remember early September:

the phone ring, jerk out o sleep, umble,

the red sky o pre-dawn through my bare window,

my cousins Guyanese tones, voice broken,

she sobs. Till I too begin to cry.

She stutters, stops, starts, tells me

about an advert, a plane ride.

They promised her work and a US visa.

All lies, I am a prisoner, somewhere in the south

they take my passport, work us long hours,

deduct our pay or ood and board,

Then give us a trickle. I made more back home.

We pick ruit all day.

She let her girl child at home

in her mothers care,

now cant send no money.

I cant see me way... help me, she sobs.

I do nothing except worry then

make phone calls to older aunts

in New York, not new to this,

who tell me they will take care o it.

A month later they call to say

we have her. How? I ask.

But they have buried it,

on top o their own shit.

They too do not talk.

she dOes nOttalk abOutthat time,/has buried

it beneathearths mud/where yOubury shit


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35

The Day Before

Pierangelo Vidotto

Im sitting beside his bed in a very uncomortable chair. I have to stay

there a long time.

Im holding his wet and cold hand. Our arms, along his side, are placed

on a coarse abric.

He is singing aloud in this silent white hospital room. War songs rom his

comradeship during the Second World War and oten sung, in riendly

meetings, with many drinks.

On this night the other suerers cant sleep and they ask themselves

why Im not trying to silence him.

I cant stop his last voice, it is his way to say goodbye to this real world.

The Hoopoe Bird

Yaya Yosof

The cherry tree blooms

Angelic and Faithul,

A supernatural lovely Hoopoe bird,

Supermodel o Shaba kingdom,

Queen o Sweden eyes,

Strawberry cheeks

Sweet resh harmonic

Tamarind smile,

Gazelle ip quick turns

Jumping between the stairs

To splash the smiles lights

hot blood, soul and special purple scar

It is the Hoopoe,

The lovely Hoopoe bird,

With a sparkling tail.


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37

like thewave Of a

great tigerin a lOngday/ i lOvetO standfOr lOng

hOurs Onthe bridgeOn the BridgeNidhal Al Jibouri (p.31)

The Cloud Tree

Alessandra Pirovano

I am wood and a steam o silk,

Soil, stones, an ashram o milk.

I am a gentle matter, a mother-o-pearl ate.

I am a house o words, almonds and slate.

I am the guest o a cobalt exile,

I am a bread cathedral, a golden alphabets hive.

I run. I run in skies I cannot belong.

I am a blast urnace, a dance in the elds, a scented song.

I am a hoarse water diviner, a coral continuance.

I am a deaening silence, a dreams transhumance.

I am the Cloud Tree.

Majestic white mass, the cloud moves, slow and proud,

like an old sage on an island promenade.

The tree trunk stands, waiting or the spring to come back.

The Cloud Tree was the daughter o a love marriage:

the love o a pure tree or a brave cloud on a mountain .Long, long time ago.

Once upon a time...


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39

Dementia Praecox

Merima Brkic

I. You have to escape!

they shouted.

Flapped away with their arms

and inhaled

beore the next warning.

There is an eye hanging on your window!

I thanked

my small, invisible riends.

So I hid behind

a new ace

a new voice

someone elses words

and was sae.

II. As long as you get rid

o the others,

you will become like us.They said.

The others

did not want to get rid

o me.

They argued with them

and it became us.

I bite mysel in the knee.

Yes.

I am still here.

III. Little bird, you claim:

that you live on a star,

skies are your station

and you are always

closer to heaven

than me.

Little bird,

one more word

and I might just

dip your wings in tar.

IV. What did he think?

Standing naked on the roo o

the council block,

getting ready to jump.

What did he think?

Shouting my name so all the neighbors

could hear him.

What did he think?

Climbing down, curled in the arms

o a reghter?

Did he think

it wasnt high enough?

1. A severe mental disorder characterized by some, but not necessarily all, o the ollowing

eatures: emotional blunting, intellectual deterioration, social isolation, disorganized speech

and behavior, delusions, and hallucinations. 2. A state characterized by the coexistence o

contradictory or incompatible elements.


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40


41

From Adult to Child

Joao Da Silva

We care about you

and

we x our eyes on you

(100%)

We ought in the past

to

see you in the present

and

we are still looking to your uture

()

You give to us a dierent eeling

more

than being blessed

(&)

You are a little person

but

strong in aith

(@)

We are here until you grow up

Memories of Rainfall

Michael Tesfamariam

Suddenly, the gates o heaven

Opened up, releasing torrents o natures

Massive tears, cries o a million eyes,

Each with their own personal stories

People hurrying to hide,

Like oxes in their caves

While the bridge remained,

Complacent and tranquil,

Listening to the terriying music

O the swell and rush o the river

Exploding underneath it,

Like the Big Bang

At the beginning o the universe.


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43

i am inengland,/

yOu smileand say,isnt itwOnderful?/i am in

englandI Am in England Helmut Ogbeni (p.11)

Mango Guava

Yaya Yosof

I do not know where to start

Mango or Guava to say

Guava

I preer it white

you might get them red too

Look grandather special Guava tree!

Guava ruit hanging like...

hanging like Neyala train passengers

who preer the train deck with goats and chickens

with and without ticks mostly.

Pick what you catch

and catch your eye

I take the special light green

White rom inside

The seed painted in it

like a woman wearing gloves

and diamonds

I still eel the taste,

the seeds in my teeth

From the last one in 1985,

Well, it is the last

To see all o them The village, the moon and the light

The melodies, the drum sound, the gazelles,

the birds and the songs

jumping rom one to take another,

turning around, tasting delicate Guava juice

Haj Abdulaahi Jeneyna in Gour Abasha village,

at the heart o Daarour.


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44


45

Chilly Light from the Window

Enrico Sibour

No bread, only some grissinis in a basket,

serving plates ull o dierent kind o cheeses,

hard, sot, creamy, white and pale yellow, blue veined,

and two jugs o milk already on the table.

Almost noon and the light...

the light is like one old ar amiliar light:

like a white rozen light coming rom the window,

reected rom the near mountains walls,

smoothed passing by the misted windows glasses,

when the warm kitchen was ready to guest the riends.

The big pan sizzling on the scorching stove:

the smell o tasty tomato sauce lling the room.

The stewed meat was almost ready: he put back the big lid.

Meanwhile with an eye or the copper pot: the polenta was bubbling

and bubbling, with yellow hot splashes.

A sudden sound rom the courtyard and he asked Flavio to open

the rst riends were already at the door.

People chatting in the lounge and Cesca came in the kitchen,

arms ull, holding a big plate covered by a cloth:

she ound an empty corner on the table to put it down.

Olive oil, vinegar, and salt she asked or.Also a big wooden spoon and ork and

the cloth taken o began to dress the salad,

mixing careully all the vegetables.

Andrea ound the corkscrew in the rst drawer,

opened a red wine bottle and poured it in the glasses.. .

The voice rom the radio: someone switched it o.

The light.. .

the light is like the one old ar amiliar light,

the same bubbling polenta and stewed meat,

also the cheeses, also the riends,

riends but dierent people,

chatting together in many dierent languages.

Like in the memory, the windows glasses covered with condensed steam,

the snow alling outside, the garden and the New River,

but not the amiliar walls, the mountains.


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46


47


Nidhal Al Jibouri

Dear Sir,

This is my letter rom a woman,

She is maybe a oolish woman

Did a oolish woman write to you beore?

My name? Doesnt matter what it is!

Maybe my name is Nadia, Nidhal, Hind, Wasan,

Sir, I am araid to say anything,

I am araid to do anything

Because the sky may burn,

Dear Sir, Your Orient conscates,

The blue letters also conscate

The dreams out o a womans closet,

Your Orient turns womans emotions into stones,

Your Orient speaks to woman with violence,

It slaughters spring, emotions and the black plates,

Your Orient, my Sir, makes crowns out o womens skulls,

Sir, dont critise me or my bad hand writing,

I am writing and there is someone behind my door,

And outside I hear the sound o winds and dogs,

Dear Sir, there is some one behind my door,

He shall slaughter me i he sees my letter,

He shall cut my head i he sees my see-through dress,He shall cut my head i I express my torture,

Your Orient, dear Sir, sentences women,

nominates men as prophets, buries women alive,

Dont be upset, Sir, i I say my eelings,

The Orient man will not care about my poetry or eeling,

Forgive me Sir, i I was rude,

Sorry Sir, i I overstepped my right and spoke about the kingdom o men,

The rich literature is or men, love is only or men,

The hidden reedom is or women in my country,

Say anything you want to say: I am mad, stupid, oolish, I dont care,

Because I know a woman is oolish to write in the logic o men,

Didnt I tell you at the beginning, this is a letter rom a oolish woman?

i am afraid tOdO anything/because thesky may burn


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A Letter To Some Man

From Readers & Writers the literature development

programme o English PEN.

Edited by the writers and Philip Cowell, Readers & Writers

Programme Manager

The English Centre o International PEN, the worldwide

association o writers, exists to uphold the values o literature,literacy and reedom o expression. The frst PEN club was

ounded in London in 1921 to promote intellectual co-operation

and understanding among writers, to create a world community

o writers that would emphasise the central role o literature

in the development o world culture, and to deend literature

against the modern worlds threats to its survival. Readers &

Writers is English PENs literature development programme

which brings these international values home to London in

the orm o creative writing workshops or reugees, asylum

seekers and migrants.

The programme o workshops, out o which this book comes,

was supported through the 2012 London Cultural Skills Fund,

unded by the London Development Agency and managed

by Arts Council England. Thanks to Nii Ayikwei Parkes,

Monique Roey, Malika Booker, Miriam Halahmy, Romesh

Gunesekera, Mimi Khalvati, Blake Morrison, George Szirtes,

Choman Hardi, Daljit Nagra and Esther Freud or supporting

the workshops.

English PEN is a company limited by guarantee, number

5747142, and a registered charity, number 1125610


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reader & writers #1: a letter to some man

Documents