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First published in Great Britain in 2011
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, 2011
The moral right of the authors has been asserted.
The views expressed in this book are those of the
individual authors, and do not necessarily represent
the opinions of the editors, publishers or English PEN.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under
copyright reserved above, no part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval
system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means
(electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or
otherwise), without the prior permission of both the
copyright owner and the publisher of the book.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from
the British Library.
ISBN 978-0-9564806-4-4
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 Brett Biedscheid,
www.statetostate.co.uk
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Contents
5 Philip Cowell Introduction On Wrestling
6 Akiko Hori Inside of My Mind
7 Rafika Furey My Favourite Foods
8 Alessandra Marucci What Does Your Long Hair Tell Us Tonight?
9 Alessandra Marucci Food Is An Old Book
10 Patricia Hicks Harris Winter
11 Patricia Hicks Harris Walk Alone
12 Tesfu Food
13 Margaret Nambi My Soil13 Ivareen My Identity in England
14 Shazea Quraishi February
15 Louis Osayande Anaemia
16 Louis Osayande Goody Goody
17 Louis Osayande Cotonou
18 Louis Osayande Dagenham
19 Louis Osayande Returning Exile
20 Louis Osayande A Song For My Dear Country
21 Joy Nwachukwu et al Fire
22 Marie Eveline Lavoile Haitian People
23 Marie Eveline Lavoile Hate
24 Marie Eveline Lavoile Love is
25 Marie Eveline Lavoile Marinas world
26 Maggie Dube Hack, Hack
27 Eunice Omorere Bread
28 Elizabeth C. Mendy-Thomas Water
29 Nanette Mendoza A Flower30 Jacqueline Lwanzo In England I Would Like To Grow Beans
31 Shazea Quraishi Sweetie Girl
32 Yaya Yosoff Green Eye
33 Yaya Yosoff My Mother Aisha Bet Alhaaj
34 Mahmood Alnaimy The White Blanket
35 Mahmood Alnaimy Careless Bullets
36 Enrico Sibour Baumwolle
37 Enrico Sibour Who Are We?
37 Enrico Sibour Onions38 Caspar Hall the house of being
38 Aissata Thiam Soiled Locks
40 Aissata Thiam A Letter To God
41 Aissata Thiam The Tears of My Mother
42 Aissata Thiam The Wrestlers
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5
THE WRESTLERS
On Wrestling
Philip Cowell
This is a book written by people from all over the world from
Nigeria, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Eritrea, Haiti, Italy,
Pakistan, Japan, Sudan, Iraq and many more countries. Everyone
who is published in this book attended an English PEN creative
writing and reading workshop series at their local refugee andmigrant centre. They took the time out of their busy lives to stop,
think and write about things.
Our writer facilitators Shazea Quraishi, Malika Booker,
Nii Parkes, Miriam Halahmy, Irene Garrow and me alongside
stalwart volunteers, Pat Hicks and Ben Harvey, helped them only
so far: with confidence when helping was helpful but also
with some ground rules of writing (rules likebreak all the rules!).
It does take it out of you, this writing malarky this business
of writing, and wrestling with, a self.
Wrestling seems just right. An Old English word, wrestling
originated some time around 1100. Its allegedly the oldest
word still in use in the English language to describe hand-to-
hand combat. I dont know any combat more hand-to-hand thanwriting. Wrestling, after all, is what you do when youre trying to
understand something (or someone) else. Wrestling is that slow,
fat grapple with life. To amend Marianne Moore: writing
is exciting, wrestling is like writing.
All the worlds writers in this book are wrestlers, and admirable
wrestlers at that. As Aissata Thiam writes, whose poem bothnames and ends this collection: They just seized one another by
the torso, and there, they started. They started, and they went
places. This book displays the results of their seizure, of their
takedowns and throws and of their grappling holds.
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ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE
Inside of My Mind
Akiko Hori
Life is short, so it becomes
colourful memories.
Time flies, so it becomes preciously.Lack of confidence, so it becomes
power to make an effort.
Weakness and strength both have sides.
That's why I don't worry about myself.All I should do is do my best.
That's why I don't worry about myself.
If I lose the way after I have
made a choice,I would never regret because that
is the way I choose.
Sometimes I lose the way.
But just keep going on the way I choose.
Look! I may find the way before I notice.
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THE WRESTLERS
My Favourite Foods
Rafika Furey
Sun break, I was force fed a mixture of tasteless gunk that fills
my lungs and my heart beat gets stronger. I hunger for freedom.
At sunrise, it was mashed apples, porridge with tiny specks
of biscuits looking like tiny specks of promise.
In the afternoon, my mouth is adorned with burger and chips,
all lavishly downed by ice cold coke, little cherry drops fill up
my mouth with ecstasy for dessert.
Its mid-afternoon, champagne glasses are filled, strawberries
float on top absorbing all the goodness of the alcohol,
appetisers are served, and cakes are eaten.
At sunrise, pickles mixed with ice cream. I eat to feed my seed.
Night follows back to basics with tubes filled with
pain and anxiety.
Midnight, no food can enter my mouth and I yearn for nothing
for I had eaten every fruit of the tree.
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ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE
What Does Your Long Hair Tell Us Tonight?
Alessandra Marucci
to my great grandmother
My hair tells a story as long as it is
as complicated as the spiral its curled up in,
after washing in the very early morning when,perfumed with modest lavender, I was ready for the poor breakfast,
not enough to feed my youth in its prime;
and when the hard winters had very special
heart-warming moments:
the evenings before the fire with friends and the accordion,
and maybe bread and anchovies.
There wasnt spare time for usand green was a friendly, but hard, working place,
obsessed by hunger and the hope of a different life.
Every day was a gift (the war burnt)
and one more step to the only accepted goal:
a family, our daily ration of food, perhaps love;
our stories being big ideas confined to small lives.
We didnt have the time to cry,
our dreams costed us hard work under the rain,
the legs in the water, in the rice-growing fields
we would have paid for this in our late years.
And yes, still now I remember home, every day,
the thick walls and the green paintwork,
my fathers uniform in the trunk,
the ducks and the rubble in the farmyard.
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THE WRESTLERS
Food Is An Old Book
Alessandra Marucci
Food is an old book (1968)
with porous pages tasting of custard,
the rich, mouthwatering colour shading off
into a tender pinkish-orange
towards the corners, so worn down they look hairy.Food is a book
and a special inscription on the very first page
cooking your best dishes youll remember auntie
and my mum-to-be holding it in the tapering hands
(I can see frames of the nice present-giving)
and collecting recipes over the years.
Food is a bookwhich has flown (what if it had got lost?)
to reach a daughter not so far, but far enough
a changeover, a delicate thought,
a symbol of love through generations,
speckled with short pastry and my baby sisters scribbles.
Food can be a book for sure,
words now and again,
most of all pictures that have never been taken:
maybe brown bread and butter
on the mountains with mum and dad
or a healthy picnic on the roofs with my friends,
under the warm blue sky of Rome,
the Milky Way like a soft blanket made of cotton;
maybe grandma baking the most delicious
sweet bread under the ashes,her tall body curled up in the fireplace,
as large as a wall, in the medieval Abruzzo;
or the wild Sicily and the light-blue side of me,
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ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE
kneading mediterranean flavours
in the overwhelming light and thin fabrics.Food is also a map
when it leads me alongside the beach
in Alimini, with sandwiches and juice to escape the dog days
in the maritime pine woods
bewildered by the bacchanal of thousands of cicadas;
or moves me to north for a coffee at Mulassano
and mini-rolls to eat on your fingertipslike the idle, decent ladies in Gozzanos poems.
Food is a book I flip through
laughing, with droplets of tears
when I come across funny portraits
of me, going mad in the kitchen
dreaming of meeting one more time
my auntie
and getting a piece of advice.
Winter
Patricia Hicks Harris
The last time I saw him,
his back, his shoes, his trousers, his coat.he struck me and I was in shock.
The slap across little legs, easily
could have been my face.
Had I been naughty?
I cant remember. Only the smell
of tobacco lingering long
after he was gone.
He left the room. Left us.
The fire turned to ash.
Who would bring coal to a cold room now?
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THE WRESTLERS
Walk Alone
Patricia Hicks Harris
A cat looks at the world with glassy eyes
impervious to ordinary life.
Of death it seems impenetrably wise
walking away it hides, avoids all strife.
For dying alone is all compassion.
No suffering to see, no pain, no tears,
no guilt, no cries of last minute passion;
quiet acceptance, no apparent fears.
For those who grieve, who mourn beloved loss
there is no comfort, no body to touch.
Words of condolence, flowers, all are dross.
Helpful words mean nothing and say too much.
Remember then, with some regret, the cat
who proffered only cold warmth to a mat.
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ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE
Food
Tesfu
I hungered for plenty,
you were little and never enough.
Drought and war made you scarce.
You appeared for lunch
then disappeared for a day or two,
you made me cry and happy,
your lack made me slim,
your plenty made me fat and miserable.
Shall I curse you or bless you?
Should I call you sour or sweet?
I dont know, I dont know.
Some talk of you and enjoy you,
some still search and cant have you
as much as they would like.
Finally I have enough of you
but I still have a lot of friends and relatives
who hunger for you
so I still dont know if
I should say thank you or curse you.
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THE WRESTLERS
My Soil
Margaret Nambi
In Uganda when I was still in my country
we dig to our own soil to get
food.
And when it rains we get
hoes to go to prepare our landto grow some food. When the
land is ready and soft, we
invest in it some food like maize
cassava, onions, potatoes, ground
nuts....
My Identity in England
Ivareen
My name is Ivareen. I have been in this country for 9 years.
It been hard for me. I have to live with friends most of the time.
I have no job. I cant work because of no passport most of the time.
I go hungry no food to eat. When I just came here I used to do
cleaning for one lady and then I get pregnant with Javangni.
I did stop doing it and now it is so stressful for me because I dont
have the help I would like for me and Javangni but I hope one day
things will get better for us.
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ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE
February
Shazea Quraishi
Saturday
Early morning dark.Small bare feet hurry across
the cold bathroom floor.
Blue sky after so
much rain. Birdsong two voices again and again.
Sunday
8:20 a.m.and the sudden shriek of a
childs pink plastic flute.
Red grapes in a white
china bowl. Small hands pluck one,
it rolls on the floor.
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THE WRESTLERS
Anaemia
Louis Osayande
I am not on a mission.
Neither am I the goingand the coming.
I am on a long and short journey
Into the world of sporadic agony.
I am hot and I am cold.My blood is caking up.
I am burning up.
Oracle,
You dont know me.
I dont lick lamp oil.
I have no mark on my forehead.
Check with the laser beam.Physician,
What can you do for me?
This is not malaria.
My blood is pollutant for the anopheles.
Father and mother,
Is this conspiracy coated with love?
Or utter ignorance?
I am the rope in the game of tug-of-war.
You told me I am 20 years old.
Why am I in my 90s?
I see huge water in my dreams.
And I kill dragons in my dreams.
But I am innocently harmless.
You made me a mimosa.
Soon the stub of fire bids its farewell.Shall we meet again?
I dont know.
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ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE
Goody Goody
Louis Osayande
My dear goody goody,
How can I forget you?
Though you left me with bad teeth,
I still crave for you.
I cant even remember the first time I had you.
All I know is, I grew up having you every day.
Though you got me in trouble several times,
Still I could not leave you alone.
You were a perfect rectangle.
Brown like brandy and whiskey,
You tasted like the forbidden apple in the
Garden of Eden.
You smelt like hot cake.
How can I forget you?
Each time I had the gift of money
I came straight to you.
When I crave for you
You cant even follow me.
What a one-way love.
Each time my kids cry for sweets now
It brings me back to you.
But sad to say,
You are no longer the form, shape, and taste I found you.
Where have you gone to?
I wish you were back.
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THE WRESTLERS
Cotonou
Louis Osayanda
An ancient city lying along the beautiful West African coastline,
Streets paved with beautiful interlocking stones and
So clean and immaculate.
Your irresistible long and clean beaches
lined up by rows of slightly bent-over coconut trees;
viewed against the ocean blue mass of water and the sky
all exuding the beauty and power of creation.
You are such a peaceful town one can pass the night out doors
safely till the break of day.
The electricity supply is comparable to that of
any advanced nation.
Your roads are never chaotic.
Your drivers and motor bike riders are well mannered
and cultured and the most careful transport workers you
can ever find. I cant help but admire your beautiful women
riding on their bikes to and fro.
You lie between the ancient and the modern.
Your markets are so peaceful, you never encounter ruffians of any
type. The taste of your rice with stew lingers on.
No doubt the large statue of the market woman at the
market square continues to beckon with openness and warmth
to the inhabitants. The peace you bestow on all your visitors
is everlasting. I long to see you again.
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ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE
Dagenham
Louis Osayande
Ran through the length of the road
Like a goat beaten by the rain,
Looking for any available shelter.
Every house looks like a church.
Yet not even a shelter against the cold winter rain.
Smooth nylon tarred roads.
No trace of gutter and no litter.
Beautiful lawn adorned with flowers.
Silent like a grave yard.
Little wonder the white man has time to invent.
A piece of coin can buy a meal
of chicken and chips with drink;
very much a delicacy at home.
From the breast pocket one can
buy fashion in vogue.
Still, no place like in the sun.
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THE WRESTLERS
Returning Exile
Louis Osayande
They are like huge balls of light;
Like huge fire works and
Christmas decorations
in clusters.
All in the skyline of Europe.
This is in sharp contrast
to sand dunes,
Deserts, and some cities
that look like
Small clusters of farm ridges.
And some roads that look
like snakes Meanderingthrough the deserts.
Otherwise total darkness
and void.
The dark continent indeed!
On the skyline of Nigeria,
I could see Smoke bellowingto the sky like the Smoke of
forest fire in California.
Emanating from the
boiling-over cauldron;
And the water turning
into streams;
And streams turninginto rivers
Rivers of frustrations in the
entire country.
Same sight ever!
Weeping and wailing and
gnashing of teeth.
Emaciated and despondent
sea of people In the hustle
and bustle of living for the day.
People of all ages hawking
wares where, Daily, turn-over
is less than 2 in the
grid-lock traffic.
Also in this milieu:
families of beggars;Blind, lame, deaf and dumb,
All scrambling for the
non-existent good life.
Would this alone be my
testimony on earth
Like those before me?
Everything that reminds meof My dishonour! All still intact!
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ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE
A Song for My Dear Country
Louis Osayande
November (money dew) Okra
Show me the leaf
The leaf that makes you the envy of all.
Show me the mystery of your beauty and elegance
Show me the secret of your blissful marriage.Show me the secret of your blossoming.
Its neither charm nor amulet,
But in mind and upbringing;
And above all, accommodation.
Accommodation makes a house a home;
And it makes a country a nation.
Forget not also, my friend:
Never be boastful about life;
Particularly this time of ours;
No one that can beat his chest
That he owns the world alone;
Otherwise he holds his hands upon his head in lamentation.
This life is like a whirling smoke
Spinning around in circular motion.
So Mr All-powerful and All-knowing,
Why make a still birth of the nation?
How long would the country stand by and watch
As the world marches ahead?
You would rather shape in or out.
No stand-still!
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THE WRESTLERS
The nation is like barracks.
Soldiers go, soldiers come.Barracks remain.
Soonest, history beckons
Where is your foot print in the sand of time?
All your stolen money is in European banks
Your children are in the best schools in Britain.
You are on medical check-up in Britain every month.
They are mortals like you.
Oh! What a disgrace!
Why do this to your people?
Look at the mirror
Would you wish you and your family to be treated like this?
Fire
Euice Omorer, Joy Nwachukwu, Samina Khan Rafiq, Annette Same
The nights around the woods when the sounds of burning woods
and the smell of sweet curry and bean fill the air. I think of the
heat from the fire that makes my skin warm and the lightthat glows bright red.
When I think of fire, I think of the sweet aroma of roasted lambs
and family gathering, the feeling of peace and unity. Though you
are so dangerous to touch, yet the heat from joy we cant avoid,
and the thought of you makes me feel well.
Fire, you are beautiful to behold, when you glow, scary when
angry, fierce when irritated and sometimes I think what
a wonder you are.
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ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE
Haitian People
Marie Eveline Lavoile
Haiti a name given by the Arawak Indian
Formerly named Saint-Domingue
Independent since 1804
The first black republic
Free from slavery and imprisoned by misery
Tragedies and calamities are our faithful companions
They are never too far away from us
Transported from West Africa
Chained and packed like sardines
We arrived in Saint-Domingue to work from sunrise to sunset
Having survived slavery, more than 200 years later,
What do we have to show for it?
We are still chasing freedom
Our enemy the earthquake visited us before
He came in 1770 and in 1842 and now he feels 2010 is just
the right time for a visit
We are running away from earthquakes
From hurricanes and floods and political unrestThe educated few and the uneducated are running on the same track
The finished line could be anywhere else under the sun
France, America, Canada, Italy and England
Haitian people are chasing freedom
Our struggled is relentless
We struggled for jobs and healthcare
We struggled for education and shelter
Our homes are pre-fabricated and they carry their ID with them
They come all over the world; still we are homeless
and living in the slum.
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THE WRESTLERS
Haitian people are grateful when humanity comes to their rescue
Celebrities with big cheques on the television
Individuals queue in banks and charity shops
To give to the unfortunate people whatever they can afford
Little children too communicate kindness by sponsoring their services
To help the strangers in a land far away
Haitian people see the unity of the humanity in action.
Haitian people export goods to develop countries
We export sugar, coffee, cacao, rum, cotton and we export
Fruits as well
We have beautiful beaches and warm climate throughout the year
We love music, we love singing and we love dancing
People come from lands far away to enjoy what is best from our land
We export people too to anywhere without any cost
except our dignity
Despite our tribulations, Haitian people are happy people.
HateMarie Eveline Lavoile
Did you see hate when he
visited me last night?
He came to see me in disguise
I have mistaken him for love.
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ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE
Love is
Marie Eveline Lavoile
Love is like a hot air balloon that liftsyou up higher and higher to the topof the world and then suddenlycrashes to the ground.
Love is like the weather: when the sunis out, love wears the biggest smile youcan imagine. It runs for shelter in therainy and windy seasons.
Love is a storm that devastates andruins lives, leaving casualties behind.
Love is like allergies. The mild form canbe controlled but the more dangerousform kills.
Love is a beautiful rainbow that takesyour breath away, but its too far awayto capture.
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THE WRESTLERS
Marinas world
Marie Eveline Lavoile
The year is 1940. It is summer time, July. The pasture is golden
and the scorching heat is uncomfortable. Now and then the wind
blows and a cold breeze cools the air. On a secluded farm Marina
lives in a cottage with her husband who is five years older than
her, and their three year old son.
Marinas cottage is run down and in need of major repairs. She is
looking forward to seeing the end of the war so that her husband
can come home from Germany. One day Marina was in town, and
while having a coffee she met John, a younger man who took an
interest in her. So they agreed to meet the next day. Not having
anybody to leave her son with, Marina left him at home alone.It was not an easy decision for her to make; however, she reasoned
what if my husband does come back? He has been away for ten
months now. The days are very long and the night even longer.
Marina made a special effort with her appearance. She tied up her
long black hair in a bun. Wearing a light pink dress with a belt
around the waist, she felt seventeen again. Quietly, Marina closed
the door behind her and went on her rendezvous.
After the meeting Marina hurried back home. As she approached
the cottage from a distance she saw two men carrying her son
away. For a moment she thought they kidnapped him. She shouted
and begged them to give her son back to her. However, they told
her that they were from the war office reporting the death of her
husband and had found her son on fire as a result of playing witha box of matches. Her grief was so great that she was unable to
stand. Marina fell in the middle of parched grass and realized that
her world had ended.
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ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE
Hack, Hack
Maggie Dube
Hack, hack goes the knife
clumsily as the crust is hacked off
the rest of the loaf.
Today is a glorious day
today is me on the rota
today is a lovely breakfast
today is Crust Day.
Good old humble, crunchy, hard crust
tasty without butter or jam
better eaten on my way to schoolenough to keep me full all day
enough to cause me to sleep in class
enough to earn me the wrath of my teacher
Now I know why the knife had to hack
and not cut off the crust.
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THE WRESTLERS
Bread
Eunice Omorere
1 Beautiful bread
sweet and tasty
made from yellowish wheat
fresh and crunchy
I like when its sliced.
2 Bread, Bread, Oh beautiful bread.
Soft to touch
Smells divine.
A piece certainly brings good dreams
I always like a piece in the morning.
3 Bread. Oh! Succulent and yummy
Never ceased to amaze me
comes in different shapes
Yet produces different taste.
I cant be too full to eat more.
4 Bread, Bread, mans beautiful friend!
Eaten in the morning,
Thought about in the evening
Always a part of me.
I will always remember Bread.
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ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE
Water
Elizabeth C. Mendy-Thomas
Water, Oh Water
Why Did You Deceive Me
Having Walked This Long Road
Coming From A Hard Days
Work In The FieldSighting You Ahead Of Me
Happy That My Thirst Is About
To Be Quenched
My Hot Face Soothed With
A Splash Of You
Sighting You From AfarMade Me Forget About My
Tiredness And Aching Feet
Out Of Lust I Walked And Ran
Just To Get To You And Ease
My Broken Body
Knowing How Very Consoling
You Are
Also Aware Of Your Various
Capabilities
One Of Which Is Your Ability
To Restore Life
Considering That I Was
Almost Lifeless
Due To A Very Hectic Day
Sighting You Brought A Smile
To My Face
And A Warm Feeling Within Me
The Assurance Of Satisfaction
And EaseHaving Spent The Whole
Morning Without You
Under the Hot Boiling Sun
Just In The Name Of Survival
I Hurried All The Way To The
EndOf This Long Road
Only To Realise That You
Arent Here
How Comforting It Would
Have Been
To Have Just A Cup Of You
Just To Ease My Thirst
At Least
Water Oh Water
How Could You!
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A Flower
Nanette Mendoza
In my houseI would like to plant roses.Red, pink, yellow, purple and all sortsin my front and backyard.
When I sit in my gardenAnd see them flowerBeautiful to see,they take my worries away.
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THE WRESTLERS
A Candle
Elizabeth C. Mendy-Thomas
A Candle longed for
A Candle really needed
A Candle of reassurance
A Candle that has always been
A Candle in disguiseA Candle recognised by few
A Candle when in possession
A Candle for sharing
A Candle for all
A Candle that restores life
to the full
A Candle so calm and peacefulA Candle to cherish
and treasure
A Candle for companionship
A Candle in time of need
A Candle in time of abundance
A Candle in time of sorrow
A Candle for joyful momentsA Candle for all SEASONS
A Candle worthy of having
A Candle so unique
A Candle really pure
A Candle second to none
A Candle when accepted
A Candle to have for lifeA Candle so worthy
A Candle for ETERNITY
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ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE
In England I Would Like To Grow Beans
Jacqueline Lwanzo
In England I would like to grow
beans. Beans can be planted to make
a quick harvest which is only three months.
In the process of the harvest of beansthey can be harvested fresh from the pods, cooked and eaten.
As they are drying too, they can be harvested
kept to help me economise till
the next season. I would have
them and not go hungry for the rest
of the year.
They dont need to be grown in
a nursery or be treated special to
harvest more.
They are very good as a source of
iron for the family in general.
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THE WRESTLERS
Sweetie Girl
Shazea Quraishi
I love to watch my grandmother eat
tarte au citron, battenburg,
lemon drizzle cake.
Lost in the feel, the taste,
a low moan escapes.
Later, calling me
by my mothers name, she worries
they are planning to put her in a home.Dont go.
Holding my hand at the door,
she cradles my cheek,
calls me sweetie girl.
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ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE
Green Eye
Yaya Yosoff
What a delight it is
To see people around you
Happy, very happy
What a delight it isTo fly like a bee, free in the sky
To touch the Green Eye
What a delight it is
To walk on the rain
Clouds are your umbrellas
What a delight it is
To catch the last train,
In your brain, no crash, no steen*
What a delight it is
To sit around the fire, in a desert
To count flashes green eyes, looking
At the lovely green light coming from the sky
What a delight it is
To catch that light, to swim in it
To swallow a cup full of it, then
Run fast, very fast as a tiger has to be!
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THE WRESTLERS
Yaya Yosoff
She is garden of flowers,
Mosaic, flowers carnival
Pink, red and yellow
pure and fresh smells
She is a bird heart
Soft, creamy and honey
And more...
She is dignity, truth and faith
She is morning prays
Pure, quite and touchable
She is a Bee
Flying vertically to
touch the sky,
Behind the sky,
Having rest under the tree
Sending messages full
of Love, peace and joy.
She is a town
Paradise town
People live a life
Eat, sleep and work
Children to school
Plying, laughing and jumping
She is the sea
Full of toners of water
Large, very large,
Full of hope.
She is kings Suleiman fish
Holding the Bull and the earth
On her noise,
For us to live.
She is between the clouds
In the sky.
She is an endless horizon.
My Mother Aisha Bet Alhaaj
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ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE
The White Blanket
Mahmood Alnaimy
It was an early morning in December
Beyond the window of a warm room
The roofs of houses and backyard gardens
Were covered with snow
Silence and stillness were everywhere
Then suddenly snow started to fall again
A fine snow like small white butterflies
The lawn turned into a white sheet
The snow stole the identity of 'things'
Turning them into shapeless white ghosts
Nature's shapes and colours are veiledAn empty street stretches away
There were no birds in the sky
Life slows down in submission
To the mighty snow
The rain drops on trees and flowers
Small transparent pearls, the small birds suck with joy
Rain drops falling on tired faces
Wash out the worries and fears of lonely people
In these turbulent and distressful days
The view stirred the memory of an old homeless man
Taking shelter in an alleyway in a snowy night
The cold and hunger prevented him from sleep
After a long time of agony and shiveringHe was exhausted and fell asleep
Wrapped up in a blanket of snow
That was the homeless man finale.
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THE WRESTLERS
Careless Bullets
Mahmood Alnaimy
In a sunny morning in May
The husband, wife and child were going on a picnic
The car was full of laughter and joy
A convoy of armoured cars was ahead of them,
The vehicle at the rear carried a sign"Keep 100 metres away. Don't come nearer"
Beware of them my dear husband,
Don't worry my beloved wife,
We are more than 100 metres away from them.
Suddenly there was a loud thundering noise
The windscreen shattered
The car skidded and fell into a ditchThere was silence for awhile
The woman was shocked
She recovered at the loud cry of her child
She turned and touched him, still in confusion
The man was silent, motionless and covered with blood
The woman cried and embraced the man
Her feelings were torn in agony and despair
The bright light of the day turned dark
The days of her happiness had ended
The bullet injuries were blamed
For the death of the man
There was no investigation into the "incident
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Photo By Deon Green
Baumwolle
Enrico Sibour
Baumwolle from Egypt, probably,
subtle and delicate fabric,
but strong looking and resistant;
Touching it gave you a taste of freshness:
you felt the sun outside, the warm wind
in the yellow street, the pleasure to have
the soft and light fabric on your chest, nipples;
You were no more in that shop,
far away from the sun,outside there was mist and rain, a cold breeze
indulging the serico contact with your fingers;
Light and colours, you remembered
the blue sea and the grey pebbles,
just opposite the shop, at the end of the street.
ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE
36
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THE WRESTLERS
Who Are We?
Enrico Sibour
We are the dangerous people,
We look at the others, but they are scared,
We try to say something, but it becomes bullets.
We tell relatives about our life, but they are worried.
We look at someone...and he runs away.
We are too direct, we are impolite, we say the unutterable.
We look with hurting eyes,
We'd like to be friends, but nobody holds us,
We like to meet people, but at the end
no one stays where we are.
Onions
Enrico Sibour
Blonde one
Two red: better, purple
The crunchy dry fragile external layers
The hard inside, translucent
ready to make you cry,
able to sizzle softly in a pan, butter or oil?When you touch, you hear the skin crack and feel
like old brownish broken paper under your fingers.
Blonde or red....or orange?
Big boxes or bags of them,
with skin dust and fragments.
Dry outside, so fresh and juicy inside.
Two little bowls, threeThe Lord of the Onion Rings.
Not too smelly if you don't break.
Veins, thin skin, you can paint them Easter Eggs.
Onion Soup.
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ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE
the house of being
Caspar Hall
"Language is the house of Being.In its home man dwells. Those who thinkand those who create with wordsare the guardians of this home."
Heidegger
the house of being
is not a place for saying, or knowing,
it is a place of seeing,
breathing,
a place for being free
to be.
Soiled Locks
Aissata Thiam
I once knew a woman who was so desperate to live that she
almost killed herself.
She came to realise that she did not belong to herself anymore.
Her body was what others would make of it.
Her mind was theirs. Her soul as well.
She found comfort in being able to move her limbs around
even though it was in an effort to follow a paththat some invisible hands had drawn for her.
They put clothes on her back, and food in her mouth,
a roof over her head, and decided her fate.
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THE WRESTLERS
One day, they concluded her case and told her to go.
Where to? Anywhere!She did not run. She was there, in front of us all.
You could have seen her if you had tried.
Or perhaps, you remember her
with soiled locks on top of what seemed to be an empty skull.
Yes, you may have noticed her on buses and trains,
sleeping rough at night and pretending to be clean during the day.
She was there. Before our eyes.Her peers in Africa would have blamed this on juju
as only the work of the devil can lead a soul to such a decline.
A few years later, when they came for her once again,
she thought she would be freed.
No sir, she had more to suffer.
They decided to put her on a plane that would land her back
to the pain she had left.
She refused food.
They strongly disagreed, and she strongly starved herself.
This woman who came close to death once more in her life
was eventually released back to her streets.
If you open your eyes, you will notice her.
She is the one with soiled lockson top of what seems to be an empty skull, on buses and trains,
dreaming and praying for freedom.
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ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE
A Letter to God
Aissata Thiam
Dear God,
If one day I have to make a decision on
somebody elses life, let it be that of a childthat I would have carried in my womb andshowered with my love.
If I ever have to decide what I feel is good orbad for someone, please never allow me totake a resolution for anybody that I despise.
Lord, refrain my vanity and my otherdemons from having a say on somebodyelses fate.
And if I cant come to a fair adjudication,never put me in a position where I wouldhave to do so.
Dear God,
Never let my personal judgment torment
others, as I do not want to be tormented.
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THE WRESTLERS
The Tears of My Mother
Aissata Thiam
Mother, your eyes are red.
Have you been crying again?
Sana left your compound and never came back.
He went that damnable dayEmbarking on a long journey
And said he would bring back a river of treasures from abroad.
Instead, Mother, misery has come to you.
And what happened to Sana?
Will the traitorous sand and pebbles of the vast and ariddesert ever tell you?
Will the Mediterranean sea ever reveal where
she has taken your son?
Will the streets of Athens and Rome ever admit
they had seen him?
There is no sense in crying, Mother.
Your Sana has betrayed you.
No loving son ever dies far away from his roots.
And none of these young men coming from the West
has heard of him.
And they all look pitiful when you ask them again and again
Did you meet my Sana over there?
Dry your tears, Mother.We love you now even more than before.
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ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE
As featured inFlowers That Grow From Concrete
Mr John
Ahmadullah Safi
I like cats because cats are
very beautiful.
I have a cat in Afghanistan.
My cat is very dangerous.
My cat fights with dogs and other cats.Sometimes my cat goes to
another house.
He eats live chickens.
Always my cat looks after my pigeons.
He doesnt eat them.My cat is yellow and his eyes
are green.
His name is Mr John.
I miss my cat all the time.
When I remember you, I cry for you
my cat!
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THE WRESTLERS
As featured inThe Stories Of Different Countries
My Journey
Shaheen Hashmat
I remember the old sikh man
with the longest beard Ive ever seen.
The old man who kept looking
over my shoulder at the book I was reading.
I remember the voice saying
this country is a fu**ing disgrace.I remember the life that ended just over an hour ago
the pregnant lady for whom I gave my seat
I remember the doors
opening and closing,
opening and closing.
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ENGLISH PEN READERS & WRITERS / VOLUME FIVE
The Wrestlers
Aissata Thiam
They were standing barefoot on the
burning concrete of a parking bay.
The sun forgot to be absent and wasruthlessly pouring its rays on them.
They werent sportsmen of any sort,
and they did not pretend they were.
They were two strong fellows whose
bodies were facing each other with rage.They were about to fight.
There was little introduction, there was
little discussion, there was no
declaration of war.
They just seized one another by thetorso, and there, they started.
Saya ka fisa maloyadi!
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THE WRESTLERS
No punching, no scratching, no biting,
not even any name calling.
This was proper wrestling.Yet, one hour of fighting did not see any
winner, and both were getting exhausted.
As an old man passed by, he could not
help but ask what the dispute was about.
He spreads rumours when he owes mefive hundred Francs, said one of them.
He treats me like a thief; thats even
worse!, shouted the other.
Five hundreds Francs? You wouldnt buy
peanuts with that, said the old man.
Saya ka fisa maloyadi!
Death is sweeter than shame!
The old man went, and the wrestlers
remained.
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The Wrestlers
From Readers & Writers
the literature education programme
of English PEN
Edited by Philip Cowell, Readers & Writers
Programme Manager
The English Centre of PEN International the
worldwide association of writers exists to
uphold the values of literature, literacy and
freedom of expression. The first PEN clubwas founded in London in 1921 to promote
intellectual co-operation and understanding
among writers, to create a world community
of writers that would emphasise the central
role of literature in the development of world
culture, and to defend literature against the
modern worlds threats to its survival. Readers
& Writers is English PENs literature educationprogramme which brings these international
values back home to London in the form of
creative writing workshops for refugees,
asylum seekers and migrants.
The programme of workshops that led to
this book was supported by the Big Lottery
Fund, A B Charitable Trust, Scotshill Trust,the Pack Foundation, the Allan and Nesta
Ferguson Trust and the Arts Council England.
The workshop programmes took place at the
Migrants Resource Centre in Westminster, the
Migrant and Refugee Communities Forum in
Ladbroke Grove and Praxis in Bethnal Green
and PEN is especially grateful to all the staff
in the refugee centres who help make theworkshops happen.
Special thanks to Laura Marziale, Nora
Hussein, Alex Sutton and Bethan Lant.
English PEN is a company limited by guarantee, number
5747142, and a registered charity, number 1125610.
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