readers & writers #2: the light of the lights
TRANSCRIPT
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R e a d e R S & W R i t e R S
theLight
f
the
LightS
V OLU M e ON e
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t h e L i g h t O f t h e L i g ht S
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the
Light
f
the
LightS
R e a d e R S & W R i t e R S
V O L U M e O N e
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Writers Introduction Mark Guven, Helmut Ogbeni,
Nadia Ibrahim, Nidhal Al Jibouri & Yaya Yoso
Finding Your Voice Daljit Nagra
Setting Foot in Words Miriam Halahmy
Duty is Not an Exact Science. Now Lets Laugh at a Swiss
Chicken Over a Beer, Dad Alessandra Pirovano
Narciso Desnudo Ennio Bollici (Part 1 o 2)
Pay Day Ennio Bollici
This Is A Poem About A Country I Love Nidhal Al Jibouri
My Name Jojo Nganga
We Temples Build Emily* Said Alessandra Pirovano
Remember Then Sarah Bopape
Paradise Lost Ennio Bollici
Kwenadi Sarah Bopape
My Name Esther Freud
Oh Father Ibreem Yaya Yoso
Far Away From Native Shores Mark Guven
The Blue Dress Enrico Sibour
My Rose, My Cause of Pain Nadia Ibrahim
The Light of the Lights Yaya Yoso
7:37am Mark GuvenStainless Watch Enrico Sibour
Narciso Desnudo Ennio Bollici (Part 2 o 2)
Fly to Dubai Yaya Yoso
Istanbul Mark Guven
Alone & Quiet Enrico Sibour
A Bat & A Hat Mark Guven
The Bridge on Blue River Nile in Khartoum Yaya Yoso
Literature & Mind Nidhal Al Jibouri
This is From My Life Nidhal Al Jibouri
My Name Sarah Bopape
The Rainforest Helmut Ogbeni
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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 978-0-9564806-0-6
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, Temple Works, Brett Road,
London E8 1JR www.heredesign.co.uk
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The Light of the Lights
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Writers Introduction
Mark Guven, Helmut Ogbeni, Nadia Ibrahim,
Nidhal Al Jibouri & Yaya Yosof
Welcome to The Light of the Lights a little book of writing from our
English PEN creative writing and reading workshops at the Migrants
Resource Centre in London.
This is the delivery o our backgrounds. We wanted to show you
what its like or us. The immigrant experience has been pigeonholed
or a long time. We hope this is a welcome contribution because we
have things to give.
Ater eight weeks o writing at the Migrants Resource Centre,
we have been challenged to write by Miriam Halahmy and her guests,
Daljit Nagra and Esther Freud. This project has brought out, in dierent
ways, the dierent sides o us. Each person has been able to express
themselves. Creativity. The Hidden Intention. Capabilities to write have been
triggered. Stimulated. Skilulness. We have told o dierent backgrounds,
using words in dierent ways.
Workshops like this can unite the divided. We came rom dierent
backgrounds, dierent religions, dierent societies, and we wrote together.
We hope this project can reach more and more people.
This little book is ull o birds and lizards. It is a rainorest. A city
o many aces. It is a collection o poems, short stories, the beginning o
a screenplay. Esther Freud asked us to write about our name. This isthe book o our names. Esther showed us to be truthul and ruthless.
As Alessandra writes in her poem: I am teaching you to disobey/
Whispering with you/ I do believe in airies, I do / We do.
Who will listen to me? This is sometimes in our minds. The workshop
group listened. One person wrote a poem about not liking her name.
Now, she likes her name again. The lights disappeared in the city,
but they came together in one voice. This, then, is our voice or now.
Finding Your Voice
Daljit Nagra
I think one o the most important outcomes o creative writing is to give
yoursel a voice that nds crated expression on the page. As someone
rom a minority community, I elt it even more urgent to speak about
mysel coming rom a distinct, little known community that resides in
some pocket o England. I hope other new writers will consider their
work as news or a despatch rom a particular world. This does not mean
they carry the burden o representing their world because although they
will be seen as being part o a background, the peculiarity o their creative
act can help them transcend the conining labels.
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Setting Foot in Words
Miriam Halahmy
Running workshops with writers rom dierent countries brings a special
depth and range o richness to the work. In our workshops at the Migrants
Resource Centre in Westminster (MRC) we have been given an insight into
other worlds rom a village beside a desert river to a home on the edge
o the Arican rain orest. All o our writers have experienced something
o lie in London but their writing in our workshops has gone ar beyond
Londons vibrant streets, to physical and emotional landscapes reected
in the writing in this booklet. Ultimately the writing is about exploring
themselves as Chesterton comments opposite.
It is always a challenge to begin working with a new group, learning
names, encouraging the shy to speak up/read out their work, providing
the right level o inspiration and eedback. Working with this group at the
MRC has been truly inspirational. We have covered poetry, lie writing and
ction; we have discussed the meaning o landscape, told anecdotes which
will be rich seams to mine in the uture, heard Arabic sayings and helped
to translate work rom French.
Our group o writers settled in so quickly that by the third week
everyone was writing original work and reading back with condence, in a
language which was not their mother tongue: English. It was clear that this
was a group who wanted to take every advantage o the opportunity our
workshops provided. The participants also had to read and discuss two
published works in preparation or meeting our guest authors and theyrose to the challenge beautiully.
It has been my privilege to lead these workshops. I have learnt a great
deal about the lives and struggles o our participants and I eel I have had
a real opportunity to engage with their work. I wish all o the participants
every success in the uture and Happy Writing!
The wholeobjecT of
wriTing is noTTo seT fooTon foreignland; iT is aTlasT To seT
fooT on onesown self asforeign landG.K. Chesterton
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Narciso Desnudo
Ennio Bollici
A sample taken from Narciso Desnudo (Part 1 o 2)
Rome searont. End o summer. A stunning girls body laid on the
sand, next to the shore. Dawn light. Her lips are bleeding, her mouth is
wounded, her eyes hal-shut: she seems to be sleeping. Opera Theatre,
Rome. More than twenty years beore. Actors are on stage, greeting the
audience ater perorming King Oedipus. The audience is giving them
a well deserved tribute. The most applauded among them all is a young
actress, Laura, playing Giocasta, Oedipuss mother. Lauras amily is
sitting on the rst line. Her husband, Carlo, army major general, looks
at her, annoyed. Andrea, their ve year old son, happily greets Laura
even though he does not have a clue about what is happening. It is the
last perormance o Lauras career. Ater a violent argument with her
despotic husband, she has been reluctantly orced to quit acting, in order
to give into Carlos selsh desire to look ater Andrea. Carlo has already
orecasted a rich and successul lie or his son. He educates Andrea
on a strictly regime, as i he was one o his soldiers rather than his son.
Andreas childhood is spent ollowing a severe discipline, dividing his
days between school and gym with almost no social gathering at all, in
order to accomplish Carlos design o Andreas lie. Laura simply eeds
him, taking no part in his education and growing, careully avoiding topass on her passion or acting in order not to argue with Carlo.
Continues on page 32
Duty is Not an Exact Science. Now, Lets Laugh
at Swiss Chicken Over a Beer, Dad.
Alessandra Pirovano
Was a meek clown
Begging my daily prayer
Tell me Father your dreams.
Please tell me how they aded
On the terrace o your lie.
Tell me the cold days
O your disheartened childhood,
The stove o your imagination
Warming your Elsewheres.
Saw the blade o your white bones,
Saw the water o a puddle in your cup,
Humiliated mirror o your rail mutiny.
Open your eyes on your demure talent,
Cry now your discontent i you want.
As a good mother, I am teaching you to disobey,
Whispering with youI do believe in Fairies, I do,
We do.
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This is a Poem About a Country I Love
Nidhal Al Jibouri
This is a poem about a country I love
I write as i I look at the stars above
Homes, people and love they destroyed
The children, the sun, and the scenery they all enjoyed.
They killed, they ght. People suered, they did not care.
Children sitting there,
Not knowing what to do, holding hands in ear
Looking away, my eyes begin to tear
We are all going mad.
About this country we all loved.. . Baghdad
My dear Baghdad try your best to heal
Can we make this deal?
My hope, my dream is to see my country beautiul again
Even i Baghdad does not heal
You will always be in my heart,
Children playing, people laughing,
Again it will start.
Pay Day
Ennio Bollici
The opening extract from a screenplay
London, Somewhere in the City
A normal Friday morning, rainy day. A tall building. Through one o
its numerous windows a man can be seen working in his ofce. The room
is small, rather cluttered, nancial newspapers and books are all over the
oor. His secretary, Kelly, a blonde lady with green eyes and dressed in a
grey suit, is typing a letter sitting just behind him.
His name is Peter, 40 years old, a tall man with dark hair and dark
eyes. He works as a broker or a nancial company. He is very busy,
sitting at his desk working on his computer while he dials a number
on the phone. He is trading stock options and unds as usual.
Calcutta, India
Same day, the sky is cloudy and the air is muggy. The streets are
crowded and dusty. Bicycles and old, hal destroyed cars can be seen
around. Nearby there is a street market, merchants are shouting to
promote their products ruits, meats, clothes.
Behind the market, there is a ruined building. A part o the wall is
allen down. Above the ront door there is a label almost unreadable
which says Du Lawrence LTD. It is a company which has a actory in
the building to produce elegant shirts to sell in shops all over the world. Inside the actory it is rather dark, the machines are not well-maintained,
everything is untidy. There are around 20 people working in there, most o
which are children, like Iqbal.
He is only 10 years old, very thin, almost skeletal, his bones appear
to be seen through his olive skin.
He works 6 days a week, 10 hours a day. His very poor amily needs
him to work in order to be able to survive.
He cuts and sews abric all day long, and does the same repetitive job
day by day, only with hal an hour break or lunch. He does not know what
sick pay and paid holidays are, i he knows what holidays are at all.
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My Name
Jojo Nganga
My name is Jojo and my amily name is Nganga. Everyone says that
they like my name because it sounds good. In my country the name that
starts with a letter J means something good jolie, it means beautiul.
A ew weeks ago I read the meaning o my name in the dictionary
and it said that Jojo is something bad a little Horror or monster. But I
remember when I was a child I asked my Mum, why did they give me this
name Jojo, and what did it mean and she told me they gave me this name
because I was born in a happy time and I was special too. Also in my
amily they say my name means happiness and beauty. And Jojo is
an abbreviation o Jonathan.
The meaning o the name Jonathan is: Jehovah has given. In the
Bible, Jonathan son o King Saul was noted or manliness, generosity
and unselshness. He saved Davids lie when Saul would have killed
him. My amily name in my country means someone who does magic.
This name was originally the name o my Dad and the name o his Dad.
My grandather was in medicine.
i reTurn froma disTanT
journey Tosee/ you areno more /i siT on Thegrass and feel
The empTinessThe Rainforest Helmut Ogbeni (p.46)
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We Temples Build Emily* Said
Alessandra Pirovano
My name is Calvero.
That old, reaky, sentimental clown you believed was dead.
Old days in alcoholic ire, burnt case lie.
Cest Moi! The awed piece, the disobedience virus.
You vile all around the swamp,
So close I can smell the ormaldehyde in your spittle.
Hey you, accid brains,
Yellow eyes in your KKK hoods,
Rosaries in your hands, every bead a clotted blood drop.
You never reached me on your Old Testament pick ups,
My legs and brain toned and promiscuous.
Innocence bores you, unbearable is the canto.
Silence can paralyse you.
Voracious you devour the time and the man,
Burping proudly your atal and rancorous ignorance.
Your arrogant carcasses will precipitate into the ault
With the stink o your vomit.
I stopped running in a quiet dusk o a hellish day,
Began to build my temple.
* Emily Dickinson
Remember Then
Sarah Bopape
I remember now
My rst day at University
With dad by my side
Now I know
Its a day never to be orgotten
I remember now
Walking to church every Friday night and Sunday morning
As new days unolded
Now I know
God saw me through
I remember now
Being part o dierent cultures, races and languages
Beyond my village
Now I know
My todays are
I remember now
The green, owery, Sunnyside garden
My wonderul riends
Now I knowWill always be a special part o me
I remember now
It eels so much like now
Now I know
Hence I say
I remember then.
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Paradise Lost
Ennio Bollici
An excerpt from Paradise Lost
On thicker sands, many years later / we sealed our uncertain love
Our shy hands hesitate at rst / running closer yet ar rom each other
Your ivory ngers moved towards mine / one inch only let our
hearts disjointed
For moments and minutes and then endlessly innite hours
Beore a sun blessed kiss gave us birth / Paradise was June
whispering your name
Then a storm came, washing the summer away, the wind howled
and cried your arewell
My soul a vessel, sank into abyss o ear and deception / desert mantled
my speechless heart
Cold waters river-ood my veins
Autumn leaves ell as curtains over pain and regrets / obsession guided
me blind
across snowakes and peach trees in bloom / ading into shiny sunowers
A new Fall showed me the road to Oblivion / heading towards the rainy island
Thousands o miles away rom blue skies and olive trees
Thousands o miles away rom your cherry lips / sheltered by oaks
and primroses
Moonlight shines on the green grass
carpet or squirrels and oxes night dances
A tender rain sprinkles the silent cloudy night
the dim street light calls me / I step outside, hush all over
Paradise is a soaked coat / Paradise is rain walking with me to the dawn
Paradise is your smile vanished and dissolved into darkness.
Kwenadi
Sarah Bopape
She is a work o art
A smile she possesses
Lights up a room
She is, most say genius
We know
Hard work, endurance and determination is she
She is a dove
Peace she leaves
Love she is.
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Tell me Thecold days/
of yourdishearTenedchildhood,/The sToveof your
imaginaTion/warming yourelsewheresDuty is Not an Exact Science Alessandra Pirovano (p.10)
My Name
Esther Freud
My name is bigger than me. It travels ahead. Freud. So serious. But in act
the meaning o it is joy. When I was a child visiting my ather in London,
or lack o any childish things to do, wed look up other Freuds in the phone
book and wed call them, at least my ather would, ask i they were related
to Lucian, the painter. The other Freuds were shocked. Absolutely not,
theyd say, and wed giggle, naughty, anarchic and then wed walk down
to the shop where wed buy cheese and chocolate and peaches and make
a picnic tea.
Freud makes a strong brown shape, like a soa. Its a solid name.
Full o history. Ive never been able to say the r o it clearly, even ater
years o drama school exercises, so that sometimes people mishear me,
and the name being so unamiliar to most British ears they cant catch
it not on its own. Forehead? Someone once asked. And so I spell it,
and they say it back. Frood. I dont usually bother to correct them.
But its dierent in Europe. As soon as I step o the Eurostar my
name is recognised. Passport ofcials want to chat. A dry cleaner in
Rome spilled out all his problems.
My mother could have given us her own name, but she took my
athers or us and hersel too and wears it lightly or sometimes not
at all, so that it still looks new and glamorous on an envelope, whereas
mine is as old as the hills.
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Oh Father Ibreem
Yaya Yosof
I remember you when you open the door
In the early morning,
The smell o Jasmines, Amreyhanis,
Foul and mixed ollowers
Rushed out the door
To wash my ace
With their resh and gorgeous smell
That ever explained
I remember when you when Tiwraat Jannee bird
Knocked on my door
With lovely songs
Songs o prayers
I learned to pray
From your prayers
I remember when you with your Jalabiyaa
Imamaa
Syrwaal
Markoob
and Sybhaa Loloob
on your mat
For Jumma.
I remember when you when you open the door
In the early morning,
The smell o Jasmines, Amreyhanis,
Foul and mixed ollowers
Rushed the door out
To wash my ace
With their resh and gorgeous smell
That ever explained
I remember you Dad.
I remember you Abbooy.
The fruiT ofThe flowers
goes To Thosewho neverplanTed ThemMy Rose, My Cause of Pain Nadia Ibrahim(p.27)
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The Blue Dress
Enrico Sibour
The sunny light comes in with me
and shuts outside when I close the door,
like the ar waves roar under the wind.
I stay, shoulders against the wall,
rom the window only the eucalyptis
silver shadow in the courtyard.
White grey walls and in the middle you,
still proud and demanding, possibly more
now when you lay above the marble
table, already wearing your last,
as usual, beautiul dress, now only covering your tall body.
My back still glued to the glossy cold paint,
I stare at your sot curly white hair: Maria
told us you just went to Carlo il parrucchiere two days ago.
There is some mould in the corner and
I notice the humid air and some
drop on the marbles moulding edge.
Far Away From Native Shores
Mark Guven
She is the truest spirit o nature
Giver, lover, carer, thinker a woman,
Beacon o purity, she shines with brilliance
Clear as rain, airer than wind, happiest o all.
He is a traveller, must explore urther
Eyes rm on horizon, charging in even deeper,
Dignity intact, embracing grave uncertainties
Adventurous and perilous are his turbulent seas.
He is gone now or good, she knows not why
Died at sea whisper ghosts, her with a cry
Try oh why must we try when souls are so ar apart
Such is the nature o love, no rules or borders behind.
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My Rose, My Cause of Pain
Nadia Ibrahim
The ace is creased
The back is bent
The breath is slow
The heart is broken
To her coat she seeks reuge
Looking or warmth
From the cold weather
And the coldness o ungrateulness
The burning tears ell
On her rozen cheeks
The tears dug canals o pain
The more the pain increases
The uller the canals become
Oh! Lord! She asked
What have I done?
In my garden I planted roses
I watered them rom my heart
I bore the pains in my thumbs
The roses now took their ull beauty
Catching the eyes and the sense
by their stunning look and amazing smell.
I stretched my neck to smell their odourBut they sent me a spike in the eye
Oh! What is the matter with you my lovely roses?
They answered me: Dont you know
The ruit o the owers goes to those who never planted them?
To her coat she returned seeking reuge
Looking or warmth
From the cold weather and the coldness o ungrateulness.
I dedicate this poem to all those lovely elderly people who are
forgotten by their beloved ones.
The bridgeon river blue
in KharToumKnows allThe peoplewalKing on iTeveryday by
Their namesThe Bridge on Blue River Nile Yaya Yosof (p.40)
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The Light of the Lights
Yaya Yosof
I adhere the light, and the light o all lights
One day o 17th o July
The moon was ull
Complete
The clouds washing the moon ace
I sat on the balcony watching,
Wondering
I adhere the light and the light o all lights
A ace coming rom, in between the moon
It is the light behind the moon
Covering
the moon
the sky
coming to worth me
it is the touch I ever love
it is the drink I ever had
honey mixed ruit juice
that ever explained
paradise river drink
I adhere the light and the light o all lights
the light rom the heart o all lights
I adhere that light
O all lights
On that night
And all nights
Oh that light o original light
My aim is the light
My soul is the light
Shoo Shoo Shoo
I tell you the secret o lie
My son
I you want to see that light
O all lights
dont sleep all night
Wait or the light
All lie
Soon come the light
You drink a cup o your...
o your lie
I adhere the light and the light o all lights.
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Stainless Watch
Enrico Sibour
I have to remember, i not it stops.
It recalls me, the old shop
with the noisy tram passing by,
the shiny creamy windows
ull with bright watches and necklaces.
I dont have to remember, it doesnt ear water.
It recalls me, him, young, coming back
to his old work place,
to buy the rst proper one or the sons.
Coming back with the memories.
I have to remember, under the sun ater some time is hurt.
It recalls me, the narrow severe street
every morning, the sense o pride when
the day ater I came back to school,
I eel the wrist, heavier than usual.
7:37am
Mark Guven
No, they arent stingy slivers these. Am talking extra-thick, juicy slices o
mature cheddar eagerly awaiting their turn to be placed in-between ham
and bread. Toaster coughs up its our slices impatiently, under-done as usual
but at least its not complaining this morning. Tabasco, Worcestershire,
Lemon and no booze, all go into a large glass o tomato juice, resh oregano
on top and stirred gently with innocent excitement. Like kids sliding down
a waterslide on a perect, sunny day...where did they go, what has become o
them? Ones a doctor, ones a patient and the other? How easy it was to just
pop out or no rhyme or reason. Need another glass o this juice now, I think.
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Narciso Desnudo
Ennio Bollici
A sample taken from Narciso Desnudo (Part 2 o 2)
The man is Andreas ather. That vision distresses and shocks Andrea
more and more. He leaves the villa straight away, he gets into his car and
drives it aster and aster. Childhood memories come to his devastated
mind while riding the car. Ater a long stroll around the whole city he
stops in an elegant bar. He sits next to the bar, drinking many shots
o whiskey.
A blonde girl approaches him; she is very attractive and even though
he is almost drunk and wasted, Andrea is attracted by her. He invites her
to have a ride in his car, towards the seaside. They arrive there and go to
the beach. Andreas expression is crazy and insane but the girl does not
pay attention to his state o mind, thinking that he is just drunk as she is
not aware o what is going on in his mind. Andrea takes out some cocaine,
handing her a sni ater he has some. She takes it too and they seem to
have un and enjoy their time together but, all at a sudden, Andrea, in a
hallucinatory delirium sees in that girls ace his athers. He tries to kill
her by strangling her but she manages to deend hersel rom his attack,
beating him with a stone on his orehead. Andrea reacts, punching her
ace. She collapses on the sand bleeding all over the ace. Andrea realises
he has killed her. He stands up; he is desperate and mad. He keeps
walking on the shore, crying and shouting his athers name, then healls down exhausted on the sand. He will wake a while ater in a bed o a
mental hospital in which he has been secluded ater being claimed guilty
or the girls death. Actually, the autopsy revealed that the girl died due to
a cardiovascular stroke caused by the cocaine but that does not change
Andreas ate at all. Laura, Andreas mother, kills hersel as she could not
stand what happened to Andrea. Carlo, ater having let the army, is used
to spending time secluded in his house, dwelling over and regretting the
past, about the good times they all had beore tragedy came to their lie.
such is ThenaTure of
love, no rulesor bordersbehindFar Away From Native Shores Mark Guven (p.24)
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Fly to Dubai
Yaya Yosof
I remember that you told them,
You are ying to Dubai tonight
I dont remember that you told me,
Darling, Why?
But you can go
I remember when you wake up that morning,
Let me without hope, cold, colourless and old
Just you let the bed early like the bird needs the sky
I dont remember you nishing your morning tea,
That is your Cup, cakes and...
I guess youre in a hurry
I remember you let without a arewell
I dont remember where and when
The tickets being booked?
The decisions being made?
It is not air!
But you can go
You can go to DubaiEven i you dont say
I remember the colour o the lovely eye
I dont remember when the plan let
I remember you wearing blue in black
Your suitcase hidden in the corner
And the tie
Tell me.. . tell me why
I remember your sot and pink touch on my shoulder
I love your quick turn and the blink eye
Next touch and I will die
I dont remember that you said to me
Youre coming back
When, where and what plan?
Just come!
Dry my river eye.
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un than staying in and also cramming in, I thought. With every single
hit, I was lighter, closer and certainly reer. Once again, brought back
down by the small cheering crowd, amiliar aces, my numbed senses...
One moment in time that was, enjoying little glimpses o limitless
joy among tall apartment blocks in that ast urbanising city o
eighties Istanbul.
A Bat & A Hat
Mark Guven
Vast majority o my childhood memories took place in the city where
I played, won, lost, tried to share, and not even once elt like the un
was enough! So it was always pitch-black when I went home to eat and
rest. As children, I nd theres a constant battle in our minds between
homework and play, and I wouldnt be surprised at all i the roots o
my current procrastination lie there.
It was a ne day in May. Arrived home and got changed with
lightning-speed. Mum was at work as usual, let stued peppers in
the ridge. How classic! I thought, and had them cold in a ed-up
state. Key around my neck, trainers on and slam! Outside so peaceul,
suns up still, gentle breeze, wondering where all the other boys were.. .
They were in constant competition these two grocery shops nearby
my apartment block. Muhtar and Seer. Something about Muhtar was
putting me o though so I was always nding mysel in Seers place.
He had a normal moustache, bald head, small black eyes, and his belly
was always hanging out. I remember trying to climb up onto his counter
to catch a glimpse o his ace. He always wore a white sleeveless vest and
some brownish trousers. Everything about him was hugely intriguing:
the puzzling, glib conversations between adults in his shop, the strong
oaky smell, messy display, dim parts at the back. And most importantly,
he always sold new plastic balls! Was such a pleasure to down endless bottles
o pasteurised milk in ront o his shop ater a game. Mostly, younger kidswould start playing immediately when we let the street or the parking
lot as theyd been waiting in anticipation. Hard not to miss that chaos.
Up or a dierent game? I asked. Well, I knew none o my boys would
ever turn down an oer like that so it was a no-brainer. Couple o them
went yay!, and bang!, the ball was away again. Was kind o similar to
baseball this simple game but without the running around, yet still very
ostentatious and no longer than hal an hour at a time. A kid standing
about twenty metres away was kicking a ball towards me and I was hitting
it really hard with a thick wooden stick, using mostly a dead branch o a
tree. The ball would travel higher than some buildings up in the sky and
was ollowed by a wow! rom other kids and adults alike. Much more
wiTh everysingle hiT,i was lighTer,closer and
cerTainlyfreer
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The Bridge on Blue River Nile in Khartoum
Yaya Yosof
The bridge on River Blue in Khartoum
Knows all the people walking on it everyday
By their names.
I walked on it everyday on my way to school
To teach
People walk on it everyday
Going to work
Going to market
Children going to school
Laughing and talking
But no one thinks about the bridge.
When the river overows
In harvest time
And oods the bridge
With torrents o water
Everybody runs away
Looking or places to take shelter
The bridge faces the danger alone.
The last time I crossed the bridge
When I was running away
From my land orever
With my riends
At night, in darkness
All very rightened
But with hope in our hearts
For a sae world
Leaving behind my bridge on the Blue River Nile in Khartoum
Danger was everywhere
It settled there or a long, long time.
Run... run... run...
Come, come, pass quickly... shouted one man
shshshshshsh...
They will hear you
Quiet, quiet, be very quiet
Whispered the bridge
Every thing is quiet...suddenly
A Fireyy bird iii iir rrrr ying
Frogs stop crying
Al vidah, Al vidah.
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Literature & Mind
Nidhal Al Jibouri
My experience as English teacher together with a degree in English
literature rom my country made me eel that literature is very important
in peoples lives. This is because it develops enjoyment and commitment
to learning as a means o encouraging an attainment or all. It expands
their essential learning skills o literacy and inormation. Most o us know
literature is important to building personality. I will never orget what I
learnt rom Shakespeare and his plays and the proverbs and wisdoms,
or Jane Eyre, the great novel or Charlotte Bront. Scientists believe that
writing at a young age builds the childs mind and character. I remember
one day my brother was teasing that his job is much more important than
mine because he is an engineer and I am only an English teacher. My ather
overheard the conversation, so he was the one that answered my brother by
saying i you develop buildings, she develops human minds. I respect my
ather or this idea that means I am not alone in my opinion about literature.
Writing a poem or a story enables us to crat a lot rom our lie and our
suering. When I wrote a poem about my name which showed how I
suered rom my name I put my suering in a poem to express what had
happened in my lie and how I struggled. Or when I wrote a poem about
Baghdad my capital that means I know Baghdad passed in bad days rom
killing and kidnapping, which made me eel sad about what is going on
there. By writing you also reject what has happened to the innocent people,
and this gives you rest because you express this in writing and take a deepbreath. So carry on writing. It may be that while you are writing you will nd
a solution to your problems or you will get rid o your worries. Writing also
gives you inspiration to write more. Writing is not just my avourite hobby
but it is also an important actor in every persons lie. Where the world is
now, is because o reading and writing and the discoveries yet to come also
through reading and writing.
Writing is vital to communicating with others in the wider world,
and is a undamental way to learn how to participate in society and
employment. Any one can learn to express themselves creatively and
imaginatively and communicate with others condently and eectively.
Literature in English is rich and inuential. It reects the experiences o
people rom many countries and times and contributes to our sense o
cultural identity. We learn to become enthusiastic and critical readers
o stories, poetry and drama as well as non-ction, gaining access to the
pleasure and world o knowledge that reading oers.
wriTinggives youinspiraTionTo wriTe
more
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This is From My life
Nidhal Al Jibouri
Struggle is the meaning o my name
This lie is what I call a game
We all have to go through pain
As the world chases to nothing but ame
I have been through a lot to get to this place
I put on smile to hide my sad ace
There are plenty o bad memories I want to erase
And have them gone without a trace.
My Name
Sarah Bopape
Sarah, what a boring and common name; I used to think. Worst o
all, as simple and common as it is, its almost always mispelled and
mispronounced. My one is an English name not whatever language,
I always have to say.
I kinda hate the name but still nd mysel using it. I guess cause
its easier or everyone or maybe the meaning behind it. Or maybe its
because with my Arican name I have to spell it in all occasions and
everyone will ask me the meaning and i I tell them it doesnt have
one, which is true, theyd all say Im lying cause all Arican names have
meanings why wouldnt mine have. To spare me all that Ill use my
almost always mispelled and mispronounced, simple and common name.
It has so much in it though. Its kinda bright, joyous, motherly, holy, royal,
strong and lie itsel. My mum took so much pride in the name. It could
be because it was her adorable aunts. Never asked her why. Perhaps it
doesnt really matter but I wouldnt dare call any o my children Sarah.
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The Rainforest
Helmut Ogbeni
The thoughts still remain with me
The rainorest o yesteryears
I remember the sun rising above the trees
And casting a pattern on the orest oor
Which resembles a green sea
Stinging plants and butteries all around me
The sweet smell o wild ruits guava, mango,
Palm nuts, all mixed with those o owers,
Haliconia, wild roses and orchids
The gentle breeze triggers a rustle through the orest
Colourul birds and agama lizards on tree trunks
I return rom a distant journey to see
You are no more
I sit on the grass and eel the emptiness o the peace
And space thats been
Hiding inside o you
I scatter your seeds all around me while I make a wish or you
As owls, cicadas and crickets welcome the coming night.
i remembernow, The ciTy
of many facesIstanbul Mark Guven (p.36)
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The Light of the Lights
From Readers & Writers the literature development
programme o English PEN.
Edited by Mark Guven, Yaya Yosof, Nadia Ibrahim,
Nadhal Al Jibouri, Helmut Ogbeni, Enrico Sibour,
Ennio Bollici and Philip Cowell.
The English Centre o International PEN, the worldwideassociation 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.
English PEN is a company limited by guarantee, number
5747142, and a registered charity, number 1125610
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