E NGL I SH PEN

R E a dE RS & WRI t E R S
V O L U M E t WO

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

E NGL I SH PEN

R E a dE RS & WRI t E R S
V O L U M E t WO

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 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 written 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 978-0-9564806-1-3 Typefaces used: Headers set in 10/13pt Neuzeit S. Published by Linotype, 1966. Text set in 9/13pt Archer. Published by Hoefler & 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

06.......... On Falling Asleep Monique Roffey 08.......... Writing Passages Nii Ayikwei Parkes 10........... The Migrants Marie Eveline Lavoile 11............ I am in England Helmut Ogbeni 12........... The Egg in the Coffee Ennio Bollici 14........... The Terrace and the Sky Alessandra Marucci 16........... From a Different Place Nidhal Al Jibouri 19........... You Carry Michael Tesfamariam 20.......... Ode to My Engagement Ring Sviatlana Istamianok 21........... Joy Marie Eveline Lavoile 22........... Her Brother, My Uncle Bayan Karimi 25........... 25, Afternoon Enrico Sibour 26........... The Letter of the Lord of the Rascals Alessandra Pirovano 28........... trees Jaoa Da Silva 31........... On the Bridge Nidhal Al Jibouri 32.......... Silence Malika Booker 34.......... The Day Before Pierangelo Vidotto 35........... The Hoopoe Bird Yaya Yosof 36.......... The Cloud Tree Alessandra Pirovano 38.......... Dementia Praecox Merima Brkic 40.......... From Adult to Child Joao Da Silva 41........... Memories of Rainfall Michael Tesfamariam 42.......... Mango Guava Yaya Yosof 44.......... Chilly Light from the Window Enrico Sibour 46.......... A Letter to Some Man Nidhal Al Jibouri

English PEN Readers & Writers Volume 02

A Letter to Some Man

On Falling Asleep Monique Roffey

A writer spins a world in which the reader falls into, as if falling into a dream. When captivated by a story, I often feel as though I am about to fall asleep, or, about to fall into the dream of the narrative. Ive been somehow hypnotised, thrown into a trance-like state. Good writing makes me want to fall asleep. During the eight-week course I taught for English PEN, I found myself saying this out loud a few times. Ahhhhh, I would exclaim, dreamily, after a student had read something out. I felt as though I was about to fall asleep. This was meant as high praise. So I was a little thrown when this comment was met with looks of puzzlement and surprise. Of course it must sound odd, that what theyd read made me sleepy, that maybe Id found it so dreary I wanted to snooze. Quite the opposite. So indeed, I had to explain my way of 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 furious turkeys, Wilsons philosophical essay, Sivas forest... Which reminds me. One session, I introduced my students to a piece of life writing from Henry David Thoreaus Walden, a book written in 1845 by a man who lived in a small cabin in the woods for two years. His memoir is written in small exquisite essays. I showed my students an extract from the essays called Solitude. In it, Thoreau talks of walking alone in the woods, listening to bullfrogs trump, the fluttering of the alder and poplar, the fox and the skunk roaming the fields. He ends with: There can be no black melancholy to him who lives in the midst of nature and has his senses still. Does anyone know what it feels like to be alone and yet peaceful? I asked. Everyone put up their hands. Great. Id like you to write about how this feels. Many tender words were written, sleepy stories about being alone late at night, about spending ones first months in London walking around the squares and parks alone. I loved being on my own when I first 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 feels. I also lived alone in London once, oooh, decades back. Funny, I feel a story coming on, I must sit to write; I feel a little sleepy too... Sweet dreams.

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Writing Passages Nii Ayikwei Parkes

Running a creative writing workshop is always an ambivalent occupation, if you believe as I do that you cant teach creative writing; you can teach effective writing and hope that the group that you work with has what it takes to create beautiful narratives from the techniques that you teach. What it takes has so much more to do with how one thinks than how one writes and that fact 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 of the English language was not uniform 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 forced or unforced sharpens the very elements that combine to shape a good writer. To my mind, a good writer has three primary qualities a huge capacity for empathy, heightened powers of observation and a strong belief that the world is or can be different from what the majority say that it is. And the boy who remembers freshly harvested maize in Eritrea, and the girl who remembers sunrise in Italy, and the woman who remembers the Galician inflection of her grandfathers voice, and the man-boy who held a spear in Sudan all have markers, displaced benchmarks against which everything shifts and comes into sharper focus. The language of expression is secondary to that unique regard, although in this case they 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 of England.

Our jOb as readers is tO listen with empathy and attentiOn

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The Migrants Marie Eveline Lavoile

The Migrant Resource Centre is a place where people from different countries and nationalities come to do courses on various topics. At the MRC you can find all shades and colours of 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 feel at ease. Those doing creative writing have tea breaks and tasty food provided by the centre. Like the people on the course, the food too is very colourful. In one corner of the classroom is a table which looks like a banquet full of wonderful dishes such as green and black olives, pickled chillies, hummus and a variety of breads. People are very friendly and kind. Whatever part of the world they come from, they all have one thing in common they are foreigners seeking to improve their lives in one way or another. Out of breath and completely exhausted enters Marie in the class. She has completely forgotten that there was one more class today. So the lessons she booked with a different teacher had to wait for another week. She arrived in class carrying a heavy shoulder bag which contains the exercise books she used for Italian the previous evening. From a distance nobody could guess whats inside the bag until she started looking for her pen. Then she took her mobile phone out, her diary, scarf and hat. Marie is overwhelmed with the stress of the journey to the Migrants Resource Centre: queuing at the train station to buy a ticket, sitting on the bus which is crawling like a baby because of the traffic and the endless road work which is going on for ever and ever. Today we have a visiting speaker Romesh Gunesekera. The whole class listens attentively to the writer reading from one of his novels. Marie thinks it is such a privilege for the creative writing students to have different 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 follow up course to take them to the next level?

I am in England Helmut Ogbeni

I am in England The land of roots, foundations, And history and beginnings The battleground of bloodless wars, England the land of 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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The Egg in the Coffee Ennio Bollici

If that day was a picture, it would be full of light. It would capture the sun a moment before 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 for the daily ritual to come. I cannot remember what we said and if we said anything to each other. I surely remember we had never been as united as in that moment. The coffee whistles while we stare at dad painting yellow waves with yolks, before 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 fields. A starry night cycling with mum while fireflies lit the night on; the red velvet fairytales book she used to read us in bed.

Then we left 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 of light years away from 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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The Terrace and the Sky Alessandra Marucci

Your terrace is the cosiest venue to meet friends, a bubble between the city and the sky: it protects us from the cold and the toughness, from the vastness and the opportunity of breathing so deeply. A small, safe bubble: we still share our lives with delight and irony, we manage to laugh at our country wallowing in the mud. We almost feel as if our childish dreams came true. We dont mind our lives uselessness, because sharing our feelings makes sense. I could save my cheerfulness, if I was able to save the warmness of the floor, our funny wools and the strong thread between us and our several pasts.

we manage tO laugh at Our cOuntry wallOwing in the mud

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From a Different Place Nidhal Al Jibouri

After a long torment, After 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 for 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 myself. He looked at me and said, You are wanted for investigation, I said I didnt do anything, The court said Go back where you come from! I returned crying, Not knowing my destiny.

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You Carry Michael Tesfamariam

i am writing and there is sOmeOne behind my dOOr

A Letter To Some Man Nidhal Al Jibouri (p.46)

You carry with you all the glory and the beauty of the world. My eyes wide opened I stayed fixed on you. For a moment, rather an eternity for I have lost all notion of time, your world was the only thing that the windows of mind, my eyes, allowed. The glittering city was for you like the stars to the moon. You moved but I stayed inert. Suddenly, the gentle touch of someone on the street woke me up from my dream.

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Ode to My Engagement Ring Sviatlana Istamianok

Robert bought me an engagement ring. He put it on my finger and asked me to become his wife. This dream ring shines majestically on my finger, 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 flying. This luminous ring gives me this sense of lightness. Symbol of love proudly shining on my finger.

Joy Marie Eveline Lavoile

On a white, cold and gloomy day in London, here I am standing in front of a travel agent. The office is close to the Migrants Resource Centre in Churton Street. The building is painted white and red. The window is covered with colourful posters advertising holidays in Algeria, Tunisia and Morocco. The smiling faces of people bathing in the sunshine are quite the opposite of those in the office, booking their holiday probably trying to get away from the misery of the British weather. Although I cant afford to go on holiday on any of the cruise liners featured in front of me, in my minds eyes I am transported to Morocco. I am there on its beautiful beach, looking at its white houses under the blue sky and surrounding dark green palm trees. Just for a minute or two, I was there.

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Her Brother, My Uncle Bayan Karimi

I went to see her the next morning, a day after she found out. She was not in a state to talk; she was traumatised. She avoided directly looking or talking to me. She spent most of the time by herself: making herself busy with housework; washing and cleaning, mostly. Cooking, she left it for me (finally entrusting me with it). Other times I found her in her bedroom, crying or talking quietly to herself. I was becoming concerned, I feared that her grief would be everlasting. But gradually her grief lessened and she began talking about it. There was no easy way for her to find out why her little brother committed suicide in such a manner. Her parents back home refused to elaborate on it. And she could not go back to find out by herself she was a political refugee in exile, expelled from 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 for her. One was people said: he killed himself after suffering from shell-shock (a psychological disorder caused by the sound of the explosion) it happened after his house was bombed during the war. The second story was that he was in love; some unfulfilled love story (not so uncommon in his country). The third rumour was about a dispute with his father over land he was supposed to inherit. Overpowered by his father, he finally hanged himself in the basement of his house, right under his nose. An act of revenge, perhaps. For months she listened carefully to the rumours one by one; trying to make sense of them. She wanted to understand the suicide of her brother. But deep down she knew that there was no simple answer. Her brother, my uncle, was a typical product of his own time; he then became its typical victim. He was born and grew up during the 1960s and 1970s the dictatorial era of Mohammad Reza Shah in an impoverished urban centre of the Iranian Kurdistan. Growing up he witnessed deprivation, terror, silence, and the constant presence of the army and security police in his streets, bazaars, schools, and his playgrounds even his mothers Khaneqa was not exempt from the iron fist of the Shah. He grew up learning of notorious prison cells, tortures and mass executions of the enemies of 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 of his home and in his fathers tea-house, they placed pictures of 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 of the Shah down and he cheered when they burnt his pictures and the flag. But freedom was short lived, and as he was about to find out who he was, a new regime took over with new ideas of who he was. The postevolution regime brought for him further terror; again he was silenced, terrorised, stripped of his freedom and sense of being, imprisoned and marginalised. Finally he was sent to the south to fight a lengthy war with Iraq. Her brother, my uncle, was also a typical victim of 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 faraway desert or a mountain. He also survived the Kurdish resistance the mass arrests of the 1980s, and the scores of executions that followed. But he became a different kind of victim. He hanged himself in the basement of his fathers house. He became its latest victim.

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25, Afternoon Enrico Sibour

the glittering city was fOr yOu like the stars tO the mOOn
You Carry Michael Tesfamariam (p.19)

The kitchen, a structured mess, like every Christmas afternoon: 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 soft white blanket. Meanwhile the ripe pineapple looks like a dead fruit, 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 front of 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 full of pastries boxes. She is grateful for the tuna pt delivered to her place before lunch... and the chat begins... A quick look at the watch and I come back to the report: it has to be finished soon and its almost dusk, but I know that there is a Christmas afternoon tea on its way, familys tradition, the shiny crystals, the sparkling wine, the dancing candle flames, the pine resin smell... A small kind stage with a role for everyone, a pause at least once a year.

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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 for the kind attention that you are going to grant my words, and in the near future I hope to greet you as my honoured guests in the Garden of the Five Senses. Let me briefly tell you about myself, so that you might better understand the reasons that have obliged me to honour the debt I owe to the flora of my childhood. I had long been a sick child, growing up all alone, a child who learned about life from the trees of a grove: the sense of time, the pleasures of contemplation, the apparent death and the joyful rebirth and above all, respect for the self, for 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 of my playing, the pride and the tiredness in my growing sense of self and my shyness in approaching the world. Once I became adult, I wanted to honour the promise made to the trees of my childhood by saving the life of the Rascal Trees and of all their brothers scattered around the world that had dared disobey the laws of nature. At first I had some trouble figuring out how to make it happen, but over time I discovered a whole inventory of 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 of certain men who defend the illusory order of their constructed world. The first Rascal Tree I met was the Wave Tree. It was born in a tiny traffic flowerbed in a big city where an epidemic had robbed men and all living beings of their five senses. So it fled to Guadalupe, and its luxuriant mane became a huge and ever-shifting 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 of a nomad, the hair of a dishevelled traveller. She made a statement for you here attached. The Leaf 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 of themselves all at once: as a single huge leaf, as a lone flower most intensely perfumed, and as a big juicy fruit. Long prisoners of cramped hothouses, theyve been fighting a long battle against a certain ghoul, namely a trafficker of out-of-season fruit. The Book Tree in the park of the University of St Petersburg discovered the world of knowledge by learning to read whatever students and professors were studying under the shade of its foliage. If only I could tell the other trees and all men about the humility and the power of the word. So strong was its desire that it became a Book Tree. So I repaid my debt by making room in my garden for all the Rascal Trees I had encountered and then I invited in the children and families of the nearby towns. Wrong move! The result was uproar and strife: the children had great fun indeed, but the parents savaged me and threatened to burn down my magical grove. They reproached me for having created a grove celebrating disobedience a bad example for children meant to learn that in life there are duties but no desires. My grove is in danger, and is sorely in need of your protection, because our world has to be made to acknowledge that these creatures have full rights of citizenship. Ladies and gentlemen, believe me, in the whole wide world there is no comparable garden of such intelligent beauty. Faithfully yours, The Lord of the Rascals

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trees Jaoa Da Silva

when the men decided to destroy most of the beautiful trees (god regretted) why did I make these guys? we have tricks to make fun 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 strong when 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 for my spirit to be happy and god sits down on his throne and says I am tired

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On the Bridge Nidhal Al Jibouri

what did he think?/stand ing naked On the rOOf Of/ the cOuncil blOck, /get ting ready tO jump
Dementia Praecox Merima Brkic (p.38)

I stood dreaming on the bridge, Looking at the rain falling down the bridge, Tiger water passed in front of my eyes, And my memories passed under the bridge, I asked myself Are you thinking of 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 of the old days, Quietly, smoothly, in windy warm days, Like the wave of a great Tiger in a long day, I love to stand for long hours on the bridge, Seeing the Tiger, a great view from 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 from the Tiger, However my ways took me to stand on the bridge.

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Silence Malika Booker

She does not talk about that time, has buried it beneath earths mud where you bury shit; She erased it, folded it up neatly and tucked it away with no wake, funeral or fanfare, buried it whilst it was raw and fresh. I remember early September: the phone ring, jerk out of sleep, fumble, the red sky of 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 for food and board, Then give us a trickle. I made more back home. We pick fruit all day. She left 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 of it. A month later they call to say we have her. How? I ask. But they have buried it, on top of their own shit. They too do not talk.

she dOes nOt talk abOut that time, / has buried it beneath earths mud/ where yOu bury shit
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The Day Before Pierangelo Vidotto

Im sitting beside his bed in a very uncomfortable 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 fabric. He is singing aloud in this silent white hospital room. War songs from his comradeship during the Second World War and often sung, in friendly meetings, with many drinks. On this night the other sufferers 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 Faithful, A supernatural lovely Hoopoe bird, Supermodel of Shaba kingdom, Queen of Sweden eyes, Strawberry cheeks Sweet fresh harmonic Tamarind smile, Gazelle flip quick turns Jumping between the stairs To splash the smiles lights hot blood, soul and special purple scarf It is the Hoopoe, The lovely Hoopoe bird, With a sparkling tail.

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The Cloud Tree Alessandra Pirovano

I am wood and a steam of silk, Soil, stones, an ashram of milk. I am a gentle matter, a mother-of-pearl fate. I am a house of words, almonds and slate. I am the guest of 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 furnace, a dance in the fields, a scented song. I am a hoarse water diviner, a coral continuance. I am a deafening 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 for the spring to come back. The Cloud Tree was the daughter of a love marriage: the love of a pure tree for a brave cloud on a mountain . Long, long time ago. Once upon a time...

like the wave Of a great tiger in a lOng day/ i lOve tO stand fOr lOng hOurs On the bridge
On the Bridge Nidhal Al Jibouri (p.31)

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Dementia Praecox Merima Brkic

1. A severe mental disorder characterized by some, but not necessarily all, of the following features: emotional blunting, intellectual deterioration, social isolation, disorganized speech and behavior, delusions, and hallucinations. 2. A state characterized by the coexistence of contradictory or incompatible elements. I. 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.

You have to escape! they shouted. Flapped away with their arms and inhaled before the next warning. There is an eye hanging on your window! I thanked my small, invisible friends. So I hid behind a new face a new voice someone elses words and was safe.

IV.

What did he think? Standing naked on the roof of 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 of a firefighter? Did he think it wasnt high enough?

II.

As long as you get rid of the others, you will become like us. They said. The others did not want to get rid of me. They argued with them and it became us. I bite myself in the knee. Yes. I am still here.
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From Adult to Child Joao Da Silva

We care about you and we fix our eyes on you (100%) We fought in the past to see you in the present and we are still looking to your future () You give to us a different feeling more than being blessed (&) You are a little person but strong in faith (@) We are here until you grow up

Memories of Rainfall Michael Tesfamariam

Suddenly, the gates of heaven Opened up, releasing torrents of natures Massive tears, cries of a million eyes, Each with their own personal stories People hurrying to hide, Like foxes in their caves While the bridge remained, Complacent and tranquil, Listening to the terrifying music Of the swell and rush of the river Exploding underneath it, Like the Big Bang At the beginning of the universe.

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Mango Guava Yaya Yosof

I do not know where to start Mango or Guava to say Guava I prefer it white you might get them red too Look grandfather special Guava tree! Guava fruit hanging like... hanging like Neyala train passengers who prefer 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 from inside The seed painted in it like a woman wearing gloves and diamonds I still feel the taste, the seeds in my teeth From the last one in 1985, Well, it is the last To see all of them The village, the moon and the light The melodies, the drum sound, the gazelles, the birds and the songs jumping from one to take another, turning around, tasting delicate Guava juice Haj Abdulaahi Jeneyna in Gour Abasha village, at the heart of Daarfour.

i am in england,/ yOu smile and say, isnt it wOnderful?/ i am in england

I Am in England Helmut Ogbeni (p.11)

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Chilly Light from the Window Enrico Sibour

No bread, only some grissinis in a basket, serving plates full of different kind of cheeses, hard, soft, creamy, white and pale yellow, blue veined, and two jugs of milk already on the table. Almost noon and the light... the light is like one old far familiar light: like a white frozen light coming from the window, reflected from the near mountains walls, smoothed passing by the misted windows glasses, when the warm kitchen was ready to guest the friends. The big pan sizzling on the scorching stove: the smell of tasty tomato sauce filling the room. The stewed meat was almost ready: he put back the big lid. Meanwhile with an eye for the copper pot: the polenta was bubbling and bubbling, with yellow hot splashes. A sudden sound from the courtyard and he asked Flavio to open the first friends were already at the door. People chatting in the lounge and Cesca came in the kitchen, arms full, holding a big plate covered by a cloth: she found an empty corner on the table to put it down. Olive oil, vinegar, and salt she asked for. Also a big wooden spoon and fork and the cloth taken off began to dress the salad, mixing carefully all the vegetables. Andrea found the corkscrew in the first drawer, opened a red wine bottle and poured it in the glasses... The voice from the radio: someone switched it off. The light... the light is like the one old far familiar light, the same bubbling polenta and stewed meat, also the cheeses, also the friends, friends but different people, chatting together in many different languages. Like in the memory, the windows glasses covered with condensed steam, the snow falling outside, the garden and the New River, but not the familiar walls, the mountains.

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English PEN Readers & Writers Volume 02

A Letter to Some Man

A Letter to Some Man Nidhal Al Jibouri

Dear Sir, This is my letter from a woman, She is maybe a foolish woman Did a foolish woman write to you before? My name? Doesnt matter what it is! Maybe my name is Nadia, Nidhal, Hind, Wasan, Sir, I am afraid to say anything, I am afraid to do anything Because the sky may burn, Dear Sir, Your Orient confiscates, The blue letters also confiscate The dreams out of 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 of womens skulls, Sir, dont critise me for my bad hand writing, I am writing and there is someone behind my door, And outside I hear the sound of winds and dogs, Dear Sir, there is some one behind my door, He shall slaughter me if he sees my letter, He shall cut my head if he sees my see-through dress, He shall cut my head if I express my torture, Your Orient, dear Sir, sentences women, nominates men as prophets, buries women alive, Dont be upset, Sir, if I say my feelings, The Orient man will not care about my poetry or feeling, Forgive me Sir, if I was rude, Sorry Sir, if I overstepped my right and spoke about the kingdom of men, The rich literature is for men, love is only for men, The hidden freedom is for women in my country, Say anything you want to say: I am mad, stupid, foolish, I dont care, Because I know a woman is foolish to write in the logic of men, Didnt I tell you at the beginning, this is a letter from a foolish woman?

i am afraid tO dO anything/ because the sky may burn

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A Letter To Some Man From Readers & Writers the literature development programme of English PEN. Edited by the writers and Philip Cowell, Readers & Writers Programme Manager The English Centre of International PEN, the worldwide association of writers, exists to uphold the values of literature, literacy and freedom of expression. The first PEN club was 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 development programme which brings these international values home to London in the form of creative writing workshops for refugees, asylum seekers and migrants. The programme of workshops, out of which this book comes, was supported through the 2012 London Cultural Skills Fund, funded by the London Development Agency and managed by Arts Council England. Thanks to Nii Ayikwei Parkes, Monique Roffey, Malika Booker, Miriam Halahmy, Romesh Gunesekera, Mimi Khalvati, Blake Morrison, George Szirtes, Choman Hardi, Daljit Nagra and Esther Freud for supporting the workshops. English PEN is a company limited by guarantee, number 5747142, and a registered charity, number 1125610