Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth (Mouthmark): 10

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What elevates ‘teaching my mother how to give birth’, what gives the poems their disturbing brilliance, is Warsan Shire’s ability to give simple, beautiful eloquence to the veiled world where sensuality lives in the dominant narrative of Islam; reclaiming the more nuanced truths of earlier times – as in Tayeb Salih’s work – and translating to the realm of lyric the work of the likes of Nawal El Saadawi. As Rumi said, “Love will find its way through all languages on its own”. For the past 70 years, people have been fleeing faster than ever, from the Holocaust, from the civil wars in parts of Europe, from revolutions in the Middle East and Africa, from war-torn lands, from totalitarian governments in Asia and Latin America; all with one purpose, survival for them and their families. And every step of the way they have encountered some form of oppression or mistrust. They are called rapists, murderers, inferior, savages; and the hate spreads like plague thanks to news networks and politicians. People forget these are humans that only want to feel safe, to have food for their family, to get educated and do better. People forget that down the line, someone in their family might have been in the same road, or will be in the future. beautiful poems about pain, war, the body, family, and love. i really enjoyed "grandfather's hands," though perhaps it's odd to like to think about grandparents touching. it's tender, this legacy of love and of loss. Shire speaks in here not only of girls that lost their virginity and lied about it, or that were forced into female genital mutilation, but that were raped and violated, and deemed unworthy just the same. These are their tales, and they all have value, and there is always something to learn, something to understand.

I don't get a chance to read a lot of poetry, but when I do it pulls at my soul. I stared at the cover of this slim but powerful book for a while. The imaginative and powerful image of a gun going through a woman is enough to think on how my own voice is muzzled by myself but also the environment I'm in. I love this poet and she conveys deep and powerful emotion through her writing. I first discovered her through a short youtube video, where images are added to her words. Found Here This is a slim debut chapbook of vivid, visceral, violent poems by a U.K.-based writer of Somali heritage who has already achieved widespread fame despite her young age (you may have seen her work featured in Beyonce's Lemonade). I was first drawn to her work some months ago after reading her poem "the birth name", which advises readers to "give your daughters difficult names.... my name doesn’t allow me to trust anyone that cannot pronounce it right." (that poem is not included in this chapbook, however). In the first poem of the collection, "Your Mother’s First Kiss", Warsan details her mother's first relationship to a boy of whom she later learns that he "raped women / when the war broke out." The poem is haunting because with each verse, it becomes clearer that his boy also raped her mother when she was 16. It ends with the chilling verse: Last week, she saw him driving the number 18 bus,In the poem "Ugly", she speaks to a mother (maybe her mother?) who has a daughter who is considered ugly because she "reminded them of war." In the poem, Warsan reprimands the mother: You are her mother.

Book Genre: 21st Century, Adult, Africa, Contemporary, Cultural, Eastern Africa, Feminism, Literature, Nonfiction, Poetry, Race, Somalia, Womens I stumbled upon Warsan Shire's work after attending a spoken word event when I was in New York last summer. Not something that is so popular here in England, i was intrigued. This poetry collection is perfect for those that have experienced these events, but it raises enough questions for those that have not and simply wish to know what others have had the misfortune to experience. For those worried they will feel like aliens when reading about events unknown to them, this will not do such a thing, it will instead draw the reader in, verse by verse. Mother’s Day is often depicted as a joyous celebration; images of doting daughters and caring mothers wearing matching silk pyjamas and drinking coffee in bed often visualise the event. How about love? As a woman entering a relationship set yourself on fire in the same sense, do not become meek and docile: do not allow him to take over. This reading feels like one of the strongest. If you compare this to the ideas that are manifested in the spoken word poem For Women Who are Difficult to Love it becomes more evident. The ideas empower women and suggest that if you are volatile, if your personality is like that of a fire, do not quench yourself: carry on. Be yourself, he is not worthy if he cannot love you for you: keep that fire burning.One of my favorite poems in this collection is called "Beauty". In it, Warsan describes how her older sisters "soaps between her legs" and "stole / the neighbour's husband, burnt his name into her skin." She recounts her sister's "shameful" behaviour, since her sister loves sex and finding pleasure where it offers itself to her. I like the poem because it feels so real. I can imagine Warsan's relationship to her sister. I see the two of them in their flat when reading this poem. I know how Warsan must've felt as a younger sister. Excited, confused, envious, judgmental. It's 4 a.m. and she winks at me, bending over the sink, There, in 1980, she would drop the children to her mother and go off to Pretoria, the capital city of Racism. There, she became a maid whose knees grew callous from scrubbing their floors and whose belly would grumble from spending hours cooking in hotels and households owned by white racists who would pay her with three slices of bread and orange squash. None of her children knew the taste of her breast milk. After stating that “ no one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark” from which you run only “when you see the whole city running as well” (st. 1) the speaker describes how dramatically home has changed: it has become unrecognisable ( the boy you went to school with who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory is holding a gun bigger than his body), so dangerous that it “won’t let you stay” (st. 2). Warsan Shire is one of the poets I was hoping to get to during National Poetry Month and I received two collections through interlibrary loan.

Sad people have the gift of time, while the world dizzies everyone else; they remain stagnant, their bodies refusing to follow pace with the universe. With these kind of people everything aches for too long, everything moves without rush, wounds are always wet.”urn:lcp:teachingmymother0000shir:epub:1fc95e84-d426-4d7c-8739-827a05a04a8e Foldoutcount 0 Identifier teachingmymother0000shir Identifier-ark ark:/13960/s21d8ssmzjd Invoice 1652 Isbn 9781905233298 Themes from the poem connected to an action of the UN Sustainable Development Goals N.10 Reduced inequalities, Goal N. 5 Gender Equality and Goal N. 16 Peace, Justice and Strong Institutions with examples What elevates ‘teaching my mother how to give birth’, what gives the poems their disturbing brilliance, is Warsan Shire’s ability to give simple, beautiful eloquence to the veiled world where sensuality lives in the dominant narrative of Islam; reclaiming the more nuanced truths of earlier times – as in Tayeb Salih’s work – and translating to the realm of lyric the work of the likes of Nawal El Saadawi. As Rumi said, “Love will find its way through all languages on its own”. In ‘teaching my mother how to give birth’, Warsan’s debut pamphlet, we witness the unearthing of a poet who finds her way through all preconceptions to strike the heart directly. Warsan Shire is a Kenyan-born Somali poet and writer who is based in London. Born in 1988, she is an artist and activist who uses her work to document narratives of journey and trauma. Warsan has read her work internationally, including recent readings in South Africa, Italy and Germany, and her poetry has been translated into Italian, Spanish and Portuguese. Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth by Warsan Shire – eBook Details Poet, activist, editor and teacher, Warsan Shire is a spoken-word artist whose poetry, usually performed publicly, connects gender, war, sex and cultural assumptions, giving a voice to the displaced and acting as a healing agent for the trauma of exile and suffering. Her best known poem, Home, has touched a nerve among people and helped understanding of the refugee crisis.

If my mother contracted and died of the virus, I would not be able to forgive both myself and her for not working through our relationship”, I thought. My psychologist tried to counsel me into not jumbling funeral scenarios before they happen but it all fell on stone.

It rarely got physical, but the emotional wounds grew gangrenous as years went by especially because every part of my body got sensitive to the words and behaviour. I stopped attempting to confide in her. The sense of being unable to trust the woman whose body formed me added to my depression. I felt mentally displaced, as if I was navigating the world without a GPS. Did you tell people that songs weren’t the same as a warm body or a soft mouth? Miriam, I’ve heard people using your songs as prayer, begging god in falsetto. You were a city exiled from skin, your mouth a burning church.” Silvia Mazzau: currently teaches English at a high school in Verona. She lived in Cambridge (UK) during her youth, worked as an interpreter and copywriter, and has 30 years of experience as a teacher in Italy. Together with her musical family, Missing Link, she created show-lessons which turned into a project, English or… Nothing!, born to involve students as musicians, actors, scenographers and dancers, using English as a means to learn while having fun. Home itself becomes the speaking voice in st. 8, telling its people to “ leave, run away from me now” because it is no longer the place they grew up in, the land they belong to. The conclusion is a bitter one: “I dont know what I've become but i know that anywhere is safer than here”. The summer my cousins return from Nairobi, we sit in a circle by the oak tree in my aunt’s garden. They look older. Amel’s hardened nipples push through the paisley of her blouse, minarets calling men to worship.”