Where We Find Ourselves E-Book

• Herausgeber: Arachne Press
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Seitenzahl: 114

Beschreibung

Stories and poems from thirty-nine UK based writers of the Global Majority from African, Asian, Middle Eastern, Carribean, South American, Chinese and Malay communities write about maps and mapping. Stories and poems of finding oneself and getting lost, colonialism and diaspora, childhood exploration and adult homecoming. Authors: Alexander Williams, Alireza Abiz, Amanda Addison, Ambrose Musiyiwa, Anita Goveas, Be Manzini , Benson Egwuonwu, Catherine Okoronkwo , Crystal Koo, Dean Atta, Des Mannay, Desiree Reynolds, Dipika Mummery, Emily Abdeni Holman, Farhana Khalique, Gita Ralleigh, Kavita A Jindal, L Kiew, Lesley Kerr, Lorraine Dixon, Lorraine Mighty, Malka Al-Haddad, Mallika Khan, Marina Sanchez, Marka Rifat, Meng Qiu, Mimi Yusuf, Nasim Rebecca Asl, Ngoma Bishop, Nikita Aashi Chadha, Chadha Oluwaseun Olayiwola, P.A.Bitez, Rachael Chong, Rhiya Pau, Rick Dove, Sami Ibrahim, Sandra Nimako, Yvie Holder, Z.R. Ghani

Leseprobe

First published in UK 2021 by Arachne Press Limited

100 Grierson Road, London SE23 1NX

www.arachnepress.com

© Arachne Press 2021

ISBNs

Print 978-1-913665-44-9

eBook 978-1-913665-45-6

Audio 978-1-913665-47-0

The moral rights of the authors have been asserted.

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form or binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Except for short passages for review purposes no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior written permission of Arachne Press Limited.

Thanks to Muireann Grealy for her proofing.

Thanks to Komal Madar for her cover design.

The publication of this book is supported using public funding by the National Lottery through Arts Council England.

Acknowledgements

A Glossary of Terms © Sami Ibrahim 2021

A Man’s Space © Mallika Khan 2021

A Place to Call © Sandra Nimako-Boatey 2021

A ship on the horizon doesn’t make me feel less alone and The Selden Map © L Kiew 2021

A Walk in the Countryside © Dipika Mummery 2021

Anchusa and East Coast © Yvie Holder 2021

Anvils and Canals © Farhana Khalique 2021

Baseline Measurements © Anita Goveas 2021

Biafra © Catherine Okoronkwo 2021

Capillary Motion and Hi-Spy Viewing Machine © Rachael Li Ming Chong 2021

Cocoon Lucky © Kavita A. Jindal 2021

Colourful Chart © Meng Qiu 2021

Departure Lounge © Rhiya Pau 2021

Geography Lesson and They Call Themselves Las Águilas Del Desierto / Eagles of the Desert © Marina Sánchez 2021

Haibun for Your Return and Translate This Sentence © Dean Atta 2021

Ife and The Mother I Never Met © PA Bitez 2021

Invasion © Crystal Koo 2021

Jallianwalla Bagh © Nikita Aashi Chadha 2021

Journey to the Land Unknown © Mimi Yusuf 2021

Make Me Into a River and To Hope © ZR Ghani 2021

Managing Through a Pandemic: Hands Face Space © Lorraine Mighty 2021

Mermaid Visits the Archive © Gita Ralleigh 2021

My Fault © Marka Rifat 2021

My Sister’s Care Home Promises © Shamini Sriskandarajah 2021

Repatriation © Selina Nwulu 2021

Rollercoasters and We Painted the Sky © Ambrose Musiyiwa 2021

Running on the Spot © Des Mannay 2021

Runway Flower © Désirée Reynolds 2021

SE16 © Oluwaseun Olayiwola 2021

Silver Line © Savannah Sevenzo 2021

Speak Me a Poem © Emily Abdeni-Holman 2021

Summer ’95 © Sundra Lawrence 2021

Survival Protocol © Be Manzini 2021

Temporospatial Tongue Triangulations © Rick Dove 2021

The Dove’s Throat © Alireza Abiz 2021

The Hand You Were Dealt Before You Were Born © Amanda Addison 2021

The Inner City Kite That Yearns for Freedom © Ngoma Bishop 2021

The Leaving © Lorraine Dixon 2021

The Lie © Benson Egwuonwu 2021

The Way Back Home © Lesley Kerr 2021

Triptychs and Without Borders © Seni Seneviratne 2021

Yalda 1400 © Nasim Rebecca Asl 2021

Yarl’s Wood © Malka Al-Haddad 2021

Yarmouk University © Alexander Williams 2021

Yoga with the Black Mothers Group © Victoria Ekpo 2021

WhereWeFind Ourselves

Contents

Introduction

Sandra A Agard and Laila Sumpton

Survival Protocol

Be Manzini

Make Me Into a River

ZR Ghani

The Selden map

L Kiew

Capillary Motion

Rachael Li Ming Chong

The Hand You Were Dealt Before You Were Born

Amanda Addison

Colourful Chart

Meng Qiu

A ship on the horizon doesn’t make me feel less alone

L Kiew

Managing Through a Pandemic: Hands Face Space

Lorraine Mighty

Repatriation

Selina Nwulu

The Lie

Benson Egwuonwu

Geography Lesson

Marina Sánchez

Invasion

Crystal Koo

Jallianwalla Bagh

Nikita Aashi Chadha

The Mother I Never Met

PA Bitez

Biafra

Catherine Okoronkwo

Speak Me a Poem

Emily Abdeni-Holman

Anvils and Canals

Farhana Khalique

Mermaid Visits the Archive

Gita Ralleigh

The Leaving

Lorraine Dixon

Departure Lounge

Rhiya Pau

The Inner City Kite That Yearns for Freedom

Ngoma Bishop

Runway Flower

Désirée Reynolds

We Painted the Sky

Ambrose Musiyiwa

Running on the Spot

Des Mannay

Silver Line

Savannah Sevenzo

A Walk in the Countryside

Dipika Mummery

My Sister’s Care Home Promises

Shamini Sriskandarajah

Anchusa

Yvie Holder

Baseline Measurements

Anita Goveas

Temporospatial Tongue Triangulations

Rick Dove

A Glossary of Terms

Sami Ibrahim

A Man’s Space

Mallika Khan

The Dove’s Throat

Alireza Abiz

Without Borders

Seni Seneviratne

Journey to the Land Unknown

Mimi Yusuf

To Hope

ZR Ghani

Yarl’s Wood

Malka Al-Haddad

Triptychs

Seni Seneviratne

They Call Themselves Las Águilas Del Desierto / Eagles of the Desert

Marina Sánchez

Rollercoasters

Ambrose Musiyiwa

Translate This Sentence

Dean Atta

The Way Back Home

Lesley Kerr

Haibun for Your Return

Dean Atta

Summer ’95

Sundra Lawrence

Cocoon Lucky

Kavita A. Jindal

A Place to Call

Sandra Nimako-Boatey

My Fault

Marka Rifat

Hi-Spy Viewing Machine

Rachael Li Ming Chong

East Coast

Yvie Holder

SE16

Oluwaseun Olayiwola

Ife

PA Bitez

Yarmouk University

Alexander Williams

Yoga With the Black Mothers Group

Victoria Ekpo

Yalda 1400

Nasim Rebecca Asl

Introduction

Sandra A Agard and Laila Sumpton

Where We Find Ourselves is an anthology of poetry and short stories that will take you on a journey from Beirut to Columbo, Port of Spain to the US/Mexican border and then to the Atlantic floor. You’ll travel to the Black Mother’s Yoga class, soar with a kite over Victoria Park and sail with Dutch colonial ships to China.

You’ll navigate past worlds, possible worlds, mythologies and memories from the writers, new and established, who responded to our theme of maps and mapping.

You will encounter poems and stories that investigate where we find home, identities lost and found, colonial history, exile, family and much more. where would your travels take you if you were to map your journey?

This is a book that celebrates global majority writers, and our authors self-identify in many ways: African, African American, Arab, Asian, Bangladeshi, Black, Black British, Black British Caribbean, Black African, British Asian, British African Caribbean, British Indian, British Lebanese, British Sri Lankan, British Pakistani, Caribbean, Chinese, Chinese-Filipino, Chinese-Malaysian, Indian, Indigenous Mexican Latinx, Human, Middle Eastern, Mixed Race, South Asian, and Tamil. Our anthology gives a platform to rich and varied voices, many of whom have been marginalised in the publishing world.

The need for publishing more global majority writers became clearer and more urgent when the Black Lives Matter movement was given a renewed global focus following the murder of George Floyd at the hands of US police in May 2020. It is important that diverse stories and histories are told by writers of that heritage, so that future generations can see themselves in the books they read, and understand who they are.

Even the subtitle of our book, Poems and Stories of Maps and Mapping from UK Writers of the Global Majority, is at the heart of the UK’s race identity debates. Definitions are constantly changing and until there is more equality, spaces for diverse writers need to be supported with open discussion and without recrimination.

We hope you enjoy your voyage, and arrive at many unexpected places in Where We Find Ourselves.

Be Manzini

Survival Protocol

In the case of Mercator vs

Truth, Mercator is victorious

and Africa is forced

to squeeze into Europe.

So I’m mapping out my body

in a shape the

privileged can

understand.

Femininity is unallowed

in this version, there are no

hills or mountains to

conquer.

So much safer; flat,

plain,

less likely to be

colonised if I cover

me in snow.

Does anything natural

and rich grow in blind whiteness?

I yearn to uncover the

soil of my skin, the

peaks of me,

the tributaries between legs… my

lips in full bloom… my

hair… untouched long grass.

Smoke screen… thick…

Frozen… I can breathe.

They touch me, consent

ungiven, fold away when they

are done. Stolen continent

stowed in ships and chests then

tossed in a bottom privy

chamber in Gerardus’

fourteenth century stony castle.

I still can’t fathom

how we got here.

ZR Ghani

Make Me Into a River

Chaos seeks an uninhabitable home.

A light held on my tongue

of words unspoken

is the signal fire.

Give yourself fear, give yourself doubt

to channel your way into my shoes.

There are seasons in me

which do not reflect the Earth’s.

Each tide drowns me a little

and moves on – that’s life,

sweeping up oaks, washing

away the road that leads to peace.

Rivers aren’t lost so I’ll be the first,

sifting ashes from stardust;

birds fly though damaged wings

while I resign, with the same surrender

that hot glass drinks air, into tributaries

that run screeching, untethered,

scribbling out a drought.

A pain contorting all of time.

So this is how love takes root.

L Kiew

The Selden Map

A map is the opposite of floating

on water attached to nothing.

Sanyapi bears care and hope,

Quanzhou merchants, small boats

ducking the Dutch blockade.

The British with their free trade

are only smoke blown over,

a brief turn in the shade and

old ways guided by new light.

Water slaps time against sides.

Scent of poppy sap and no one

moves further up the line.

Today I smell of sandalwood,

look for needlepaths, sequence

bearings from home ports.

The Selden Map has beenheld in the Bodleian Library since 1659. It was rediscovered in 2008.

Historians have traditionally argued that East Asia, as a whole, had no indigenous cartography.

Rachael Li Ming Chong

Capillary Motion

My ancestors peeped over a pyramid of freckled pears,

through smoke ribbons of agarwood to witness

my graduation to words with more permanence.

No more pencil – a fountain pen, gifted from the family shop;

they gānbēied raucously at the promise tint in its trail,

Roman letters scrawled over borders Ah Tai Kong never

crossed. It came with a bottle of Quink, souped up with sweat

wrung from Po Po’s neck towel and sirens circled

along the glass rim. They shook it wildly to infuriate the ink.

It fermented tartly in its cartridge and surged out

across paper lines, brittle boned hanzi skittling

in its wake: won’t, can’t, shouldn’t, couldn’t; pierce, piece,

priest, belief; knock, knee, knowledge, knife;

a continuous line of cursive trans-continental ghosts

would tug upon, nodding as it held its place.

In science class I unscrewed the bottom shell to marvel

at its reservoir glow in front of the fluorescent fixtures.

I learned how to lemon-soak my words without applying heat.

The split of the nib – it grew tired, warped ink

to a manuscript of blots increasingly only I could decipher.

See now my hands, they linger. Waiting,

for the gasp before the mark, the flow of liquid into narrow spaces.

Amanda Addison

The Hand You Were Dealt Before You Were Born

He could have shaken my hand in welcome on arrival at Newark Airport. After all, I had crossed half the globe, spent hours nose stuck to the triple-glazed glass – gazing out through the round window. Spread out below: a patchwork of Arctic white and cool blues. The kittiwake’s view.

And in that semi-comatose state of the long-haul traveller, I remembered a film: The Island on Top of the World. Foolhardy explorers circumnavigated by hot air balloon, frostbitten fingers, and toes. I pulled the thin complimentary blanket tightly around my shoulders.

The lighting was not kind in Arrivals. He looked on suspiciously. At the head of the queue a man with a cane hobbled along. The police dog came, sniffed the walking stick and he was through!

My turn. He asked me to lay my hand upon the scanner. He mapped my past, my present, my future. His hand had a horseshoe tattoo. He took an imprint. A copy. A facsimile. That ancient mark declared: She is here! She has arrived!

He had a simulacrum of me, meanwhile the real me was on the loose, crossed 32nd Street, marvelled at the steam clouds rising up – vapour plumes, falling fountains on the sidewalk – matchstick people, wrapped up warm in black and grey, barged past.

Lonely in the spacious sanctuary of my hotel room for two, I turned the television on. News anchors beamed into my room from the other side of this enormous land. They stood in front of palm trees and swimming pools as if posing for a Hockney.

Was the border guard staring intently at our handprints? Always superstitious, with his lucky horseshoe tattoo. Could he read my heart line, head line, life line? My Mount of Venus?

His Irish forebears measured horses in hands. His Norwegian ancestors used a ‘thumb’, a carpenter’s measure – banged Thor’s hammer to build a pioneer’s house, where quilts were carefully stitched by the hand which rocked the cradle.

A kindergarten group enter Battery Park. Hands linked like paper-chain people. A vision in Technicolor! The willow charcoal sticks of trees look on. The children spy a row of miniature wooden houses – beehives on stilts, painted in pastels.

Will they return to class and play once again with the doll’s house? Such busy bees? Or maybe they’ll make handprints, forever small on their Mother’s Day cards.

My phone vibrates. I cradle it in my palm. A fingerprint unlocks me and reveals a message, from my daughter: just landed. I turn on my heels and head out of the park.