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Our Men Do Not Belong To Us
Our Men Do Not Belong to Us is the opening noise of a poet who has already gained a significant amount of praise for her poetry. Warsan Shire’s poems are direct, but they are works of such delicate construction and layered insight that one quickly realizes what seems “direct” is necessarily wholly indirect, questioning, uncertain, and vulnerable. Her poems are about how women deal with the violence of all kinds of exploitation, but they are never didactic or simplistic. Shire fills her poems with the effects of her complex sense of identity in transcultural Africa.
—Kwame Dawes
—Kwame Dawes
32 pages, ebook
First published April 15, 2014
19 people are currently reading
6775 people want to read
About the author
Warsan Shire
14 books6,878 followersWarsan Shire is a 24 year old Kenyan-born Somali poet, writer and educator based in London. Born in 1988, Warsan has read her work extensively all over Britain and internationally - including recent readings in South Africa, Italy, Germany, Canada, North America and Kenya- and her début book, 'TEACHING MY MOTHER HOW TO GIVE BIRTH' (flipped eye), was published in 2011. Her poems have been published in Wasafiri, Magma and Poetry Review and in the anthology 'The Salt Book of Younger Poets' (Salt, 2011). She is the current poetry editor at SPOOK magazine. In 2012 she represented Somalia at the Poetry Parnassus, the festival of the world poets at the Southbank, London. She is a Complete Works II poet. Her poetry has been translated into Italian, Spanish and Portuguese. Warsan is also the unanimous winner of the 2013 Inaugural Brunel University African Poetry Prize.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 146 reviews
May 1, 2016
"Is that what we’re here for?
To sit at kitchen tables, counting
on our fingers the ones who died,
those who left, and the others who were taken by the police,
or by drugs
or by illness
or by other women?
It makes no sense.
Look at your skin, her mouth, these lips, those eyes,
my God, listen to that laugh.
The only darkness we should allow into our lives is the night,
for even then, we have the moon."
To sit at kitchen tables, counting
on our fingers the ones who died,
those who left, and the others who were taken by the police,
or by drugs
or by illness
or by other women?
It makes no sense.
Look at your skin, her mouth, these lips, those eyes,
my God, listen to that laugh.
The only darkness we should allow into our lives is the night,
for even then, we have the moon."
February 20, 2021
A brilliant poet and I will continue to read her work whenever I get my hands on it.
March 7, 2018
I’ll be honest, unlike the (incomprehensibly ) praised herd of newly famous female ‘twitter-youtube poets’, I found that Shire is a talent that deserves to be recognized.
“Haram” is my favorite poem in this collection
Haram
My older sister soaps between her legs, her hair
a prayer of curls. When she was my age, she stole
the neighbor’s husband, burned his name into her skin. For weeks she smelled of cheap perfume and dying flesh.
It’s 4:00 a.m., and she winks at me, bending over the sink, her small breasts bruised from sucking.
She smiles, pops her gum before saying—
boys are haram; don’t ever forget that.
Some nights I hear her in her room screaming.
We play surah al baqarah to drown her out.
Anything that leaves her mouth sounds like sex.
Our mother has banned her from saying God’s name.
***
When I was reading it I instantly remembered this excerpt from We Should All Be Feminists by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie:
“We teach females that in relationships, compromise is what women do. We raise girls to see each other as competitors, not for jobs or for accomplishments— which I think can be a good thing— but for the attention of men.
We teach girls that they cannot be sexual beings in the way that boys are.
(..)
We police girls, we praise girls for virginity, but we don’t praise boys for virginity.
(…)
We teach girls shame. ‘Close your legs!’ ‘Cover yourself!’ We make them feel as though by being born female, they are already guilty of something. And so, girls grow up to be women who cannot say they have desire.
They grow up to be women who silence themselves. They grow up to be women who cannot say what they truly think. And they grow up—and this is the worst thing we do to girls—they grow up to be women who have turned pretense into an artform.”
***
In her poem, Shire approaches the Haram with a sarcastic tone to deliver a subtle message regarding the rigid islamic morality that the women in particular are subjected to.
(the one that the poet refers to is mentioned in this document under the question number 11
http://www.mailofislam.com/muslim_wom...)
Haram is certainly one of the most pronounced words by any Muslim in his life time for it is a central concept of the ethical system in Islam.
The term Haram (Sin/ Forbidden/Profane; its antonym is Halal or the permissible by God) denotes actions/practices/expressions that are prohibited and forbidden by Allah.
The Halal/Haram are parallel to the moral duality of good/bad. As in all the monotheist religions, every misguidance is Hell-bound so the one who commits Haram will be punished in the afterlife (For a fair interpretation of the term and its religious and cultural significance
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haram).
The islamic moral standards apply to all the aspects of the society and they address every aspect of a Muslim’s both private and public life. Numerous rules and regulations (their primary sources being the Qur'an and the Sunnah which is the record of the teachings (Hadiths) of the prophet) are laid down by the Shari'ah (The Islamic code of laws and rules).
Therefore, every social norm and principle, practice, law, value, tradition, behavior (specifically the one related to the sexual life) is pivoted around the Haram as one of the main divine commandments that define the morality of human action .
However, the debate on the definition, the content and the theoretical foundations of the Haram is controversial between the reformists/adaptationists and the fundamentalists (also, many variations of Islam exist with regards to beliefs, practices etc..) ..
The interpretation of the fundamental ethical principles of the moral islamic code is problematic for they are considered to be opposed to the Modernity (The Western paradigm of modernity more precisely.. the essential question to which i don’t have an answer though is: is there a single model of modernity?)
Unconvincingly, most Muslim scholars argue that culture is to blame here and not the religion.
Unfortunately, in the islamic jurisprudence established over many decades, the tenets of the Islam, as prescribed in the normative sources, were subjects of orthodox interpretations by the religious institutions and currents..
Most Muslim women live constantly under the pressure of ‘puritan’ patriarchal societies and are obedient to a moral conduct and behavior.
The question of the compatibility of the islamic code of morals with the social evolutions in the modern life, regarding specifically the Women's rights and the individual liberties, is controversial and complex. According to many recent studies, the societies where Islam is the dominant religious demographic are ranked among the worst for Gender equality.
It is argued among the scholars critical of Islam that this religion is inherently inconsistent with the requirements and the challenges of the modern (pluralistic) societies, and that it is irreconcilable with the modern values and trends such as democracy, rights, nationalism, rationality, science, equality and progress.
Another poem that I particularly liked
WHAT WE HAVE
Our men do not belong to us. Even my own father, left one afternoon, is not mine. My brother is in prison, is not mine. My uncles, they go back home and they are shot in the head, are not mine. My cousins, stabbed in the street for being too—or not—enough, are not mine.
Then the men we try to love, say we carry too much loss, wear too much black, are too heavy to be around, much too sad to love. Then they leave and we mourn them too. Is that what we’re here for? To sit at kitchen tables, counting on our fingers the ones who died, those who left and the others who were taken by the police, or by drugs, or by illness or by other women. It makes no sense. Look at your skin, her mouth, these lips, those eyes, my God, listen to that laugh. The only darkness we should allow into our lives is the night, and even then, we have the moon.
***
“Haram” is my favorite poem in this collection
Haram
My older sister soaps between her legs, her hair
a prayer of curls. When she was my age, she stole
the neighbor’s husband, burned his name into her skin. For weeks she smelled of cheap perfume and dying flesh.
It’s 4:00 a.m., and she winks at me, bending over the sink, her small breasts bruised from sucking.
She smiles, pops her gum before saying—
boys are haram; don’t ever forget that.
Some nights I hear her in her room screaming.
We play surah al baqarah to drown her out.
Anything that leaves her mouth sounds like sex.
Our mother has banned her from saying God’s name.
***
When I was reading it I instantly remembered this excerpt from We Should All Be Feminists by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie:
“We teach females that in relationships, compromise is what women do. We raise girls to see each other as competitors, not for jobs or for accomplishments— which I think can be a good thing— but for the attention of men.
We teach girls that they cannot be sexual beings in the way that boys are.
(..)
We police girls, we praise girls for virginity, but we don’t praise boys for virginity.
(…)
We teach girls shame. ‘Close your legs!’ ‘Cover yourself!’ We make them feel as though by being born female, they are already guilty of something. And so, girls grow up to be women who cannot say they have desire.
They grow up to be women who silence themselves. They grow up to be women who cannot say what they truly think. And they grow up—and this is the worst thing we do to girls—they grow up to be women who have turned pretense into an artform.”
***
In her poem, Shire approaches the Haram with a sarcastic tone to deliver a subtle message regarding the rigid islamic morality that the women in particular are subjected to.
(the one that the poet refers to is mentioned in this document under the question number 11
http://www.mailofislam.com/muslim_wom...)
Haram is certainly one of the most pronounced words by any Muslim in his life time for it is a central concept of the ethical system in Islam.
The term Haram (Sin/ Forbidden/Profane; its antonym is Halal or the permissible by God) denotes actions/practices/expressions that are prohibited and forbidden by Allah.
The Halal/Haram are parallel to the moral duality of good/bad. As in all the monotheist religions, every misguidance is Hell-bound so the one who commits Haram will be punished in the afterlife (For a fair interpretation of the term and its religious and cultural significance
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haram).
The islamic moral standards apply to all the aspects of the society and they address every aspect of a Muslim’s both private and public life. Numerous rules and regulations (their primary sources being the Qur'an and the Sunnah which is the record of the teachings (Hadiths) of the prophet) are laid down by the Shari'ah (The Islamic code of laws and rules).
Therefore, every social norm and principle, practice, law, value, tradition, behavior (specifically the one related to the sexual life) is pivoted around the Haram as one of the main divine commandments that define the morality of human action .
However, the debate on the definition, the content and the theoretical foundations of the Haram is controversial between the reformists/adaptationists and the fundamentalists (also, many variations of Islam exist with regards to beliefs, practices etc..) ..
The interpretation of the fundamental ethical principles of the moral islamic code is problematic for they are considered to be opposed to the Modernity (The Western paradigm of modernity more precisely.. the essential question to which i don’t have an answer though is: is there a single model of modernity?)
Unconvincingly, most Muslim scholars argue that culture is to blame here and not the religion.
Unfortunately, in the islamic jurisprudence established over many decades, the tenets of the Islam, as prescribed in the normative sources, were subjects of orthodox interpretations by the religious institutions and currents..
Most Muslim women live constantly under the pressure of ‘puritan’ patriarchal societies and are obedient to a moral conduct and behavior.
The question of the compatibility of the islamic code of morals with the social evolutions in the modern life, regarding specifically the Women's rights and the individual liberties, is controversial and complex. According to many recent studies, the societies where Islam is the dominant religious demographic are ranked among the worst for Gender equality.
It is argued among the scholars critical of Islam that this religion is inherently inconsistent with the requirements and the challenges of the modern (pluralistic) societies, and that it is irreconcilable with the modern values and trends such as democracy, rights, nationalism, rationality, science, equality and progress.
Another poem that I particularly liked
WHAT WE HAVE
Our men do not belong to us. Even my own father, left one afternoon, is not mine. My brother is in prison, is not mine. My uncles, they go back home and they are shot in the head, are not mine. My cousins, stabbed in the street for being too—or not—enough, are not mine.
Then the men we try to love, say we carry too much loss, wear too much black, are too heavy to be around, much too sad to love. Then they leave and we mourn them too. Is that what we’re here for? To sit at kitchen tables, counting on our fingers the ones who died, those who left and the others who were taken by the police, or by drugs, or by illness or by other women. It makes no sense. Look at your skin, her mouth, these lips, those eyes, my God, listen to that laugh. The only darkness we should allow into our lives is the night, and even then, we have the moon.
***
April 22, 2019
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.
Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth was published first (2011) in the UK, by the English lottery funded mouthmark series. Our Men Do Not Belong To Us is actually a chapbook from the Seven New Generation African Poets: A Chapbook boxed set edited by Chris Abani and Kwami Dawes (2014) Most of the poems in this chapbook are also in the original collection, so just try for whichever is easiest to get to.
Warsan Shire is a Kenyan-born Somali poet living in London. Her poems are visceral, about women's bodies and the grief they carry. They are about war and loss and migration, and the voices of different generations. She is also known for her poems used in the spoken word sections of Beyonce's Lemonade, but those poems are not found here.
Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth was published first (2011) in the UK, by the English lottery funded mouthmark series. Our Men Do Not Belong To Us is actually a chapbook from the Seven New Generation African Poets: A Chapbook boxed set edited by Chris Abani and Kwami Dawes (2014) Most of the poems in this chapbook are also in the original collection, so just try for whichever is easiest to get to.
Warsan Shire is a Kenyan-born Somali poet living in London. Her poems are visceral, about women's bodies and the grief they carry. They are about war and loss and migration, and the voices of different generations. She is also known for her poems used in the spoken word sections of Beyonce's Lemonade, but those poems are not found here.
July 4, 2017
Souvenir
You brought the war with you
unknowingly, perhaps, on your skin
in hurried suitcases
in photographs
plumes of it in your hair
under your nails
maybe it was
in your blood.
[...]
You brought the war with you
unknowingly, perhaps, on your skin
in hurried suitcases
in photographs
plumes of it in your hair
under your nails
maybe it was
in your blood.
[...]
March 8, 2022
“but God,
doesn’t she wear
the world well.”
Absolutely worth the read.
doesn’t she wear
the world well.”
Absolutely worth the read.
June 29, 2023
Poems with amazing simplicity
Poems with controlled severity
Recommended!
Loved them all!
Poems with controlled severity
Recommended!
Loved them all!
December 28, 2017
Kinda disappointing because I was expecting a new poetry collection with NEW poems but all we got was Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth EXACTLY with 2 or 3 other poems. Come on.
Also, this book is NOWHERE to be found on the entire planet (no exaggeration) so buying it is out of the question. Although, after digging deep into the core of theearth for several decades internet for an hour or so, I managed to find a PDF version of the book.
However, besides the blatant repetition of the other poetry collection, the few new poems added were breath-taking and beautifully written as usual. Shire uses no set structure in her poetry and writes of her experiences and the struggles people in less talked about places of the world go through. She does this brilliantly and heart-breakingly. She weaves beautifully constructed similes with well-placed metaphors, writes fluently and simply about deep and tragic issues that matter.(Not this brainless fluff about breakups and other trivialities. cough cough Milk and Honey.) She discusses everything meaningful and touching from war and refugees to feminism and heartbreak in an unflinchingly honest and original way.
Lately, I've been super into modern poetry and been really noticing it's divide from traditional poetry. Modern poetry, especially during this era, really has revived poetry as a whole and resurfaced it's message of spreading, well.......messages. With young poets at the head of this, modern poetry is no longer this mind-boggling stream of sentences that kids are forced to analyse at school(I'm looking at you, Shakespeare) but a simple and understandable means of expression.
Would definitely recommend this as well as Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth by Warsan Shire. I honestly could not get enough. Shire's work has also been used, most notably, by Beyoncé in her 2016 album Lemonade. I hope she keeps getting more recognition, as well as writing more poetry (it's been a while, Warsan Shire, and the people are not happy).
MY FAV QUOTES
Our men do not belong to us. Even my own father, left one afternoon, is
not
mine. My brother is in prison, is not mine. My uncles, they go back home
and
they are shot in the head, are not mine. My cousins, stabbed in the street
for
being too – or not – enough, are not mine.
Then the men we try to love, say we carry too much loss, wear too much black,
are too heavy to be around, much too sad to love. Then they leave and we
mourn them too. Is that what we’re here for? To sit at kitchen tables,
counting
on our fingers the ones who died, those who left and the others who were
taken
by the police, or by drugs, or by illness or by other women. It makes no
sense.
Look at your skin, her mouth, these lips, those eyes, my God, listen to
that
laugh. The only darkness we should allow into our lives is the night, and
even
then, we have the moon
THE HOUSE
Mother says there are locked rooms inside all women; kitchen of lust,
bedroom of grief, bathroom of apathy.
Sometimes the men - they come with keys,
and sometimes, the men - they come with hammers
You can find my other reviews here: https://iamthebookworm.wordpress.com/
Also, this book is NOWHERE to be found on the entire planet (no exaggeration) so buying it is out of the question. Although, after digging deep into the core of the
However, besides the blatant repetition of the other poetry collection, the few new poems added were breath-taking and beautifully written as usual. Shire uses no set structure in her poetry and writes of her experiences and the struggles people in less talked about places of the world go through. She does this brilliantly and heart-breakingly. She weaves beautifully constructed similes with well-placed metaphors, writes fluently and simply about deep and tragic issues that matter.(Not this brainless fluff about breakups and other trivialities. cough cough Milk and Honey.) She discusses everything meaningful and touching from war and refugees to feminism and heartbreak in an unflinchingly honest and original way.
Lately, I've been super into modern poetry and been really noticing it's divide from traditional poetry. Modern poetry, especially during this era, really has revived poetry as a whole and resurfaced it's message of spreading, well.......messages. With young poets at the head of this, modern poetry is no longer this mind-boggling stream of sentences that kids are forced to analyse at school(I'm looking at you, Shakespeare) but a simple and understandable means of expression.
Would definitely recommend this as well as Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth by Warsan Shire. I honestly could not get enough. Shire's work has also been used, most notably, by Beyoncé in her 2016 album Lemonade. I hope she keeps getting more recognition, as well as writing more poetry (it's been a while, Warsan Shire, and the people are not happy).
MY FAV QUOTES
Our men do not belong to us. Even my own father, left one afternoon, is
not
mine. My brother is in prison, is not mine. My uncles, they go back home
and
they are shot in the head, are not mine. My cousins, stabbed in the street
for
being too – or not – enough, are not mine.
Then the men we try to love, say we carry too much loss, wear too much black,
are too heavy to be around, much too sad to love. Then they leave and we
mourn them too. Is that what we’re here for? To sit at kitchen tables,
counting
on our fingers the ones who died, those who left and the others who were
taken
by the police, or by drugs, or by illness or by other women. It makes no
sense.
Look at your skin, her mouth, these lips, those eyes, my God, listen to
that
laugh. The only darkness we should allow into our lives is the night, and
even
then, we have the moon
THE HOUSE
Mother says there are locked rooms inside all women; kitchen of lust,
bedroom of grief, bathroom of apathy.
Sometimes the men - they come with keys,
and sometimes, the men - they come with hammers
You can find my other reviews here: https://iamthebookworm.wordpress.com/
March 26, 2017
An incredible truthful and heartfelt collection of poems that narrates the pain of women from Africa.
It tells their struggles in society and even the trouble of leaving their country for another and never fitting in.
Warsan Shire is mostly known because Beyoncé utilized her poetry in her latest album, and she made everyone a favor by introducing this writer.
Even though International Poetry Day is behind, I would recommend anyone from grabbing this and giving it a read.
It tells their struggles in society and even the trouble of leaving their country for another and never fitting in.
Warsan Shire is mostly known because Beyoncé utilized her poetry in her latest album, and she made everyone a favor by introducing this writer.
Even though International Poetry Day is behind, I would recommend anyone from grabbing this and giving it a read.
April 5, 2016
"I know a few things to be true. I do not know where I am going,
where I have come from is disappearing, I am unwelcome and
my beauty is not beauty here. My body is burning with the
shame of not belonging; my body is longing. I am the sin of
memory and the absence of memory. I watch the news, and my
mouth becomes a sink full of blood. The lines, the forms, the
people at the desks, the calling cards, the immigration officer,
the looks on the street, the cold settling deep into my bones,
the English classes at night, the distance I am from home. But
Alhamdulillah*, all of this is better than the scent of a woman
completely on fire; or a truckload of men who look like my
father, pulling out my teeth and nails; or fourteen men between
my legs; or a gun; or a promise; or a lie; or his name; or his
manhood in my mouth."
Our Men Do Not Belong To Us is a poetry collection with themes about civil war -- its victims and its effect on these victims as refugees in an unfamiliar, new settlement -- impaired relationships with men and with, often than not, women in the narrator's family. Warsan Shire writes with compelling words, using them at the right time hence resulting to a leaving effect on the tip of the reader's tongue to ponder about, stir emotions and bask in, vivid details and adept portrayal of emotions about solitude, loss and yearning. These can often be shocking, scandalous and saddening altogether.
My personal favorites are What We Own, When We Last Saw Your Father, Conversations About Home, Chemistry and Souvenir
Contents
-What We Own
-Ugly
-Tea with Our Grandmothers
-Things We Lost in the Summer
-First Kiss
-Haram
-When We Last Saw Your Father
-Conversations about Home (at the Deportation Center)
-Trying to Swim with God
-Snow
-Residue
-Grandfather’s Hands
-Souvenir
-Chemistry
_______________________
*praise be to god
where I have come from is disappearing, I am unwelcome and
my beauty is not beauty here. My body is burning with the
shame of not belonging; my body is longing. I am the sin of
memory and the absence of memory. I watch the news, and my
mouth becomes a sink full of blood. The lines, the forms, the
people at the desks, the calling cards, the immigration officer,
the looks on the street, the cold settling deep into my bones,
the English classes at night, the distance I am from home. But
Alhamdulillah*, all of this is better than the scent of a woman
completely on fire; or a truckload of men who look like my
father, pulling out my teeth and nails; or fourteen men between
my legs; or a gun; or a promise; or a lie; or his name; or his
manhood in my mouth."
Our Men Do Not Belong To Us is a poetry collection with themes about civil war -- its victims and its effect on these victims as refugees in an unfamiliar, new settlement -- impaired relationships with men and with, often than not, women in the narrator's family. Warsan Shire writes with compelling words, using them at the right time hence resulting to a leaving effect on the tip of the reader's tongue to ponder about, stir emotions and bask in, vivid details and adept portrayal of emotions about solitude, loss and yearning. These can often be shocking, scandalous and saddening altogether.
My personal favorites are What We Own, When We Last Saw Your Father, Conversations About Home, Chemistry and Souvenir
Contents
-What We Own
-Ugly
-Tea with Our Grandmothers
-Things We Lost in the Summer
-First Kiss
-Haram
-When We Last Saw Your Father
-Conversations about Home (at the Deportation Center)
-Trying to Swim with God
-Snow
-Residue
-Grandfather’s Hands
-Souvenir
-Chemistry
_______________________
*praise be to god
November 18, 2016
Her words left me feeling burnt. I don't know how to explain it but it was like putting salt into a wound I didn't know I carried. I read two of them out to my Kenyan mother and she sat in silence and I know they struck her too. Maybe it's the East African shared experience, maybe it's her brutal honestly, maybe it's the fact that the writing is so obviously not for me that it hit me harder. I don't know what it is but I found it incredible.
March 8, 2022
this was really good and usually im not a great fan of poetry
October 31, 2022
I'm not sure how to rate poetry. Did it move me? Yes. Does Warsan have a distinct style of writing? She's the QUEEN of metaphors and similies. Each line of each poem has the capacity to evoke some powerful imagery. And Warsan has a preference: she talks displacement, chaos, discrimination. She carries (her) baggage proud, almost models with it.
"Do they not know that stability is like a lover with a sweet mouth on your body one second and the next you are a tremor lying on the floor covered in rubble and old currency waiting for its return."
Beautiful.
"Do they not know that stability is like a lover with a sweet mouth on your body one second and the next you are a tremor lying on the floor covered in rubble and old currency waiting for its return."
Beautiful.
October 5, 2016
I was introduced to Warsan Shire through a small poem. Then I found out that Beyonce's Lemonade had her poetry too.
A beautiful collection filled with heartfelt, gut-wrenching poems. Loved every word.
A beautiful collection filled with heartfelt, gut-wrenching poems. Loved every word.
June 25, 2016
Most of the poems are also in Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth
Way too short though, I want more
Way too short though, I want more
October 30, 2020
My favorites are Conversations about Home (at the Deportation Center), Souvenir, and Chemistry. All the poems were masterpieces though.
Conversations about Home (at the Deportation Center):
"Well, I think home spat me out, the blackouts and curfews like tongue against loose tooth. God, do you know how difficult it is, to talk about the day your own city dragged you by the hair, past the old prison, past the school gates, past the burning torsos erected on poles like flags? When I meet others like me I recognise the longing, the missing, the memory of ash on their faces. No one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark. I've been carrying the old anthem in my mouth for so long that there’s no space for another song, another tongue or another language. I know a shame that shrouds, totally engulfs. Allah Ceebta, I tore up and ate my own passport in an airport hotel. I’m bloated with language I can't afford to forget.
*
They ask me how did you get here? Can’t you see it on my body? The Libyan desert red with immigrant bodies shot in the face for trying to enter, the Gulf of Aden bloated with immigrant bodies. I wouldn’t have put my children on the boat unless I thought the sea was safer than the land. I hope the journey meant more than miles because all of my children are in the water. I want to make love but my hair smells of war and running and running. Look at all these borders, foaming at the mouth with brown bodies broken and desperate. I’m the colour of hot sun on my face, my mother’s remains were never buried. I spent days and nights in the stomach of the truck, I did not come out the same. Sometimes it feels like someone else is wearing my body.
*
I know a few things to be true. I do not know where I am going, where I have come from is disappearing, I am unwelcome and my beauty is not beauty here. My body is burning with the shame of not belonging, my body is longing. I am the sin of memory and the absence of memory. I watch the news and my mouth becomes a sink full of blood. The lines, the forms, the people at the desks, the calling cards, the immigration officers, the looks on the street, the cold settling deep into my bones, the English classes at night, the distance I am from home. But Alhamdulilah all of this is better than the scent of a woman completely on fire, or a truckload of men who look like my father, pulling out my teeth and nails, or fourteen men between my legs, or a gun, or a promise, or a lie, or his name, or his manhood in my mouth.
*
I hear them say, go home, I hear them say, fucking immigrants, fucking refugees. Are they really this arrogant? Do they not know that stability is like a lover with a sweet mouth upon your body one second and the next you are a tremor lying on the floor covered in rubble and old currency waiting for its return. All I can say is, I was once like you, the apathy, the pity, the ungrateful placement and now my home is the mouth of a shark, now my home is the barrel of a gun. I'll see you on the other side."
Conversations about Home (at the Deportation Center):
"Well, I think home spat me out, the blackouts and curfews like tongue against loose tooth. God, do you know how difficult it is, to talk about the day your own city dragged you by the hair, past the old prison, past the school gates, past the burning torsos erected on poles like flags? When I meet others like me I recognise the longing, the missing, the memory of ash on their faces. No one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark. I've been carrying the old anthem in my mouth for so long that there’s no space for another song, another tongue or another language. I know a shame that shrouds, totally engulfs. Allah Ceebta, I tore up and ate my own passport in an airport hotel. I’m bloated with language I can't afford to forget.
*
They ask me how did you get here? Can’t you see it on my body? The Libyan desert red with immigrant bodies shot in the face for trying to enter, the Gulf of Aden bloated with immigrant bodies. I wouldn’t have put my children on the boat unless I thought the sea was safer than the land. I hope the journey meant more than miles because all of my children are in the water. I want to make love but my hair smells of war and running and running. Look at all these borders, foaming at the mouth with brown bodies broken and desperate. I’m the colour of hot sun on my face, my mother’s remains were never buried. I spent days and nights in the stomach of the truck, I did not come out the same. Sometimes it feels like someone else is wearing my body.
*
I know a few things to be true. I do not know where I am going, where I have come from is disappearing, I am unwelcome and my beauty is not beauty here. My body is burning with the shame of not belonging, my body is longing. I am the sin of memory and the absence of memory. I watch the news and my mouth becomes a sink full of blood. The lines, the forms, the people at the desks, the calling cards, the immigration officers, the looks on the street, the cold settling deep into my bones, the English classes at night, the distance I am from home. But Alhamdulilah all of this is better than the scent of a woman completely on fire, or a truckload of men who look like my father, pulling out my teeth and nails, or fourteen men between my legs, or a gun, or a promise, or a lie, or his name, or his manhood in my mouth.
*
I hear them say, go home, I hear them say, fucking immigrants, fucking refugees. Are they really this arrogant? Do they not know that stability is like a lover with a sweet mouth upon your body one second and the next you are a tremor lying on the floor covered in rubble and old currency waiting for its return. All I can say is, I was once like you, the apathy, the pity, the ungrateful placement and now my home is the mouth of a shark, now my home is the barrel of a gun. I'll see you on the other side."
April 12, 2022
short and sweet, really good
Chemistry
"I wear my loneliness like a taffeta dress riding up my thigh, and you cannot help but want me.
You think it’s cruel
how I break your heart, to write a poem.
I think it’s alchemy."
Chemistry
"I wear my loneliness like a taffeta dress riding up my thigh, and you cannot help but want me.
You think it’s cruel
how I break your heart, to write a poem.
I think it’s alchemy."
December 12, 2023
favourite poems:
conversations about home (an old favourite and still my favourite poem of hers)
souvenir
what we own
things we lost in the summer
conversations about home (an old favourite and still my favourite poem of hers)
souvenir
what we own
things we lost in the summer
October 9, 2020
Would have rated it higher but too many of her poems featured in this collection are also in her previous book(s) - and that made the whole experience of reading it a little disappointing. Esp. because I actually bought her book(s) and that just felt too much like a waste of money and time .
February 26, 2023
hmm most of these poems were featured in teaching my mother how to give birth however comma,,, idk . the poems i did not previously read + the clipped length made this not work for me as well as shires work prev did 🤷♀️🤷♀️🤷♀️
April 30, 2016
En general no me gusta la poesia pero Warsan es mi poeta favorita.
August 14, 2023
“Sometimes, it feels like someone else is wearing my body.”
July 10, 2021
***3.75 stars!!!!!!!
this SLAPPED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
this SLAPPED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
May 3, 2024
Às vezes fica um pouco Rupi Kaur, mas tem uma escrita bonita. O jeito que ela usa as palavras toca. O tema de refúgio e guerra toca. Curtinho, mas bom.
December 31, 2022
if you never read another book again make sure this is the last thing you read
September 10, 2025
“Our men do not belong to us.
Even my own father left one afternoon, is not mine.
My brother is in prison, is not mine. My uncles, they
go back home and they are shot in the head, are not mine.
My cousins, stabbed in the street for being too or not enough, are not mine. Then the men we try to love say
we carry too much loss, wear too much black,
are too heavy to be around, much too sad to love.
Then they leave, and we mourn them too.
Is that what we’re here for?
To sit at kitchen tables, counting
on our fingers the ones who died,
those who left, and the others who were taken by the police, or by drugs
or by illness
or by other women?
It makes no sense.
Look at your skin, her mouth, these lips, those eyes, my God, listen to that laugh.
The only darkness we should allow into our lives is the night,
for even then, we have the moon.“
“One of them pushes my open knees closed. Sit like a girl. I finger the hole in my shorts, shame warming my skin.
In the car, my mother stares at me through the rearview mirror, the leather sticks to the back of my thighs. I open my legs like a well-oiled door,
daring her to look at me and give me what I had not lost—a name.”
“War colors your voice, warms it even.
No inclination as to whether you were
the killer or the mourner.
No one asks. Perhaps you were both.
You haven’t kissed anyone for a while now. To you, everything tastes like blood.”
Even my own father left one afternoon, is not mine.
My brother is in prison, is not mine. My uncles, they
go back home and they are shot in the head, are not mine.
My cousins, stabbed in the street for being too or not enough, are not mine. Then the men we try to love say
we carry too much loss, wear too much black,
are too heavy to be around, much too sad to love.
Then they leave, and we mourn them too.
Is that what we’re here for?
To sit at kitchen tables, counting
on our fingers the ones who died,
those who left, and the others who were taken by the police, or by drugs
or by illness
or by other women?
It makes no sense.
Look at your skin, her mouth, these lips, those eyes, my God, listen to that laugh.
The only darkness we should allow into our lives is the night,
for even then, we have the moon.“
“One of them pushes my open knees closed. Sit like a girl. I finger the hole in my shorts, shame warming my skin.
In the car, my mother stares at me through the rearview mirror, the leather sticks to the back of my thighs. I open my legs like a well-oiled door,
daring her to look at me and give me what I had not lost—a name.”
“War colors your voice, warms it even.
No inclination as to whether you were
the killer or the mourner.
No one asks. Perhaps you were both.
You haven’t kissed anyone for a while now. To you, everything tastes like blood.”
November 27, 2016
I loved this oh so much I can't justify it by trying to put it into words.
Everything I've read by her ever is amazing, and I just love her so much. I came across most of her poems on my dash and I'm glad she got the recognition she deserves when she was featured on Beyonce's Lemonade which boosted her popularity.
Some of the poems here feel personal and I love how some writers can touch someone through their words, you know? Like not skin but soul? Yeah so that's cool.
Personal favorite was "Ugly" specially because of the last verse :
"Your daughter's face is a small riot,
her hands are a civil war,
a refugee camp behind each ear,
a body littered with ugly things,
but God,
doesn't she wear
the world well."
Everything I've read by her ever is amazing, and I just love her so much. I came across most of her poems on my dash and I'm glad she got the recognition she deserves when she was featured on Beyonce's Lemonade which boosted her popularity.
Some of the poems here feel personal and I love how some writers can touch someone through their words, you know? Like not skin but soul? Yeah so that's cool.
Personal favorite was "Ugly" specially because of the last verse :
"Your daughter's face is a small riot,
her hands are a civil war,
a refugee camp behind each ear,
a body littered with ugly things,
but God,
doesn't she wear
the world well."
February 5, 2016
five stars no surprise there
December 14, 2016
How do you review a collection of poems? I don't know, but I love the way Shire uses words and makes every poem into a story of its own.
Read
May 17, 2016Technically these were many of the same poems from Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth, but I definitely did not mind reading them again.
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