![]() ![]() 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 a longing, the missing, the memory of ash on their faces. Well, I think home spat me out, the blackouts and curfews like tongue against loose tooth. Two sections out of her poem ‘Conversations About Home (at the Deportation Centre)’ have stuck with me. While the majority of her poems are centered around the experience of women and women’s bodies there were some in here that explored otherissues such as the meaning of home, and of being isolated. You don’t know how to tell him that it won’t be ![]() The last stanza of this poem sums up beautifully what it means to grow old in a country not your own and to never hope to return home. I was pleased to see one of my favourites, ‘Old Spice’, which I had seen on her blog a while ago and which I have used in my thesis. ![]() ![]() I think it is a beautiful collection of poems, each of which I thought were fantastic and difficult at the same time. So when it was published a month or so ago I bought a copy and have been pondering over it ever since. I have followed Shire on her blog ( ) for a few years now and was really excited to hear she was releasing a book. But I make an exception for Warsan Shire because her poetry is so beautiful and raw and because she articulates the nature of being Somali in diaspora in a way no one else does. ![]()
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