Poem
Mona Arshi
Notes Towards an Elegy
Notes Towards an Elegy
Notes Towards an Elegy
i.
Entirely occupied. A million throatsmigrate towards my ribs,
secrete syllables in my chest.
All pores and openings have acquiesced.
I’m slurring in my sleep.
ii.
The accumulation of departures,mornings of staring down light.
Blame the bend in the trees.
Blame the abstract.
Blame my stupid dumb hands.
iii.
I’ve forgotten what silence feels like.Tongue loosened with no protest,
my other tongue, a ceramic figurine,
presses against my teeth.
iv.
What I know is that I’m straining to name the parts,have failed to name the parts of the poem.
v.
The back of my hand inscribed with datesare like the hands of a small-boned boy,
sitting under the twitching shade of a tree.
vi.
We found the stumbling bird togetherand hand-fed her with white bread soaked in milk.
We had to leave her by the green shed and she did die.
You noted the delicate integrity of its fretwork.
vii.
Wait fast, ghost, you should see how the living room is
choked with living things and your mother is upstairs
sitting on your bed, nurturing scraps in the poor light.
© 2015, Mona Arshi
From: Small Hands
Publisher: Liverpool University Press, Liverpool
From: Small Hands
Publisher: Liverpool University Press, Liverpool
Mona Arshi
(United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, 1970)
Mona Arshi began writing poetry in 2008, after working as a human rights lawyer for Liberty, on high profile judicial review cases. She has spoken of how poetry for her is ‘the polar opposite of writing in a rule-bound legal discourse. Writing poetry involves forging space for creative accidents to emerge. Suspending intentionality means one submits to not knowing where poetry comes from, break...
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Poems of Mona Arshi
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Notes Towards an Elegy
i.
Entirely occupied. A million throatsmigrate towards my ribs,
secrete syllables in my chest.
All pores and openings have acquiesced.
I’m slurring in my sleep.
ii.
The accumulation of departures,mornings of staring down light.
Blame the bend in the trees.
Blame the abstract.
Blame my stupid dumb hands.
iii.
I’ve forgotten what silence feels like.Tongue loosened with no protest,
my other tongue, a ceramic figurine,
presses against my teeth.
iv.
What I know is that I’m straining to name the parts,have failed to name the parts of the poem.
v.
The back of my hand inscribed with datesare like the hands of a small-boned boy,
sitting under the twitching shade of a tree.
vi.
We found the stumbling bird togetherand hand-fed her with white bread soaked in milk.
We had to leave her by the green shed and she did die.
You noted the delicate integrity of its fretwork.
vii.
Wait fast, ghost, you should see how the living room is
choked with living things and your mother is upstairs
sitting on your bed, nurturing scraps in the poor light.
From: Small Hands
Notes Towards an Elegy
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