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Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth
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 début 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.
37 pages, Paperback
First published December 29, 2011
About the author
Warsan Shire
14 books6,415 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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May 10, 2017
Through Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth the empowerment of women becomes like a burning tempest kindled up by the rawness of Warsan Shire’s words. The poems are also about reality, the horrors that some people have to face in a word driven by war. They carry with them such human depth, none more so than the poem In Love and In War.
“To my daughter I will say
‘when the men come, set yourself on fire.’”
The poem is only two lines, but it establishes the tone for the rest of the work; it acts like a summary for one of her strongest ideals, that of personal and cultural integrity.
Shire does not compromise. The idea of setting oneself on fire is tangible to suicide. The men are coming, the soldiers and sons of war, so let us end it before they can touch us. This can be read as an act by a woman burning herself to avoid the objectifying effects that are coming her way. Historically speaking, the women of an invaded country often become the greatest victims. We all know what humans can do when in a blood frenzy. By committing suicide these daughters can avoid the worse of such possible crimes. But the act of setting oneself on fire can be read in a different way, a much brighter way.
Like all great poetry, multiple readings come out of Shire’s words. I like to think of the fire as a metaphorical flame of individuality. When the invaders come, set your hearts ablaze and remember who you are; remember your culture; remember your language: remember you. When the men come do no lose this sense of you to the superimposing of another’s beliefs. Become angry, fight against it, rage at the injustice and learn how to beat it. But at the very root of it all, never ever forget. In such an idea Shire establishes the authority of the individual’s voice.
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.
There’s also another reading that comes here, tangible to the first instance of suicide. When men are near and love is close, set yourself on fire and avoid heartache. But, I do not overly belief in this one; it can be read in the poem, but when comparing it to Shire’s body of work it seems far too pessimistic. Shire is about empowering women not destroying life. She is a humanist; thus, there is much to be taken from her words. They are words that need to be heard now more than ever as the world becomes increasingly multi-cultural and transgendered, understanding the perspective of others is vital for the development of a more accepting world. This is a very powerful collection of poetry.
“To my daughter I will say
‘when the men come, set yourself on fire.’”
The poem is only two lines, but it establishes the tone for the rest of the work; it acts like a summary for one of her strongest ideals, that of personal and cultural integrity.
Shire does not compromise. The idea of setting oneself on fire is tangible to suicide. The men are coming, the soldiers and sons of war, so let us end it before they can touch us. This can be read as an act by a woman burning herself to avoid the objectifying effects that are coming her way. Historically speaking, the women of an invaded country often become the greatest victims. We all know what humans can do when in a blood frenzy. By committing suicide these daughters can avoid the worse of such possible crimes. But the act of setting oneself on fire can be read in a different way, a much brighter way.
Like all great poetry, multiple readings come out of Shire’s words. I like to think of the fire as a metaphorical flame of individuality. When the invaders come, set your hearts ablaze and remember who you are; remember your culture; remember your language: remember you. When the men come do no lose this sense of you to the superimposing of another’s beliefs. Become angry, fight against it, rage at the injustice and learn how to beat it. But at the very root of it all, never ever forget. In such an idea Shire establishes the authority of the individual’s voice.
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.
There’s also another reading that comes here, tangible to the first instance of suicide. When men are near and love is close, set yourself on fire and avoid heartache. But, I do not overly belief in this one; it can be read in the poem, but when comparing it to Shire’s body of work it seems far too pessimistic. Shire is about empowering women not destroying life. She is a humanist; thus, there is much to be taken from her words. They are words that need to be heard now more than ever as the world becomes increasingly multi-cultural and transgendered, understanding the perspective of others is vital for the development of a more accepting world. This is a very powerful collection of poetry.
December 3, 2021
I have no idea how and why I added this poetry collection to my TBR since I rarely read anything in verse. However, I am thankful it happened because I would have missed an extraordinary experience. I’ve never been more touched, saddened and humbled by any poetry before. Most authors that I tried left me indifferent. There were a few that I liked but nothing comes even close to what I felt while reading Warsan Shire.
Here is one perfect poem which did not need more than two lines to break me:
to my daughter i will say,
‘when the men come, set yourself on fire’.
Warshan Shire is a young Kenyan-born Somali poet and this book is her debut published in 2011. Her poetry is beautiful, full of sourness, hurt but also of love. Many of the poems gives voice to the plight of Muslim women of different generations and to refugees/migrants forced to flee for different reasons.
“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.”
These poems hit hard. I could only read one or two poems at the time because I had to stop and think about it, to let the feelings sink in.
“You are her mother.
Why did you not warn her,
hold her like a rotting boat
and tell her that men will not love her
if she is covered in continents,
if her teeth are small colonies,
if her stomach is an island
if her thighs are borders?
What man wants to lie down
and watch the world burn
in his bedroom?
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?”
Here is one perfect poem which did not need more than two lines to break me:
to my daughter i will say,
‘when the men come, set yourself on fire’.
Warshan Shire is a young Kenyan-born Somali poet and this book is her debut published in 2011. Her poetry is beautiful, full of sourness, hurt but also of love. Many of the poems gives voice to the plight of Muslim women of different generations and to refugees/migrants forced to flee for different reasons.
“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.”
These poems hit hard. I could only read one or two poems at the time because I had to stop and think about it, to let the feelings sink in.
“You are her mother.
Why did you not warn her,
hold her like a rotting boat
and tell her that men will not love her
if she is covered in continents,
if her teeth are small colonies,
if her stomach is an island
if her thighs are borders?
What man wants to lie down
and watch the world burn
in his bedroom?
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?”
December 14, 2012
I should mark this as read. However, I carry the book in my purse and have read it everyday since it arrived in the mail. I loved it the moment I opened the first page. The intro hit me like a ton of bricks "I have my mother's mouth and my father's eyes..." that line hit me like a ton of bricks. I love poetry that is plain. That is not left up to interpretation. There is no confusion about what she was trying to say. She masters "show don't tell". I love how her titles are really more like the first lines of the poems. I love the fire series. I can't relate to the war themes or even truly to the refugee themes. Her desire to protect the languages and cultures of her ancestors and elders makes me hungry for the knowledge of mine.
Nothing makes me happier or more whole than a female poet who's work speaks to and for me and also serves as a catalyst for my own expression.
Nothing makes me happier or more whole than a female poet who's work speaks to and for me and also serves as a catalyst for my own expression.
July 22, 2016
4.5 stars. Review posted September 2, 2014. **RE-READ JULY 21, 2016**
If this is not going to touch you what will?
38 pages that will hit you hard and put life into perspective.
Conversations About Home
(at the Deportation Centre)
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. I tore up and ate my own passport in an airport hotel. I'm bloated with language I can't afford to forget.
The beauty of Warsan Shire's words left me stunned. Each short poem tells a story and more often than not it's an ugly tale. I look at it as ugliness wrapped in poetry and beauty to make it more bearable. It's succinct, poignant, and raw. Even though it's simple in its wording, it's going to sucker-punch you again and again; it made me cry ugly tears. Growing up sheltered makes it harder to get a grasp on all the anguish and terror so many other people have been suffering throughout their lives. This collection of visceral poetry provides a shocking yet deeply moving insight.
Recommended read.
If this is not going to touch you what will?
38 pages that will hit you hard and put life into perspective.
Conversations About Home
(at the Deportation Centre)
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. I tore up and ate my own passport in an airport hotel. I'm bloated with language I can't afford to forget.
The beauty of Warsan Shire's words left me stunned. Each short poem tells a story and more often than not it's an ugly tale. I look at it as ugliness wrapped in poetry and beauty to make it more bearable. It's succinct, poignant, and raw. Even though it's simple in its wording, it's going to sucker-punch you again and again; it made me cry ugly tears. Growing up sheltered makes it harder to get a grasp on all the anguish and terror so many other people have been suffering throughout their lives. This collection of visceral poetry provides a shocking yet deeply moving insight.
Recommended read.
July 1, 2019
Read and immediately reread—sparse words for raw and terrible things.
April 25, 2019
Warsan Shire writes beautifully - it's very easy to lean into overloading readers with metaphors and flowery language as a crutch, which often suggests amateurish writing; but Warsan expertly handles it with sophistication and purpose. She makes the narratives feel intimate and explores themes like feminism, war, and immigration. I’m not rating this 5 stars because I didn’t personally feel impacted by it, but I still think her writing is solid, mature, and much stronger than other poets I’ve read.
March 27, 2016
Today is a good day. Today is a wonderful day - any day that starts out like this is. I found a house full of words. Bold, fearless, silky, abrasive, wounding words. Warsan Shire is a house full of words. Words that don't cuddle you, words that envelope you. There's a deep sense of melancholy to her words and quite a lot of her poems contain explicit content - which I have absolutely no qualms about. If you don't do bold and abrasive, then this probably isn't for you. But personally, I love the way the words burn, sometimes sweet and silky is just too much of that - sweet and silky. I think that's the beauty of poetry, the creeping subtlety of it's power is you never know which line will sink or float you, make or mar you. You never know which line you'll latch unto and cling to for dear life. I've always thought that poetry emphasizes the delicacy of words and maximizes it's full utility. Where books might be pretentious, extravagant or redundant with fine literary sounding words, I've always thought, in a way, poetry thrives on it. But that's not to say it needs it, simply there's love to be found even in those that prove tedious. Maybe I feel this way because I knew poetry before I knew stories and novels. Some poems in this are more of 3's than 4's but on average, I rated this a 4 because it was a really good collection.
Shire's collection of poetry in order of appearance:
⚫ What Your Mother Told You After Your Father Left
⚫ Your Mother’s First Kiss
⚫ Things We Had Lost in the Summer
⚫ Maymuun’s Mouth
⚫ Grandfather’s Hands
⚫ Bone
⚫ Snow
⚫ Birds
⚫ Beauty
⚫ The Kitchen
⚫ Fire
⚫ When We Last Saw Your Father
⚫ You Were Conceived
⚫ Trying to Swim With God
⚫ Questions for Miriam
⚫ Conversations About Home
⚫ Old Spice
⚫ My Foreign Wife is Dying and Does Not Want To Be Touched
⚫ Ugly
⚫ Tea With Our Grandmothers
⚫ In Love and In War
❗ A little about my favorites:
◾ UGLY
This poem speaks of a foul sense of loss and longing. The type that one wears like a perfume but stinks like a sewer. It's not pretty. It's not the kind of sorrow anyone wants to hold, comfort or be associated with. That kind of heaviness means auto-ostracism. Shire presents that kind of ugly sorrow in this poem. What I love most about it are the last lines which make you think it may be ugly but damn it's beautiful.
◾ Conversations About Home(At the Deportation Centre)
This was cutting. From the title, I think it's fair to say that one knows what to expect from this poem. In this, the speaker's voice is cold, calm and resigned, but underneath that you can detect the anger. Anger at their misfortune. Anger at being run out of their homeland because of something so globally stripping as violence and war. Most of all, they're angry at being turned into a refugee - a symbol of superfluity.
The last stanza made my heart hurt. I know war and I know violence, but rejection - that's something I can't pretend to understand.
I simply love this poem to bits.
◾ My foreign Wife is Dying and Does not Want To be Touched
Here you can think of all the hurtful names you can call cancer, and it wouldn't stop killing. It wouldn't stop taking.
◾ In Love and War
This poem is very simple. It's three lines.
❓ WHAT GOT ME INTERESTED IN SHIRE
I was casually strolling by one of my friend's profile when I stumbled upon a poem. And it's titled For Women Who Are Difficult To Love. After reading and rereading it, I hopped on to Youtube to find a reading of it. And I did. I listened to it, again, and I fell in love with it, all over again. I can't tell you what I felt while I listened to it, it was like food to my soul. And those last lines...simply eye-watering and strengthening. So, Hayat didn't really recommend this to me directly, but I feel like she did and I'm so grateful for finding this poem(and writer) through her.
⏩ FOR WOMEN WHO ARE DIFFICULT TO LOVE
The long and short of it is don't doubt your passion, your femininity, or your boldness. Don't make yourself small. Not like that.
Shire's collection of poetry in order of appearance:
⚫ What Your Mother Told You After Your Father Left
⚫ Your Mother’s First Kiss
⚫ Things We Had Lost in the Summer
⚫ Maymuun’s Mouth
⚫ Grandfather’s Hands
⚫ Bone
⚫ Snow
⚫ Birds
⚫ Beauty
⚫ The Kitchen
⚫ Fire
⚫ When We Last Saw Your Father
⚫ You Were Conceived
⚫ Trying to Swim With God
⚫ Questions for Miriam
⚫ Conversations About Home
⚫ Old Spice
⚫ My Foreign Wife is Dying and Does Not Want To Be Touched
⚫ Ugly
⚫ Tea With Our Grandmothers
⚫ In Love and In War
❗ A little about my favorites:
◾ UGLY
Your daughter is ugly.
She Knows loss intimately,
carries whole cities in her belly
This poem speaks of a foul sense of loss and longing. The type that one wears like a perfume but stinks like a sewer. It's not pretty. It's not the kind of sorrow anyone wants to hold, comfort or be associated with. That kind of heaviness means auto-ostracism. Shire presents that kind of ugly sorrow in this poem. What I love most about it are the last lines which make you think it may be ugly but damn it's beautiful.
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.
◾ Conversations About Home(At the Deportation Centre)
This was cutting. From the title, I think it's fair to say that one knows what to expect from this poem. In this, the speaker's voice is cold, calm and resigned, but underneath that you can detect the anger. Anger at their misfortune. Anger at being run out of their homeland because of something so globally stripping as violence and war. Most of all, they're angry at being turned into a refugee - a symbol of superfluity.
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.
The last stanza made my heart hurt. I know war and I know violence, but rejection - that's something I can't pretend to understand.
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.
I simply love this poem to bits.
◾ My foreign Wife is Dying and Does not Want To be Touched
Here you can think of all the hurtful names you can call cancer, and it wouldn't stop killing. It wouldn't stop taking.
◾ In Love and War
This poem is very simple. It's three lines.
To my daughter I will say,
‘when the men come,
set yourself on fire’.
❓ WHAT GOT ME INTERESTED IN SHIRE
I was casually strolling by one of my friend's profile when I stumbled upon a poem. And it's titled For Women Who Are Difficult To Love. After reading and rereading it, I hopped on to Youtube to find a reading of it. And I did. I listened to it, again, and I fell in love with it, all over again. I can't tell you what I felt while I listened to it, it was like food to my soul. And those last lines...simply eye-watering and strengthening. So, Hayat didn't really recommend this to me directly, but I feel like she did and I'm so grateful for finding this poem(and writer) through her.
⏩ FOR WOMEN WHO ARE DIFFICULT TO LOVE
you are a horse running alone
and he tries to tame you
compares you to an impossible highway
to a burning house
says you are blinding him
that he could never leave you
forget you
want anything but you
you dizzy him, you are unbearable
every woman before or after you
is doused in your name
you fill his mouth
his teeth ache with memory of taste
his body just a long shadow seeking yours
but you are always too intense
frightening in the way you want him
unashamed and sacrificial
he tells you that no man can live up to the one
who lives in your head
and you tried to change didn’t you?
closed your mouth more
tried to be softer
prettier
less volatile, less awake
but even when sleeping you could feel
him travelling away from you in his dreams
so what did you want to do love
split his head open?
you can’t make homes out of human beings
someone should have already told you that
and if he wants to leave
then let him leave
you are terrifying
and strange and beautiful
something not everyone knows how to love
The long and short of it is don't doubt your passion, your femininity, or your boldness. Don't make yourself small. Not like that.
January 9, 2017
Short meaningful poems
"Inna lillahi Wa inna ilaihi Rajioon.
My mother says no one can fight it, the body returning to God"
"Sofia used pigeon blood on her wedding night.
Next day, over the phone, she told me
how her husband smiled when he saw the sheets,
that he gathered them under his nose,
closed his eyes and dragged his tongue over the stain.
She mimicked his baritone, how he whispered
her name– Sofia,
pure, chaste, untouched."
"Inna lillahi Wa inna ilaihi Rajioon.
My mother says no one can fight it, the body returning to God"
"Sofia used pigeon blood on her wedding night.
Next day, over the phone, she told me
how her husband smiled when he saw the sheets,
that he gathered them under his nose,
closed his eyes and dragged his tongue over the stain.
She mimicked his baritone, how he whispered
her name– Sofia,
pure, chaste, untouched."
December 6, 2021
I first read this poetry collection in 2017 and wasn't overly impressed with it. I don't know what was wrong with me at the time but looking back at my old review (which I since replaced with this one), I have to seriously ask myself whether I even comprehended this collection back in the day. My original review made no sense and was largely false. Therefore, I am even more happy that I spontaneously decided to reread this collection. And damn, it was an experience.
Sex and relationships are often the centre of her poems. The women are desperate, they yearn for love, affection, pleasure. Instead they mainly receive violence, terror and rejection. But Warsan also talks about the trauma that war and having to flee one's home country brought upon the inflicted. What it means to be a refugee, the fear of deportation, the sense of not belonging, the despair of never being able to return.
All of these issues are woven into this very slim book of poetry. And somehow, Warsan makes it work. The collection doesn't feel overburdened by its themes. Rather, it feels urgent and crucial. Like I said before, some of the poems were extremely hard to read and elicited very visceral emotions from me. I had to shut my eyes, I felt like vomiting. It made me angry at all of the injustices and horrors that the women in Warsan's life had to face.
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:
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.
The poem is written in a stream of consciousness style which makes it all the more visceral and figurative. She describes how she feels that she is disappearing, that she is unwelcome, that her beauty is not beauty here. She feels shameful because she doesn't belong, because she is longing for her home country. She feels terror when she watches the news and has to witness from afar what is happening in her home country, she can't stand the looks on the street, the cold weather, the English classes at night. And yet she knows that she, having made it out, is in a privileged position compared to those who were forced to stay behind.
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:
I really have to admit that this collection blew me away. The poems are literally soooo good and Warsan's poetic voice left me fucking shook! I immediately wanted to order her other books of poetry but they are out of print???? I could literally cry! It is rare for me to love almost every single poem in a poetry collection but this is exactly what happened with Teaching My Mother How To Give Birth. Sure, some poems were more powerful than others but overall, there wasn't one bad apple. It's astounding!
I have my mother’s mouth and my father’s eyes; on my face they are still together.Teaching My Mother How To Give Birth sucked the air right out of lungs and felt like a sucker punch to my stomach. Whilst rereading this collection, I couldn't help but be absolutely drawn into it. Warsan wouldn't let me escape. I had to stand witness to her words. At one point, I wrote in my copy "THIS COLLECTION IS MESSED UP!" And messed up it is. And in some parts, extremely hard to stomach.
To my daughter I will say,Warsan Shire, born 1988 in Kenya, is a Somali poet and writer who is based in London. She uses her work and art to document narratives of journey and trauma. And so, in Teaching My Mother How To Give Birth, she works through various traumas as well. As her collection is mainly focused on herself and the women of her family (her mother, her sister, her grandmother, her friends she grew up with etc.), it deals a lot with rape, beauty standards, bulimia, expectations of chastity and (severe) domestic violence and abuse. It's also about relationships as a whole, varying from loving intimacy at old age ("Your grandparents often found themselves / in dark rooms, mapping out / each other's bodies, / claiming whole countries / with their mouths.") to cheating boyfriends and abusive husbands ("What do you mean he hit you? / Your father hit me all the time / but I never left him. / He pays the bills / and he comes home at night, / what more do you want?").
'when the men come, set yourself on fire'.
Sex and relationships are often the centre of her poems. The women are desperate, they yearn for love, affection, pleasure. Instead they mainly receive violence, terror and rejection. But Warsan also talks about the trauma that war and having to flee one's home country brought upon the inflicted. What it means to be a refugee, the fear of deportation, the sense of not belonging, the despair of never being able to return.
All of these issues are woven into this very slim book of poetry. And somehow, Warsan makes it work. The collection doesn't feel overburdened by its themes. Rather, it feels urgent and crucial. Like I said before, some of the poems were extremely hard to read and elicited very visceral emotions from me. I had to shut my eyes, I felt like vomiting. It made me angry at all of the injustices and horrors that the women in Warsan's life had to face.
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 "Birds", Warsan talks to her friend Sofia who tells her of her wedding night and how she used pigeon blood to prove her chastity. The poem has a humorous tone and shows the absurdity of this outdated practice of brides having to be virgins and needing to bleed on their wedding nights. After Sofia's husband saw the red sheets, he smiled and then "gathered them under his nose, / closed his eyes and dragged his tongue over the stain." That image, albeit weird, is also quite ironic because the reader knows that it's not Sofia's blood he's so lustfully smelling but that of a pigeon. Nonetheless, the poem ends on a bleak note, as Warsan views Sofia's newly acquired marital status as a form of bondage: "her arms fleshy wings bound to her body, / ignorant to flight."
his cheek a swollen drumlin, a vine scar dragging itself
across his mouth. You were with her, holding a bag
of dates to your chest, heard her let out a deep moan
when she saw how much you looked like him.
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,But by far my favorite section are the four poems that make up "Conversations About Home At The Deportation Centre". It's the longest piece of the collection and also the most powerful one. In it, Warsan negotiates the fact that she and her family have been driven out of their home country (Somalia) and had to flew to the West (England). The poem is brutal, honest, visceral. In it, she describes the sense of "longing, the missing, the memory of ash on their faces" that all refugees feel.
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.
No one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark.She describes the restlessness that most refugees and immigrants feel. Her anger when people ask her how she got here: "Can’t you see it on my body? The Libyan desert red with immigrant bodies, the Gulf of Aden bloated, the city of Rome with no jacket. [...] 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."
The poem is written in a stream of consciousness style which makes it all the more visceral and figurative. She describes how she feels that she is disappearing, that she is unwelcome, that her beauty is not beauty here. She feels shameful because she doesn't belong, because she is longing for her home country. She feels terror when she watches the news and has to witness from afar what is happening in her home country, she can't stand the looks on the street, the cold weather, the English classes at night. And yet she knows that she, having made it out, is in a privileged position compared to those who were forced to stay behind.
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.She will have to put up with people saying "go back to where you came from" or "fuck immigrants", but at the same time she doesn't understand the ignorance. In the last section of this brilliant poem, she asks herself if the people in the UK don't realise 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." Do they not understand that people don't flee out of fun? That it can hit everybody. The poem ends with the bleak words: "I'll see you on the other side."
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.Again, Warsan just finds the perfect words to make this scene come to life. She tells the woman: "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." Her history and the history of her people can be traced on the daughter's skin. The poem ends with the beautiful sentiment: "But God, / doesn't she wear / the world well?"
Why did you not warn her,
hold her like a rotting boat
and tell her that men will not love her
if she is covered in continents,
if her teeth are small colonies,
if her stomach is an island
if her thighs are borders?
What man wants to lie down
and watch the world burn
in his bedroom?
I really have to admit that this collection blew me away. The poems are literally soooo good and Warsan's poetic voice left me fucking shook! I immediately wanted to order her other books of poetry but they are out of print???? I could literally cry! It is rare for me to love almost every single poem in a poetry collection but this is exactly what happened with Teaching My Mother How To Give Birth. Sure, some poems were more powerful than others but overall, there wasn't one bad apple. It's astounding!
February 21, 2013
To my daughter I will say,
'when the men come, set yourself on fire'.
'when the men come, set yourself on fire'.
April 22, 2017
3.5 stars
This book was very informative, eye-opening, and interesting. I think I came out of it very shocked because I read books all about Kenya this past semester for school, so catching references about the country and Islam was very neat for me. A lot of these poems are super dark, so trigger warning for domestic violence and rape/sexual assault, but the haunting quality to them made them so addicting and tragic. I ended up reading some of these out loud to my (conservative) mom as she was cooking, and once I got to the poem "Conversations About Home (at the deportation center)," the room was as silent as a mic drop. Very influential writing, but the reason I give a lower rating is because, as far as poetry goes, it was pretty, but wasn't bursting at the seams with gorgeous, flowy textures of writing. It was enjoyable, but after reading Saul Williams who packs symbolism, metaphor, and impactful statements on every page, this read more like a story than a poem.
This book was very informative, eye-opening, and interesting. I think I came out of it very shocked because I read books all about Kenya this past semester for school, so catching references about the country and Islam was very neat for me. A lot of these poems are super dark, so trigger warning for domestic violence and rape/sexual assault, but the haunting quality to them made them so addicting and tragic. I ended up reading some of these out loud to my (conservative) mom as she was cooking, and once I got to the poem "Conversations About Home (at the deportation center)," the room was as silent as a mic drop. Very influential writing, but the reason I give a lower rating is because, as far as poetry goes, it was pretty, but wasn't bursting at the seams with gorgeous, flowy textures of writing. It was enjoyable, but after reading Saul Williams who packs symbolism, metaphor, and impactful statements on every page, this read more like a story than a poem.
April 2, 2022
ask me if i’m okay ( the answer will be no, not at all. )
January 8, 2015
I have my mother’s mouth and my father’s eyes; on my face they are still together."
And just like that, I was a goner.
And just like that, I was a goner.
April 3, 2016
Strangely beautiful!
OMG! This book went straight to my heart and and touched my soul because it was disturbing, painfully honest, strangely compelling and beautiful! Warsan Shire is my home girl and I can't wait to read all of her works.
OMG! This book went straight to my heart and and touched my soul because it was disturbing, painfully honest, strangely compelling and beautiful! Warsan Shire is my home girl and I can't wait to read all of her works.
April 9, 2018
“To my daughter I will say,
‘when the men come, set yourself on fire’.
– In Love and In War
I first came across Warsan Shire’s poetry through a review of her poem “The Kitchen” by African Soulja, which had the entire poem in it. The rawness between the present events, and the description food, created such a visual image that I knew I was going to love her writing. Her poetry has many similarities to most of my favourite slam poets, and it was only a manner of time before I got my hands on her book and read her poems out loud.
Shire uses this book to speak of matters that worry women, primarily in countries at war or that have experienced war, and with a current history of civil/humans rights violations. This includes the view that women are only worthy if they are virgins, all the way to the systematic rape of women as a weapon of war; while also adding the immigrant and refugee experience. What she does quite well is her contrast between scenes, in one hand giving you a half complete story, of the lives of these women, past and present, and the other half is made up of incoherent phrases that must be thought of in order to make them coherent, but that continue the story in a more obscure manner. Because of this, it was very reminiscent of Seam, another brilliant work.
A woman’s worth lies between her thighs: Even in a society like today, in a world in which we are suppose to be beyond such antiquated views, women are devalued for their sexuality. They are thought, not only by the opposite sex, but by their own, to be less than another if they are not virgins, or if they have committed anything remotely considered forbidden. What kind of lesson will we teach our children if these opinions won’t change?
“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.”
– Things We Had Lost in the Summer
Virginity or chastity does not have the same meaning to everyone, it simply doesn’t. There are people that deem it as the most wonderful attribute, and others that see it as a normal thing that is not a big deal, both are okay. The harm comes when one is deemed more worthy than the other. This is mostly based off of complex societal dynamics, familial relations, cultural backgrounds, politics, and so much more, but not, the “truth”. This is a part of what Shire is trying to show, she always gives two sides, but not really. We are given the view of the people putting the women down for it, or the ones committing crimes, or simply having such a view, via themselves or another side-character, and just afterwards we are shown the opinion of the one the story is being told through. This person is us, or at least I hope so. They place the value on the person, and their actions, rather than their sexual history. Sexual history does not really make a person, there are too many other factors.
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.
What it is like to be an immigrant, a refugee, forever running: During every point in the history of humanity, every race, culture, ethnicity, religion, has encountered a form of migration, voluntary or not. Back before time was recorded in paper, this necessary flight seemed to not be refuted, after all, there was war after war in every piece of land. Nowadays, not only is it always contended, but often fought against. As if now that some have made it, the others left behind are not deemed worthy of saving. What if you were in their place? Afraid to speak? To think? Worried that every breath could be your last. Warsan Shire dedicated a part of this collection to poetry conceived from her visit to refugees, and the stories they told her. These were my favourite tales.
“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. I tore up and ate my own passaport in an airport hotel. I’m bloated with language I can’t afford to forget. ”
– Conversations About Home (at the Deportation Centre)
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.
I know how hard it is to reach a safer heaven, I know the extent parents will go for their children, and when I see people being harassed for simply getting here in pieces, I wonder if it was better to risk their lives for a dream that might only keep them at bay but never will let them reach it.
“I thought the sea was safer than the land… Look at all these borders, foaming at the mouth with bodies broken and desperate.”
– Conversations About Home (at the Deportation Centre)
Tell me this does not remind you of all the refugees that have fled and are still fleeing from Syria, Somalia, Eritrea, Cuba, Mexico, China…
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.
Please give this book a read, there is much to be experienced through the pages. Her poems are also online, many of which are not in this collection, but which I am hoping will be published in other books by her.
ENJOY!!!
“I hear them say go home, I hear them say fucking immigrants, fucking refugees…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 Centre)
‘when the men come, set yourself on fire’.
– In Love and In War
I first came across Warsan Shire’s poetry through a review of her poem “The Kitchen” by African Soulja, which had the entire poem in it. The rawness between the present events, and the description food, created such a visual image that I knew I was going to love her writing. Her poetry has many similarities to most of my favourite slam poets, and it was only a manner of time before I got my hands on her book and read her poems out loud.
Shire uses this book to speak of matters that worry women, primarily in countries at war or that have experienced war, and with a current history of civil/humans rights violations. This includes the view that women are only worthy if they are virgins, all the way to the systematic rape of women as a weapon of war; while also adding the immigrant and refugee experience. What she does quite well is her contrast between scenes, in one hand giving you a half complete story, of the lives of these women, past and present, and the other half is made up of incoherent phrases that must be thought of in order to make them coherent, but that continue the story in a more obscure manner. Because of this, it was very reminiscent of Seam, another brilliant work.
A woman’s worth lies between her thighs: Even in a society like today, in a world in which we are suppose to be beyond such antiquated views, women are devalued for their sexuality. They are thought, not only by the opposite sex, but by their own, to be less than another if they are not virgins, or if they have committed anything remotely considered forbidden. What kind of lesson will we teach our children if these opinions won’t change?
“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.”
– Things We Had Lost in the Summer
Virginity or chastity does not have the same meaning to everyone, it simply doesn’t. There are people that deem it as the most wonderful attribute, and others that see it as a normal thing that is not a big deal, both are okay. The harm comes when one is deemed more worthy than the other. This is mostly based off of complex societal dynamics, familial relations, cultural backgrounds, politics, and so much more, but not, the “truth”. This is a part of what Shire is trying to show, she always gives two sides, but not really. We are given the view of the people putting the women down for it, or the ones committing crimes, or simply having such a view, via themselves or another side-character, and just afterwards we are shown the opinion of the one the story is being told through. This person is us, or at least I hope so. They place the value on the person, and their actions, rather than their sexual history. Sexual history does not really make a person, there are too many other factors.
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.
What it is like to be an immigrant, a refugee, forever running: During every point in the history of humanity, every race, culture, ethnicity, religion, has encountered a form of migration, voluntary or not. Back before time was recorded in paper, this necessary flight seemed to not be refuted, after all, there was war after war in every piece of land. Nowadays, not only is it always contended, but often fought against. As if now that some have made it, the others left behind are not deemed worthy of saving. What if you were in their place? Afraid to speak? To think? Worried that every breath could be your last. Warsan Shire dedicated a part of this collection to poetry conceived from her visit to refugees, and the stories they told her. These were my favourite tales.
“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. I tore up and ate my own passaport in an airport hotel. I’m bloated with language I can’t afford to forget. ”
– Conversations About Home (at the Deportation Centre)
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.
I know how hard it is to reach a safer heaven, I know the extent parents will go for their children, and when I see people being harassed for simply getting here in pieces, I wonder if it was better to risk their lives for a dream that might only keep them at bay but never will let them reach it.
“I thought the sea was safer than the land… Look at all these borders, foaming at the mouth with bodies broken and desperate.”
– Conversations About Home (at the Deportation Centre)
Tell me this does not remind you of all the refugees that have fled and are still fleeing from Syria, Somalia, Eritrea, Cuba, Mexico, China…
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.
Please give this book a read, there is much to be experienced through the pages. Her poems are also online, many of which are not in this collection, but which I am hoping will be published in other books by her.
ENJOY!!!
“I hear them say go home, I hear them say fucking immigrants, fucking refugees…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 Centre)
January 22, 2017
Yesterday was the Women’s March on DC, NYC, LA, the world, so I read this book of poems by London-based Somali poet Shires, visceral poetry, angry, passionate in every way. This 34 page book will be part of her first full length collection of poetry. Thanks to Liz Janet, whose great review led me to this book.
Here’s some lines and sections of poems from the book I liked a lot:
“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 have my mother’s mouth and my father’s eyes; on my face they are
still together.”
“I’m bloated with language I can’t afford to forget.”
“Now my mouth is the mouth of a shark, now my home is the barrel of a gun.”
“On the night of our secret wedding
when he held me in his mouth like a promise
until his tongue grew tired and fell asleep,
I lay awake to keep the memory alive.
In the morning I begged him back to bed.
Running late, he kissed my ankles and left.
I stayed like a secret in his bed for days
until his mother found me.
I showed her my gold ring,
I stood in front of her naked,
waved my hands in her face.
She sank to the floor and cried.
At his funeral, no one knew my name.
I sat behind his aunts,
they sucked on dates soaked in oil.
The last thing he tasted was me.”
“To my daughter I will say, ‘When the men come, set yourself on fire.’”
Here’s some lines and sections of poems from the book I liked a lot:
“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 have my mother’s mouth and my father’s eyes; on my face they are
still together.”
“I’m bloated with language I can’t afford to forget.”
“Now my mouth is the mouth of a shark, now my home is the barrel of a gun.”
“On the night of our secret wedding
when he held me in his mouth like a promise
until his tongue grew tired and fell asleep,
I lay awake to keep the memory alive.
In the morning I begged him back to bed.
Running late, he kissed my ankles and left.
I stayed like a secret in his bed for days
until his mother found me.
I showed her my gold ring,
I stood in front of her naked,
waved my hands in her face.
She sank to the floor and cried.
At his funeral, no one knew my name.
I sat behind his aunts,
they sucked on dates soaked in oil.
The last thing he tasted was me.”
“To my daughter I will say, ‘When the men come, set yourself on fire.’”
September 8, 2014
He was sitting in the hospital parking lot
in a borrowed car, counting the windows
of the building, guessing which one
was glowing with his mistake.
Poetry is difficult, almost impossible to review. It's actually tempting to not review this collection of poems, to not rate it.
But I will...
The poetry I read is a bit of a mixed bag. I have collections by Rabbie Burns, Edgar Allen Poe, Banjo Patterson and e.e.cummings. I like what I like but there is poetry which I know is great that really doesn't do anything for me...Allen Ginsberg for example.
This collection is actually pretty good. I can see what Warsan Shire is saying...but she isn't saying it to me. I really felt a few of the poems but most washed over me.
So ignore my rating...buy the book...make up your own mind.
Read
March 14, 2022Anything that leaves her mouth sounds like sex. / Our mother has banned her from saying God’s name.
A short but hard-hitting collection. I love that the writing is almost simple, bordering on regular prose, but there’s still something lyrical imbued in it—personally one of my favorite styles of poetry! This was also my first time reading a poetry book entirely by audiobook and I enjoyed it; poetry is meant to be read aloud and hearing these words spoken from the author herself made the poems even more impactful.
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 the chapbook are in this 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 the chapbook are in this 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.
May 8, 2021
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.
(from "trying to swim with god")
The instructor tells us that the longest
a human being has held their breath under water
is 19 minutes and 21 seconds. At home in the bath,
my hair swells to the surface like vines, I stay submerged
until I can no longer stand it, think of all the things
I have allowed to slip through my fingers.
(from "trying to swim with god")
September 8, 2015
Find this and other Reviews at InToriLex
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
Poetry has an amazing ability to reach you in ways nothing else does. Her poetry brings her pro-feminist views un-apologetically forward. If you would like to read more poetry or are intrigued by the words, definitely check Warsan Shire out, she's amazing and I'm in awe of her talent.
"I have my mother's mouth and my fathers eyes, on my face they are still together."
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
Poetry has an amazing ability to reach you in ways nothing else does. Her poetry brings her pro-feminist views un-apologetically forward. If you would like to read more poetry or are intrigued by the words, definitely check Warsan Shire out, she's amazing and I'm in awe of her talent.
February 9, 2017
When We Last Saw Your Father
He was sitting in the hospital parking lot
in a borrowed car, counting the windows
of the building, guessing which one
was glowing with his mistake.
Don’t you love it when literature graps you tight and doesn’t let go? Warsan Shire’s bold, beautiful poetry does exactly that. When you are reading this book it feels like the woman is sitting close to you, holding your hand and telling you, with burning eyes and a sharp tongue, her own life story. With her striking words Shire addresses topics like feminism and family bonds, but also the (recent) refugee crisis and female sexuality.
It's 4 a.m. and my older sister 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.
My favourite poems are Things We Lost in the Summer, Birds, Ugly and Old Spice, but the greatest impact have the short pieces of prose labelled Conversations about Home (at the Deportation Center). Each piece reads like a protest, an outcry, like a way to give the thousands of immigrants and refugees a voice to tell their story. In our current political climate many people see refugees as a (terrorism) threat and refuse to give them a chance, but Shire's words cut so deep that you can’t turn a deaf ear to them.
Look at all these borders, foaming at the mouth with bodies broken and desperate. I’m the colour of hot sun on the 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.
The only reason why I won’t give this poetry collection 5 stars is because I think the book would have made a bigger impact if it hadn’t contained so many different topics. However, Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth (what a gorgeous title) is a book with poems that often rocked me to my core, and so it’s one I definitely recommend. One a last note: look Shire up on Youtube, because her words are just as powerful spoken out loud as written on a page.
To my daughter I will say,
‘When the men come, set yourself on fire.’
He was sitting in the hospital parking lot
in a borrowed car, counting the windows
of the building, guessing which one
was glowing with his mistake.
Don’t you love it when literature graps you tight and doesn’t let go? Warsan Shire’s bold, beautiful poetry does exactly that. When you are reading this book it feels like the woman is sitting close to you, holding your hand and telling you, with burning eyes and a sharp tongue, her own life story. With her striking words Shire addresses topics like feminism and family bonds, but also the (recent) refugee crisis and female sexuality.
It's 4 a.m. and my older sister 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.
My favourite poems are Things We Lost in the Summer, Birds, Ugly and Old Spice, but the greatest impact have the short pieces of prose labelled Conversations about Home (at the Deportation Center). Each piece reads like a protest, an outcry, like a way to give the thousands of immigrants and refugees a voice to tell their story. In our current political climate many people see refugees as a (terrorism) threat and refuse to give them a chance, but Shire's words cut so deep that you can’t turn a deaf ear to them.
Look at all these borders, foaming at the mouth with bodies broken and desperate. I’m the colour of hot sun on the 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.
The only reason why I won’t give this poetry collection 5 stars is because I think the book would have made a bigger impact if it hadn’t contained so many different topics. However, Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth (what a gorgeous title) is a book with poems that often rocked me to my core, and so it’s one I definitely recommend. One a last note: look Shire up on Youtube, because her words are just as powerful spoken out loud as written on a page.
To my daughter I will say,
‘When the men come, set yourself on fire.’
January 7, 2017
Last night in bed I swear I thought my body was on fire.
What a lovely and eloquent little book. The tone, subject matter, and emotion in this one really stands out among the numerous modern poetry collections.
What a lovely and eloquent little book. The tone, subject matter, and emotion in this one really stands out among the numerous modern poetry collections.
January 8, 2015
The poem
Ugly
is beautiful, definitely a favorite.
July 10, 2016
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 one poem in this collection, prepubescent girls hugging each other are described as "waifs with bird chests clinking like wood." Avian imagery resurfaces in a later poem, wherein a bride tricks her husband and in-laws into believing she is a virgin by smearing "pigeon blood" on her bedsheets: the duped mother-in-law is imagined the next morning as "parading / these siren sheets through the town, // waving at balconies, torso swollen with pride, / her arms fleshy wings bound to her body, / ignorant of flight." End poem. Mic drop.
Marriages are depicted over and over as battlefields, rife with acts of violence and deception, fire and blood and bruises and brute cruelty. In one poem, a woman is "visited / by her husband's lover," who not only informs her verbally that her husband has been unfaithful, but goes so far as to "parade / her naked body in the couple's kitchen, / lifting her dress to expose breasts / mottled with small fleshy marks, / a back sucked and bruised." (That word "parade" again: public life and private life ever intermixing.) The wife's response to this provocation (which I shan't give away here) is equally, if not more, emblematic of emotional excess. These poems are largely about women, women using their agency in ways good, bad, and ugly.
In Shire's writing, sex imagery bleeds into the imagery of war/refugee life, and vice versa: war metaphors are used to describe sex just as often as sex metaphors are used to describe war. A war refugee in one poem laments, "I want to lay down, but these countries are like uncles who touch you when you're young and asleep." The poem continues: "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; the next you are a tremor lying on the floor...." This poem ends with another powerful mic drop: "All I can say is, I was once like you, the apathy, the pity.... I'll see you on the other side."
In one poem in this collection, prepubescent girls hugging each other are described as "waifs with bird chests clinking like wood." Avian imagery resurfaces in a later poem, wherein a bride tricks her husband and in-laws into believing she is a virgin by smearing "pigeon blood" on her bedsheets: the duped mother-in-law is imagined the next morning as "parading / these siren sheets through the town, // waving at balconies, torso swollen with pride, / her arms fleshy wings bound to her body, / ignorant of flight." End poem. Mic drop.
Marriages are depicted over and over as battlefields, rife with acts of violence and deception, fire and blood and bruises and brute cruelty. In one poem, a woman is "visited / by her husband's lover," who not only informs her verbally that her husband has been unfaithful, but goes so far as to "parade / her naked body in the couple's kitchen, / lifting her dress to expose breasts / mottled with small fleshy marks, / a back sucked and bruised." (That word "parade" again: public life and private life ever intermixing.) The wife's response to this provocation (which I shan't give away here) is equally, if not more, emblematic of emotional excess. These poems are largely about women, women using their agency in ways good, bad, and ugly.
In Shire's writing, sex imagery bleeds into the imagery of war/refugee life, and vice versa: war metaphors are used to describe sex just as often as sex metaphors are used to describe war. A war refugee in one poem laments, "I want to lay down, but these countries are like uncles who touch you when you're young and asleep." The poem continues: "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; the next you are a tremor lying on the floor...." This poem ends with another powerful mic drop: "All I can say is, I was once like you, the apathy, the pity.... I'll see you on the other side."
October 3, 2016
My god, Warsan Shire writes beautiful poetry! And I mean it when I say that. This is beautiful poetry. Brutally beautiful.
I'm just going to quote some of the lines here that I found to be the most beautiful.
"Your grandfather's hands were brown.
Your grandmother kissed each knuckle,
circled an island into his palm
and told him which parts they would share,
which parts they would leave alone.
She wet a finger to draw where the ocean would be
on his wrist, kissed him there,
named the ocean after herself."
"...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."
"I tore up and ate my own passport in an airport hotel. I'm bloated with language I can't afford to forget."
"His face is a photograph left out in the sun,
the henna of his beard, the silver of his eyebrows
the wilted handkerchief, the kufi and the cane.
Your grandfather is dying,
He begs you Take me home yaqay,
I just want to see it one last time;
you don't know how to tell him that it won't be
anything like the way he left it."
And these are probably my favourite lines:
"You are her mother.
Why did you not warn her,
hold her like a rotting boat
and tell her that men will not love her
if she is covered in continents,
if her teeth are small colonies,
if her stomach is an island
if her thighs are borders?
What man wants to lie down
and watch the world burn
in his bedroom?"
I'm just going to quote some of the lines here that I found to be the most beautiful.
"Your grandfather's hands were brown.
Your grandmother kissed each knuckle,
circled an island into his palm
and told him which parts they would share,
which parts they would leave alone.
She wet a finger to draw where the ocean would be
on his wrist, kissed him there,
named the ocean after herself."
"...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."
"I tore up and ate my own passport in an airport hotel. I'm bloated with language I can't afford to forget."
"His face is a photograph left out in the sun,
the henna of his beard, the silver of his eyebrows
the wilted handkerchief, the kufi and the cane.
Your grandfather is dying,
He begs you Take me home yaqay,
I just want to see it one last time;
you don't know how to tell him that it won't be
anything like the way he left it."
And these are probably my favourite lines:
"You are her mother.
Why did you not warn her,
hold her like a rotting boat
and tell her that men will not love her
if she is covered in continents,
if her teeth are small colonies,
if her stomach is an island
if her thighs are borders?
What man wants to lie down
and watch the world burn
in his bedroom?"
June 13, 2016
I only opened the book to take a peek
And then I only moved to sit more comfortably as I read
Poetry of all the senses and the emotions and the feelings
April 8, 2020
Short, but oh so powerful!
September 16, 2014
“I glow the way unwanted things do, a neon sign that reads; come, I still taste like someone else’s mouth.”
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 book is amazing. Warsan Shires work is amazing, and some of her poems in this book made me tear up and wonder at how we all have ths same words, but only a special group of people can craft and place them so beautifully that the truth and emotions of them make you ache.
Two of my favourite poems by her are not in this book. But i reccommend everyone looks up "34 excuses as to why we failed at love" and "For women who are difficult to love". Simply amazing. I will keep this book and give it to my Daughter one day because I think it lets us all know that we are not alone.
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 book is amazing. Warsan Shires work is amazing, and some of her poems in this book made me tear up and wonder at how we all have ths same words, but only a special group of people can craft and place them so beautifully that the truth and emotions of them make you ache.
Two of my favourite poems by her are not in this book. But i reccommend everyone looks up "34 excuses as to why we failed at love" and "For women who are difficult to love". Simply amazing. I will keep this book and give it to my Daughter one day because I think it lets us all know that we are not alone.
December 6, 2016
I'm no prude when it comes to poetry and literature. If sexual content is written well and/or advances the story, it's fine. It's especially welcomed and expected within poetry, where it's written from someone's perspective and experience. I am a big fan of Nayyirah Waheed and Rupi Kaur, both of which who write frequently about sex, abuse, rape, etc. Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth felt dirty, though. It felt vulgar. It left me with a bad taste in my mouth. It's hard to write that given that poetry IS written from someone's perspective and experience. Perhaps I'm meant to have a bad taste in my mouth, because life can leave a bad taste in your mouth. For me though, this was one book I wouldn't have read had I known the way in which it was written.
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