Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth (Mouthmark): 10

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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.”

In 2010 she obtained a Bachelor of Arts in Creative Writing and one year later she released Teaching My Mother How To Give Birth, a poetry pamphlet. For her publication she chose flipped eye publishing, which publishes original poetry and prose on a not-for-profit model. This approach has allowed flipped eye to focus on developing new writers with potential, thus facilitating the emergence of truly unique literary talent.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. Poet, activist, editor and teacher, Warsan Shire is a spoken-word artist whose poetry, usually performed publicly, connects gender, war, sex and cultural assumptions, giving a voice to the displaced and acting as a healing agent for the trauma of exile and suffering. Her best known poem, Home, has touched a nerve among people and helped understanding of the refugee crisis. Did you tell people that songs weren’t the same as a warm body or a soft mouth? 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.” 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,

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. 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.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. PDF / EPUB File Name: Teaching_My_Mother_How_to_Give_Birth_-_Warsan_Shire.pdf, Teaching_My_Mother_How_to_Give_Birth_-_Warsan_Shire.epub stability is like a lover with a sweet mouth upon your body one second; the next you are a tremor lying on the floor covered in rubble and old currency waiting for its return.”

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 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 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. New ideas and activities to involve your students in presenting and debating mindfully in English Lessons

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. Here you can think of all the hurtful names you can call cancer, and it wouldn't stop killing. It wouldn't stop taking. My mother would grow to erase the memory of her biological mother, adopting her grandmother as her mother, the amnesia ran deep that she referred (and still) to her mother by her first name. On the occasional holiday visits her mother would pay, the relationship grew corrosive and volatile, with shouting be the normal mode of communication.

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 debut 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. Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth by Warsan Shire – eBook Details of 5 stars 2 of 5 stars 3 of 5 stars 4 of 5 stars 5 of 5 stars Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth by Warsan Shire It rarely got physical, but the emotional wounds grew gangrenous as years went by especially because every part of my body got sensitive to the words and behaviour. I stopped attempting to confide in her. The sense of being unable to trust the woman whose body formed me added to my depression. I felt mentally displaced, as if I was navigating the world without a GPS. My god, Warsan Shire writes beautiful poetry! And I mean it when I say that. This is beautiful poetry. Brutally beautiful. 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.

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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. What we never see, however, is how it makes some people’s minds fidget and hearts sink, including my own. For me, Mother’s Day is revisiting the five stages of emotional distress, yearning yet mourning the perfect mother-daughter relationship that never was. 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. 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,