I Am Not From Here

Amerah Saleh

• Publisher: Verve Poetry Press
• Year: 2019
• Print ISBN: 9781912565016
• eBook ISBN: 9781912565702
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Poetry
• Index: Literature

This book has taken a long time writing. Amerah has long been a fundamental part of the burgeoning Birmingham poetry scene – producing, mentoring, making things happen in the city. She is a wise old poetry head in the body of a young woman. She has rarely put her own incredible poetry first.

And yet here it is, in book form at last.

I Am Not From Here is a collection that twists and turns through the complexities of being Birmingham born but of Yemeni decent and culture; of being Muslim in a city of mixed faiths and in a country of little faith; of spending time in Yemen only to find that as a result you are refused entry to other countries and have forgotten how to live in yours; of losing loved ones too young (and when are we ever old enough for that?); of being split between the language and words of two tongues, and often finding that neither has the words you need; of facing hatred for acts that were none of your doing, and inner turmoil as your mind and body seek the solace and comfort of belonging to enable you to turn and face the world.

This book contains and engages with all this. That it doesn't burst is down to the unique and unifying voice of Amerah's poetry. Brimming with emotion, anger, frustration, grief and love – the beauty of the imagery, the often breath-taking turns of phrase, the soaring imagination, the gently woven structure, all help to turn the torments and confusion of a fractured experience into something unique and compelling. Amerah, against so many odds, has achieved something whole here – a complete and vibrant piece of work.

A consummate performer of great skill and passion, we know that hearing Amerah read these poems will take them to another level again. We can hardly wait!

Home // Yemen

Donald Trump

There is an empty solid sharp feeling that sits in the

top of my stomach,

sometimes my throat and other times in my chest.

That feeling of absolute numbness,

helplessness,

rejection.

Like black holes.

Like black holes falling into the palm of my hand

and I’m trying so hard to put them back into the sky

one

by

one.

I want them to be stars again.

My country stands on one long thread that starts in

America,

travels to Iran

and ends in Saudi Arabia.

There is a tower that has fallen on my shoulders.

It has burnt my skin,

shot me out of a dream I was so deep into for so

long.

You do not sympathise with the pain inside me,

Of being denied the soil that my mother played in as

a child.

Or

of being denied access because my mother played as

a child.

My heart.

My heart wants to fight so badly,

run away and die fighting for it.

The activist in me says go.

The realist in me says who am I?

I am merely a stone that is thrown by 10-year-old

Palestinians at an Israel Embassy

landing just an inch away from where it’s meant to

be.

I am nothing.

Nothing.

I am no one.

Not even a fly on the wall of an abandoned school.

Not even a fly near 6-month-old rubbish.

Not even a citizen of Yemen.

But still,

I am rejected.

I guess The American Embassy realised the ‘h’ at the

end of my name isn’t actually silent…

It’s Arabic.

They split me open like Moses did with the Red Sea.

They don’t know inside me.

I hide parts of

Exodus

and

parts of

Surat 26 Chapter 17.

Sometimes in public spaces I speak my mother’s

tongue.

Not mine,

my mothers,

To remind others I am made up of old furniture from

my mum’s house in Aden

wrapped in headscarves like my Nan would as though

she was ready for war

Like

Ta3aly Amerah, Wallah at’hadeek, ki3ar.

Other times,

I catch myself in the shower trying to scrub off the

smell of bakour so I can fit in.

Or

I catch myself picking my most surface level poems in

English so they can say I am western.

In England they tell me how much I don’t belong,

how my hair grows funny,

my skin not the right black or white they are used to,

a little too in between.

They tell me I’m affiliated with those kinds of people.

You know,

those kinds of people.

The ones who speak Islam ...

I drown myself in ignorance because I am too tired of

fighting to fit in when in fact

I really don’t want to.

Inty mish min hina they say,

Inty Britannia,

Ya3ni ma ti3rify arabi sawa,

Kalamik mukasar

Inty engleezia

I stay silent because I do not belong, yet I want to.

My mother cannot go home.

Neither can I.

Home isn’t Yemen.

Home isn’t here, either.

They made sure I knew that I did not belong,

Not here,

nor there …

and now I am in between somewhere I could consider

home.

So I’m searching for home but maybe I’ll never find it

in places.

Maybe god doesn’t want me to get attached to

brickwork because he knows

it’ll only hurt when it no longer is there.

When the gorgeous woman-like mountains...

Table of contents

• Cover
• About the Author
• Copyright
• Dedications:
• Contents
• I Am Not From Here
• 1993
• 1996
• 2002
• 2004
• 2007
• 2009
• 2011
• 2014
• 2016
• 2017
• 2018
• Grief // Heartbreak
• Home // Yemen
• Womxn // Identity
• Love // Heartbreak
• Glossary of Arabic Words & Phrases
• Thank-you. Strap In.
• About Verve Poetry Press