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Manchester City of Literature invited our fellow Cities of Literature to nominate a poet to respond to Anjum Malik, a Manchester Multilingual City Poet who writes in Urdu and English, who started the chain poem with a four-line stanza on the theme of childhood home.
Reflecting on the power of family (and all the forms that this takes), native languages and memory, eight international poets responded to produce this stunning poem which captures the rich nuances of the poets’ lived childhoods.
The participating poets and the cities they represent are:
Please enjoy this beautiful multilingual poem below (with an English translation underneath)
پیارکےدن
اپنی ٹرائی سائیکل پر ساحل سمندر ایک جھلک خلیج فارس اور رب الخالی صحرا
کے درمیان وسیع لامتناہی میرے والدین کی محبت میرے بچپن کے گھر ایک جھپک
چاندنی چوک پنڈی مانسون گرم بارش اپنی بہنوں کا پیچھا ہم سارۓ پھسلتے ہوے
گیلے برآمدے کی ٹائلیں امی ڈیڈی پکایں ہمارا پسندیدہ حلوہ پوری چنے باہر چولھۓ پر
انجم ملک
Pōkai ai te whānau i te nuku roa o Te Ika a Māui, hei whai atu i te pito mata, i whakatōngia ki te whakapūmau i te kawe i tō rātou kāwai, rātou mā e mīharo nei ki ōku iwi manawaroa e kaingākaunui ana ki te ahikā, ko tō tōku ūkaipō reo karanga, hoki mai ki tō kāinga, ko te hāpai ō te kawe e korowai nei i ō tātou ringawera e mau tonu nei ki tō tātou wai pounamu.
Waiariki Parata-Taiapa, Dunedin
Ich sitze im Ahornbaum, meinem Freund, und lasse mich von den Ästen wiegen. Oma backt traurigen Kuchen in Jiddisch; aber in der Schule – da sprechen wir Deutsch. Ich esse den Kuchen und kann niemandem davon erzählen, weil der Geschmack von Omas jiddischem Kuchen mit keiner Vokabel übersetzt werden kann.
Ramona Ambs, Heidelberg
Głosy unoszą się nad pomidorową z ryżem, na trawie obok stołu kosze czereśni, rozmowa toczy się o wszystkim i o niczym, to co zasialiśmy wczesną wiosną wyrosło i zakwitło. Na niebie zawijają pętle szpaki, zerkając zazdrośnie na zebrane owoce, te odważniejsze szeleszczą w liściach drzew tuż nad naszymi głowami, czekając na dobry moment.
Agata Masłowska, Edinburgh
paduvihmas hoovis ükshaaval koju tilkuvate lastega võib alata su esimene lasteaiapäev aga esimesest mälestusest kuuleme vaid siis kui ka sina need lombid enda kehamällu pritsisid
Sirel Heinloo, Tartu
Vi zinnen danne tsungen? Dort, tsuzamengepakt in ayn lokh. Vi iz daan keyver? Dort, tseshmetert in der kirkh, di ferme, di vent. Un do, kalye gemakht un shlufendik in maan laib, in dem land. Du bist do; zingendik un shvitzendik in maan moyl, in maane hent.
Moss Selkin, Nottingham
Ese día se abre hacia mí como una casa / El tiempo es piel tatuada en mi memoria y todas las veces que corrí hacia ti, hermano escucha la lluvia las fotografías que nos tomamos se ven ahora reflejadas en cada una de las gotas que caen desde el cielo
Magdalena Portillo, Montevideo
[咚咚咚] ⼩时候，我家、爷爷奶奶家、⼤舅⼆舅⼤姨家都住楼房 这些楼房都长得差不多，都有同样的铁栏杆⼉门，声控的楼梯灯 移民后，我常常会写⼀些思念家乡的诗，但是⾥⾯没有红墙绿⽡，没有炸酱⾯，也没有 ⾖汁和“吃了吗您” 因为灰⾊的⽔泥⼤楼⾥住着我最爱的⼈，他们爬楼梯时的跺脚声是我最有诗意的回忆
Ren Jiang, Melbourne
— ось які сни ми бачимо тепер серед незліченних маршрутів серед доріг які ведуть у всі місця світу але не додому ось які спогади носимо у валізах та наплічниках і дістаємо їх холодними ночами аби зігріти замерзлі долоні й вигаслі серця
Rostyslav Kuzyk, Lviv
riding along the beach on my tricycle a glimpse nestled between the persian gulf and rub al khali desert vast endless my parents love my childhood homes a blink chandni chowk pindi warm monsoon rain chasing my sisters sliding slipping wet veranda tiles ammi daddy cook alfresco our favourite halwa puri chana on the chula
Anjum Malik, Manchester
Family trips scaling Māui’s great fish re-tracing kūmara seeds sown to encompass my bearing of their memory who savour in my supple bones warm to the home fires etched to my mother’s tongue of welcome-home dishes and tea towels become garments that dress our hot hands and linger still in our greenstone mouths
I sit in the maple tree – it’s my friend – and let the branches rock me. Grandma bakes sad cake in Yiddish, but in school we speak German. I eat the cake and can’t tell anyone about it, because there is no word to translate the taste of Grandma’s Yiddish cake.
The voices rise over the tomato soup with rice, on the grass next to the table – baskets of cherries, the conversation is about everything and nothing, all we sowed in early spring has grown and bloomed. In the sky starlings fly in circles, glancing at the picked fruit with jealousy, the more courageous of them rustle in tree leaves just over our heads, waiting for the right moment.
in the pouring rain in the courtyard, the children dribbling off home one by one this may be how your first day at kindergarten starts but about your first memory we shall hear only if you too have splashed these puddles all over your body memory
Where are your tongues? There, packed together in one hole. Where is your grave? There, shattered in the church, the farm, the walls. And here, ruined and sleeping in my body, in this land. You are here, singing and sweating in my mouth, in my hands.
That day opens to me like a house/ Time is skin tattooed on my memory And all the times I ran to you, brother, listen to the rain. the photographs we took are now reflected in each of the drops that fall from the sky
[boomboomboom] When I was little, we lived in apartment blocks, and so did my grandparents, my uncles, and my aunt. These apartments pretty much all looked the same, with the same metal-barred doors, the sound-activated hallway lights Since migrating, I often write poems about missing home, but they don’t include colourful traditional buildings, or Zha Jiang noodles, or fermented bean juice, or the phrase “have you eaten yet?” Because the people I love most live in grey concrete buildings—the stomping sound they make when climbing the stairs is my most poetic memory
Those are the dreams that we see now among uncountable roads that lead us to all world’s places But not home Those are the dreams that we carry in suitcases and backpacks To be taken out during cold nights To warm up frozen hands and faded hearts
@mcrcityoflit we can finally announce that Words From the Childhood Home, a beautiful #multilingual chain poem created by 9 UNESCO #CitiesofLit for International #motherlanguageday is now on display in Manchester Central Library!!! #mcrimld23 ♬ Welcome home Radical Face – 34,817 reasons to smile <3
we can finally announce that Words From the Childhood Home, a beautiful #multilingual chain poem created by 9 UNESCO #CitiesofLit for International #motherlanguageday is now on display in Manchester Central Library!!! #mcrimld23
♬ Welcome home Radical Face – 34,817 reasons to smile <3
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