Shamsrumi: What is the process of writing a poem like for you? Is it a lot of hard
work or easy?
I used to start with a line and then the rest of the poem would come spilling
out of me. Now a blank page is daunting. I feel self-conscious about the white
space on a page. Words don’t come to me as naturally as they used to. I worry
that I have exhausted my word bank, the metaphors I keep returning to again and
again. I find myself needing a break from words, from the poems crowding my
head and refusing to be written out of me.
Shamsrumi: Please describe your sense of identity in this or any possible world in
imagery or metaphor?
Ashry: I always think of myself as a twisted tongue, a mispronounced name. My
name is Arabic for winner and it has always felt like a demand. My mouth misses
Arabic, but the language eludes me. I’m the in-between place, the collision of
Arabic and English, home and exile.
Shamsrumi: If any of your poems could literarily save a person’s life, which poem
would it be and can you describe the person whose life you think it would have
Ashry: I wrote a poem called “banat” a couple of years ago. I wrote the poem
for the young queer me who felt lost and lonely in her queerness. I thought
about all the beautiful people living in parts of the world where queer people
are criminalized and stigmatized. The poem offers a message of hope and
comfort, that queerness holds a future worth fighting for.
people like us
carry a different kind of///// severed tongue
a different kind of severing
it's different you know it's different
where we come from
it's always hide and seek looks
you love and that love is always a knife to
it was the name /// the barbed wire
يا رب يا رب يا رب
you know it by the curse it was given to us
I’m sure if you know I'm sure you
have one or two names that you prayed
for prayed in
and your tongue
can show the same scars that mine does
maybe the same lines
deserve mouths full and holy mouths
soft and whole I can roll your rrrrrrr and you
can roll mine
I lost my name and chose a future I
know you have too and I don’t have to
translate for you
you know the name
they took when they stamped your passport
11,661 was our chant, our refrain
I know the taste of being an abomination and you
Konya Shamsrumi: What does Africa mean to you, as potential or reality?
Ashry: Africa is my mother and father. Africa is a complicated home and a
language I lost my fluency in. Africa is my beginning and end.
Shamsrumi: Could you share with us one poem you’ve been most impressed or
fascinated by? Tell us why and share favorite lines from it.
Ashry: Safia Elhillo, in her “to make use of water”, reminds me that speaking
two languages can sometimes mean losing two languages. She lists words she has
forgotten in Arabic and in English, words that might seem unimportant or mundane
but that create whole vocabularies. She says “back home we are plagued by
politeness”, giving me a new perspective on the ways in which the idioms and
platitudes that make up Arabic dialects create feelings of both respect and
Rabha Ashry is Egyptian, from Abu Dhabi, and based in Chicago. A New York University Abu Dhabi graduate, she has recently completed an MFA in Writing at School of the Arts Institute of Chicago. She writes about exile, the diaspora, and living between languages. Her work has been published in the Oyez review, Collected 2018, Airport Road, Electra Street, and Strange Horizons. She is the 2020 recipient of the Brunel International African Poetry Prize.
Richard Ali is a Nigerian writer whose poems were first published in 2008. He has served in the National EXCO of the Association of Nigerian Authors and sits on the board of Uganda’s Babishai Niwe Poetry Foundation. A member of the Jalada Writers Cooperative based in Nairobi, his work has been published in African Writing, Jalada, Saraba Magazine and elsewhere. The Anguish and Vigilance of Things is his debut collection, was published in 2020. He practices Law in Abuja, Nigeria.