Three poems from I don’t know what language I dream in by Taher Adel, published by Burning Eye Books in September 2023
I don’t know what language I dream in
My mother speaks to me only in Arabic
because you’ll learn English in school.
But when did I lose my mother tongue?
Was it when I first visited my homeland
and had to translate words back to English
or was it when I saw my mum crying to a eulogy
and felt nothing?
If your mother tongue is no more,
does that make your tongue an orphan?
Is that why I don’t know what language I dream in?
Did you know Arabic has eleven words for love
and over one hundred words for camel
but no word for someone who has lost his mother tongue?
Beijerinck’s Law
“Everything is everywhere, but the environment selects.”
Martinus Beijerinck
like fern spores we ride the earth’s breath
settling even in the most uninhabitable places
the soil takes one look at us and lobs us out
we fly again
until the wintertime taunts us but we defrost
eventually bearing life that is pulled
from root for not being endemic enough
we fly again
until we camouflage with the native foliage
until our green is measured for assimilation
until they realise we are not green but brown
we fly again
until the winds no longer call our name
until the houses become our houses
and the soil becomes our soil
until everything is everywhere
Sing back the lost notes
Today is one of those days where
I wish I could claw back time
and crawl back
into my ancestors’ bodies,
walk where their feet have walked,
all robe and all sandal.
I want my home sun
to sing back the lost notes
found in my sleeping melanin.
I want to look up at a palm tree,
count the dates like an unopened
advent calendar.
I’m tired of all things Gregorian.
I want to surrender
my days to the moon
and know its phases just like it
memorises our changing faces.
I want to remove my tongue
like a wingless bird,
unclasping my native stutters.
I want to hatch a new one
in the nest of my ancestors.
I want to see old souls hurry
to the sound of prayer.
I want to hear minarets compete
with one another,
quaking birds of dawn.
I want to smell the sea upon waking
like a scented baptism,
a wash of the soul
drawing me close to the shore.
I want to climb into a boat like one
would climb out of a nightmare.
