Poem written for a possible reader in another country
Bhanu Kapil
1990. Entry point: Heathrow. Two boys.
No other way out. Handed yourself in.
Asylum-seeker. New name to get used to.
New weather to complain about.
London is a fresh calamity.
A life without cardamom in your tea is not one worth living.
Welcome to the desperate gloss of discount stores.
The burden of Bakewell tarts.
Our great land. Very green. Extremely pleasant.
You escaped into recession & riots.
Into detonated towers & Irish accents
turned away at the door. More was to come.
Imported rugs & kids going cunch.
England will always keep you guessing.
In your head, your bags are still packed.
Dreamland! Your torments are so prosaic.
Cynicism turns us into locals.
Our dreams will soon be entirely monolingual.
Turn the heating off.
We’re not made of money.
We weren’t made to endure either.
On the FM, a pop star crumples your expectations.
An insect shattered under a heel.
Her skull is a ballpoint pen.
She sings of Madame George & bleeding roses.
What it means to dig your own grave.
You won’t know until you know it in your bones.
You wish she would shut up.
Never perfectly suited, you made the best of it.
Came with nothing & still have nothing to show for it.
Your patience is adhesive.
Your children will grow up to appreciate arthouse films.
They will pay to not understand what is going on.
A fair trade. A brilliant exchange.
Skint. Overworked. Lavish laughter.
Heavy plastic bags dig grooves into hands.
Minnow boiling in the soup of luxury real estate.
Everywhere, an argument wages about you, around you.
Your pain is agreed upon like ice cream on a hot day.
Small joys & smaller mercies.
You are trying to survive the clutter of a life you chose without choice.
You will get so good at this, you won’t even notice the bruises.
No other way out. Handed yourself in.
Asylum-seeker. New name to get used to.
New weather to complain about.
London is a fresh calamity.
A life without cardamom in your tea is not one worth living.
Welcome to the desperate gloss of discount stores.
The burden of Bakewell tarts.
Our great land. Very green. Extremely pleasant.
You escaped into recession & riots.
Into detonated towers & Irish accents
turned away at the door. More was to come.
Imported rugs & kids going cunch.
England will always keep you guessing.
In your head, your bags are still packed.
Dreamland! Your torments are so prosaic.
Cynicism turns us into locals.
Our dreams will soon be entirely monolingual.
Turn the heating off.
We’re not made of money.
We weren’t made to endure either.
On the FM, a pop star crumples your expectations.
An insect shattered under a heel.
Her skull is a ballpoint pen.
She sings of Madame George & bleeding roses.
What it means to dig your own grave.
You won’t know until you know it in your bones.
You wish she would shut up.
Never perfectly suited, you made the best of it.
Came with nothing & still have nothing to show for it.
Your patience is adhesive.
Your children will grow up to appreciate arthouse films.
They will pay to not understand what is going on.
A fair trade. A brilliant exchange.
Skint. Overworked. Lavish laughter.
Heavy plastic bags dig grooves into hands.
Minnow boiling in the soup of luxury real estate.
Everywhere, an argument wages about you, around you.
Your pain is agreed upon like ice cream on a hot day.
Small joys & smaller mercies.
You are trying to survive the clutter of a life you chose without choice.
You will get so good at this, you won’t even notice the bruises.
Momtaza Mehri is a poet and researcher working across criticism, education, and radio. A former Young People’s Poet Laureate for London, she is the current Poet-in-Residence at Homerton College, Cambridge. Her debut collection, Bad Diaspora Poems, won the 2023 Forward Prize for Best First Collection, as well as an Eric Gregory Prize and a Somerset Maugham Award.
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