There should be a word for a sparrow’s last arc of flight before its body crashes in a fatal
percussion against the damp glass.
In urdu: qurbat, قربت.There should be a word for when blue goes from powder to midnight. From
sea to vein. From origin to eclipse.
Scherezade Siobhan, Radius
Because moon.
Because ruin.
Because a woman who knows war knows deliverance,
her mouth a sea of sharks trapped in coral
Hala Alyan, Hijra
I want to imagine wrinkled time,
and forests thick with wolves,
and bleak midnight moors
Carol Rifka Brunt, Tell the Wolves I’m Home
Poetry is one of the way of expression with which i can relate better.
It can express very well multiple thoughts with just one sentence
Its strenght is all in the power of few significant words.
Sometimes it feels like travelling from home
and not knowing were to go
trying to reach new frontiers
Sometimes, the way of the exiled is the same way of poetry.
Reaching for new frontiers, it is possible by listening the voices and stories of the displaced.
It makes you to step aside from the clear path and go straight into the depth of the sea.
There, fragments of thoughts and words can only be guessed.
They can not be heard anymore
But their presence is still there
Every language or dialect has its value, and it can be expressed with any form of literature or art.
Also languages, and more so mother languages, are always capable to stir something within that can not always be explained.
I think that part of this is well explained by Said Leghlid in his words about Tamazight, one of the languages spoken in Morocco.
I heard many female voices singing at wee hours of the summer nights I spent at Ighrem Ne Mejrane, my mother’s birthplace. The name of this small Kasbah was tucked away in the diaries of forgotten cultural heritages, as was the case in countless Amazigh towns and villages in Morocco.
The history of Imazighen of Morocco was written with the fangs of countless powers that passed through the North African country, preventing Imazighen from claiming their legitimate status as the original inhabitants of Morocco and preventing their intellectual and cultural identity from flourishing. People who took over Morocco preserved their cultural status quo at the expense of other cultures that existed in pseudo anonymity. This was the fateful hand history dealt a brilliant culture: That of the Imazighen of North Africa.
Hauntingly beautiful minds expressed their hearts away to an obliviously silent world where echoes of darkness were the only feedback that bounced off their voices. I thought that was the case with unheard voices in the middle of the night until I learned further that those voices were part of an oral landscape that made the culture vulnerable to the imposing interpretations of religious wisdom and how it treated sobering voices of women reciting poetic inspirations in the wee hours of the night. Those voices were the fabric that wove existence of Imazighen with fresh memories of their culture.
The inspired voices of the women drove darkness out of shelters and projected loud vocal lights on an otherwise sleepy eventless Kasbah known as Ighrem in the Amazigh language. Years later, their voices compelled me to relive those times again and again, and make sense of some extremely important aspects of my culture. With this essay, I hope to convey a perspective on the rhetorical meanings of an amazing strong oral tradition gone unnoticed and burgeoning on extinction.Said Leghlid
Poetry happens when the trembling soul struggles to be heard.
In the buzzing room in Diarbakir prison
words are thrown back and forth
rushing out to beat time ,
short enough for more longing.
The old woman sits amongst the crowd in silence,
watching her son who stares back at her with no words.
[…] Above their heads a large sign read: Türkçe konuş çok konuş
Speak turkish, speak a lot.
- Choman Hardi, Considering the Women
words and tea 
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