“I’ve met so many who have lost so much. But they never lose their dreams for their children or their desire to better our world. They ask for little in return – only our support in their time of greatest need” — UN Secretary-General, António Guterres
A group of rescued people on the deck of an Italian naval vessel as the sun sets in the Mediterranean. ©UNHCR/A. D’Amato
Reproduced under Fair Use Act all credit to http://www.un.org/en/events/refugeeday/
Back in May, I was fortunate enough to meet some people from the charity People in Motion at a Spoken Word event ‘Gobs & Guitars’ organised by Sarah Tamar to raise money for the cause and to say goodbye to The Boars Head, the much loved venue of Mouth & Music (Heather Wastie/ Sarah Tamar). Read more about it here.
Inspired by a week of events happening in Malvern, organised by People in Motion for Refugee Awareness Week – I put a call out for poems and my inbox filled with words.
What I really liked was the variety of submissions. International poets, poets submitting for the first time, some new to writing poetry others more established.
Any ambassador of poetry would welcome such rich pickings. I wanted this collection to reflect the range of people who responded to this call. Thank you to everyone for sending me such impassioned poems.
This will not be an easy read – this is not a easy world.
Do read on, sign petitions, raise awareness and HOPE.
I hope the following words are shared widely.
Thank you to everyone who submitted.
Nina Lewis Worcestershire Poet Laureate.
Show Me Your Passport
Show me your passport
Out rattle bones
These are our children
Show me your passport
Out blasts rubble
This is our bread
Show me your passport
Out roars ocean
This is our land
We drown until you wake
Neil Richards
BIO: Neil Richards lives in Worcester, recently returned to writing.
Mare Nostrum
Shoe laces tie the dead tighter than life.
We raft on their skin , how can flesh float
when boats shatter, wood, ribs and bone.
Hamid, swollen brother, hollow gourd,
the salted body of you drifts, whitens tears.
My hands are cups of waves and piss
and all the sky hangs grey as glass.
I never knew the baby’s name. Gaza, Syria.
Her eyes were closed, turtle, fish.
Mary Gilonne
This poem was first published online by ‘I am not a Silent Poet’.
BIO: Mary is a translator from Devon, living in France for many years. She won the 2015 Wenlock Prize, shortlisted for the Bridport, commended in the Teignmouth, Prole and Caterpillar prizes, published in Antiphon, Emma Press, Clear Poetry, Elbow Room and more. The plight of refugees is a never ending tragedy that concerns us all.
Refugee
Encased in stone
my arms are frozen,
my limbs are stayed
and yet I watch.
I see the children
housed by rubble,
some parentless, alone
and I cry.
There is no comfort.
The mothers, they wear them
for miles, a burdenless burden
and I know
There is no promised land,
no safety zone
just fences and legislation
and our children are still alone.
Antonia Seaward
Bio: Antonia Seaward is a Scottish poet based in the South side of Glasgow where she lives with her husband and three children. Her work is a mixture of written and performance based pieces and she describes many of her poems as ‘reactive’. She also writes children’s poetry and stories.
The Key
Displaced, no place, no home,
misplaced anger where love
should be the key to unlock
the doors of welcome, accept
with open arms the children and
parents, brothers and sisters, the solitary, the young, the old and the in between.
Accept with open arms our fellow humans
as willingly as they would fall into those arms, bringing with them the offer of themselves. And what more precious gift
could one human ever offer to another?
The world, this world, our world does not belong in the windows of property owners and estate agents – the planet has entrusted itself to us and we should treat it well, live on it well and show ourselves capable of the one thing, the one thing we should all have in abundance as the core of our very existence. Humanity. Let’s find the keys, unlock our hearts, and leave open those doors so that all who wish to enter may do so without fear, without hate, without discrimination, but instead with the words ‘welcome home’ ringing in their ears.
Louise Stokes
The View
Looking out toward the boarder,
She sees pain and devastion,
Destruction and desolation.
Shanty towns held together by pain.
People tortured by people,
And then tortured by their situation.
She sees blood and she sees the bleeding,
She sees death and she sees the dying.
Little boy with ribs that resemble the fence,
she has seen two of them break through the fence.
One of them survived.
She thinks.
She sees a rainbow of agony,
painted more vividly than normal reality.
She sees the manifestation of nightmares,
in high definition.
Even the nightmares she has inside of her nightmares,
do not compare to the life of these people.
A man whose life fits in a bag,
looks at her, clutching his bag,
like he used to clutch his children.
She couldn’t fit what she ‘needs’ for today,
inside that bag.
She sees hell, but this doesn’t worry her.
They’re building a wall.
Casey Bailey
Help Me Over
Help me.
Help me over.
Help me cross.
I can see the sky
framed
by debris,
by rocks,
by wire,
by dereliction.
Framed
by sharpness and
impenetrable barriers.
I want to see it clear,
clear and unblemished
creamy white
and pink and blue.
Help me see it.
Help me over.
Help me cross.
I want want to see it
framed by trees,
I want to see
the rocks become
flowers
again.
Help me.
Help me over.
Help me cross
to the place
where the birds are singing
breaking up the sky with flight.
Does it still exist, this place?
I must think so.
Help me find it.
Help me.
Help me over.
Help me cross.
Lynn White
Bones and Ashes
They make a lot of money down there, and they’ll defend it with knives and guns. I’ve got scars and stuff up and down my body. A completely humiliating situation. Many of us were gunned down as we fled. You could hear the laughter. And, just as suddenly, you couldn’t hear it anymore. Where are we now? Who are we, anyway? It seems like we have more deaths here than other places. The world should know what happened. We don’t want the fire to run away with us again.
First they stole everything, then they burned everything. This was the spice market – it’s totally gone. There was a checkpoint here, there were sandbags there. Perhaps we’ll need them again. It’s just that I don’t want to be there. We often say, If only this, or if only that. Soon I’ll be dead, and it won’t matter.
There were a couple of old ladies who believed in Jesus, but believed in Buddha, too. We told them to just hide and be silent. We never heard back from them. I don’t think my mother ever got over it. Either a bomb was planted or someone blew himself up. When I looked out the window, I saw a guy with blood all over his face and T-shirt. It has to stop. Some young girl is running through the woods naked screaming.
Howie Good
Exile
He writes on a wall knowing
a ghost will erase his words.
He kisses the wall.
He is exiled in Iceland.
He is followed by a journalist.
He says poetry transforms
dust into a rose. He says sometimes
he doesn’t write for months
and he feels nervous.
He sticks his arm into snow and
shows the camera how deep.
He says “Everyone can be Christ
here,” and points to frozen water.
“Where is a wall?” he asks.
A couple in scarves say
“If you use chalk, you can
write anywhere. It’s up to you
to find your own wall.”
He says his notebook is an empty
suitcase he fills as he walks.
He leans over a poem and works with
a translator on the phrase “I have.”
Quinn White
This poem was first published in the Winter 2013 edition of Mobius Magazine: The Journal of Social Change.
BIO: Quinn White is the author of My Moustache (Dancing Girl Press, 2013). She lives in Alabama with her plants. Her poems appear in or are forthcoming from journals such as Amaryllis, Healing Muse, The Fem, and Rogue Agent.
© Getty Images
Pay back
They gather in groups
watching you.
You wonder what they’re thinking
pray they don’t move
don’t reach out.
They look lost in their fashion
out of sorts
their faces loom large
like dreams with muddy feet.
You can’t stare too much
or you’ll have to give them things.
Not just your purse
but all you are
so they can take over your life
and be.
J V Birch
This poem was first published in First Refuge: Poems on Social Justice by Ginninderra Press in 2016
BIO: J V Birch lives in Adelaide. Her poems have appeared in anthologies, journals and magazines across Australia, the UK, Canada and the US. She has two collections – Smashed glass at midnight and What the water & moon gave me – published by Ginninderra Press, and is working on her third.
Serbian Refugees
Out there, a boy. His baby sister
strapped to his front.
On his back, a rucksack,
brown checked blanket.
His hair is short, tidy,
he’s handsome, still,
and clearly once well cared for.
He’s running from war. A refugee.
Maybe weeks of little food,
living in squats or camps,
has put shadows below his eyes,
his face grown old, past its years.
Or maybe sleep rarely comes;
his dreams haunted by home.
He’s running from war. A refugee.
At the border with Hungary,
once open but now strung with invisible wire,
he pushes against a masked policeman
in white gloves. The policeman’s arms
anchor the boy in an almost embrace.
He’s seen plenty of boys like this:
running from war. Refugees.
But under his police-issue sunglasses
a glimpse of something –
compassion? Perhaps it’s on account of the little girl
in the prettiest of pink cardigans
most likely knitted by her grandmother,
the colour so nearly matching the shade of his hat.
Belinda Rimmer
BIO: Belinda has poems in magazines, including, Brittle Star, Dream Catcher, ARTEMIS poetry; Obsessed with Pipework; Sarasvati. On-line includes, Cloud Poetry, Picaroon, Ground, Writers Against Prejudice, Amaryllis. Some poems are in anthologies. She recently came second in her first Poetry Slam and won The Poetry in Motion Competition as part of Cheltenham Poetry Festival.
© Pixabay
In the Wake of Frobisher
Martin Frobisher was a Yorkshire born 16th Century, sailor, explorer, and privateer knighted for his endeavours
As tides turn
we’ll try to fathom
how they made these odysseys
with primitive equipment and mad bravery.
What waves pushed them out
Which tide pulled them in?
Stone question marks on Easter Island
punctuate the replica Kon Tikis and Sailing Ships
that collect answers and awards like flotsam.
Will rhymers add another verse to
“Columbus sailed the ocean blue
In fourteen hundred and ninety-two”.?
Saints and pilgrims guided by fear, faith or stars
buoyed up with dodgy life jackets
bought in seedy seaside bars?
Will Jonny Depp portray you as adventurous buccaneers
School houses named in honour of these modern pioneers
Your names writ large on globes and maps
as straits, channels, rivers, seas
when we celebrate the courageous travels
of last year’s wave worn refugees?
Steve Harrison
BIO: Steve Harrison was born in The West Riding but is now writing and performing in the West Midlands living under the Shadow of the Wrekin or just off the M54 on his non-poetic days. Frobisher was the name of one of the tutor groups at his school in Yorkshire.
© Pixabay
Should Our Leaders Decide
Should our leaders decide
A flower is mightier than a gun
Should our leaders decide
A sturdy roof is safer than these imposed shattered ruins and ragged tents
Should our leaders decide
Our neighbours, might, just might, have valid opinions
Should our leaders decide
Education will carry us farther than rockets can
Should our leaders decide
To love our children more than hate our enemies
And should our leaders decide
To reward those who choose hope, not death
Then, only then
Then we will live in peace
We can tear down divisive walls
Love our neighbours
Earn friendship
And grow together.
Damon Lord
BIO: Damon Lord comes from Wales and lives and works in Worcester, England. He speaks numerous languages including Esperanto, with a keen interest in enabling better communication around the world.
Wild Flowers
They left their houses empty
A piece of them was gone
Seeking refuge in a camp that was a wasteland once
They didn’t find much amongst the rubble that was there
But friendship in the restaurants they built for those who cared
Selling their food
Telling stories
From a homeland, far away
Always a smile but sometimes a tear for a land they fled that day
Tents erected
Volunteers holding hands
Delivering them food
From human to human
In humanity, we stood
And now the jungle as they called it
An unkind name
They are demolishing it
For the land is rubble
They have nothing again
Only wild flowers will grow
Where a school once stood
Which helped teach frightened children and remind them what it’s like to just be a kid
Where will they go now from here?
Where only wild flowers grow
As they stand in a country that allows people to have nowhere to go
Destroyed their lands but we won’t offer them ours
If they had somewhere to go they’d be there by now
Where will children lie their head
Where the wild flowers now grow
When will we let our humanity show?
Nona Wyld
BIO: Nona Wyld lives in Birmingham, she has written poetry for the past three years. Last summer she volunteered in Calais providing aid for those in the camp. She learned a lot whilst she was there. Nona will soon be graduating and hopes to travel and volunteer more in the future.
Jigsaw
Primary blues and reds light up a jolly nursery world
scattered in pieces on the carpet. The father thumbs
an Arabic/English dictionary at the table. No words:
all we translate are smiles. Here’s ‘q’ but where’s
the lady with her golden crown? I show the boy,
the little girl, their mother in her flower-bright hijab,
wonder what they make of our cold, hard-edged country,
what pieces of their lives they’ve had to leave behind.
The queen’s united, triumphant, with her letter
and here’s an ‘m’. The grinning monkey swings to catch it.
The boy jumps gleeful on the sofa we’ve brought
to help them build a home. Now ‘r’. The girl holds
all the colours in her hand; they arc one shining moment,
before the breaking up, to start again.
Penny Ayers
BIO: Penny Ayers lives in Cheltenham. She began writing poetry in 2008 when she studied Creative Writing with the Open University. Since then she has been shortlisted in several competitions and won prizes in the Wells Festival of Literature International Poetry Competition and the Cardiff International Poetry Competition 2013. She has read at the Cheltenham Poetry Festival.
Outside The One Stop
A puddle’s sludge has settled
beneath its skin of oil.
Khaled proffers his Big Issues
to oblivious passers-by.
Our wettest winter’s clouds
reflect as livid bruises
in a diesel sheen.
When the next storm breaks
shoppers abandon pavements
for Costa’s welcome
or the Co-Op’s familiar aisles.
Khaled takes refuge
in the doorway
of a boarded-up bookshop.
Hail stones pock the puddle’s
gunmetal slurry.
Myfanwy Fox
This poem was first published in The Morning Star.
BIO: Myfanwy Fox’s work has appeared in journals and anthologies including The Morning Star, Ink, Sweat & Tears, Snakeskin, For Rhino in a Shrinking World, Fit to Work: Poets Against Atos, The Colverstone Review, The Waterhouse Review and many more. She lives in the Malvern Hills.
© BBC
Shooting War
Mahmoud Raslan’s photo of Omran Daqneesh (aged 5rys) Syria, 2016
One more wounded infant,
but no limb-loss and blood enough
for the world’s-eye view.
I always cry, but my lense captures no tears,
only a tiny frame, shocked dumb,
a shy wipe of crimson on the ambulance trolley.
Some big boys from the multiverse pressed ‘send’
and bombed homes to rubble
after evening prayers in Aleppo.
Oh, comic strip heroes,
see where your super powers
have led you.
Kathryn Alderman
BIO: Kathryn Alderman, ex-actor and mother, resumed writing poetry during OU degree studies as a mature student. She’s published in various magazines, e-zines and collections including recently: Amaryllis and Good Dadhood. She runs the annual Gloucestershire Writers’ Network prose and poetry competition for the Cheltenham Literature Festival.
© Pixabay
Willowherb
It’s the way she holds herself upright
speaks carefully to the camera
face composed.
A neat cerise headscarf and tunic
says more young woman
than adolescent girl.
A creased photo shows her in jeans
at a Syrian market
alone in a broken city.
She talks through tears
of time spent in a Lebanese camp,
all the insults she won’t repeat.
She straightens her back
sips water, smiles,
tells us about her new school.
Beyond her Blackburn window
is a derelict plot;
soon the willowherb will flower.
Frances March
Willowherb, sometimes known as Fireweed, is one of the first plants to colonise derelict or bombed out ground.
BIO: Frances March is a Poet and performer with the Cheltenham Festival Players. Work is included in Poetry Among the Paintings, 2015. Commended by the Poetry School with a poem on their blog. The Broadsheet commented favourably on her work. MA, Creative and Critical Writing UOG after a career teaching English.
© Pixabay
Refugees
At school there was a weekly collection
for charity.
I saved up my biscuit money
so that
I did not seem different, more impoverished
than the rest.
And so that I had something to give to those
less fortunate.
I knew what charities were, you see.
Well, except for the one called
‘Refugees’.
I did not know what refugees were.
This was 1956.
Only six years after the ending of a war
creating millions
of refugees
and I had to ask what they were
several times.
Even then,
I didn’t understand.
It made no sense to me.
I didn’t understand.
Lynn White
BIO: Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. Her poem ‘A Rose For Gaza’ was shortlisted for the Theatre Cloud ‘War Poetry for Today’ competition 2014.
© Pixabay
BANKSY – GAZA STRIP
Bomb Damage – the first,
inspired by ‘The Thinker’
devastation and despair
the thoughts of this neighbourhood.
Children play amongst the rubble,
beside the image of a white kitten
with pink bow around it’s neck
playing with a ball of wire
which sticks out of the pot-marked wall.
Highlighting the plight of Gaza
this sorrow filled kitten misses playing in joy
and gets hits on the worldwide web
because we only use the internet to look at
kittens.
Nina Lewis
All contributors will receive emails from me in due course, in the meantime,
read – share – activate.
Thank you to Kirsty, at People in Motion who allowed permission to use photographs from the site.
Many thanks to everyone who took the time to be part of this project. The past 48 hours show idea conception to result – all this in just 2 days. Proves how quickly word(s) can spread!
Poet Laureate 
Powerful
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It is.
Thanks, Jade.
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Reblogged this on awritersfountain and commented:
Just in time for World Refugee Day – in Refugee Awareness Week – this went LIVE. A collection of poetry about refugees from emerging and established writers. Regional. National and International poets were involved.
Thank you everyone for your amazing submissions and to those kind enough to grant permission to use photos.
Please read – share – and read again.
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Reblogged this on Fox Unkennelled – Myfanwy Fox and commented:
Refugee week. How fragile is our world, our support, our leadership’s abilities to do the right thing. Poems reaching out collected by the new Worcestershire laureate, Nina Lewis. Delighted to see one of mine in here – out there – again.
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Thanks for reblogging and submitting. How fragile it is.
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A great initiative Nina, I love the range of poems, so many heart-breaking words. Very proud to be part of this.
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Thanks, Mary. Some things have to be said.
I was amazed at the response and grateful to include local, national and international voices here.
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