She asks me what is my name,
I tell her it is a long story,
When it really isn’t,
It just looks like it will be
another boring story
Of a mispronunciation of my name.
She asks me what is my name,
I say it means joy back home,
but please don’t call me joy,
and don’t ask me about “back home”.
She asks me what is my name,
I reply that is a soft (Fa) sound,
an even softer (Ra) sound
And then I tell her to
pretend
just as if
you are eating something spicy,
Pretend it is very hot
What would you say,
she says… ahhhhh
Let’s try it together…
She tastes my name in her mouth
Flicks it around
Clips it
Bites it
Chews it
And spits it out
Incomplete
foreign
Not mine
Not me
not anything I know.
-What is your name?
I say Farah…
She says, can I call you love instead?
I say that should also do it.
Hadn’t it been for literature, I probably wouldn’t have written this. Right?! It’s so scary how I’m a product of something I produce. I write poetry. Does this mean anything in particular? Probably not. But I write about my body, my thoughts, my feelings; and if all of this doesn’t qualify as poetry, I guess I have been studying the wrong field. I got my BA in English Literature; and am currently doing my Masters in Anglophone modernities and literature.
Farah Barakat, an Egyptian born and raised aspiring poetess. Currently residing in Berlin, and working at Hudara Ngo as an assistant researcher.
