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10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Collection copyright English PEN, 2014 The moral right of the authors has been asserted. The views expressed in this book are those of the individual authors, and do not necessarily represent the opinions of the editors, publishers or English PEN. All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of the book. A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Aldgate Press, Units 5&6, Gunthorpe Street Workshops, 3 Gunthorpe Street, London E1 7RQ www.aldgatepress.co.uk Designed by Brett Biedscheid, www.statetostate.co.uk

INTRODUCTIONS2 Joelle Taylor4 Louise Swan5 Eddie Playfair

7 FOUR TIMES Christianah Adenji

8 G-FATHER Gideon

9 THE SEX TRADE Georgia Standen

10 BEGINNINGS Ali Syed and Afsana Choudhury

12 FAIRY TALES Enfys Walker

13 BIRD SONG Javaid Miah

14 THE GREAT ESCAPE Afsana Choudhury

15 LONELINESS Javaid Miah

17 GRIEF Jamal Abdullah

17 KNOW YOUR PLACE Vanessa Joshua

18 THE MOST BEAUTIFUL SUICIDE Vanessa Joshua

19 A TALE OF TWO HOMES Razia Labiba

20 STALKING Kristina Terech

21 TIGERS IN CHAINS Samirah Shaikh

22 THE KEYS Kristina Terech

23 AND BEAUTIFUL THINGS FLY BY Kristina Terech

24 THE CHORE Kristina Terech

26 SMOKE SIGNALS Priscilla Manual

26 FRONT LINES Samirah Shaikh and Kat Lewis

29 THE WATCH Kat Lewis

30 GOOD BYE MY LOVE Razia Labiba

31 DAVID OF THE LILY FIELDS Javaid Miah and Kristina Terech

32 SWAN SONG Georgia Standen

34 PIG IRON Georgia Standen

35 DUALISM Enfys Walker

36 A PHOTOGRAPH OF BODY BAGS AFTER THE SYRIAN GAS ATTACKS Enfys Walker

36 NEWS BROADCAST Georgia Standen and Vanessa Joshua

38 LIPSTICK GRAFFITI Enfys Walker

38 DNA Gideon

39 THE UNKNOWN STREET SOLDIER Javaid Miah

39 AUTOBIOGRAPHY Georgia Standen

40 THE PEARL Samirah Shaikh

42 LIFE STORY Samirah Shaikh

42 TRAPPED IN A SHELL Samirah Shaikh

43 YOUR AVERAGE WHITE COLLAR, 9-5 Kristina Terech

45 SWEAR ON YOUR LIFE Javaid Miah

The title of this collection (UN)MUTE reflects the process through which the curious and quiet young writers of Brave New Voices journeyed. At the beginning of the session, the silence of the participants became the loudest thing about them. Over the weeks, they grew, they teethed, they found their voices (some beneath the bed, others exactly where they had left them years before) and they began to speak. The mute button was off and it has remained so, defiantly in some cases. This collection is loud. Be careful when you open the pages.

JOELLE TAYLORJUNE 2014

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An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

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4An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

These poems are the result of the Brave New Voices project, which supports new writers in multilingual communities, and is a partnership between NewVIc (Newham Sixth Form College) and English PEN.

English PEN is the founding centre of an international writers association, working to promote literature and freedom of speech. Our outreach programme, Readers and Writers, works with communities where the power of literature can help to transform lives. With the staff and students at NewVIc we have built Brave New Voices as a series of workshops in which young people develop their skills as creative writers, reading the world around them, and writing about their own experiences.

In this collection (UN)MUTE there are angels with broken wings, rasping wolves and singing chairs; theres a love song to Bangladesh, memories of mothers and fathers, kisses stolen, lives lost - and found. Id like to thank the students who worked so hard and imaginatively in writing their poems, and the staff at NewVIc, especially Georgia Standen and Steven Kern, for their support.

Thanks, also, to Kat Lewis the shadow facilitator and Joelle Taylor, who led the workshops with such passion and flair.

Louise SwanHead of Programmes, English PENJune 2014

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We desperately need poetry in this age of prose and in our own way we are all poets; reaching out to others and shaping our language more or less carefully to share how we feel.

These brave new voices from NewVIc have used powerful and beautiful imagery to express the pain and joy, hope and despair, resistance and self-discovery of life.

This collection offers us some wonderful new poems and the promise of more to come.

Thank you Afsana, Ali, Enfys, Georgia, Gideon, Jamal, Kristina, Razia, Samirah, Sara, Vanessa, Priscilla, Christianah, and Javaid.

Thank you also to Joelle, Kat and English PEN for making this possible.

Eddie Playfair Principal, Newham Sixth Form College (NewVIc)

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FOUR TIMES Christianah Adenji

I have died four timesThe first time

Was in a white roomWill was looking at meAnd asking me if I couldstill see

The second timeWas in a school roomA scuff of feet

Everyone were against meJust because I was different

The third timeWas in my pink and wonderful roomFrom there I could hear my parents fights

Unfortunately I didnt do anything in that situationI was crying in my room and wish to stop the fight

Finally the fourthIt was August 2012When I came to this countryThis land of hope and gloryFull of strangers Not knowing what to do.


G-FATHERGideon

Like the great Zimbabwe, built to lastEach strand of hair fades into white memoriesWhite black white blackIts fading through the dark windowsLike the looks from charcoal pupilsIn the distance, the iris contractsWith a burning desire, mind elevated.

His skin is a patch of earthFrom earth to earth he truly belongsHis culture in his veinsBlood vessels that are carrying a generationOxygen pumped through lungsEach breath feast onto my existenceSplish splash pop from him to me -One grows quick. A rabbit generationIt was me; until a sister. Same light-bulb eyesThats what he doesnt see.

Great, great father like I said you were built to lastAn hour glass in reverse, I sit with youI see what you seeAh. But you still see black and whiteI see the colour of everythingI am you.I am you.I.I.Am.

You.

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THE SEX TRADEGeorgia Standen

Weve all been slavesBut her name is AnyaAnd she hasnt seen the sunIn over four weeksShe wears shackles on her armThat chain her to the bedHer arm itches where the needle isAnd shes sleepy all the timeSometimes she dreamsThat there are figures above her

Shadow angels that grunt in her earAnd make her tummy hurtAnya is thirteen years oldHer favourite colour is pinkAnd she lives in Sofia

With her mum and her sisterOr at least she used toBefore this roomThese four walls

And the bed.

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BEGINNINGS Ali Syed and Afsana Choudhury

I was raised by a dream come true

a young heart filled with such hope

a gentle loving soul.

A charomh adorable man

from such a vast land

He only knew men

But yearned for a woman

An equally precious

with eyes like jewels

and a womb that gave treasures

from whom I was raised

fell for a careless mans

careful daughter

and I just wonder if I could raise

another

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FAIRY TALESEnfys Walker

Limbo is lilac, embossedWallpaper behind hidden table legsSnow melts in an embroidered dressing gownHer raven wig, crawling, leaching lifeShe dabs, scarring her skin with beautiful poisonAnd tastes her apples, before the final touch.

The corsetThe arms of her loverSqueeze tight

And the apples falls from her lipsAs her prince stoops for his final kiss

And walks away.

Ebony turns her facePainting on detergent with a stinging graceCleaning her brush on the latest cosmoNimble fingers smeared ruby red

From the blonde weave shackled to her headNicky Minaj struts on a shining screenAnd Ebony screamsA Michael Jackson song

And smothers her faceFoundation masking every traceOf the life shes led before her date

And two girls skip down a pathScarcely hearing the rusty raspOf the wolves.

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BIRD SONGJavaid Miah

Why wasnt I chosen as a white bird?I mean a dove, the one at thoseweddings; the one that makes people happy - peace, flapping into the divine sky.

So they cage me because I got a blackface and grey wings. Im just thesame, as any other bird; fly and sing.

Still I get caged and chained for myBlack face

I escaped by the way. But you knowtheres nothing there in those dove places,not for me: the black face; its all justdark and dreary, scary and fear.

Why wasnt I chosen as a white bird?wrong: why was I chosen as a black bird?Why do I even bother asking?I mean, after all were all the same.

Birds are all the same. But with different songs.

THE GREAT ESCAPEAfsana Choudhury

I wish I was given something thatDid not cost moneywish I was heard and my name washoneyto quiet ears

Wish I hadnt been treated so badlyBy friends school and family

I wish wherever I went it was always warm, no more hurts, taunts or scolds

If the best things in life are freethen so are the worstBut their part was only first

Maybe Im better wiser and strongerI faced the coldest weatherFor whatever its worthI learnt happiness comes first

I learnt how to scream yell and dreamI sit here adjacentwith heart filled with amazement

wearing my great escape

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LONELINESSJavaid Miah

He poured his hand in the fish tank

many times being unsuccessfulhis hand losing or, cramping tightly.Dipping hand by handThe feeling of the hairs on his handSuddenly, sending shivers to him,waking him, eyes opening to thecold wet water.He put his hand down one day, the tank,finding a stoney rock

alien shape, disfigured.

Just like him this stone was,

like a reflection in nature

turning it left and right, flipping it,

no one understood him, no one understood

this rock in the middle of a fish tank.

It had no purpose, only lumpy and cold,Dry and old.

He shook hands with it, a reminder:Every day of what he was.An alien rock, cursed by chance,ugly in nature, lovely this rock was

like a baby he cupped his fingers

putting the stone back softly.He waited for the heart jump settling,never did he hear it.

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GRIEFJamal Abdullah

Red sea of anger, remorse,phased out with visionof unclear certainty.Eyeballs dug into the groundwith brown rusty spearstorture.

Handful of aqueous humour spread around my Mums grave.white bones cut up in slices, small faces, pages of booksthighbone sharpened into a feather pencilold fashioned eloquently dipped into a redink of a childs blood in a pot of pleasure

Smiles are my worst enemiesAmong a smile isa thousand tears

KNOW YOUR PLACEVanessa Joshua

Know your place -

shadows dont knowthe smell of soundswhisper lies in your earssweet as the play that you actThe void that possesses you will never fill

Lights are not lights until darkness is realThe lights shimmer but do not glowIt only makes sense

you dont know your place

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THE MOST BEAUTIFUL SUICIDEVanessa Joshua

Barefoot, freeSoon I will be,A long beautiful gownthe love it represents cannot be found,she knocks at the door,the shame, the guilt I cannot take no morehe lays on the floor

peacefulsoon we will sleep together againIt glistensshe knocks at the doormy saviourI grab itmy beautiful saviourred, brown, silverThe most beautiful suicide

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A TALE OF TWO HOMES Razia Labiba

Deep in the slums, in a broken houseA boy names Razu

Ironed his smile. Back onto his mouth

Eight-years-old, slicked his hair, washed his faceThen his mum shrugged like the words had abitter taste

Why are you getting ready for school?We dont even have enough money for food.

He sat silently criedAll he wanted was an educationBut he was denied

Across the town there is a PalaceMade by ceramics, diamondslived in by a boy called Labu

Sat in the cornerStaring in the mirror

Eight-years-old, softly water flowing through his cheeks

Then his Mum threw a stick

Why are you not getting ready for school?You have to do what I said

They stand silently cryingAll he wanted was a relaxing dayBut he was denied.

Keno AI Different life we have

Why Why Amra Afa Korte Parina?

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STALKINGKristina Terech

Young and tall, basketballGiggling echo, clear and loud No ones here, except friendsthey laugh, dont know what aboutI remember being that ageBeing the voice in the hall, the ghoul in the wall

And theyre goneSex in college is on the agendaYet can they comprehendI can hear them at all?

Im the only ghost here nowIt gets lonely sometimesDrum beat, badum powMaybe not so alone

I could follow them home

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TIGERS IN CHAINS Samirah Shaikh

Once a ruler, a king, a leaderNow a salve, a servant, a healerOnce a life of screams and sirensNow a life of peace. Of silence.A circling cage filled with tigers wearing chains

Breaking the hidden cycleA back-street miracleOnce a killerNow a saviourChanging the world for the better.

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THE KEYS Kristina Terech

Two immense periwinkle fixed orbits

To whatever the mind transfixed on

Oh, those beautiful spectaclesAnd her beautiful mind filled with exhibits

Illuminating even the most horrible natural darkness with her thoughtsHer journey in the reality of human natureHad only just begun

Heritage tan skin, from the skins of her ancestors livesPink-framed glasses that in childhood were thereWhen he wasnt yet, just as he wasnt now hereTears rolling, down her sweet baby cheeks fallingAnd that mind decided to run away on rewindShe wanted to be out of here this time

To where she was just the curious spirited girl ghostDressed in pink, white and her blue jeansThat she knew came from the drawer of the flat

where she lived with her loving father and her auntwho helped her buy the clothes, the hair, the faceThat now wishes she was back in the museum halls, where the only racewas the one to the gift shop stall

Her room a sanctuary full of butterfly wings, caterpillar legs

Boxes of bugs, cases of booksWhere she was only her mind, not her looksWhere she now would come back with her own new boxesNow without her own boyfriend, on her own streetsShe didnt just own herself, her mind, her sheets, she didnt let him own her defeatwhich she owns, now also owns her silence, after dropping her museum key chain, and her keys

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AND BEAUTIFUL THINGS FLY BY Kristina Terech

Claire, Jane, Joy - no name, now just a label, a font stencil frame

Well her names Sam - please know her name - shes presented the sameMorning, early dawn and shes perched - limbs, arms, back drawnHer ribcage not a picture but the prison holding back the air that fills her lungs

Her bones, hollow because he has wings - they label lash her body with burning tongues

Her air of still nothing except a flame lit past, a wave put to rest

She is like a forest branch, nymph willow that walks brushing by willow stalksTurns to ashes in her mouth from the heat, the hateShe has towards herself, the cafe thats too cramped but sits in herMade for the birds she tattooed on her wrists - caging her wits within

She was once a white horse, water spirit, now gone lameIts not just knives and nets thought up that hold her inIt was her once own body, wearing thinChest - now a closed cave that closed the tides closing inRuined pace, heart and legs race, burning of the lastwhat she was as waste, flooding, dipping down below her waist

White out, she collapsed on the floor, lay but not dead

This was not her endThe air came back into her wings and they pounded blood through her chestPast the ribcage, self-hate, even every backhanded compliment from every ageShe came back into conscience - the conscience that may be - she was more than her weightShe could run calm, swim steady, fly again - change fate

For a bird can fly if healed and its not too late

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THE CHOREKristina Terech

You know whats a chore?Having to do as youre toldHaving to act like a bore while having to stand outYou have to impress, you have to be bold

Sit straight, hold your penLearn to think others thoughtsLearn to follow their stringsIts only you thats the lootThinking in ones and noughts

Why should people have goalsBecause goals start as dreamsThose dont come with instructionsOnly if youre white and rich, it seems

You see, its not that simpleThe rest of us, have to figure them out

We have perfectly good brainsBut thats not what its about

Maybe I was like them I wouldnt complainBut if it was for everyoneIf you think about itWe all probably would gain

Its just slightly annoyingThat at birth, some get handed all their rightsNot just freedom, and speech and legalBut the kind us peasants realised we have when its 3am at night

You can think others thoughtsWrite them, draw them, reconsider themYou can agree, disagree, argueThey all had brains just like you

I guess what Im trying to say isDont be scared, start in private even at first

You dont have to be rich or a scholar to thinkTo be materially poor and to thinkYoure more blessed than you are cursed

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SMOKE SIGNALS Priscilla Manual

Concrete jungle becoming of steelChildren running they dont know whats realThe boy stops and stares at his homeInside his house, his mother aloneSitting on the couch and drinking her past awayFag in her hand next to the ashtrayShes zoning out, shes sleeping away

Her sense gone, unaware of her decision to stay

The cigarette is on the floor creating a hole full of smoke

The fire starts with a silent roar

Her hand pushes the bottle straight to the floor

A trail of Russian spirit meets the fire

Around the curtains and the electrical wire

And thats the day that boy became a good liar.

FRONT LINES Samirah Shaikh and Kat Lewis

There is a war out thereA quaking red riverWithin the eyesBashing brain, stretching skullTo slash the pastOn the other sideA front line between myself and IWith enemy advancing.

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THE WATCH Kat Lewis

This is time

I see your face

And put my arrows

On your marks

Your world is like a wrist

You march around

On orbit

Chasing minutes

I am the sun

You feel on your arms

At times

You take your top off

Tick. Tock.

My love

Quick, or Ill catch you

To keep my time.

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GOOD BYE MY LOVERazia Labiba

Good bye my loveI dont want to leave you I have toI remember you: your voice

I feel you when I close my eyes

I remember nice green smiley face of fields,

those rickshaw which carried me to schoolthose broken streets; I used to hate youI miss youthose people abhi meri ankho me hai as film

my friends (where we used to chat)Do you miss me?

Me roh yei ti I cried to stay with youbut I had no choice

I want to touch you again,want to feel you again, want to play in the shiny sunflower days again

Good bye my loveGood bye BANGLADESH

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DAVID OF THE LILY FIELDS Javaid Miah and Kristina Terech

Theres a war out there, SirSquabbling through the airWith perfectly shaped union striped arrowsFlying into my blood-stained hair.

Well its not really blood or else Id probably be dead - its dyeSmearing, blistering odour, Im bluffing

Disguised by caked on Lynx and fake tanPostures slowly, The David of the Lily FieldsStares right at me his elitist gaze (he thinks)

The scum will die unappeased.

FYI, Im the scum the bacteria under his loaferTwisting his ankle, bruised, broken After Ive risen, and grabbed it with my filthy, immune monster claws

Let me show you my gratitude tokenIm the drainage, the sewage, the liquid unbroken.

Youll see soon.

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SWAN SONGGeorgia Standen

My name is a sirenLike a police car, my eyes flash blue

My laughter is peroxideBleaching my hair white when I hear the word, faggot!My cigarette buttsSmashed into sidewalks

Men pay me with bruises But Ive got no changeMy skin is tight latexOver fractured bones and heartache

My mother wont come to the hospitalWhen she hears her son is hurt.

My walk is clatter of limpsFrom kicks Ive yet to haveMy name is a sirenMy name is Scarlette Siren.Only for you - Razia

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I sacrifice my life only for you,

A red rose is gifted straight from my heart.My love for you is the greatest and true,To me you are the beauty of my art.

Oh! My angel you help me line my life,I thank my lord for making you my love.Losing you is a stabbing with a knife,And my love, most precious gift from above.

Love with patience, nothing impossible,When youre with me I can do everything.My angel, you are my lucky purple,you are my angel, I am your wing.

You are my only love and my smile,

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PIG IRONGeorgia Standen

A siren reeksBut does not wake me:A boot does.It is rainingHard words and insults under the bus stop glassHe grabs me by my zipped coat

When he realises Im a girl.

My eyes are doused fire.

He does not kiss meIm too dirtyA rat that gnawed street pizza

Got tomato sauce on my lipsFrom the palm of his slap.

He fumbles with my blanketMy stink layersAnd reaches for that placeI screech like an urchinAnd a slap pierces againA homeless whoreI am taken, lost on the streets

I write it in my diaryWith a pen I used at schoolThe third time this month.

A siren reeks and stops.and I run I run.

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DUALISMEnfys Walker

I found my mother tongueAfter flailing frantically for ten minutes

Beneath my bedWhere it had flows

As I sleptFor who needs wordsWhen one can dream -Where colours dance in sparkling streamsWhere a boy can take you where you pleaseWhere you are alone -And I emerge, pantingMouths making choked wordsAs I try to call outThe world coloured by panicBefore I find it

The chains under my bed My mother tongue.

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A PHOTOGRAPH OF BODY BAGS AFTER THE SYRIAN GAS ATTACKSEnfys Walker

Cocoons. Concealing precious contentSide by side, almost touchingBut quite connectingInside. Nails grow. Breath exhaledBut these strange fruit are stiffening

Gas released, tear ducts glisteningBereft. Of that most important soul.

For no emergence lies aheadLong live the queen. Long live the dead.

NEWS BROADCAST Georgia Standen and Vanessa Joshua

Theres a war out there, there are bombs splintering everywhereTake cover or get splattered, Americans are trying to suck out our freedom, our right to government. With napalm, rape and orange theft they shoot us down one by one, women, children, dogs. They are dogs. With their manufactured guns they came into our peasant country and rupture the spirits of our ancestors, but we fight them

in OUR forests, OUR swamps and OUR huts. We rise them up and let them swing with their flags. You cannot come here and strip us of our dignity. You cannot come

here and force us, force the barrel of our guns into our cheeks. We will fight you with

our bare hands if we need to we will not go down easily, but you will go down hard. We are neither communist or capitalist. We are Vietnamese and no longer will you numb our country, our politics, our people. our land, our bodies. They are ours and ours alone

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LIPSTICK GRAFFITIEnfys Walker

His eyes stamped with the Queens smileHis voice an emergency dialHis gums receding, blue snap back on his headBrought up in a room with a Barbie bedHis cheeks, sharp, sharp knivesWhich cut both endsBut always gets him dividendsTobacco stains behind pink lipsThat snap shut to give his girlfriend a kissLipstick graffiti: the colour of shame

Trapped in silence. His bodys to blame.

DNAGideon

How do you define a temple?

Each brick, each grain has its placeWith each stroke of a brush you create artWith each string of fabric, a clothFrom all the rings of a tree trunkTimeExperience a chapter just like a book you flicker through

The birth of experience.

Look at the tree; a mark is not a markCall the skin a mapAs you navigate through this terrain, a mark is not a markRings of experienceThe ink engraved to direct you to me

Im a singing chair. Yes, Im a singing chair.

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THE UNKNOWN STREET SOLDIERJavaid Miah

His face had a scar like a ripped paper edgeHis teeth were the headlights in the darkHis hair a wasted lawnHis laugh a head hitting concreteHis walk a metronomeHis walk, a Pandoras box.

AUTOBIOGRAPHYGeorgia Standen

I was raised byA withered handA shattered wombBy broken hair brushesAnd soft, stinging sentencesThat harboured expectationsAnd comparisons top brotherYou werent a good mother.Not really.

I was raised by a beardA smileAnd a calloused hand that was softerThan any goose feathersHe had a belly filled with rumbles

EarthquakesThat slowly killed him.

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THE PEARL Samirah Shaikh

She is a girlProtected by the power of AllahAs if she were a beautiful pearlCovered from head to toeFollowing her duty with free will.

She chose the NiqaabA plain black clothA protective barrier against the eyes of menA barrier against this corrupt world.

But this corrupt worlds could not see through her eyeGirls pulled away her protectionRip open her NiqaabTo reveal a beautiful pearlWhat did they expect?A clone? An evil spirit? The devil?

Imagine having your clothes pulled offWithout your consentImagine losing a pearlThat breaks from the chain and falls toward the gutter.

She bowed to AllahAnd made DuuerFor all the other girlsPrayed that protectionWalked with them forever.

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LIFE STORY Samirah Shaikh

I was raised by bright flowers

Two bright sunsLighting my pathFollowing sweet smells of joyA soft breeze gently pushing me forward

Causing me to riseHelping to show the worldAnother beautiful flower.

TRAPPED IN A SHELL Samirah Shaikh

My broken family is trapped in a journalThere on my half-broken bedIn a room full of emptinessAn echoing silence.

I go down the stairs of my little tree hutMy small feet land on cracking leaves and shrubsBehind meTwo graves: mother and fatherBetween them a shellTrapped inside, a thousand nightmares.Broken families tumble -And I am only 10 -And covered in scarsFrom loving what I have lost.

I hold the shell to my ear and heartwo gun shots.


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YOUR AVERAGE WHITE COLLAR, 9-5 Kristina Terech

Take off the back-problem inducing

Stress-heightening, attention-reducingTake off the His

Put on the HersWith a swish of the wand Let out the inside.

Lifted her powder magic wandThe mythical glazing flame

She glides across her arms, her chestAround her face, cheekbonesThat hold up her proud throne.

There, above, her crownThat fine spun gold thread upon her head

That lines the eyes cold blue The same she feels around her thighsWhen she walks outside, when she passes mocking smilesClicking heels on rocks studs like those on her mind

Marches to her own drumIts her debut the first time

The heightened sensation she feels with her mirrorsThose beneath her thrones bows, and all lined with lightsJust like in the dressing room.

Just like in her mind.

Shes happy, so dont mindReflecting glittery pink-red shine

How deep does beauty really sink?Her mind, her body, her shrine.

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SWEAR ON YOUR LIFE Javaid Miah

You will go to hell, you will go to hellGrins the sheep, thorny and barking.He stands there, feeling their spitMilk lumps running down himQuestioning, thinking -Smack smack went the ImamPliers, grabbing his hand, breaking it on the QuranSWEAR TO ALLAH YOU WILL NOT LOOK THAT WAY!

He swore to God that he would never dream that way.

When he was 17 he powdered childhood promises Caught like an ice block bird, his eyes uponA person, muscular, leonine, love -Spit. Spit. Questioning broken bruising swollen skin -God knows what is natural and what is not -He moaned while the angels whipped himBeating out the desire; but nothing came outThe whip like a snake bite pulling his gown to the groundHe did not understand.

Hopeless, he closed that book, slowly, reluctantlyLeafing the pages. Shut.

What is natural is what is himWhat is unnatural is what is not him.

He lives.

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(UN)MUTEFrom Readers & Writers - the literature education programme of English PEN Edited by Joelle Taylor and Kat Lewis English PEN is one of the UKs leading literature and free speech charities, based at the innovative Free Word Centre in Farringdon, London. We promote the freedom to write and the freedom to read. The founding centre of a worldwide writers association established in 1921, we are supported by our active membership of leading writers and literary professionals with an elected Board. Our education programme develops the writing of prisoners, detainees, refugees, asylum-seekers and other socially excluded groups. We also run a full programme of public events and award prizes to outstanding British and international writers. Special thanks to Joelle Taylor, Kat Lewis, Steven Kern, Georgia Standen, Eddie Playfair and everyone at Newham 6th Form College. Support the work of English PEN find out more at www.englishpen.org

English PEN is a company limited by guarantee, number 5747142, and a registered charity, number 1125610.

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