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The Muharram Sessions are a series of short spoken word poems on themes related to the day of Ashura.
Home
Where is home?
Inner city London
Council flat, working class, redundant
Concrete, Thatcher built,
That should
Have been poured in the shape of hopelessness
Like Chernobyl
Nothing noble
About stacking people up like that
A deck of cards
Take your pick
It’s the Joker, thank the Queen
Dance on those stairs, it’s time to go insane
Is that home? It was for me
The place that made Nouri
But I went back, recently
And there was nobody there.
No-one that I knew.
The people I loved,
Vanished into thin air.
It’s as if,
Home is gone.
Just a memory
Home is gone.
So where is home?
Where do I find it?
Golden dome?
The cliche Tweet, where my heart is, is that it?
Nah.
My hearts not there. It can’t be found.
I got rid of my heart. It was slowing me down.
But I’ll tell you my soul
Knows that place well
It knows his shrine better than any street in this world
My body isn’t here no
it’s, latched onto that pearl
Hands gripped on those bars so tight that they curl
And I beg and I beg for some sense of a home
Where is it, my Master?
I ask you here, beneath your dome
I leave, though my bodies there
All I’m searching for is love
And I find it when I ponder
On Karbala, the night of
You see, Hussain’s in his tent
A woman by his side
His infant in its cradle
Swaying, still alive
His sister deep in prayer
His brother, both hands still there
They’re surrounded by death
And yet, how safe can you get?
Surrounded by death
And yet how safe can you get?
Look at all that love
A home, all in a tent
You see…
That’s what life looks like.
A home. People who love you.
A safe place.
You should take a moment:
And feel it.
While you still can.
#spokenword #muharram #ashura