Amina Atiq is a poet from Liverpool. Her poetry has been described as straight-talking, beautiful and powerful.
Amina got into writing and performing poetry because she wanted to shed a light on the political and social affairs that matter to her. She wanted to be visible – not just as a young person, but also as a Muslim woman.
Poetry isn’t just words on paper for Amina, it has become an important part of her life and the way she lives. She uses it to reflect, learn and grow as a person, believing that: Poetry is the gateway to the truth.
'A letter to my mother'
Amina’s poem ‘A letter to my mother’ is all about the importance of relationships and how the closest ones are often the hardest.
She explores how:
I am your nightmare, your heartbreak
the life dispersed from your
womb
your first love and your first-born
in glitter bows, puffy dresses and leather
shoes, handbags and glossy lipsticks,
the best dressed toddler in that
village
and it was only you and I, handpicking
peaches from grandad's secret
garden
and it was only you and I cuddling under the night until I crept
back into your breast at the end
and there are thousand ways to show
you my love but I chose to break your
heart instead and the woman in me
hopes to find the courage to let you
know before it is too late that
I love you.
My mother, you are the perfect masterpiece who
nourished my soul, challenged me,
broke me, made me and you are the flow
of electrons, passing through my body
and turning the key
to my engine and without you, I am a car
without fuel, and without you
I am holding my breath and
there is a letter buried under my pillow
waiting to be written but the pen is too
weak
to accept that the woman I am today
my mother engraved in me.
Some write letters when we have left this
world, wrapped in white cloths, and eyes closed
body cold
and perhaps I do not want to make that mistake and one day,
the sun will shine and I will not keep
you in the dark one more time
For I do not want to live in regret
and when a thousand voices cheer me on
from the audience, perhaps the only
voice
I really want to hear, is always you.
‘You’ll never understand me,’ I slam the door
breaking your heart over and over again,
but my mother, she waits up all night waiting for the key to turn through the door
for our bones are made from Yemeni mould and when we fight, I sneak back into her chest
when she is not looking
and while you dream, your skin like dawn
mine crushed against my empty
heart
you hide your tears behind your garments
so I never see. You curl your lashes back,
rub the cream where it hurts
and when you complain of the pain
in your limbs I turn away, afraid that
I will lose you, one day.
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news source : BBC UK