The Home We Were Promised
Madiba promised home,
one same for that is Black,
for that is white,
for that in the middle
a home.
Warm gloves,
knit with yarn,
steaming hot chocolate,
a room full of laughter
the kind not forced
by a group tipsy off balance.
We heard,
seldom listened.
Life's con,
an ear in turn
to pain and strife,
taking hostage of home.
Victim for being too dark
for the outdoor sun,
calling the kettle black
a pot harsh
that now knows its own.
Look aside.
The home is full.
A cup and sweater
was a favour too big.
Too much warmth
for one who was not meant
to sit beside the fire.
The home, picturesque,
without doors.
For warmth,
proved excess is enough
to brave the winter.
And when we blame the inhabitant
for the crowd,
taking his sweater,
for she does not deserve
a warm cup in the cold,
we become blind
to the room's ability
to make a home
with bigger doors.
Another home, far up east,
needs back their children.
Her parents need them home
someone to help them
until they wither.
They say they should not go away,
even if it is not safe.
They should stay within home.
For east or west,
home is best.
Can you really say that for me?
I was promised a home
one I would hold,
one where I could give a joke
aimlessly,
where my heart ebbs
and I set everything right.
How I came here
is a tale too familiar.
I did not find the coffee.
Neither did I knock
on the open doors.
But somehow,
the sound of my sip
and the knock
got home.
Now they want me back.
I am Afghan
by birth,
by faith,
but not on paper.
Home promised me a voice,
but the voice went too far.
A sugary smile
would be enough,
maybe.
Survival was treated harsh
like a hand
in a cookie jar.
The chef looks at my hand,
at the fingerprints
staining the cookies,
not my eyes
red and teary.
A little teary,
not because the tears are crocodile,
but because even the strength
to let go of a tear
is costly in this place.
So tell me
is the more the merrier
the prayer we pray?
Or
get me back home,
even if I know
there is no chocolate
they promised,
no laughter,
no room waiting,
only a house
that remembers my name
but no longer
knows where to put me.
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142,215 Literary Works • 676,942 Reviews
minasan! :)
my name's yuuki, and i thought i might review this lovely piece of poetry!
so my first impressions: i think it's very overwhelming, something that may be useful is stanza breaks. for example;
here the pacing is a little less overwhelming. stanza breaks could really help a reader enjoy it more!
overall, i think this is a great poem, with a great meaning behind it.
i especially enjoyed this line, conveying that the home is no longer home, but a house, and only a house. no one is waiting, but the empty place you used to love. it's a very nostalgic and relatable poem overall.
all i can really say is keep up the great work!
yoi ichinichi o,
yuuki X3
Thank you so much. I really love the piece too. Hopefully, try to put the stanza breaks in my next.
okay!
I love your poem! To me, it gives the feeling of longing for a place to be comfortable. I do think that you should add some stanza breaks to give the shifts of tone a better flow (Is that the right way to say it? idk). I also think you could arrange your words differently. Like make one line a bit longer than others and vice versa so that your poem is more visually appealing and because you can shape the rhythm and pacing with it(if those things are intentional then you could take my critique with a grain of salt). I like how the poem gives me a sense of nostalgia and then sympathy for the narrator. Your imagery is really good. It's like I can see a scene in my head. And the end of your poem makes it feel complete! Keep it up! :]
Thank you so much. I will put the stanza breaks in my next. I appreciate the review