Eight Poems from Fairoz by Moniza Alvi

In the snow

She lay down in the indoor snow –
it numbed her slowly, very slowly.

                               ‘You not going to school, Fairoz?’

                               ‘What’s wrong with you then? Tell me.’                              

                               ‘Annat, do you know what’s wrong with Fairoz?’

Her whole life

She hasn’t     she didn’t     luckily she hadn’t     she did
just a bit     not really     more than a bit     no     a little
and she watched     will the police?     they’d want to
track her     doesn’t want to lie doesn’t      was drawn in
interested     drawn in drew out     drew in (don’t say that)
doesn’t want to lie     listening listening     did a lot of
listening to him      to her to all of them     was so tired
of all the listening     what did she really think?    it was
wrong     not completely no yes      violence like murder?
she has her life     she’s young not so young      no
will they think she’s young?     responsible like guilty?

Could someone help her?     she has this one life     hers
she’s an intelligent girl yeah      more than quite intelligent
her whole life sometimes it’s nothing     though not nothing

Urgent question

‘Mirror mirror,
heart of silver, not of gold,
am I young – or am I old?’

‘Come closer now…
The answer is
young-old. Old-young.’

Like a mark on her kameez

Spreading like a mark, a stain

very fast

out of her control.

Stigma.

              More strongly there

even than herself.

What she’d like to say

She always, almost
always (especially later)
had her doubts –

They crept in like waves

sometimes smaller
sometimes larger –

that he was good
that what he said
was good was good –

She never let him
put words into her mouth.

Is there anything she’d like to say?
‘I had my doubts. Yeah, doubts.
I’m telling you the truth.’

The room in her mind’s eye

One of the chairs
is for her.
Pulled out for her. No –
screwed to the floor.
A window? No window.
A metal grille.
Walls made of blocks.
An inside lock? Maybe not.
She can’t sit down
on a chair wedged
into the corner
of her mind’s eye.
It’s a big enough room
for the corner of an eye.
Bolts? No clock?

The woods

The woods are the woods –
nothing more. The trees

darkening the pathways.
People still jump out of the bushes

but with nothing new to say,
their mouths opening and closing.

The woods – there’s no beginning
and no end. The woodcutters

are at work. Strewn branches.
Tree-stumps are everywhere now,

as many stumps as trees.
And crowds of mushrooms.

Those that look so enticing are deadly –
the pristine white ones, white as

white feathers, cap and gills,
and the story-book red ones

with white spots – warty really.
They attract the flies – and kill them.

This place. Where is she?
Past tense. Where was she?

Cold song

Her teeth are chattering

chatter chatter

but she hasn’t told

told no one

chatter chatter no one

reflects her words

back to her

can anyone bear to hear it

hear her wake up

Moniza Alvi's book-length sequence Fairoz, concerning a teenage girl's vulnerability to extremism, is due from Bloodaxe in March of next year.