Issue 106 / Dec 2019/Jan 2020

THE FINAL
SAY
Writer and artist in residence at Chester Literature Festival,
Imtiaz Dharker, looks to the connective power of words and subtly
poetic voices as an antidote to the ‘bullies of language’
“Words are there
to be used with
pleasure, not to
be squandered; to
remind us what it is
to be human”
These are strident times and it is too easy for subtleties
and nuances to be lost in the noise of devalued words.
When we stop and really listen to each other’s voices,
we make a still space in the world, and that is a space
for poetry, where each word is carefully weighed. I think it is
needed now more than ever. Poetry may whisper or rage, but it
can say things the heart knows before the world has a chance to
catch up.
When I was asked to be artist in residence at Storyhouse, I
knew I wanted to fill it with words and images that would make
it a living book for the whole community, for all the
people who step through its doors into its
welcoming spaces.
All the time I was writing the poem
Storyhouse, I was thinking about the
weight and power of the words we
say to each other, how we greet a
stranger, how we draw a map of the
heart in the language we use and
how poetry can travel without a
passport.
A while ago I wrote a poem
called The Right Word. In it there
are words like ‘terrorist’ but it is
not about terrorism. It is more
to do with how a single image
can be dressed in new words
to make it mean something
quite different, how words
can be used to stir fear
and suspicion. I work with
film, too, and I know I can
take the same shots and
edit them to make totally
contradictory stories. But
that is what is happening
around us all the time: so
many channels, so many
people’s versions of the
truth depending on the
agenda of the person who
tells it.
I had intended to stop
with the revelation that the
person at the door is a child,
but sometimes a poem takes
on a life of its own and this is
what happened at the end. The
‘I’ in the poem opens the door and
offers unexpected hospitality. The
child takes off his shoes. After all the
terrible loaded words and suspicion, the two
acts of courtesy are a kind of healing.
Perhaps because of its ability to say the
unsayable, more and more people are turning to poetry now, but
it has always been there, under the world’s skin, working away
to say things that needed to be said. It is part of everyday life
and speech, in every language, in Urdu or Farsi or in English. We
speak Shakespeare’s poetry without even realising it, in phrases
that are used every day. It is in the language of ancient songs, of
anonymous women working in the fields, in the words spoken
between lovers, between parents and children, in holy books
and unholy curses from 2,000 years ago to two minutes ago.
I eavesdrop shamelessly on conversations in cafes, stations,
on trains, on the street. I see it as part of my job as a poet to
listen to the words around me, in everyday life, not just what
people say, but how they say it, the spaces between the words,
the hesitations, the accent and odd usage. For me it’s like mining
treasure and some of it finds its way into poems.
There’s eavesdropping at all kinds of levels: listening to
human voices of course, but also listening in on the world,
nature, social shifts, the heart’s secrets. I suppose
there is a furtive element to it. It does mean being
undetected, having an ear to a keyhole, lying
in wait for things people don’t even know
they are hiding or aren’t ready to tell.
So I don’t think of poetry as some
rarefied thing. I see it as being
involved with the world, not afraid
to get its hands dirty, because
it has always been about
making sense of the everyday,
examining the soiled
underside of things, the mess
of life, seeing, understanding
it at an odd angle and
putting words to it all.
In a chaotic world,
where language is brutalised
daily, it is needed more than
ever. With the explosion of
media, there are platforms
for all kinds of poetry and
whole continents of new
listeners. That is something
to celebrate, because it is a
wide and generous space
and can accommodate all
kinds of voices.
Most of all, words
are there to be used
with pleasure, not to be
squandered, but to be
savoured; to remind us
what it is to be human,
with this great gift of
language.
It is the way to
answer back and stand up
to the bullies of language, an
act of subversion, and is far
too powerful to be controlled
or contained. !
Words: Imtiaz Dharker
Illustration: Nick Daly / @nickdalyart
Imtiaz Dharker is artist in residence at Chester Literature
Festival, which takes place across Storyhouse until Saturday
30th November. Imtiaz Dharker’s work will remain in situ at
Storyhouse throughout 2020.
The Right Word
Outside the door,
lurking in the shadows,
is a terrorist.
Is that the wrong description?
Outside that door,
taking shelter in the shadows,
is a freedom fighter.
I haven’t got this right.
Outside, waiting in the shadows,
is a hostile militant.
Are words no more
than waving, wavering flags?
Outside your door,
watchful in the shadows,
is a guerrilla warrior.
God help me.
Outside, defying every shadow,
stands a martyr.
I saw his face.
No words can help me now.
Just outside the door,
lost in shadows,
is a child who looks like mine.
One word for you.
Outside my door,
his hand too steady,
his eyes too hard
is a boy who looks like your son, too.
I open the door.
Come in, I say.
Come in and eat with us.
The child steps in
and carefully, at my door,
takes off his shoes.
54