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Nayma Chamchoun
NO FILTER
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This is me; here I sit
growing into my aged jacket
accepting my invisibility.
Rebuking my fragility.
Am I irrelevant?
Wearing my wrinkles as a sackcloth and ashes.
Should I reinvent
myself for the applause
of the social media masses?
Twits twittering on Twitter
showcasing shells on Insta
scrolling and trolling
perfecting personas on FB,
a photoshopping melée.
A veil of airbrushed sadness.
I need more because I am less.
Filtering faces and not words,
subsisting on praises,
captive in "like" cages.
A pound of flesh under the knife,
erasing evidence of a lived life.
Fattening up my lips and ass,
a fatted calf,
as a stranger berates me in the looking glass.
Are my eyebrows "on fleek"?
Am I scathingly "savage" enough?
Am I too "woke" or not enough?
I log in and await your critique.
Let's celebrate the cover, not the book.
Post a pic as the panel rates you.
Have an opinion and we hate you.
Losing our humanity on the Book.
I have wandered the London streets
donning my expiry as an invisibility cloak.
As the gaze of the "lit" quickly retreats,
before dissolving into the city's big smoke
I have sat with Eliot as we shared despair
after shop-worn shared niceties
over "tea and cakes and ices".
Exchanging troughs and peaks as we
laughed and cried
Bitching with Bukowski; waving to Sylvia
as we died.
Empty voices filling the space with speech,
their flawless faces behind a screen.
Me, out of touch.They, out of reach.
Where reality and the virtual scheme,
I have haunted the void in-between.
Should I question the truth whilst believing the lie?
The hoards flock to Tik Tok,
Famous for fifteen minutes
to shock, to rock, to mock,
to exhibit without limits.
But I am old and the light in their eyes has died.
I AM NOT BERBER
I am not a Berber, the barbarian
of Greek Generals or Roman raiders,
Cowering in the dust,
conquered and crushed.
Illegitimate invaders
marauding coveted minerals,
advancing your empires further.
The enemies at the gate.
The carpeted Caliphates.
A pie divided in two.
"Half for me and half for you."
"Gracias, Merci,Adieu!”
I am a powerful Amazigh
who has smirked at adversity
for thousands of years,
flicking dusty tears.
Sipping warm mint tea
as Syrah dripped from the wounds
of the nomad fraternity.
Rising stronger from the debris.
My tongue peppered with Arabic,
French and Spanish.
Souvenirs I cannot vanquish.
My words an oral history
of defeat and victory,
immersed in rhythmic Maghreb music.
I cannot be erased or silenced
by the creed of the conquerors
with their patriarchal parlance.
I am of Al Kahina and conjurors.
A matriarchal Warrior Queen.
Neither faith nor power can defeat
a heart forged in desert heat.
Beware my spectacular spleen.
Sands scattered by the winds.
I travel across the globe
in Al-Maghreb woven robes
and olive grove skin.
One day you will say Berber
and I will see our ancestors,
the civilised and the barbarian.
The Amazigh and the Invader.
The jailer and liberty's Dame.
I will face you with fervour
as I majestically assume my role.
Hear my ululations
rising above tribulation
throughout history.
I am Amazigh.
DREAMSCAPE
I dream in English.
Never French or Spanish.
In the utterances of daffodilly fields and pastures.
In the pulped palpitations of TFL rush hour.
On the trodden boards of The Globe
and the ice iced Thames sluggish flow.
The pages of artfully articulated literature
and the cordial colloquialisms shared.
The casual appearance of enervated elders
erupting satiated, scattered scenes in Darija.
Sunnily sprouting from the lips
with throatal lilts and dips
like reconnected confidantes
who shared the confession of chance.
In towering mountains and sunken valleys
In parched patch and silken Saharan ripples.
Red bleeds through the heart of each cloth.
Poured with tea, culturally beloved by both.
A toppled Lady Britainia
and a smiling Dahiya.
Breaking bread over empires risen and fallen.
Where the sparrow sang the crested lark’s song.
Expressions of a mother tongue
not the mother's tongue,
though the pulse on its rosy tip
beats haphazardly through sleep.
ONCE
Once, I was seventeen and married,
Grieving as the guests rejoiced,
Denied a voice or choice.
Dolled up on l'maida and carried.
Once, I was a child with child
Fast tracked into adulthood,
Afraid and unassured,
Sowing hope into Tuesday's child.
Once, only valued for chastity and a womb.
Heaven under the feet mothering.
Their emplaced demands smothering
as the dove fluttered hope into the heavy gloom.
Once, I was the mother I never had
and the wife I never wanted to be,
Playing the part expected of me,
In the babes, finding reasons to be glad.
Once, I faked love in the hope it would grow
Fabricating sweet words and comforting cuddles
But like you, it sank to the bottom of the bottle,
Forsaking you to the mistress you dotingly know.
Once, I tried to be all things to everyone
and nothing to myself,
Burying mental health
So that I could step up to bat for the sons.
You only live once
but die a thousand deaths.
Each time rising out the ash,
Strong enough for once.
Nayma Chamchoun is a British Moroccan writer, poet and performance poet. Her writing is influenced by her cultural duality. She is interested in female voices in the diaspora community, the challenges they face within both communities and the taboos around mental health within their ancestral communities.
Nayma is an active member of London's vibrant Poetry and Spoken Word community, the international Poetry community online and has performed her work at several Poetry Open Mike events including the Grenfell 5 year Anniversary, Women Writing Lockdown Exhibition at the House of Commons, and had her work featured on West Wiltshire Radio & BBC Radio London several times.
Her first poetry collection COVID: THE WORDY WILDS OF A MIND UNDER LOCKDOWN was published to critical acclaim in 2022
Her second collection Saging Not Ageing, published on June 1st 2024.
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