It’s that shiny ripe summer now.

Bushes bow down to hand us

a spoiling raspberry or blackberries

come too soon and I’m thinking about death again. About how flamingo chicks are born grey,

it’s eating that brings their brightness.

Nan told me her face was a map of dried rivers.

At the corners of her eyes I saw some of the old ways of water. Why do we call it blue?

That made up colour,

ﻧﻌﻢ وﯾﻐﯿّﺮ اﻟﻮاﻧَﮫُ٢

I liked it betterwhen it was wine dark,

a sinful sea. Still, the autumn tide launches towards me and my creaking knees.

I’m too ashamed to ask if the chickhas eaten enough to pink itself since I can only handle

the chunky reds, yellows, and blues of Arabic.

I don’t know how to answer when someone asks, “What colour are you?”

I google how to say ‘the leaves are akhdar’ ٣

but can we talk about the bleeding olive trees?

How we are all screaming at the sun

as more and more sand gets bottled up.

I love green, I do, but there is a rhyming between the juice of a watermelon and blood.

Shlawnich٤ Nan? Do you remember those trickles of Arabic we taught you? I’m thinking about memory again.

How others race ahead at learning languages while I am left eating roadkill. Going grey.

How will I hold onto the word for summer

or sea or genocide if I inherit Nan’s forgetting?

Maybe I should find a dagga٥ to tattoo

the word for sea on my chin. I might forget but at least we will have the sea.

Why do we call it blue? That made up colour,

ﻧﻌﻢ وﯾﻐﯿّﺮ اﻟﻮاﻧَﮫُ ٦

Yes, at least we have the sea. And it sprawls, filling my mouth.

– Hanan Issa, National Poet of Wales 2022-2027

This poem was written by Hanan for the Voiced Festival, and part of an exhibition held at @barbicancentre responding to her relationship to home, identity, and language.