Three poems by Namra Amir, a 21-year-old Irish-Pakistani from Portlaoise moved the judges to recognise her with the Spirit of Intercultural Ethics award
Roots and Rings
The Claddagh Ring originated
In Galway, Ireland.
Iconic of Irish identity.
Ironic that I wear it,
The immigrant imposter.
Culturally confused,
Days I thought
Digits didn’t deserve
An emblem of Irish heritage.
The symbol of the hands
That cradle the heart and the crown,
I felt ashamed I wore it because
I was coloured brown.
Not worthy to wear a Celtic design,
My mind reiterated
resign resign
From diamonds and diaspora.
I couldn’t slide the Irish pride
Off my swollen sausage fingers.
The ring remained red and rooted.
Was this a stubborn sign?
You don’t need to be Irish
To experience friendship, loyalty and love
The ring was resilient to olive oil and
Grease, rebelling removal,
it fit like a glove.
The ring didn’t slip off sweaty palms,
when first love fingers intertwined,
walking in St. Stephens Green park.
The ring didn’t rust,
When you threw it among
A busy crowd on Grafton Street.
Where your best friend ducked
And dodged trampling feet to retrieve it,
When you discovered he was a cheat.
The ring returned
When peers pushed pints
Towards you in Temple Bar,
They saw you fidget with your ring
Finger and smile,
you were no longer scarred.
The Claddagh Ring is
A traditional Irish ring
Worn as a token of friendship,
Loyalty and love,
With the memories I carry
I shove silver down my
Foreign fat
fraud finger.
Harp on a Passport
I have been nurtured
By Mother Eire despite
No “O” or “Ni” in my second name.
I don’t look like a Caomihe or Roisin,
My first name lacks any fada.
So why would my name be in an
Anthology of Irish women’s poetry?
The harp on my passport cover
Tells me I’m an Irish national.
So why do irrational doubts
Plague me that I’ll never be like
Ni Dhomnall or Yeasts?
Whose quotes on stamped visa pages
Lure passport control to the
Illustrated landscape
Of the emerald Island.
Poetry pulls my heart strings.
I pursue the dream of
Eileen Ni Chuilleanain,
Professor of Irish Poetry, passing
On her black and yellow gown,
that a poetic immigrant
is worthy of her hand-me-down.
Poetry pulls my heart strings.
I fantasise of the day where
Irish students mediate my name,
Like Murmurings of Meehan in class rooms,
Boland’s themes bouncing around the hall,
recitals of my work like it’s their bible,
attempts to recall the not-so-Irish poet.
Cursing me when I don’t
Show up on their leaving cert paper.
Poetry plucks my harp strings.
Writing poems, I feel more Irish
Then I look, so I pray with poetry
And no coloured photograph,
I’ll stand a chance to belong
In an Irish women’s poetry book.
Diasporic Dancer
You wouldn’t expect to see this lass
Rampant and riverdance to an Irish jig.
When she was abroad she
Sought the seisuín,
Craved the ceol agus craic.
Drafted beer drawn, spilling foam,
She floated with the fiddlers till dawn.
In her local home,
Swinging arms,
Partners switched,
Fine tuning the banjo pitch,
The homesick hammered the floor with their soles.
The bodhrán brought out,
Crowds clapped their hands,
The sight of the one-sided Irish drum
Transported the diasporic dancer
To another land.
The cultural choreographer craved
Two homes, Europe and the East,
her hybrid hips
Swayed and rotate to
bhangra beats.
She danced to the dholki,
the two-headed hard drum,
multicultural movements
reminded her where she came from.
A land of colour,
Bollywood belted
In the blazing heat and bazaar.
Though she was far from her
Second home,
The Punjabi Princess,
The Irish Empress,
The Diasporic Dancer
Relished to roam
The world.
Metro Éireann-Kenan Institute for Ethics Intercultural Writing Competition: The Winners
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