{"product_id":"bless-the-daughter-raised-by-a-voice-in-her-head-isbn-9780593134351","title":"Bless the Daughter Raised by a Voice in Her Head","description":"\u003cb\u003ePoems of migration, womanhood, trauma, and resilience from the celebrated collaborator on Beyoncé’s \u003ci\u003eLemonade \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eBlack Is King, \u003c\/i\u003eaward-winning Somali British poet Warsan Shire\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“The beautifully crafted poems in this collection are fiercely tender gifts.”—Roxane Gay, author of \u003ci\u003eBad Feminist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Warsan Shire is our ultimate modern poet. . . . This is our James Baldwin.”—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times \u003c\/i\u003eCulture Desk\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eLONGLISTED FOR THE GRIFFIN POETRY PRIZE • ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR: \u003ci\u003eVanity Fair, The Guardian, Publishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eMama, I made it \/ out of your home \/ alive, raised by \/ the voices \/ in my head.\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith her first full-length poetry collection, Warsan Shire introduces us to a young girl, who, in the absence of a nurturing guide, makes her own way toward womanhood. Drawing from her own life, as well as pop culture and news headlines, Shire finds vivid, unique details in the experiences of refugees and immigrants, mothers and daughters, Black women and teenage girls. In Shire’s hands, lives spring into fullness. This is noisy life, full of music and weeping and surahs and sirens and birds. This is fragrant life, full of blood and perfume and shisha smoke and jasmine and incense. This is polychrome life, full of henna and moonlight and lipstick and turmeric and kohl. The long-awaited collection from one of our most exciting contemporary poets, this book is a blessing, an incantatory celebration of resilience and survival. Each reader will come away changed.“To say Warsan Shire's first full-length poetry collection is ‘highly anticipated’ is an understatement. . . . Consider \u003ci\u003eBless the Daughter\u003c\/i\u003e essential reading.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The Week\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“\u003c\/i\u003eThe British-Somali poet is charting a new course with her first full-length poetry collection . . . which weaves together the themes of migration, womanhood, Black identity, and intergenerational collection that Shire is so singularly gifted at exploring.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eVogue\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This is a collection that merits slow and careful reading.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBuzzFeed\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“In her first full-length collection of poetry, the Somali-British writer forges her own path, with meditations on migration, femininity, trauma and resilience.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eEsquire\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eBless the Daughter Raised by a Voice in Her Head\u003c\/i\u003e tackles many of the same themes as her previous work, with the same striking verse we’ve come to expect from her.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBustle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Warsan Shire is our ultimate modern poet. . . . Her poetry [is] fierce and urgent . . . moody and moving . . . direct and honest. . . . This is our James Baldwin.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The Culture Desk\u003c\/i\u003e podcast from \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Shire’s strikingly beautiful imagery leverages the specificity of her own womanhood, love life, tussles with mental health, grief, family history, and stories from the Somali diaspora, to make them reverberate universally.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Telegraph\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This full-length collection . . . depicts a journey to womanhood intermixed with pop culture and news references.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLiterary Hub\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The commanding debut from Shire captures the loneliness of migration in crystalline language punctuated by the menace of patriarchal violence.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It is not overstatement to say Shire writes the way Nina Simone sang.”\u003cb\u003e—Terrance Hayes, author of \u003ci\u003eAmerican Sonnets for My Past and Future Assassin\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Beauty is maddeningly elusive, but it does exist. It’s here in these lines, bursting brilliant, reshaping the story.”\u003cb\u003e—Patricia Smith, author of \u003ci\u003eIncendiary Art\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Warsan Shire’s exquisite, memorable, and finely tuned poems articulate a depth of experience that never fails to surprise and profoundly move me, as she so powerfully gives voice to the unspoken.”\u003cb\u003e—Bernardine Evaristo, author of \u003ci\u003eGirl, Woman, Other\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Heartbreaking, full-bodied, and luscious . . . If someone from another planet wanted to know what it was like for a woman to survive on earth, they should read this book!”\u003cb\u003e—Pascale Petit, author of \u003ci\u003eTiger Girl\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This fierce and compelling book of poems should come with a warning label: \u003ci\u003eThese poems will break your heart\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cb\u003e—Julia Alvarez, author of \u003ci\u003eIn the Time of the Butterflies \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eAfterlife\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Warsan Shire is an expert sculptor. She molds words into clay, her poems into statues—each one a wonder that I return to, in reverence.”\u003cb\u003e—Vivek Shraya, author of \u003ci\u003eI’m Afraid of Men \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eeven this page is white\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eWarsan Shire \u003c\/b\u003eis a Somali British writer and poet born in Nairobi and raised in London. She has written two chapbooks, \u003ci\u003eTeaching My Mother How to Give Birth \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eHer Blue Body\u003c\/i\u003e. She was awarded the inaugural Brunel International African Poetry Prize and served as the first Young Poet Laureate of London. She is the youngest member of the Royal Society of Literature and is included in the Penguin Modern Poets series. Shire wrote the poetry for the Peabody Award–winning visual album \u003ci\u003eLemonade \u003c\/i\u003eand the Disney film \u003ci\u003eBlack Is King \u003c\/i\u003ein collaboration with Beyoncé Knowles-Carter. She also wrote the short film \u003ci\u003eBrave Girl Rising, \u003c\/i\u003ehighlighting the voices and faces of Somali girls in Africa’s largest refugee camp. Warsan Shire lives in Los Angeles with her husband and two children. \u003ci\u003eBless the Daughter Raised by a Voice in Her Head \u003c\/i\u003eis her full-length debut poetry collection.\u003cb\u003eExtreme Girlhood\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA loop, a girl born\u003cbr\u003eto each family,\u003cbr\u003eprelude to suffering.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBless the baby girl,\u003cbr\u003ecaul of dissatisfaction,\u003cbr\u003epatron saint of not\u003cbr\u003egood enough.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAre you there, God?\u003cbr\u003eIt’s me, Warsan.\u003cbr\u003eMaladaptive daydreaming,\u003cbr\u003eobsessive, dissociative.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBorn to a lullaby\u003cbr\u003elamenting melanin,\u003cbr\u003enewborn ears checked\u003cbr\u003efor the first signs of color.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eAt first I was afraid, I was petrified.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe child reads surahs each night\u003cbr\u003eto veil her from il\u003cbr\u003eprotecting body and home\u003cbr\u003efrom intruders.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe wakes with a fright,\u003cbr\u003esomeone cutting the rope,\u003cbr\u003esomething creeping\u003cbr\u003edeep inside her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAre you there, God?\u003cbr\u003eIt’s me, the ugly one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBless the Type 4 child,\u003cbr\u003escalp massaged with the milk\u003cbr\u003eof cruelty, cranium cursed,\u003cbr\u003ecrushed between adult knees,\u003cbr\u003edrenched in pink lotion.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEverything you did to me,\u003cbr\u003eI remember.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMama, I made it\u003cbr\u003eout of your home\u003cbr\u003ealive, raised by\u003cbr\u003ethe voices\u003cbr\u003ein my head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eHome\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eI\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark. You only run for the border when you see the whole city running as well. The boy you went to school with, who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory is holding a gun bigger than his body. You only leave home when home won’t let you stay.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo one would leave home unless home chased you. It’s not something you ever thought about doing, so when you did, you carried the anthem under your breath, waiting until the airport toilet to tear up the passport and swallow, each mournful mouthful making it clear you would not be going back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo one puts their children in a boat, unless the water is safer than the land. No one would choose days and nights in the stomach of a truck, unless the miles traveled meant something more than journey.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo one would choose to crawl under fences, beaten until your shadow leaves, raped, forced off the boat because you are darker, drowned, sold, starved, shot at the border like a sick animal, pitied. No one would choose to make a refugee camp home for a year or two or ten, stripped and searched, finding prison everywhere. And if you were to survive, greeted on the other side—\u003ci\u003eGo home Blacks, dirty refugees, sucking our country dry of milk, dark with their hands out, smell strange, savage, look what they’ve done to their own countries, what will they do to ours?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe insults are easier to swallow than finding your child’s body in the rubble.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI want to go home, but home is the mouth of a shark. Home is the barrel of a gun. No one would leave home unless home chased you to the shore. No one would leave home until home is a voice in your ear saying—\u003ci\u003eleave, run, now. I don’t know what I’ve become.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eII\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI don’t know where I’m going. Where I came from is disappearing. I am unwelcome. My beauty is not beauty here. My body is burning with the shame of not belonging, my body is longing. I am the sin of memory and the absence of memory. I watch the news and my mouth becomes a sink full of blood. The lines, forms, people at the desks, calling cards, immigration officers, the looks on the street, the cold settling deep into my bones, the English classes at night, the distance I am from home. Alhamdulillah, all of this is better than the scent of a woman completely on fire, a truckload of men who look like my father—pulling out my teeth and nails. All these men between my legs, a gun, a promise, a lie, his name, his flag, his language, his manhood in my mouth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eBless This House\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMother says there are locked rooms inside all women. \u003cbr\u003eSometimes, the men—they come with keys,\u003cbr\u003e and sometimes, the men—they come with hammers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eNin soo joog laga waayo, soo jiifso aa laga helaa, \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A man who won’t listen to words, will listen to action. \u003cbr\u003eI said \u003ci\u003eStop\u003c\/i\u003e, I said \u003ci\u003eNo\u003c\/i\u003e and he heard nothing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Perhaps she has a plan, perhaps she takes him back to hers. \u003cbr\u003ePerhaps he wakes up hours later in a bathtub full of ice, \u003cbr\u003edry mouth, flinching at his new, neat incision.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I point to my body and say \u003ci\u003eOh, this old thing? No, I just slipped it on. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eAre you going to eat that? \u003c\/i\u003eI say to my mother, pointing \u003cbr\u003e to my father on the dining room table, mouth stuffed with a red apple.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The bigger my body is, the more locked rooms I find. The more men \u003cbr\u003e    queue at the door. Ahmed didn’t push it all the way in, I still think about what he could have          opened up inside of me. Ali hesitated at the door for three years. Johnny with the blue eyes            came with a bag of tools he’d used on other women: one hairpin, a bottle of bleach,\u003cbr\u003e    a switchblade and a jar of Vaseline. Yusuf called out God’s name \u003cbr\u003e    through the keyhole and no one answered.\u003cbr\u003e Some begged, some climbed up the side of my body like moss\u003cbr\u003e looking for a way in. Some said they were on their way and never came. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eShow us on the doll where you were touched\u003c\/i\u003e, they said. \u003cbr\u003eI said \u003ci\u003eI didn’t look like a doll, I looked more like a house.\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThey said \u003ci\u003eShow us on the house. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLike this: two fingers down the drain. \u003cbr\u003eLike this: a fist through the drywall. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy first found a trapdoor in my armpit, he fell in, hasn’t been seen since. \u003cbr\u003eOnce in a while I feel a quickening, something small crawling up.\u003cbr\u003e I might let him out. Maybe he’s met the others—males\u003cbr\u003e missing from cities or small towns and pleasant mothers,  \u003cbr\u003ewho tricked and forced their way in. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKnock knock. \u003cbr\u003eWho’s there? \u003cbr\u003eNo one. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt parties I point to my body and say \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eOh, this old thing? This is where men come to die.\u003c\/i\u003e","brand":"Random House Trade Paperbacks","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303324995813,"sku":"NP9780593134351","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593134351.jpg?v=1767722763","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/bless-the-daughter-raised-by-a-voice-in-her-head-isbn-9780593134351","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}