Scan barcode
citrus_seasalt's review against another edition
5.0
Tied between whether to give this a 4.5 or 5 stars— Noor Hindi’s voice will stick with me for a long time, the writing was searing, but there were still some poems that I preferred over others. I think I’ll also have to revisit this at some point: I had to read over different passages or poems a couple of times in order to properly dissect them, since there are moments when Noor focuses more on the emotions she’s expressing rather the language she’s using to convey them. (Which is the point of a lot of this collection! There’s quite literally a poem called “Fuck Your Lecture On Craft, My People Are Dying”.) (Unsurprisingly, that is one of the most powerful poems in “Dear God, Dear Bones, Dear Yellow”. But I think I also remember seeing when the poem was first created/posted in 2021?!)
This was a spectacular collection, though, and I hope that anyone reading it won’t try to do so in one sitting. Noor’s language, rawness, and numbness is visceral, but her poetry still has the structure and depth of a writer who has honed her skills long before publication.
Favorite poems: “In Which The White Woman On My Thesis Defense Asks Me about Witness”, “Fuck Your Lecture On Craft, My People Are Dying”, “All My Plants Are Dead”, “I Call My Mother From The Moon”.
Parts I Highlighted:
This was a spectacular collection, though, and I hope that anyone reading it won’t try to do so in one sitting. Noor’s language, rawness, and numbness is visceral, but her poetry still has the structure and depth of a writer who has honed her skills long before publication.
Favorite poems: “In Which The White Woman On My Thesis Defense Asks Me about Witness”, “Fuck Your Lecture On Craft, My People Are Dying”, “All My Plants Are Dead”, “I Call My Mother From The Moon”.
Parts I Highlighted:
Colonizers write about flowers.
I tell you about children throwing rocks at Israeli tanks
seconds before becoming daisies.
I know I’m American because when I walk into a room something dies.
Metaphors about death are for poets who think ghosts care about sound.
When I die, I promise to haunt you forever.
One day, I’ll write about the flowers like we own them.
I become a machine. A transfer of information. The stories—a plea for empathy—an over
saturation of feelings we’ll fail at transforming into action.
What’s lost is incalculable.
And at the end of summer, the swimming pools will be gutted of water.
And it’ll be impossible to swim.
… How tear gas
forms clouds above
the dead. How a land—
force-fed bullets and blood—
ruptures its stomach and swings it at a flag.
I want to apologize on behalf of all children
of refugees. We leave our shoes on the doors of America
and come back to find them bleeding.
I’m not a poet anymore—
I’ve interviewed too many politicians.
All they care for is ghosts.
The homeland is stuck in our teeth. It’s filling our cavities. It rests on our
tongues. My God. How we yearn for its olive trees. How it haunts our dreams.
I’m so glad one of my indie bookstores had copies of this!! 🇵🇸
Content Warnings
Graphic: Genocide, Misogyny, Racism, Grief, and Colonisation
rachelfayreads's review
dark
emotional
informative
reflective
fast-paced
5.0
Content Warnings
Moderate: Genocide, Misogyny, Rape, Sexism, Xenophobia, Islamophobia, Grief, Religious bigotry, Colonisation, and War