“My English” Poem by Aleena

My English is simple.

Cause it is afraid of making mistakes

Which are indeed punishable by death.

My English is first generation,

Its parents were working in someone’s kitchen,

Cooking a meal it would never eat,

Toiling in someone’s land,

Growing flowers it would never smell.

Its grandparents converted into Christianity.

Their parents were slaves.

My English has no roots touching the late queen,

But a mere pseudo arm protruded from a mean missionary’s tongue

Talking about heaven and hell,

Justice and equality,

Such heavy loads Jesus himself was talking about.

My English is a slave owner’s illegitimate child.

My English has issues with subject -verb agreement,

Cause it was a subject in its whole life,

never felt any agreements fair,

And all the verbs were always against it.

My English never gets the tenses right,

It is quite tensed about the future

And stuck in past.

My English swallows the articles

Cause it’s always hungry.

It spits out the crumbs,

People call it a freak experimental poetry.

My English gets quota seats in national seminars. But is denied discounted prices for being outdated.

My English has no Shakespeares.

Its Sylvia Plaths are committing suicides,

Mary Shelleys face real life horrors,

And John Keatses dies in the cradles.

My English is a token and a slang.

Its identity is mine.

My English is a war veteran.

It is just tired.

By ALEENA AKASHAMITTAYI