That Something

Think of me as a volcano: it’s alright kiddo, he said before he left with his shoes and his smile. I could not handle not flying with him. And as he soared across the clouds and my mind drifted to the skies, we had a time and we did not; his eyes were blue his hair was not, I liked him then and I do not. Clutching at strings, I was, clutching at musical creatures, the way they held on. Sitting on the grey and I don’t recall- another broken promise for another dirty floor; I laced them then, I thought it wise. And all the passers-by being passive with their eyes. Yes, the colour’s changed, I see it red; and sometimes even as I curl up in bed, in my head, his eyes they come right back and they do not; I liked to see and I did not. Don’t tell me it won’t be long, don’t lie, don’t make me kiss you goodbye. Goodbye, goodbye: everything about you is goodbye. And you are rushed and you feel hot; and I am cold and you are not; and I loved you and I did not. My mister bad man, bad man you promised me we’d float, over green and poppy fields we’d float, over sea and clouds but we did not; I tried to cry but I could not; you said you’d stay but you did not; you said you loved and you did not, and I did not.

Nitolbu (II)

Tifel misthi, imdendel m’id ommu,
ihares b’halqu miftuh ‘il fuq lejn is-saqaf
imlewwen bil-moffa.
Ommu,
l-ixkaffa ta’ sidirha riha ta’ hobz,
ghajnejha maghluqin fl-estasija
tal-litanija.
Tfajla sabiha titrekken fuq iz-zuntier.
Midinba, qalet, ma tghaddix minn go l-bieb;
ghajnejha djamanti,
ifframmentati,
miksurin bid-dmugh.
U jiena niccassa-
dak il-kurcifiss mhux qieghed fin-nofs ezatt;
qed jaqbadni genn biex inqum u niddrittah.
Ghalfejn qieghdin hawn,
migburin, imnikktin?
Lkoll nitolbu lil dan l-Alla tal-hallelin
(u ahna hallelin—
jiena fuq naha
w’inti fuq ohra).

Nitolbu (I)

Tifel misthi, imdendel m’id ommu,
ihares b’halqu miftuh ‘il fuq lejn is-saqaf
imlewwen bil-moffa.
Ommu,
l-ixkaffa ta’ sidirha riha ta’ hobz,
ghajnejha maghluqin fl-estasija
tal-litanija.
Sidna Gesu’ Kristu fuq salib ghalik miet,
ibni.

The Language Issue

One of the advantages of being Maltese is that we are bilingual. I thought most people would agree with this; as I discovered, I was very much mistaken. I was enjoying a cocktail and a discussion at a party once, when the language issue arose. I was amazed at how fervently those patriotic people voiced their argument that, in Malta, Maltese is the more important language. Irked, I asked, ‘is it not wonderful that we are able to use English to communicate with foreigners?’ Instantly, I was answered by a loud chorus of ‘no’s. One eyebrow raised, I sheepishly asked, ‘why not?’

The following is the answer given to me by one especially fervent patriot (in Maltese):

‘I was at a restaurant and there was a foreign waitress. I spoke to her in Maltese. When she said she didn’t understand, and would I please speak English, I refused, and asked to speak to the manager. I figure if she can work in Malta, she should know the language.’

‘Mela!’ and ‘Naqbel mieghek jien!’ seemed to be the general reaction to this; my eyebrow continued to rise.

‘But’, I tried to argue, ‘if you go to any other European country, like Germany, and you don’t know German, they would have no qualms communicating in English.’

‘I don’t care’ was his obviously educated response.

Though Maltese is Malta’s national language, both Maltese and English are official languages. Technically this means we are bilingual. Of course, there are some cases of Maltese people who cannot speak Maltese; which I think is a real shame, as it is shameful that a good amount of Maltese people cannot speak English. How, then, can we call ourselves bilingual if, on top of this, there are people who outright refuse to learn one of the two languages?

The Maltese language is very important to us: as Derrida said, every language is based on its own unique ideology: this means that Maltese is an accurate portrait of our identity as Maltese people. It is a beautiful language, both poetic and practical, and reflects the island’s history.

Yet, surely English is important too. Maltese is a language spoken by only about 500,000 people world-wide, and while we should be proud to have our own language, we must realise that outside Malta, if you can only speak Maltese, you’re basically screwed.

Another thing that really gets to me is the ‘fonetikal’ spelling we seem to think it is our right to adopt. Picture this: you’re eating your cereal, reading a Maltese newspaper which seems innocent enough; then, all of a sudden, without warning, you spot a word such as:

-Xawer

-Skrin

-Futbol

-Ticer

-something equally abominable

In these situations, what I tend to do (after I have finished screaming, of course) is close the newspaper, fold it down the middle, throw it on the ground disdainfully, jump up and down on it whilst making agitated noises. Then, I grab the nearest Oxford English Dictionary and read 2 or 3 pages of that to cleanse my mind.

Just because you slaughter a word, that does NOT make it Maltese. Three words: USE. INVERTED. COMMAS. Seriously, all you have to do is write ‘shower’; ‘screen’; ‘football’; ‘teacher’ (respectively) instead. We will all understand you just as well, if not better, and you will spare us the tearing-out-of-hair.

Non Fiction Fiction

I managed to write! Every word of it is true.


Non Fiction Fiction



My grandmother is sitting. Her armchair looks coarse and feels soft, and is roughly the colour of tea with not enough milk in. Her cobalt eyes look wet, but she says they are always watering. I think of my old green watering can with the purple flower on it: I never did like gardening, and watering eyes is a peculiar concept.
She tells me stories, my grandma; black and white stories: men in top hats with canes; ghosts in top hats on the stairwell. I and my technicolour do not fully appreciate these stories until I am much older (my grandma also predicts this).
My grandmother rests her bad leg on a stool with a blue and yellow blanket. That blanket always made my eyes dry and itchy. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a 50p coin and rosary beads. ‘This is for your pocket money’, she says, ‘and now it is six and we must pray.’
I watch and mime as her thin lips fumble over the Mary Full of Graces. Her watery eyes are closed. The rosary beads are made of real dried rose petals. When I use them I close my eyes and hold them in the groove between my nose and my mouth. Grandma thinks it is because I am passionate; they are old, but if you hold them close enough to your face and breathe in through your nose then you can still catch a whiff of musk.
Grandma’s flat is very different to the way it is now. Now, as I write this, they are stripping the walls of their paint, and they are hanging up ‘aubergine’ curtains. Grandma’s curtains are deep red and regal. My hair then is still blonde and long past my waist. My mother brushes it everyday- one hundred brushes- and scolds me when I put strands of it in my mouth.
Grandma has finished praying and I have finished pretending to. She reaches over to the plate on the table by her chair and produces an aniseed ball. I like the way they burn your tongue at the beginning. When it starts to taste sweet you can pull it out of your mouth and it is white; and if you suck it small enough and pull it out of your mouth, it looks like a tooth. I tried putting a small white aniseed ball under my pillow one night, but the tooth-fairy is not easily fooled.
I have finished my homework, and crossed out the tasks in my diary. My grandmother tells me I am a very good girl when I show her this. When I show her my mathematics copybook she tells me she can only remember her calculus because her teacher was a nun who wore her spectacles too far down on her nose and handed you caramels when you got your answers right. She tells me I must improve my handwriting: it looks like a mischievous spider swam in an ink-pot then danced on my copybook. I giggle and think of Little Miss Muffet. Her spider wore a top hat too. I decide that I like spiders. I do not like cockroaches.

Too Late for Roses

I walk around the unsilent city;
I am trying to make it my own again.
The yellow walls breathe with your hair.
I like to think I could possibly maybe forget your tragic face.
We and the world are changing;
the only change is toward death, V says.
Perhaps in this decomposition,
stagnation,
as the roses sing love in their putrid aromas we could for once look at each other neutrally.
My intention never was to offer you roses;
I never basked in the moronic uncertainty of a sickly-sweet promise.
I think I knew it right then, the first time your tongue shivered over my nipple,
that forever only exists if you are dead.
(And I am not)

To Nobody

There is something anarchic in the way you twirl your hair; something uncontrollable in the rose petals that fall at your feet. The curve of your lips completes me so I am a sphere: complete in myself, still dependant on that curl, that dimple, your hips. There is something, I do not know what, which disarms me. You wave me aside with a gesture that could overthrow countries; a cobalt-textured gesture. At your feet I would gladly morph myself, become a pyramid, my revering hands at the apex. Or if you uttered the words I could box myself in perfect Golden Ratio and present my crimson self to you. If you wished, I would disregard all symmetry and shift into a trapezium so you could use my slanted back as a pedestal. There is liquid hope in spheres. Just utter the words.