Furqan Mohamed
Biography
Furqan (pronounced fur-khan) Mohamed (she/her) is a Black Muslim student and writer from Toronto, which sits on the traditional territories of the Mississaugas of the Credit, the Anishinabek, Huron-Wendat, and Haudenosaunee peoples. She currently serves as Culture Editor for mimp magazine. Her poetry and essays have appeared online and in print for various publications such as Feels Zine, Toronto Life, Maisonneuve, Return Trip, and Room Magazine, among others. Furqan is a former Journalism Fellow at The Local Magazine. Her feature article, “Getting Vaccinated in the Holy Month,” published in The Local was nominated for a 2022 Digital Publishing Award. Her debut collection of poetry and prose, “A Small Homecoming,” was published by Party Trick Press last year. She is currently studying at the University of Toronto. You can find more about her and her writing at furqanmohamed.com.
Poetics Statement
“I am deeply interested in the internal and external— forces in popular culture that influence the way that we are, how we interpret and internalize them, and the impact of these forces on how we interact with one another. Writing about this, alone or for others, about diaspora and community, has allowed me to make sense of myself and the world around me. Like a stethoscope, poetry is the ultimate tool to listen to what’s underneath things like family, tradition, and identity. I had the opportunity to be a good listener while working on my digital chapbook, “a small homecoming.”
What I love and appreciate most about the form is that we can’t really hide with poetry; it brings everything up to the surface. There is the technical aspect, of course, having fun with words and seeing how ingenious you can be with a line break or a metaphor. And then there’s the moment when you realize what the poem does, what histories and knowledge it shares, and what futures it imagines.
My best writing, I have found, comes from long conversations over dinner with friends, when I coax an anecdote out of my parents about their childhood or earlier years as immigrants, and after reading the work of other writers. A sentence or phrase from them will pull on me, tugging, until I get something out onto a page* (*the notes app on my phone!) I have found that anything can become a poem, and sometimes, by the time I get to something, it already is one.”
Sample of Poet's Work
Home
The fruit vendor sings his cart's contents as the steady beat of footsteps accompanies his tune.
Laughter reverberates. Pieces of conversations add to the symphony.
The tapping of cantaloupes and watermelons sounds like the beating of war drums.
But there is no war here.
We make our own music,
singing excuse mes and salaams and thank yous to the beat of head nods and knowing glances.
It’s tradition. The ceremonial act of holding doors and smiling at strangers on this holy Tuesday
afternoon.
We dance down our streets.
The sidewalks are made of Rosetta stone—there are more languages than I can count.
A diplomatic exchange over parking spots takes place.
There are street signs, but we don’t ever really read them. We know where we are.
(from “a small homecoming” 2021)
After Moonlight
I think you must’ve swallowed the sun.
Light escapes through as you speak,
a well-lit picture comes into focus.
Jenkins said black boys are blue, but here you are; lemon, lily-livered, pigeon-hearted. A jester.
I do not know how to thank you for the laugh, except to laugh, and hope you accept my crooked teeth
as a token of my gratitude.
You do. And we say nothing. And you give me your light again.
afkaaga
You say you are going to butcher it.
The vowels, the parts
in the sum of this whole, my name, are delicate cuts.
I ask that you stretch my name, please. The “a” sound is meant to be generous. Yet, you cut it
short with your amatuer kitchen knife. Sharp.
You are no butcher. My butcher has kind eyes, a beard, large amounts of veal, a genius with a
scale. He knows heaviness,
where to place tongues.
You are no butcher.