Daughter Triptych

thoughts Sarah Ghazal Ali's poem

Read the complete poem here: Daughter Triptych by Sarah Ghazal Ali, in Quarterly West

This poem is written in the triptych form, one that closely resembles triptych art—a triparted panel of paintings which often represent a narrative, a juxtaposition or interconnection. Usually, triptych poems have a present, a past and a future. In this poem, we begin with a scene from the past, move to one that occurs in the present, after which we witness a conversation with God.

by Engin Binbas

The first panel speaks of a dream from the past. A woman (perhaps the speaker) dreams of pink pills, a curved door handle, wire hanger, unripe papaya—all reminiscent images of the female body. She watches herself through Mary and Sarah, foremothers from whom she has descended. This act is imbued with the conscious or unconscious knowledge that her body too, will soon birth a daughter. The language used elicits a visceral response and is rife with silent horror, a feeling that is almost central to the experience of womanhood.

Even today, as I re-read this poem, I can almost watch myself reading it for the first time. I can’t forget the way I felt when I reached the second panel. Each time, it brings with it the memory of listening to this exact conversation play out between my uncle and my mother. My uncle, sobbing over the phone, claimed his life was cursed because he had two daughters. My mother argued back saying you have angels for daughters, they bring soul to all our lives and tried convincing him to stop saying such a thing, only in vain. In the poem, the poet ends the second panel with a line of seven words. Seven words of wound.

Uncle says a shame—with daughters come 

hardship. To Uncle she serves tea, nods.

I am not enough to prove otherwise. 

In the third and final panel, we witness a glorious vision. The poet quotes a scene where a man meets The Prophet and asks who among all people is most deserving of good treatment. In a sermon-like response, The Prophet states: your mother, your mother, your mother. And then finally, your father. Following this vision, another is conjured. This time, of a young girl standing in front of God with a question, one that is left unanswered.

These three panels behave like three different scenes, all having a common thread—what it means to be a daughter. In the first panel, the poet is a daughter of the foremothers and happens to bear a daughter herself. The foremothers themselves bear daughters in their wombs, which appears to the speaker through the sight of abortions in a dream. In the second panel, the poet is only a daughter. Her uncle’s daughters do not exist within the room. The memory of the mother being a daughter wisps across the verse like a pearl sheen, one you could almost miss if you didn’t know you had to look for it.

How many times do we remember that our mother was once a daughter too? Even yet, in that act of remembering, what can we think of? The poem captures the essence of the fleetingness of a mother’s childhood in this manner. A mother is rarely ever seen as a human. She is either beyond or below—a fate reserved for our women. Very early on in our lives, we become more woman, less daughter.

In the final panel is a daughter that asks a pivotal question. One that is left ringing, its undercurrent undulating between the verses of the poem, whose vibrations we sense within the first few lines of the poem. Like hearing a faint sound and recognising it immediately just not knowing where it is coming from. 

I keep returning to this poem and I wouldn’t know why. It’s not comfort but perhaps the shared discomfort and hurt. How being a daughter is just that—just an innocent wondering of what might happen, not if God left us alone, but if we refused what he offers.

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If you have any thoughts about this poem or anything to add to the conversation, I would be honoured : )