"Tissue" was written by Pakistan-born British poet Imtiaz Dharker and published in her 2006 collection, The Terrorist at My Table. The poem is an impressionistic meditation about paper, focusing on the way that it represents both human fragility and power. The poem shifts its focus throughout, first looking at a Koran and information that has been written in the back about people's births and deaths. Later, the speaker imagines what it would be like if buildings were made out of paper, before finally relating it back to the "tissue" of human skin.
Translucent paper like this could change everything. Paper made thin by time and human touch.
The sort of paper you might find in an old book. Like the Koran, for example—like this one, in the back of which someone has written out people's names and family trees.
Their weights and heights are recorded there too, and how and where people died, and on what day long ago. These pages have been worn down by decades of reading, so that they have become thin enough to let light through.
Imagine if buildings were made out of paper. Then I would be able to feel the way they sway in the wind, watch them easily get caught up in the air of a sigh or a change in the wind's direction.
And maps—think about the way the sun shines through them and all their different markings: borders, rivers, roads, railways, mountains, and so on.
And how about receipts from stores—they tell a story about what we bought, how we paid. These bits of paper fly away from us like kites.
An architect could make buildings out of layers of paper. These buildings would shine with light and display their texts. In fact, that architect would probably never want to use bricks or concrete ever again.
Instead, the architect would prefer paper buildings that daylight shines through—translucent cities and statues, the types of buildings put up to mark humankind's power. This architect could create a great new design.
This design would be made with living material. The architect would build something not meant to last—make it out of paper that was smoothed until it became translucent.
The paper would be transformed into your own skin tissue.
“Tissue” is about human power and fragility. The “Tissue” referred to in the title is, at the beginning at least, a reference to paper. The poem begins as a kind of hymn of praise to this material, before imagining what a human world made out of paper would be like. The poem uses this metaphor to highlight both the power and fragility of human civilization, two traits that the speaker perceives in the material of paper itself. The speaker is in awe of the thin, translucent paper described—seeing in this humble material nothing less than a symbol for all of human existence.
The poem begins by stressing the majestic power of paper—which might go unnoticed or unacknowledged in daily life. This paper, “thinned by age or touching,” represents one of humankind’s most miraculous achievements: the ability to store and transfer knowledge. Paper grants humanity power because it allows knowledge to survive outside of people’s minds, facilitating an ever deeper understanding of the world—as well as the ability to change the world; “this / is what could alter things,” the speaker says. This ability is emphasized by the almost heavenly light that shines through the paper.
Indeed, paper as initially presented in the poem is in a way less fragile than human life, because it records details about people who are no longer around—their births, deaths, family histories, even heights and weights. The paper, thin and weak as it is, outlives these people, emphasizing its power and the comparative transience of human life. But this is where it gets complicated. Just as paper symbolizes human power—the same power that has made humanity the dominate species on the planet—it also stands in for the way that this power is a kind of illusion.
In the fourth stanza, the speaker imagines what it would be like if “buildings were paper":
[...] I might
feel their drift, see how easily
they fall away on a sigh, a shift
in the direction of the wind.
Buildings are obviously not, and probably never will be, made of paper—but here they presented as being just as fragile as paper. It may take longer, but even buildings—which seem permanent—are prone to collapse, dilapidation, and destruction. Nothing about humanity, not even the creations it leaves behind—so the poem argues—is truly permanent.
The poem expands on this idea by turning to maps. These symbolize the human ability to adapt to the environment, while also remaining vulnerable to the extreme conditions that might come about in the natural world. Receipts from grocery stores, meanwhile—falling out of people’s pockets or thrown into bins—represent the illusion of money (another way that humankind imposes its power on the world).
The speaker imagines a civilization in which the buildings are made out of paper, suggesting that this would somehow be a more truthful world because it would acknowledge the fragility of life while also allowing life’s beauty to shine clearly (again represented by light traveling through the paper). The truth and beauty of human life, argues the poem, is that it is “never meant to last.” The poem circles back on itself with this thought, returning to the subject of human life itself. Paper is transformed in the speaker’s imagination into “your skin”—which could be the skin of the reader but equally could apply to any human life. The poem thus ends by emphasizing both the fragility and the power of being alive—with all the possibilities and risks that living brings.
"Tissue" explores not just the fragility of human life, but also the importance of human connection. The poem is in fact partly inspired by a real event in Dharker's life. She found an old copy of a Koran, in the back of which her father had written various information about people's birthdays, deaths, and so on (similar to what is described in the poem). Of this event, she said, "Looking at it, I felt a connection to him, that we had lost for years." Paper, in other words, allows for connections between different points in time and space—and this connection, the poem implies, is part of what gives life meaning.
The poem also looks briefly at how paper connects humankind to its environment. Maps allow for graphic representation of rivers, roads, railways, mountains, and so on, which in turn help people to navigate the world more easily—and, in doing so, to connect with people far and wide. Of course, paper also forms connections on a smaller scale in an individual's day-to-day life, the paper trail of receipts leaving behind a picture of where that person was and what they did.
Perhaps that's why the speaker seems to like the idea of a city built out of paper—because it would foreground the importance of interconnectedness. In fact, it's in this section of the poem that the speaker talks most generally about paper, thinking how these imaginary paper buildings would lay "script over numbers over line." These three nouns emphasize the incredibly wide-ranging importance of paper—from religious scripture, to mathematics and science, to art and culture. These things, the poem ultimately suggests, are of the highest importance, because they are the things that structure culture, society, and life itself—more so than any "brick // or block." Whereas "capitals and monoliths" are the products of "pride" and "grand design," it's the connection between people and across generations, however physically insubstantial, that really matter.
Paper that lets ...
... could alter things.
The poem begins by establishing its focus on paper (and thus putting the title into context). Though it isn't explicitly said that this is the case, it seems like the speaker is holding paper in their hand, contemplating what this humble material says about life, society, and humanity. The speaker perceives a kind of power in the paper, saying in line 3 that this "is what could alter things." Paper could change the world, somehow, though the speaker's meaning is still to be explored.
Light functions as a symbol in this poem. Traditionally a symbol for human knowledge (which, in the poem, depends on paper), it also suggests the fragility of that power—after all, paper is thin enough for light to pass through it! The enjambment between lines 1 and 2 after the word "light" visually represents the translucence of paper, as if light shines through the line break.
There is also a delicate consonance at play in these lines (and throughout the poem) which suggests the fragility of paper (and, by extension, human life):
Paper that lets the light
shine through, this
is what could alter things.
"Things" here is an ambiguous word, but it allows the poem to set itself up on quite general terms. Indeed, the poem's subject is both specific and extremely broad: paper on the one hand, and nothing less than the meaning of life on the other.
Paper thinned by ...
... born to whom,
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... transparent with attention.
If buildings were ...
... of the wind.
Maps too. The ...
... railtracks, mountainfolds,
Fine slips from ...
... like paper kites.
An architect could ...
... or block,
but let the ...
... with living tissue,
raise a structure ...
... into your skin.
Paper is a constant presence in the poem, referred to from the title onwards. In part, the poem is a kind of hymn to paper—praising its usefulness and subtle beauty. Broadly speaking, paper comes to symbolize both the power and fragility of human life.
The poem emphasizes paper's—and humanity's—power by focusing on paper's role throughout human civilization. Paper has played and continues to play a vital role in humankind's relationship with knowledge and the storage of that knowledge. Essentially, it is a media device that allows information to transcend the confines of the specific time and space in which it is written (the way that 21st century readers can get a sense of Elizabethan language in the works of Shakespeare, for example). The power to externalize knowledge influences all kinds of aspects of human civilization, from the understanding of the natural world (through maps) to commerce (e.g. receipts). Of course, it also plays a vital role in religion and culture too.
At the same time, paper is a fragile material—easily crumpled and torn, and often rather transparent. It must be treated gently and taken care of to survive. When the speaker argues for buildings made out of paper, rather than brick, this isn't meant literally; rather, the speaker is using paper as a stand-in for the best aspects of humanity itself—connection, shared knowledge, and so forth. This helps highlight paper's central role in human civilization and another important aspect of its symbolic power—paper is fragile, and so too is human civilization.
Light is mentioned in a few instances throughout "Tissue." It's closely linked to the other main symbol in the poem: paper. If paper symbolizes humanity, then light symbolizes the power of nature. Note how the poem repeatedly depicts light as shining through paper, at once underscoring how delicate this material is and metaphorically suggesting that nature is more powerful than any human accomplishment or creation. Light doesn't care about the arbitrary lines people have drawn up on maps, for instance.
The speaker doesn't present this as a negative thing, however. Rather, the speaker wishes for a world in which buildings were made of paper and as such could let the light through. Perhaps this suggests a desire for a world in which humanity better understood its limitations and essential fragility—that it, too, is subject to the whims of the natural world and the passage of time.
Alliteration is used here and there throughout "Tissue." The first instance is in the first line:
Paper that lets the light
This delicate /l/ sound is associated with light throughout the poem, which is an important part of the discussion of paper's translucence. Additionally, because the lines are so short, alliteration also occurs between lines. "[T]hrough," "this, " "things," and "thinned" all chime together in the first stanza, another soft sound conveying the delicateness of paper.
The second stanza uses alliteration too: "kind" chimes with "Koran," "books" with "back," and "hand" with "has." Here, the poem discusses writing in the back of a book which records births, deaths, height, weight and so on (based on a true discovery made by Dharker). The prominent alliteration accentuates this description of the markings in the back, drawing the reader's attention to the way that the words of the poem are selected with intention and purpose, just like those at the back of the speaker's Koran.
In the third stanza, /s/ alliteration creates a smooth sound: "sepia," "smoothed," "stroked." This helps bring to life the way that paper is smoothed over time by human touch. The /s/ sounds in the sixth stanza ("slips," "say," "sold") are delicate, and support the speaker's focus on store receipts—all the bits of paper that human beings don't really value. The /s/ sounds suggest the fragility of this paper, and also evoke the wind that forms part of the line 24's simile: "[these papers] might fly our lives like paper kites."
In the fifth stanza, "rivers," "roads," and "railtracks" alliterate. These /r/ sounds cut a route through the stanza like the things they describe—the way humans cut through a landscape with a road, for example.
The seventh stanza returns to the link between the /l/ sound and light, imagining a city made out of paper. The speaker conceives of this translucent metropolis as something beautiful, and the /l/ sounds help convey that beauty: "place layer over layer, luminous" (line 26). In this stanza and the next, the poem also uses /b/ alliteration:
and never wish to build again with brick
or block, but let the daylight break
This alliteration draws the reader's attention to the poem's construction. Foregrounding the fact that the poem is made out of language mirrors the way that an architect uses bricks. As throughout the poem, the speaker highlights the constructive power of language and paper.
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The holy text of Islam.
For the most part, "Tissue" is written in quatrains (four-line stanzas). In addition, one line stands on its own right at the end.
The poem isn't written using a traditional form, and the quatrains are pretty much stretched to breaking point (intentionally). The way that sentences seem to disregard the box shape that contains them—an effect built using caesura and enjambment—suggests the fragility of paper, as though the poem itself could be easily torn apart.
The poem is fairly free-form in the sense that it shifts from one aspect of its subject to another almost without warning. The first stanza is a general statement, while the second and third deal with a specific encounter with paper (one which is based on real-life events). Then, the speaker starts imagining paper buildings, before discussing maps and receipts. Finally, the speaker returns to these paper buildings, before ending with a mention of skin. All in all, this makes for a wide-ranging and unpredictable poem that effectively demonstrates the various uses of paper and its essential importance to human life.
"Tissue" is not a metered poem, and uses free verse instead. The lines are short throughout, which helps give the poem a literal thinness on the page that reflects the actual thinness of paper pages. The lack of meter helps make the poem more unpredictable, which seems to be an intentional effect—especially given the way that the lines are so frequently disrupted by caesura or joined together by enjambment.
"Tissue" doesn't have a rhyme scheme, though there are a handful of rhymes here and there. Note how "things" in line 3 basically rhymes with "touching" in line 4 (though the fact that the "-ing" of touching is unstressed makes this rhyme pretty subtle). There are some internal rhymes throughout as well—note the rhyme between "kind" and "find" in line 5, and how "weight" in line 9 rhymes with "date" in line 10. There's nothing particularly significant about the link between these words, but, broadly speaking, these moments of internal rhyme add to the poem's musicality. The fact that the poem's few rhymes don't typically appear at the end of lines might also suggest a kind of internal connectedness. This, in fact, is one of the themes of the poem—the way that paper brings people, times, and places together. The same thing occurs in lines 14 and 15 with "drift" and "shift," with the added effect of making the stanza feel like its structural integrity is wavering, in keeping with the image of paper buildings.
The speaker in "Tissue" is unspecified. Dharker herself has stated that the poem was inspired by her discovery of her father's old Koran, in the back of which he had recorded similar information to that referenced in lines 6-10. But that doesn't mean that the poem itself has to be equated with Dharker as the speaker.
The speaker undoubtedly sees paper as a material worthy of praise, perhaps something that is too often neglected. Talking in the first-person, the speaker shifts between different aspects of paper, referring to its role in religion, culture, geography, and commerce. This praise of paper reaches it imaginative heights when the speaker imagines a civilization in which the buildings are made out of paper, not bricks and concretes—and how that would allow for beautiful light to shine through, in addition to reminding everyone about the inherent fragility of human life.
"Tissue" doesn't really have a specific setting. Instead, it is a sequence of thoughts that unfold quite unpredictably. In this way, then, the setting is the speaker's mind.
Part of the poem's main argument is that paper has the ability to connect different settings, both in time and space. Paper facilitates the storage of knowledge, allowing people to have an experience of places and times in which they were not present. Within this discussion, the poem travels from religion (the Koran) to maps, to receipts, and to imagined cities of paper buildings.
The poem makes an interesting shift at the very end with its reference to "your skin," suggesting a more intimate relationship between the speaker and the addressee. It's as if the giant, wide-ranging setting that the poem has conjured collapses to the space between two people. The nature of this setting, however, is left up to the reader's imagination.
Imtiaz Dharker is a British poet who was born in Pakistan in 1954. Though born in Lahore, the Pakistani capital, Dharker mostly grew up in Glasgow, Scotland, where her family moved when she was one year old. Dharker studied at the University of Glasgow, graduating with an M.A. in English Literature and Philosophy. She divides her time between London and Mumbai, with the slums of the latter city providing part of the inspiration for this poem.
Dharker has published numerous books of poetry, mostly with the publisher Bloodaxe Books. This poem is taken from Dharker's 2006 collection The Terrorist at My Table, which focuses on questions of identity, home and exile, cultural displacement, and community. Communication as a theme is also central to Dharker's work—for example, in "Text" from the same book, or the poems of the earlier collection Postcards from God. Other contemporary poems that specifically feature paper as a subject include David Ferry's "In the Reading Room" and "Paper Aeroplane" by Simon Armitage.
Dharker's poetry is well-established, featuring on the GCSE syllabus in the U.K. and earning Dharker a Cholmondeley Prize in 2011 and a Queen's Gold Medal in 2014. She is also a member of the Royal Society of Literature. In addition to her poetry, Dharker also works as an artist and a documentary maker.
"Tissue" doesn't really have a specific historical context. Indeed, part of its point is to hit at the way that paper—this humble yet miraculous material—can connect different points in space and time together. In other words, paper brings various historical contexts into common understanding.
Paper is thought to have been invented in China in 105 AD, though other forms of writing (and knowledge storage) predate paper as a specific material. Paper is made out of pulp from wood or grasses, and its invention had a significant impact on almost every aspect of human civilization. From the 17th century onwards, European innovations in the paper-making and printing processes allowed for mass production of paper-based products, ultimately leading to the paper-filled world that we now live in. The dominance of paper, of course, is under threat from newer storage mediums like the internet and computers.
The Koran, first mentioned in line 6, is the central religious text of Islam and, like the Bible in Christianity, is considered the word of God in that religion. It was written around 609-632 AD.
A Reading of "Tissue" — The poem read by the poet herself.
The Invention of Paper — A short video exploring one of humankind's most vital materials.
An Interview with Dharker — An informal chat with the poet.
More Poems by Dharker — A valuable resource from the Poetry Archive.
Dharker's Website — The poet's own website, with details of Dharker's other poems and films.