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Wednesday, Jan 19, 2022
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Poetries On Dissent: Protests Through Poets' Eyes

To commemorate the protests and that were a huge part of our lives in 2021, here we have four poetries from 'Witness - The Red River Book of Poetry of Dissent (2021)'

Poetries On Dissent: Protests Through Poets' Eyes
Illustrations on poetries on dissent
Poetries On Dissent: Protests Through Poets' Eyes
outlookindia.com
2021-12-05T14:49:43+05:30

Though every year is in some ways a year of protests, 2021 will hold a special place in the hearts of many for the manner in which the protest led by farmers in India, against all odds, forced New Delhi to agree to its demands. One could even go so far as to say that this agrarian social struggle, given how it managed to achieve its objective of getting the three farm laws repealed, has been the most successful protest movement in the country over the past seven years. 

As we look back at this year, during which protest was such a big part of our lives, we commemorate the idea of dissent through these four poems, from Witness - The Red River Book of Poetry of Dissent (2021).

According to Nabina Das, poet and editor of this volume , ‘Poets in this anthology lament the times fiercely, as Witness, as a ‘shaheed', in this fight against the brute forces. Because dissent is collective and works by gathering even the meekest voices, it is worthwhile to remember what the feminist poet Nirmal Prabha Bordoloi of Assam wrote: …keep a bit of the sky in your bosom. This is the change this book aims for.’

 Kutti Revathi 

 Nakedness 

 translated from the Tamil by Vivek Narayanan, Padma Narayanan, and the author 

For  you  me  her 

nakedness is the glittering weapon 

When wet with blood’s sweat 

it attains the perfection of its training 

As trees reach their nakedness they  

  turn wing-sprouting birds 

The Chinese soldiers used to say 

Don’t ever draw 

your sword from the sheath 

  without a reason                                       

It isn’t easy to live with nakedness 

When it grows and grows 

like a flame from the fire 

it will torment you 

But don’t ever draw  

your sword unnecessarily 

  searching for the chance to use it 

Even if it should rust and turn a sieve 

Keep it with you 

Make it your own 

  from Modern Poetry in Translation (UK), Issue 1/2017, ‘Songs of the Shattered Throat' 

 Kutti Revathi is eminent in bringing out the passionate poetical effervescence of a woman’s psycho-physic pursuits. The body of a woman and its politics, largely unspoken of in the public Tamil scenario, has been her pivotal focus. One of her major contributions to Tamil literature is Panikkudam, a Tamil literary quarterly for women writing, the first Tamil feminist magazine. Her works include fifteen collections of poetry, a novel and collections of short stories. She directed her debut feature film, Siragu in 2019. 

Vivek Narayanan’s books of poems include Life and Times of Mr. S and the forthcoming AFTER: A Writing Through Valmiki’s Ramayana (HarperCollins India / New York Review of Books, 2022). 

Soibam Haripriya 

In-Prison 

 

Mulaqat is a time 

when women visit men in prison 

and no one visits the women in prison. 

Where you are locked up, 

echoing your thoughts, 

a cell is the building block of all organisms. 

Poets are redundant. Poetry does not matter or it is all that matters. 

They say, once you've been to a real prison 

the metaphorical one is such a joke. 

My brother has been to one, peddling, not for any exalted cause. 

I do not know how he felt about it,  

we do not talk. 

I have seen it only in movies of a certain time, 

the hero comes out after serving a life sentence of minutes. 

He had to take law into his hand. 

Always there is a waiting woman 

outside the prison-blue arc that says Central Jail. 

 

II 

Detention is a halfway home 

between the interrogation room and the prison 

dying in installments, hoping in parts. 

Do not be mistaken, an interrogation is not a question 

that extracts truth from torture 

as a Freudian slip of tongue. 

 

III 

It is rumored that 

the young partake the prison 

as a rite of passage. 

Belatedly we've found it untrue. 

The prison raids homes, gathering evidence of humanity 

sniffing out the prophetic poets of doom and hope 

without a trial. 

Indifference is a virtue 

unpunished by law. 

 Soibam Haripriya’s work has appeared in the bi-monthly journal of Sahitya Akademi, Indian Literature. Recent anthologies where her poems are featured include A Map Called Home (2018), Centrepiece (2017) and 40 under 40: An Anthology of Post-Globalisation Poetry (2016). Her poems have been included in Muse India and Poetry at Sangam. She is presently a postdoctoral fellow at department of Conflict and Development Studies, Ghent University. She was a fellow at Indian Institute of Advanced Studies (IIAS), Shimla. 

 Avner Pariat 

Two Parts Hate, One Part Fire 

 I 

One day a bludgeoned man will become a martyr 

A martyr for his people and his people will swarm around his corpse, feeding on his blood 

His blood will fill their bellies and drive their thirst 

They will descend on other people and infect them with this germ 

This germ is called Hate 

 

And the murdered Khasi will murder Bengalis 

The murdered Bengalis will murder Assamese 

The murdered Assamese will murder Muslims 

The murdered Muslims will murder Hindus 

The murdered Hindus will murder Pakistanis 

This germ is called Hate 

 

And Fear will raise its head 

And touch every single ear and heart 

And those hearts will pound violently 

Their beat driven by Self-Righteousness 

And Fear will strangle Love 

Love will collapse under the weight 

And be laid down alongside 

Truth and Decency 

This germ is called Hate 

 

And Hate never baulks, it never blinks 

It is like a fire that burns everyone in its path 

It is like a whisper that contorts from ear to ear 

Shaping Men's resolve and their weapons and 

Men will hold their arms out, waiting for its brand 

For only Men can hate, not the animals that kill innocently 

Nor the insects nor the snakes 

It moves only within our blood 

This germ called Hate. 

 

II 

And one morning the fires 

leapt out of the earth 

devouring human beings — 

and from then on I only knew Fire. 

I saw many learn the language and speak its tongue. I saw it spread across the land and engulf every hill and valley. 

From that day, thugs roamed the land, demanding an identity from all they met. 

One day they came up to me and asked where I got my nose from, then noted my address. 

 

From that day, the children were led away and the parks closed down 

and the blood ran through the streets 

without fuss, like children's blood, then hardened into memories, glistening black. 

 

Many picked them up on their way to work. 

 

From that day, I heard only speeches and no songs, and each night was pitch black and the playgrounds were filled with embers and broken bottles. I knew that Joy was gone. And in its place, the gangrene bloomed. 

 Avner Pariat,  is a poet and writer based in Shillong. He writes in Khasi and English and has been published in a number of publications, including Economic and Political Weekly and Scroll. He was awarded an India Foundation for the Arts (IFA) grant and was a Literature Across Frontiers (LAF) artist-in-residence in 2017. He is currently working on an exclusively Khasi poetry collection to be released soon. His latest collaborative collection Open Me, My Shadow with Welsh poet Rhys Trimble is out from Poetrywala. 

 

Ruth Vanita 

 On the Other Hand 

You could have used your right hand. 

More difficult, less dexterous, 

Painful, even, but you could have. 

You did, you tried for a while. 

But the left felt so natural, came so easy, 

Worked so perfectly you couldn't go back. 

You could have used your right hand 

At work, in public places, returned 

To sweet unconsciousness 

Only at home, in private. 

But you forgot as you grew bolder, 

And the world didn't stop. 

You forgot to be wise. 

Now you are called left-handed. 

They asked so many questions 

That you started looking for answers. 

How many left-handed people are there? 

Were there always so many? 

How many were geniuses? 

How many criminals? 

Is it the devil's mark? 

Or is it perfectly normal? 

Did it come from elsewhere? 

Can it be cured? 

What does left mean? 

Isn't the left hand unclean? 

No, that's a much later idea. 

Goddesses stand on the left, 

And Hari to the left of Hara, 

Eternal feminine, eternal action. 

The wheel turns right or left 

Depending where you stand. 

Now you know too much, far too much, 

About left-over things, 

The wonderfully sinister. 

Your closest friends are left-handed, 

Though, to tell the truth, 

Some left-handed people you can't stand. 

Groups, protests, struggles for civil rights - 

How much longer can this go on? 

In pre-dawn silence, I sometimes wonder, 

Had no one noticed, 

Any more than they do black eyes or brown, 

Would I have been someone else? 

Played more, worried less? 

Would I have written better verse? 

Had a better life, or worse? 

 

from Vogue India 

Ruth Vanita, professor at University of Montana, taught English at Delhi University for 20 years. She is the author of many books, including A Play of Light: Selected Poems. Her first novel, Memory of Light, appeared from Penguin in 2020. She has written many books on same-sex sexuality, most recently Love’s Rite: Same-Sex Marriage in India (updated edition Penguin 2021). 

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