On the 8th day of the 2022 Prajnya 16 Days Campaign Against Gender Violence, we partnered with Mockingbirds and InKo Centre and organised a poetry reading. This year, we had Srilata K, Kutti Revathi, Aaliyah Banu, Manushi Bharathi and Amrin Khalil reading their poetry.
The poetry reading covered a wide range of themes like body politics, domestic violence, religious identities and rights of transgender persons, to name a few. A few of the poets were also of the firm view that their work does fundamentally stay rooted in the idea that "personal is political".
“You see, Women must fight to be alive
The world isn't a nice place
For a woman, even the air she breathes is luxury
Something that is given to her
Something she will be held accountable for”
- excerpt from Aaliyah's work, "The Angry Poem"
Kutti Revathi, in her conversation with Saradha U, for the TNM piece noted that, the performers provided the audience with a holistic perspective on the voices of women, with each poetry providing a different perspective, and acknowledging that the efforts made by the poets to put their voices out there is not easy (Saradha, 2022, as cited in The News Minute, 2022)
You may read the elaborate coverage of our event by Saradha U for The News Minute here.
On Saturday, November 27, 2021, Mockingbirds brought to the 2021 Campaign four stunning poetic talents. Aarthi Ashokkumar, Hima Mouli, Aaliyah Banu and Vasanthi Swetha performed their verse for us, moving us from tears to rage and back, leaving us speechless as they tore through the silences that surround every kind of violence. Their poetry spoke of both the violence you can see and the violence you can't--the home that is not a refuge, the fear that holds you back, the words that cut and the transactional relationships that reduce us to commodities.
On Human Rights Day, the last day of the 2020 Prajnya 16 Days Campaign Against Gender Violence, we pay homage to the core values of the Indian Constitution with poetry. Nineteen poets, all women, have contributed videos to this day-long observance, reading poems that celebrate directly or implicitly, these FOUR GOOD WORDS: justice, equality, liberty and fraternity.
Before anything else, we must thank Srilata Krishnan, who agreed with alacrity and then invested wholeheartedly in the process of identifying, inviting and following up with poets. She was completely present during the entire process, from ideation to uploading the videos and planning the communication strategy. Srilata has been a part of every Prajnya campaign since the very first one, and we do not plan anything-poetry without her. She really is a part of Prajnya!
I was told I could hold
the world in my hands,
but not how I had to
walk through it,
my body
bearing the memories
of these many maulings,
these many
other hands.
A blinding flash of light,
Luminous, frightening.
You look away,
You have mastered the art of looking away.
It is only a second, few seconds.
Nothing to see there,
It was only a “flash”.
A flash that becomes a dream,
A dream that becomes a nightmare.
You learn to unlearn,
You try to un-see.
But it is an imprint on your retina,
A photograph frozen in time,
The one Ed Sheeran didn’t sing about.
This one’s a negative,
A bluish white glow.
You keep it in your shawl,
That you wear around your neck like a milestone,
An armour concealing your shame,
The shame your mother gave you.
You keep this for long,
A cherished memory with a stranger,
A faceless stranger with hands, only hands,
Hands out of his eyes, his legs, in between his legs,
Hands.
A memory that involuntarily creeps up in broad daylight,
A lightning on a hot summer day.
Lights. Camera. Action.
Lights Camera. Look away,
Lights. Camera. Look away.
Lights. Camera. Look away.
Learn this drill!
Drill it into your memory,
Remember that photograph.
Looking away is an act of protest.
Master the art of never meeting the eye,
The eye is the catch.
Learn to look away at inanimate objects,
Stones,
Or the ground.
The ground is the safest place.
Teach yourself to look down, head bowed,
Eyes lowered – the spit, the grime, the shards of glass,
Your feet.
The counting of steps… 101…102...103.
212 steps to reach home, to reach office,
To find a seat next to a woman.
Road sign flashes in huge block letters, in red.
Better safe than sorry,
Never ignore warnings, you teach yourself, you teach your daughter.
And yet, the photograph comes alive at times,
Like the summoning of a spirit
With eyes more real than a touch,
Touch more real than a strike,
A bona fide touch.
The power play of the fingers,
Skin to skin, only for a moment.
But the moment is for ever,
A place in time without tenses,
Three divorces and yet,
this moment stays new.
There,
You die a little.
Breath hanging on a cloth line, washed out.
A scream caught on a fish hook,
You stand,
Like a shadow,
With your throat swelling up like a river in rain.
But all your body is ready for war,
You hair in attention,
Ready to take flight, run, wreak havoc.
You struggle to break free,
But there is nothing holding you back,
Just crippling, horrifying fear.
A diabolic force that needs some sort of exorcism.
The touch, the touch, the touch,
Latching on at the pit of your belly,
Ice sprouting from your bones,
Spreading in defying gravity,
Paralysing.
Now you are posing for a ‘mannequin challenge’,
A camera coming your way,
Click.
A photograph from memory.
Unshakeable. Stationary. Dead.
A ghost.
A ghost that can see and touch and feel,
A ghost that can be seen and touched and felt,
Praying in silence for redemption,
Skin stretching to heal an open wound.
Now you walk,
Cold sweat dripping between your thighs,
Your ears melting in sulphur,
The death-like acidic trickle in your mouth.
The earth is shaking with fever,
And
You prepare yourself for the comeback,
The posing, dramatic, dreadful normalcy
Of a photograph.
A walk down memory lane,
To that hot day in the cruelest month,
You- mischievous, innocent –
playing with your Raggedy Ann doll,
your uncle, his lap, his hands, your terror –
you know the story.
The first time you learn to keep a secret,
The first time you internalise fear,
The first time you cry without a tear,
The first time you take a picture in monochrome,
The first time of you try to forget,
That picture of the
Raggedy Ann doll on your rocking pony chair,
The first time you set something on fire,
Waiting for it to annihilate you.
You recall all those school lessons,
Right touch, wrong touch – girls exclusive.
You sit there wondering why you failed in class,
Shame engulfing you like your first fire.
Fast forward.
After 44 years of the cold war,
You are in front of a jury,
Narrating your story
That they already know –
The protagonist of someone’s erotic adventures,
The “same, identical woman”,
The same tedious story.
All the cupping and the grabbing and the pushing and the squeezing –
Very graphic words,
Very uncomfortable verbs ending in ‘ING’.
The jury cringes.
Words that you have perfected with practise and an unknown rage,
Words that took years of acknowledging,
Words that you have written over and over again,
On the foreskin of your heart.
Now, you cry, with tears,
You have reached catharsis,
And somehow,
Your mouth pleads guilty,
“Mea culpa”, you shout.
The jury charges you – guilty,
For the low-cut, skin tight provocation,
Your God-given endowment.
Your volition to say no,
Your Consent,
Guilty of all that is you.
The price one pays to be in view,
Alive, crying, skin tags and all
with a milestone around your neck,
Is a photograph with a blurred face and
A fake two-syllable name.
You convince yourself –
There is justice in a name,
At least you weren’t anonymous.
You convince yourself –
There is justice in a photograph,
At least, it was in colour.
நான் மனிதப் பிறப்பு அன்றோ? என் உடம்பு சதையும் ரத்தமும் சேர்ந்தது தானே? அதில் விருப்பும் வெறுப்பும் ஊறுமன்றோ?
அப்படியென்றால் என்னைக் காமப்பொருளாய் சித்தரித்து பார்ப்பது ஏனோ? அதே காமக் கண்கள் சீண்டத் துடிக்கும் கைகள் சீண்டிய பின் வெற்றிக் கொண்ட துப்பு கெட்ட மனப்பான்மை
ஒரு தடவை கிடையாது பல நூறு தடவை பலப்பல வெளிப்பாடுகளில் உருவங்கள் மட்டுமே வேறாயின
குழந்தைப பிராயத்தில் கண்டிப்பாய் சீண்டியவருண்டு எனக்கு நினைவுதான்யில்லை சின்னஞ்சிறு வயதில் விளையாடிக் கொண்டுயிருக்கும் போது தோழன் எனக் கருதியவன் தோரணையாய் தொடையைச் கில்லினான் பள்ளிப் பிராயத்தில் போதிக்கும் ஆசிரியரே கண்ணத்தை சிண்டினார் வீட்டில் யாருமில்லா சமயத்தில் மாமா மார்பகத்தை இறுக்கி சில்மிஷம் செய்தார் பேருந்தில் பயணித்த போது அப்பா பிராயமுடைய நடுவயதுக்காரர் ஓரச்சிக் கொண்டே கையை பிசைந்து அற்ப சந்தோஷத்தை தேடினார் காதல் எனக் கூறியவன் படத்திற்கு அழைத்துச் சென்றது
வலுக்கட்டாயமாக உதட்டோடு உதட்டை உரசிக் கொள்ளவே மணமுடித்த கணவரோ ஒட்டுமொத்த கமப்பொருளாகவே என்னைக் கருதி ஒவ்வொரு முறையும் அணுகினான்
அரிசி வாங்க கடைக்கு சென்றால் அங்கே சில்லரை கொடுக்கும் சாக்கில் என் விரலை தொட்டு அணைக்கிறான் அவன் அடே சண்டாளர்களா!
என் கண் இமைகளைக் கூட விட்டு வைக்கவில்லையே நீங்கள்!
ஒவ்வொரு முறை நடுநடுங்கி தைரியத்தோடு வீட்டில் உள்ளவர்களிடம் சொன்னால்
அவர்களோ 'பெண் என்றால் இது எல்லாம் சகஜம், சகித்துக் கொள்ளக் கற்றுக்கொள்' என என் தலையை வருடி கொடுக்கிறார்கள்.
என் கூச்சல் ஒலிக்கின்றதா? யாராவது கேட்கின்றீர்களா?
நீ சீண்டி லயிக்கும் இடம் கிடையாதடா நான் நீ மையலிட்டு விளையாடும் மைதானம் நான் கிடையாது
இது என் உடம்பு என் உடம்பு என்றால் என்ன என்று புரிகிறதா? உங்கள் மரைமண்டையில் உரைக்கின்றதா என்ன?
Belatedly, posting reflections by Uma Vangal on Not Silence, But Verse: a reading of poetry, held last Saturday at Full Circle.
The day? Saturday 27th, November. the time: 630 pm The venue? Full Circle book shop.The event? Not silence, but verse, a poetry reading by four women poets. The occasion? Prajnya’s 16 day campaign against gender violence.
Full circle was full and that’s just the beginning. As the evening progressed, the full house was spell bound as they heard Kutti Revathi, Sharanya Manivannan, Salma and Srilata, their voices rising and falling with the emotions that echoed some universal experiences of women.
Vazhvin soonyangal and nammai piditha pisugal sharply brought out the burdens women carry around them in physical and intellectual terms and the fact that women are pilloried for their choices and actions even in their use of words. The ‘politics of the word’ demonstrated this with clarity as Kutti Revathi brought life to the words.
Sharnaya Manivannan, poet and columnist recited her sensuous and visually rich poems on abusive relationships, prejudices, the voids and women's deepest darkest desires and the pride of female lineage. The recurring motifs of fire and astronomical symbolism abound in her writing and reading.
“Men need onlt and paper to pen their poems; we women require courage, determination and fortitude to express ourselves”. When Salma began her recital with these words, the audience would have understood the enormous task these women have taken upon themselves. Salma went on to read thought-provoking poems on female identity, communal identity, menopause, inadequacy of one’s body as one’s identity and the courage displayed by women in extreme situations especially “The contract” that showed woman need to have some semblance of control and dominion over the men and remain “a placid lake” amidst all the turmoil, abuse and negativity they faces.
Srilata, poet, winner of several literary prizes and fellowships and professor at the humanities department of IIT, Madras began her reading with “not reaching out” on the casual encounters that never fructify in our lives, and on war victims evoking the horror faced by women in war and conflicts zones and the free flow of ideas one experiences. Finally, a bio note on the woman from Madras that resonated with references to a typical Madras upbringing and its contentment against all odds.
The conversation that followed the verse centred on the anger, anguish, suffering, courage, challenges and universality of themes in women’s literary writing and the need to also look into ways of translating the collective and personal experiences of women from the regional to the global language. Many comments, questions and suggestions were made along with the observation that opposition to feminist writing stemmed from both within and without. As for those who oppose feminist writing and counter it with abuse and vehement criticism, Anita Ratnam from the audience quoted from Paulo Coelho
“Those who are jealous are confused admirers who cannot understand why we are popular”
We received this warm, lovely note from Sivakami Velliangiri, who read from her work at the Poetry Reading yesterday evening. With her permission, we are posting it here. Sivakami, welcome to Prajnya!:)
" Thank you for giving this wonderful opportunity to read with Susan Hawthorne and Kutti Revathi. Although I tried to shake it off at first ,because of my chosen goal to encourage and give opportunity to the young,I am glad you gave me the full fifteen minutes.It was a very elite and soulful audience and I know that I did not falter much.I wanted to learn how to read from someone,but I suppose I cannot imitate anyone.Susan's poetry is all embracing and what I read on the net is nothing compared to sitting next to her and listening to her mode of reading.You three really,really care about this issue and that is what makes it so genuine and heart felt.
It is heartening to note such sincerity and enthusiasm and dedication in such young people.I am but a dot in a vast canvas.I bow my head to this Prajnya movement which will gain momentum over the years.
I have always been captivated by the forceful writing of Kutti Revathi. Srillata's reading of Kalyanaraman's translation felicitated all those who could not get into the nuances of the way Revathi uses the Tamil language.
Srilata's moderating and her comments therein were useful and I was able to recapitulate what I had read.Because I sat very near Susan I noticed the extensive foot notes that she had made to help her talk with authority. And what I have understood from her reading is that the issues are the same on the other side of the continent as well.Hoping to be there in the audience for the next year and the years to come.
I am sure we can create awareness by writing and reading.
Full Circle outdid themselves in co-hosting "Not Silence, but Verse," a poetry reading that brought together Susan Hawthorne, Sivakami Velliangiri and Kutti Revathi.
Different styles, different identities, different idioms but through all these, ran the common thread of experiencing life as a woman in patriarchal settings, and as Revathi put it, searching for a language and spaces that are not already defined and circumscribed by men.
Our special thanks to Srilata K., who read at last year's campaign and has in the last year become one of our favourite people and really, even if she doesn't quite realise it, part of the Prajnya team! She conceptualised the reading, identified and invited the poets, planned and scripted the programme, so that it was both a stand-alone for the public and a natural sequel to the Creative Writing Workshop she ran all afternoon before the reading. Srilata, you're a star!
