hope

Russia and the Poets of the Revolution

In the aftermath of the first world war the world was in chaos. Politically, culturally,

Boris Kustodiev 1920 painting Bolshevik

Bolshevik, Boris Kustodiev 1920

 

economically, nothing was secure anymore. Empires crumbled, maps were redrawn, millions of people stateless, sick or dead. But with the formation of new organisations, countries and ideologies, chaos was missing something: more chaos! Revolts and uprisings spread across the globe like wildfire between 1916 and 1923, as countries, stirred up and restless, pushed for changes. To name a few, we had the Irish uprising and subsequent civil war, the Maltese riots and the Egyptian and Sudanese revolutions which all sought to secure independence from Britain; the German November revolution which replaced the monarchy with the democratic Weimar republic; the Red Years of social conflict in Italy; the Turkish war of independence and Russia, where twin revolutions deposed the tsar and imposed a political philosophy that would have catastrophic consequences: Communism.

When the Russian writer Boris Pastenak, was advocating for the life of his friend and fellow poet Osip Mandelstam, he persuaded Stalin that history would side with the poets and not with politicians who murdered them. So who were the poets of the Russian Revolution? There were many, but I’ll introduce you to my top six, beginning with one of the most acclaimed, Anna Akmatova. Like many of her contemporaries she lived throughakmatova the Bolshevik revolution that succeeded the Tsar, both world wars and the devastating purges that saw millions of her countrymen and women perish. Though her career as a writer began with universal emotional topics and feminine lamentations, her focus soon turned to politics, patriotism and the transcendental power of art. She led a bohemian kind of lifestyle married to various poets, had numerous affairs – one with the Italian painter Modigliani – hung out at the Stray Dog cabaret club reciting poetry, generally living a free life before enduring major hardship under the communist new world order. One of her husbands was arrested for treason and executed, another died in prison, her son Lev was imprisoned many times and it was whilst waiting in line to see him outside Kretsy prison that she conceived the idea for one of her most famous works: Requiem. Written in 1940’s, it’s a poem about grief and resolve, a testimony of the suffering endured during the purges and a tribute to all who lost loved ones to political oppression:

Requiem
By Anna Akhmatova
(trans. By Tony Kline)

Prologue

Those days, when only the dead
Smiled, glad to be at peace,
And Leningrad, unneeded, swayed,
Throwing wide its penitentiary.

When legions of the condemned,
Maddened by torment, passed,
Brief the songs of parting then,
The locomotives’ farewell blast,
Dead stars hung above us,
And blameless Russia writhed
Under boots stained with blood,
And the Black Marias’ tyres.

1.

They took you away at dawn,
As though at a wake, I followed,
In the dark room weeping children,
Among icons, the candle guttered.
On your lips, the chill of a cross,
On your brow a deathly pall.
I’ll be, like a woman to be shot,
Dragged to the Kremlin wall.

5.

Seventeen months I’ve pleaded
For you to come home.
Flung myself at the hangman’s feet,
My terror, oh my son.
And I can’t understand,
Now all’s eternal confusion,
Who’s beast, and who’s man,
How long till execution.
And only flowers of dust,
Ringing of censers, tracks just
Running somewhere, nowhere, far.
And deep in my eyes gazing,
Swift, fatal, threatening,
One enormous star.

6.

Lightly the weeks fly, too,
What’s happened I can’t understand.
Just as, my darling child, in prison,
White nights gazed at you,

So now again they gaze,
Hawk-eyed, passionate-eyed,
And of your cross on high,
Of death, they speak today.

 

Epilogue

I.

I learned to know how faces fall apart,
How fear, beneath the eye-lids, seeks,
How strict the cutting blade, the art
That suffering etches in the cheeks.
How the black, the ash-blond hair,
In an instant turned to silver,
Learned how submissive lips fared,
Learned terror’s dry racking laughter.
Not only for myself I pray,
But for all who stood there, all,
In bitter cold, or burning July day,
Beneath that red, blind prison wall.

II.

Once more, the remembered hour draws near.
I see you, I feel you, and I hear:
You, they could barely carry into line,
And you, whom earth claimed before your time,
And you, who shook your lovely head of hair,
Saying: ‘As if this were home, I’m here’.
I’d like to summon you all by name,
But the lists are lost, un-found again.
I’ve woven a great shroud for them here,
Out of poor words I chanced to overhear.
Remembering them always, everywhere,
Unforgotten in every new terror’s care,
And if they shut my tormented lips, shut my
Mouth, where a hundred million people cry,
Let them still remember me, today,
On the eve of my remembrance day.

And if ever in this my native country
They choose to erect a statue for me,
I agree to that ceremonial honour,
But on one condition – don’t set it there
Beside the sea-shore, where I was born:
My last ties with it so long outworn,
Nor in the Imperial Garden, by that dead tree
Where an inconsolable shade looks for me,
But here, where I stood three hundred hours,
Where no one ever opened the doors,
Lest I forget in death’s blessed oblivion
The Black Maria’s screaming hum,
Forget the terrible clang, the gates that hail
Like a wounded beast, the old woman’s wail.
And from my eyelids, bronze, unmoving,
May snowflakes fall, like tears melting,
And the prison pigeons coo far from me,
And, on the Neva, ships sail, silently.

Impossible to comprehend the suffering. And at the end there although the poem is her tribute, her woven mantle, and despite a visual reminder in the form of a monument, the world/nature/memory will forget the tragedy that happened here and sail calmly on. You know, once the Bolsheviks or the Red Army established themselves in power, all opposition was suppressed. What became known as the Communist Party sought to nationalize ownership of all the means of production, believing that a centralized economy would be more efficient than a capitalist one. Money was destroyed, labour became compulsory, Lenin ordered mass executions of his opponents and political prisoners; religion was regarded as superstitious and eliminated, priests were jailed; many writers and artists had their works banned or censored if contrary to the parties ideology, some emigrated, some remained, many capitulated, others died for their art. Akhmatova wrote a moving tribute to her friend and fellow writer, Mikhail Bulgakov in the poem In Memory Of M.B. He suffered in silence throughout those terrible years and although protected by Stalin during some of the worst purges of artists, his most famous novel the Master and Margarita (portraying his real feelings about the savagery of the party) lay unpublished until 25 years after his death.

In Memory of M. B.
By Anna Akhmatova
(trans. By Stanley Kunitz)

Here is my gift, not roses on your grave,
not sticks of burning incense.
You lived aloof, maintaining to the end
your magnificent disdain.

You drank wine, and told the wittiest jokes,
and suffocated inside stifling walls.
Alone you let the terrible stranger in,
and stayed with her alone.

Now you’re gone, and nobody says a word
about your troubled and exalted life.
Only my voice, like a flute, will mourn
at your dumb funeral feast.

Oh, who would have dared believe that half-crazed I,
I, sick with grief for the buried past,
I, smoldering on a slow fire,
having lost everything and forgotten all,

would be fated to commemorate a man
so full of strength and will and bright inventions,
who only yesterday it seems, chatted with me,
hiding the tremor of his mortal pain.

mandelstamOsip Mandelstam was born in Poland but lived in St. Petersburg and moved in the same circles as Akhmatova and her first husband Nikolai Gumilyov. They headed up a literary movement known as Acmeism which put the focus back on clarity of language and craftsmanship, more of a direct treatment of thoughts and feelings as opposed to the spirituality of Symbolism. And that’s what Mandelstam’s poetry was all about, the individual, directly at odds with the collectivist ideology of ‘the party’. He was a personal poet and not a political one so little wonder he found it difficult to get work published. The state persecuted non-conformist poets and like Akhmatova he led a threadbare existence. He was tortured, imprisoned and exiled to the Urals. He may have been asserting his rights as a poet in The Stalin Epigram, in which he attacks the dictator, comparing him to worms and cockroaches but it’s a poem that certainly didn’t do him any favours and probably sealed the fate of Akhmatova’s husband and son as well:

THE STALIN EPIGRAM
By Osip Mandelstam
(trans by W S Merwin)

Our lives no longer feel ground under them.
At ten paces you can’t hear our words.

But whenever there’s a snatch of talk
it turns to the Kremlin mountaineer,

the ten thick worms of his fingers,
his words like measures of weight,

the huge laughing cockroaches on his top lip,
the glitter of his boot-rims.

Ringed with a scum of chicken-necked bosses
he toys with the tributes of half-men.

One whistles, another meows, a third snivels.
He pokes out his finger and he alone goes boom.

He forges decrees in a line like horseshoes,
one for the groin, one the forehead, temple, eye.

He rolls the executions on his tongue like berries.
He wishes he could hug them like big friends from home.

Nostalgic for old Russia, Mandelstam’s poetry is concerned with the preservation of cultural heritage. His expulsion from St. Petersburg destroyed him and the pain and uncertainty of his reality is reflected in his poem Tristia which closely follows Ovid’s elegy. Ovid was an exile too, banished from Rome for an unproven misdemeanour:
Tristia
By Osip Mandelstam
(trans by AS Kline)

I have studied the Science of departures,
in night’s sorrows, when a woman’s hair falls down.
The oxen chew, there’s the waiting, pure,
in the last hours of vigil in the town,
and I reverence night’s ritual cock-crowing,
when reddened eyes lift sorrow’s load and choose
to stare at distance, and a woman’s crying
is mingled with the singing of the Muse.
Who knows, when the word ‘departure’ is spoken
what kind of separation is at hand,
or of what that cock-crow is a token,
when a fire on the Acropolis lights the ground,
and why at the dawning of a new life,
when the ox chews lazily in its stall,
the cock, the herald of the new life,
flaps his wings on the city wall?
I like the monotony of spinning,
the shuttle moves to and fro,
the spindle hums. Look, barefoot Delia’s running
to meet you, like swansdown on the road!
How threadbare the language of joy’s game,
how meagre the foundation of our life!
Everything was, and is repeated again:
it’s the flash of recognition brings delight.
So be it: on a dish of clean earthenware,
like a flattened squirrel’s pelt, a shape,
forms a small, transparent figure, where
a girl’s face bends to gaze at the wax’s fate.
Not for us to prophesy, Erebus, Brother of Night:
Wax is for women: Bronze is for men.
Our fate is only given in fight,
to die by divination is given to them.

Marina Tsvetaeva was the daughter of a concert pianist. Her amorous intrigue with Osip Mandelstam inspired the following poem in which she appears overcome with passion and welcome tenderness :

Where does such tenderness come from?
By Marina Tsvetaeva
(trans. Ilya Kaminsky & Jean Valentine)

Where does such tenderness come from?
These aren’t the first curls
I’ve wound around my finger—
I’ve kissed lips darker than yours.

The sky is washed and dark
(Where does such tenderness come from?)
Other eyes have known
and shifted away from my eyes.

But I’ve never heard words like this
in the night
(Where does such tenderness come from?)
with my head on your chest, rest.

Where does this tenderness come from?
And what will I do with it? Young
stranger, poet, wandering through town,
you and your eyelashes—longer than anyone’s.

Marina married Sergei Efron who joined the White Army during the Civil war. The tsvetaevafamily suffered greatly during the 1921 famine when over 30 million people were affected by malnutrition, over 5 million died I think, due mostly to poor economic management and the policy of grain requisition.  There were rebellions everywhere, indiscriminate terror and the only relief came in aid from America. Tsvetaeva couldn’t afford to feed her family and sent one of her daughters to an asylum where she quickly died of hunger. The tables had really turned for Tsvetaeva who had a somewhat aristocratic upbringing. Now, the family lived in dire poverty in exile in France; her husband worked for the secret police but they were shunned by Russian expats. She continued to write and corresponded with her contemporaries before returning to the Soviet Union in 1939, whereupon Sergei was executed and her daughter sent to a labour camp. She herself was sent to Yelabuga with her son. It was there alone, impoverished and ostracised that she hung herself in 1941. Tsvetaeva’s poems portray the tragedy of her existence. None more so than Homesickness, written in exile and despite the small ration of hope in the last line, she is disillusioned with life, indifferent to her country of origin, Tsvetaeva is a poet on the cusp of surrender, a soul born somewhere or other:

Homesickness
By Marina Tsvetaeva
(trans. by Paul Schmidt)

Homesickness! Long ago revealed
as fraudulent delusion.
I don’t care where
I am alone. It doesn’t matter

across what streets, into what house
I drag myself, and my shopping basket–
a house that doesn’t know I’m there,
like a hospital or barracks.

I don’t care who sees me lie
like a caged lion, snarling slowly,
nor from what society they
thrust me, force me out into

my own internal solitude,
a polar bear in tropic water.
I don’t care where I am hurt,
nor where I am insulted.

I do not love my native tongue,
its weak, breast-fed attraction.
I am indifferent to the words
in which someone misunderstands me

(someone who reads magazines
and thrives on gossip columns).
He is Twentieth-Century Man–
my own age was never numbered.

Struck dumb, a rotting log
that marked a path now forgotten.
And I don’t care. All things are strange.
All facts. And perhaps what once

was closest is strangest of all.
All signs upon me, all traces
and dates seem wiped away.
A soul. Born. Somewhere. Or other.

My homeland cared so little for me
any clever sleuth
may search my soul–
he will find no birthmark.

Each house is strange, each altar bare.
And I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.
But if, beside the autumn road, I see
a rowan-tree . . .

 

Suicide then, as now, among artistic minds was nothing new. However, after the revolution poets had two choices: emigrate or live with the Bolshevik order. Living in communist Russia meant towing the party line and when you consider that nothing at variance with the official point of view was published then it’s hardly surprising that many poets sacrificed their literary reputations and wrote patriotic poetry putting Russian prowess ahead of fact. This makes it difficult to correctly establish who said what and meant it. Vladimir Mayakovsky was a brooding six-foot rabble-rouser perhaps mayakovsky_lgbest known for his radical verse A Cloud In Trousers – which prophesized the 1917 revolution and looked at topics such as religion, love and politics from the perspective of a scorned lover. He was a futurist who sought to bring art into the machine-age. He despised tradition and toured with a troupe of poets bellowing out riotous verse and generally making a nuisance of himself. He was a propagandist for the Bolshevik party, enamoured by the romance of revolution and the promise of a new freedom and the liberation of the working classes:

Our March
Vladimir Mayakovsky
(trans. The Penguin Book of Russian Verse)

Beat the tramp of revolt in the square!
Up, row of proud heads!
We will wash every city in the world
With the surging waters
of a second Flood.

The bull of the days is skewbald.
The cart of the years is slow.
Our god is speed.
The heart is our drum.

Is there a gold more heavenly than ours?
Can the wasp of a bullet sting us?
Our songs are our weapons;
Ringing voices — our gold.

Meadows, be covered with grass,
Spread out a ground for the days.
Rainbow, harness
the fast-flying horses of the years.

See, the starry heaven is bored!
We weave our songs without its help.
Hey, you, Great Bear, demand
that they take us up to heaven alive!

Drink joys! Sing!
Spring flows in our veins.
Beat to battle, heart!
Our breast is a copper kettledrum.

Mayakovsky created verse for the Russian State Telegraph Agency. His poetry promoted the party and as a symbol of socialist realism, expressed his pride in being a citizen of the first Socialist country in the world. Before his untimely death by suicide (or was it?) his work had become increasingly individualistic and like others in his circle was becoming more and more disillusioned with the bureaucracy of collectivism. This poem was found amongst his papers after his death. Had he been living a lie? And if so, had he grown tired of it?

Past one o’clock. You must have gone to bed.
The Milky Way streams silver through the night.
I’m in no hurry; with lightning telegrams
I have no cause to wake or trouble you.
And, as they say, the incident is closed.
Love’s boat has smashed against the daily grind.
Now you and I are quits. Why bother then
To balance mutual sorrows, pains, and hurts.
Behold what quiet settles on the world.
Night wraps the sky in tribute from the stars.
In hours like these, one rises to address
The ages, history, and all creation.

Like Mayakovsky, Sergei Yesenin was a peasant poet whose initial support for the Bolshevik revolution set the scene for a disaffected life, fraught with reckless behaviour and an early suicide shrouded in mystery. His poetry is imbued with imagery of village lore and folk traditions and similar to Akhmatova and Mandelstam he longed for a return to the simple life:

The golden grove has ceased to speak in the gay language of birches,sergei-yesenin
and the cranes, sadly flying past, no longer regret anyone.
Who is there to regret? Is not every man in this world a wanderer? He passes by, he pays a visit, and again he leaves the house. The hemp-field, together with the broad moon over the pale blue pond, dreams of all those who have gone away. I am standing alone in the bare plain, while the cranes are carried far away by the wind; I am full of thoughts about my gay youth, but I regret nothing in the past. I do not regret the years I squandered in vain, I do not regret the lilac blossom of my soul. A fire of rowan-tree branches is burning in the garden, but it cannot warm anyone. The clusters of rowan-berries will not be scorched, the grass will not grow yellow and perish. as a tree gently lets fall its leaves, so I let fall sad words. And if time, after scattering them in the wind, should rake them all into one useless heap … just say that the golden grove has ceased to speak in the language I love.

No shame there eh? For a philanderer, a wife beater and a violent drunk, Yesenin was a hit with the peasant classes, I guess because his poetry reflected the lives they were living. Women adored him, he married poets and actresses and some believed his marriage to American dancer Isadora Duncan (who had’t a word of Russian) was a way of getting him out of the country for a while – the authorities were beginning to notice his drunken behaviour. The last two years of his life were the most volatile and his works were banned during Stalin’s reign. Republished in the 1960’s this almost mythical poet’s work is more popular now than ever!

Finally, Boris Pasternak is probably one of the best known names in the Russian ipaster001p1canon. He studied music, law and philosophy before committing himself to literature. His father Leonid was an impressionist painter (illustrator for Tolstoy) his mother Rosa, a concert pianist. His poetry was tolerated but not his prose and choosing to remain in communist Russian when many of his contemporaries emigrated was a sacrifice few understood the consequences of. When his novel Dr. Zhivago was smuggled out of Russia and published in Italy in 1957, its anti-soviet themes caused huge embarrassment to the party which endeavoured to make Pasternak’s life as difficult as possible, not least depriving him of his livelihood and imprisoning his lover and prototype for Lara, Olga Ivinskaya. They also forced him to refuse the Nobel Prize for Literature – the medal was collected by his son in 1989. Although the book criticises the regime, it’s protagonist Yuri – poet, doctor, lover – defends the autonomy of the individual, refusing to compromise in the face of great terror. The final section is filled with the poetry he wrote over his lifetime:

Autumn
(trans. max hayward and manya harari)

I have allowed my family to scatter,
all my dear ones are dispersed.
a life-long loneliness
fills nature and my heart.

and here I am with you, in a small house
outside, the forest is un-peopled like a desert.
as in the song, the drives and footpaths
are almost overgrown.

the log walls are sad,
having only us two to gaze at.
but we never undertook to leap the barriers.
we will perish honestly.

at one o’clock we shall sit down to table,
at three we shall rise,
I with my book, you with your embroidery.
at dawn we shan’t remember
what time we stopped kissing.

leaves, rustle and spill yourselves
ever more splendidly, ever more recklessly,
fill yesterday’s cup of bitterness
still more full with the pain of today.

let devotion, desire, delight,
be scattered in the uproar of September;
and you, go and hide in the crackling autumn,
either be quiet or be crazy.

you fling your dress from you
as the coppice flings away its leaves.
in a dressing-gownn with a silk tassel
you fall into my arms.

you are the good gift of the road to destruction
when life is more sickening than disease
and boldness the root of beauty.
this is what draws us together.

Despite the ethnic cleansing, the purges and famines, mass executions and mock trials, Pasternak was never arrested by the secret police, however the suicides of his friends and fellow artists broke his heart. He was revered by the Russian people for his spiritual, musical, rhythmic and imagistic poetry. Nature was his forte. ‘We have written about nature’, said Marina Tsvetaeva, ‘but Pasternak has written nature’. From his most notable collection My Sister, Life , have a read of one of my favourites:

Oars at Rest

The rowboat rock in drowsy creek
Dangling willows kiss our wrists
Our elbows, collarbones, oarlocks – but wait
This could happen to anyone!
The is the drift of song
This is the lilacs ashes and the splendor
Of crushed camomile on dew.
This is to barter lips an lips for stars.
This is to embrace the horizon
Encircle Hercules with your arms.
This is to swirl through time,
Squander sleep for nightingales songs.

PRO FEMINA – FOR THE WOMAN

 

woman1

Feminism: The advocacy of equal rights for women.  Or, if you prefer, the social, political and economic equality of the sexes, that definition was coined by novelist Chimananda Ngozi Adichie, as famous nowadays for being a feminist as a writer. Referenced by Beyonce on her recent album and by Dior, their 2017 spring/summer white t-shirt displaying the words We Should All Be Feminists is commercialising the matter, but it is also creating a mass movement of support for gender equality. Equality: an eight letter word that seems reasonable, achievable and simple enough, but why isn’t it? Because it’s not simple. It involves changing the world as we know it, the hetero-normative, patriarchal, intolerant, capitalist world. Until that happens, for most of us, equity is a castle in the sky.

Some men I know love to quote Plato: At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet. Wise men talk because they have something to say; fools, because they have to say something. Only the dead have seen the end of war. But I never hear them quote from Book V of The Republic: Plato’s philosophical dialogue with Socrates where, in his ideal state, he says women should work alongside men, receive equal education and share equally in all aspects of the state. This was ancient Greece. BC! In Islam, Matrilineality – that’s the tracing of descent through the female line – existed before Muhammad. Even in 12th century Islam, women in business were the norm, they studied and were equal to men in all respects.
Men and women were created equally. However, throughout history, decisions about whether women will be revered in this century or reviled in the next have been taken by men. Why?

Biology aside, the differences between men and women are cultural and societal. And if people create society and culture then it must mean that there is capacity for change. That is, if we use our reason and logic and not blindly submit to the way things have always been. We’ve been traversing this uneven pathway of injustice and inequality for hundreds of years. In 15th century Europe, there began what was called The Quarrel About Women and smart men like the Italian diplomat Baldassare Castiglione wrote that everything a man can understand, a woman can too. Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa, the German scholar and theologian said that God endowed both male and female with the same soul, the woman with no less faculties of mind, reason and speech than the man. Female voices such as French princess Marguerite de Navarre and Marie de Gournay, writer and editor of Montaigne added to The Quarrel and before them, Catherine of Aragon, the queen of England, commissioned the controversial book, The Education of Christian Women by Juan Luis Vives. Claiming that women had the right to an education, Catherine fought for that during her time as Henry VIII’s wife, earning much admiration from subject and enemy alike.

Last year, I wanted to write a poem for my mother. I’d planned to trace her strength, grace, courage and selflessness through all the great women of history and before I knew it I’d written two pages of names!  From Sappho, the poet who pretty much founded western literature to Simone de Beauvoir, the French philosopher whose 1949 book The Second Sex, highlighted women’s oppression and was banned by the Vatican for doing so. Cleopatra, the last pharaoh of ancient Egypt; Harriet Beecher-Stowe, anti-slavery campaigner; Amelia Earhart, pioneering aviator; Benazir Bhutto, Rosa Parks, Indira Gandhi, Nina Simone, Mary Robinson, Malala Yousafzai – we are inventors, scientists, scholars, theologians, presidents, activists, aviators, philosophers, women count for 52% of the worlds population – why are we still being treated like a minority group? And why is it necessary to conduct research to find out who all these incredible women are? Women are either written out of history or are ineffectually recorded in it. For example: after the death of former deputy first Minister of Northern Ireland, Martin McGuinness, all the powers that be praised him and his colleagues Tony Blair, Bertie Ahern, Gerry Adams, David Trimble, Bill Clinton, John Hume, George Mitchell for brokering peace, but no mention of the contribution made by British Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, Mo Mowlam, who continued in politics until 2001 despite being diagnosed with a brain tumour in 1997. It’s as if she never existed. And she’s not the first woman to be overlooked. I could fill a

woman 3

Mary Jackson – Aeronautical engineer

library, but what about NASA’s mathematicians? The hundreds of African/American women employed as computers at the Langley Research Centre whose calculations sent man to the moon!  William Wordsworth’s sister Dorothy, whose journal entries were the inspiration for much of his poetry! Out of all the roads in Paris named after public figures, only 2.6% are named after women. One night in 2015 a feminist group known as Osez Le Feminisme (Dare to be Feminist) decided to celebrate all ignored women by covering all the blue plaques with their own versions which included Rue Simone de Beauvoir & Quai de Nina Simone!

Even with the gains made by first, second and third wave feminists, women are still struggling for recognition in every sphere. Equality, respect, or the full humanity of women: this is what feminism is all about. Basically, fairness. It’s not about misandry and it’s not about bringing men down; it’s about bringing women up. And feminists, I think, would like men to help them. At its heart it’s that simple. But equality challenges patriarchy (mechanisms that exert male dominance over women) and is dismissed as radical. Nobody wants to be cast out as a radical, so hence the negative sounding F word. And this is where I’m taking you today people! We’re venturing into the minefield that is Feminism. Protectively clothed in poetry we’ll be finding out why this loaded word, embroiled in so much controversy is more necessary now than ever. We’ll be making our voices heard with Radmilla Lazic and Carlyn Kizer; re-writing history with Anne Sexton and Adrienne Rich; celebrating womanhood with Lucille Clifton and throwing a light on the Irish situation with Eavan Boland.

Mary Wollstonecraft’s groundbreaking book A vindication of the Rights of Women published in 1792, proposed that women were the equal of men. Years ahead of her time, it was one of the first pieces of feminist writing and preceded the first wave suffrage movements of the mid 19th century, which sought access to education, property rights, suffrage, reproductive and economic rights for women. The second wave feminists of the 60’s were more concerned with ending gender discrimination, the third wave began to consider race related subjectivities, because not every woman is white and middleclass and we are now in what some would call forth wave feminism, propelled by technology and inclusive of diverse voices whose goal is a society unrestricted by gender. Whatever wave we’re riding, it’s about having a voice and we can hear that voice loud and clear in the feminist poetry of Serbian poet Radmilla Lazic, in particular A Woman’s Letter from her collection A Wake For The Living. Lazić, a respected editor, critic and activist is the founder and managing editor of a Serbian journal of women’s studies, ProFemina. As a feminist with a sense of humour, her honesty is compelling. Rather than fit into patriarchy’s idea of what a woman should be, the speaker here wants to make her own choices, express her femininity and live her life according to her own rules. Translated from the Serbian by Charles Simic, Lazic first tells us what she doesn’t want and then what she does:

I don’t want to be obedient and tame.
Coddled like a cat. Faithful like a dog.
With a belly to my teeth, hands in the dough,
Face covered with flour, my heart a cinder
And his hand on my ass.

I don’t want to be a welcome flag at his door,
Nor the guardian snake under his threshold,
Neither the snake nor Eve from Genesis.

I don’t want to pace between the door and the window,
To listen hard and be able to distinguish
Footsteps from night-sounds.
I don’t want to follow the leaden movement of the watch-hands,
Nor see falling stars
For him to gore me drunkenly like an elephant.

I don’t want to be sewn with needlepoint
To the family portrait
Next to the fireplace with balled up children,
In the garden with puppy children,
And I the shade tree,
And I the winter landscape,
A statue under the snow.
In a pleated wedding dress
I’ll fly to heaven.

Alleluia! Alleluia!
I don’t want a bridegroom.

I want gray hair, a hump and a basket
To go roaming in the woods,
Picking strawberries and dry twigs.

With my whole life behind me,
The smile of that boy,
So dear and irreplaceable.

 

 

Feminism has tried to make a space for women in a world that has always privileged men and masculinity. Women are underrepresented in politics, science, architecture and the arts. During the French renaissance period, Salons were unwelcoming to women. By the 17th century, they began running their own cultural gatherings and though their writing went unpublished they were, according to writer and philosopher Jean Jacques Rousseau, considered a threat to the natural dominance of men. In her 1929 essay A Room Of Ones Own, Virgina Woolf argues for a space for women in a literary world dominated by men. A woman must have money and a room of her own to write fiction. In other words, the same civil liberties as men. In the mid 19th century women used male pen names in order to see their work published. The Bronte sisters became Currer, Ellis & Acton Bell, Mary Ann Evans was George Elliot and how much has changed? JK Rowling, since her Harry Potter series, has published as Robert Galbraith. Women in the arts are continually overlooked. In Ireland, a grassroots campaign, Waking the Feminists, calling for equality for women across the Irish theatre sector, ran from November 2015 to 2016. Plays by women generally have shorter runs, smaller venues and are less reviewed and publicised. We never hear about the success of playwrights such as Stacy Gregg, Ailis Ni Rian, Stella Feehily or Nancy Harris, playwright in residence at The Bush theatre in London and whose plays No Romance & Love in a Glass Jar are highly acclaimed, running in Dublin, London and New York. womanAmerican poet Carolyn Kizer studied with Theodore Roethke, the only woman in a class that included poets James Wright and Jack Gilbert. According to her, they were all chauvinists and treated her like wallpaper. Being a highly gifted academic her poetry eclipsed theirs, but she still felt ignored. A Muse On Water is her response to an incident with one of her fellow poets who suggested one night, that women ought not to try to be artists and should stick to the kitchen:

We who must act as handmaidens
To our own goddess, turn too fast,
Trip on our hems, to glimpse the muse
Gliding below her lake or sea,
Are left, long-staring after her,
Narcissists by necessity;

Or water-carriers of our young
Till waters burst, and white streams flow
Artesian, from the lifted breast:
Cupbearers then, to tiny gods,
Imperious table-pounders, who
Are final arbiters of thirst.

This abridged version of the poem is from the collection Cool, Calm and Collected and in it she connects women to water and man’s abuse of it and her. He pollutes it, diverts its course, seeks to impede a woman’s progress in every way. He tunnels her underground out of sight, dries up what could have brimmed and in realising she is necessary to life, still doesn’t deign himself to recognise her:

And yet these buccaneers still kneel
Trembling at the water’s verge:
“Cool River-Goddess, sweet ravine,
Spirit of pool and shade, inspire!”
So he needs poultice for his flesh.
So he needs water for his fire.

We rose in mists and died in clouds
Or sank below the trammelled soil
To silent conduits underground,
Joining the blindfish, and the mole.
A gleam of silver in the shale:
Lost murmur! Subterranean moan!

So flows in dark caves, dries away,
What would have brimmed from bank to bank,
Kissing the fields you turned to stone,
Under the boughs your axes broke.
And you blame streams for thinning out,
plundered by man’s insatiate want?

You know, Kizer had a difficult relationship with her father, he was remote, indifferent and demanded academic excellence. She was radicalised to feminism by her highly educated mother, who turned down a job with Eleanor Roosevelt saying ’who would get your fathers breakfast?’ As it turned out, after she died, he got his own breakfast for the woman 2next thirty years! Outspoken against injustice throughout her life and in her work, her most famous poem is a five part prose piece Profemina, in which she addresses all women, highlighting their vulnerabilities and strengths – many encouraged by men and often reinforced by women themselves. It’s a call for women to do better. I guess feminism is something that must keep happening, it must be a constant process of renewal. The final stanza from part three reads:

But we’re emerging from all that, more or less,
Except for some ladylike laggards and Quarterly priestesses
Who flog men for fun, and kick women to maim competition.
Now, if we struggle abnormally, we may almost seem normal;
If we submerge our self-pity in disciplined industry;
If we stand up and be hated, and swear not to sleep with editors;
If we regard ourselves formally, respecting our true limitations
Without making an unseemly show of trying to unfreeze our assets;
Keeping our heads and our pride while remaining unmarried;
And if wedded, kill guilt in its tracks when we stack up the dishes
And defect to the typewriter. And if mothers, believe in the luck of our children,
Whom we forbid to devour us, whom we shall not devour,
And the luck of our husbands and lovers, who keep free women.

Adrienne Rich was another intelligent and influential poet active in feminism and movements for LGBT rights and reproductive freedom. Her poem Diving Into The Wreck, seeks to explore the truth behind the myths of difference and inequality. To write the future we must first read the past, so Rich is taking the plunge on our behalf; diving into the patriarchal sea to better understand what has happened to the men and women submerged by it – our assigned gender stereotypes and specifics; how men are raised to be aggressive and women are taught to submit to that hostility:

First having read the book of myths,
and loaded the camera,
and checked the edge of the knife-blade,
I put on
the body-armour of black rubber
the absurd flippers
the grave and awkward mask.
I am having to do this
not like Cousteau with his
assiduous team
aboard the sun-flooded schooner
but here alone.

There is a ladder.
The ladder is always there
hanging innocently
close to the side of the schooner.
We know what it is for,
we who have used it.
Otherwise
it is a piece of maritime floss
some sundry equipment.

I go down.
Rung after rung and still
the oxygen immerses me
the blue light
the clear atoms
of our human air.
I go down.
My flippers cripple me,
I crawl like an insect down the ladder
and there is no one
to tell me when the ocean
will begin.

First the air is blue and then
it is bluer and then green and then
black I am blacking out and yet
my mask is powerful
it pumps my blood with power
the sea is another story
the sea is not a question of power
I have to learn alone
to turn my body without force
in the deep element.

And now: it is easy to forget
what I came for
among so many who have always
lived here
swaying their crenellated fans
between the reefs
and besides
you breathe differently down here.

I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail.
I stroke the beam of my lamp
slowly along the flank
of something more permanent
than fish or weed

the thing I came for:
the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth
the drowned face always staring
toward the sun
the evidence of damage
worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty
the ribs of the disaster
curving their assertion
among the tentative haunters.

Rich’s own personal conflict and sexual alienation (first as a wife and later a gay woman with three children) were mirrored in the wider social and political events of the 1960’s and she developed a poetic voice that spoke for all women; the same way she collected her National Book Award – on behalf of all women. In the poem she manages to achieve a degree of equality, albeit of the poetic sort, in the form of an androgynous being who circles the depths of history searching for answers, tasked with salvaging what remains of a disappearing, water-eaten book of mythology. The idea of androgyny is interesting. Not only does patriarchy serve to subordinate women, it defines masculinity in narrow ways too. A man must be hard, fearless and invulnerable, when really, men and women should be free to be both strong and sensitive. English actress Emma Watson, in her capacity as UN global goodwill ambassador is heading up a campaign called #HeforShe which is about freedom from the prejudice of gender; because gender is unjust – we are all imprisoned by it. Maybe we need to stop linking education, career, salary and position with masculinity and femininity and align them more with intelligence, aptitude and creativity. The poem concludes:

This is the place.
And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair
streams black, the merman in his armoured body.
We circle silently
about the wreck
we dive into the hold.
I am she: I am he

whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes
whose breasts still bear the stress
whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies
obscurely inside barrels
half-wedged and left to rot
we are the half-destroyed instruments
that once held to a course
the water-eaten log
the fouled compass

We are, I am, you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who find our way
back to this scene
carrying a knife, a camera
a book of myths
in which
our names do not appear.

I recently posted a topic for discussion on a facebook book-club page. It was an article about publishers hiring sensitivity readers to flag offensive content before going to print. It kind of sounded like censorship to me, so I put the question to the group. Within minutes, I was under attack, there was a barrage of posts about: minority groups being misrepresented/abused/vilified in fiction; the value of sensitivity readers; that thinly veiled homophobia must be highlighted; that it’s not censorship, it’s about protecting people’s feelings. Everything from size to age seemed to be an issue; everything that is, except for how women and children are written about. It would appear that it’s okay to rape, murder, torture and abuse women and children, but people draw the line at a homophobic remark or the misrepresentation of a small person. (Fault finders will find fault in paradise – Thoreau) Before taking her own life, the American poet Anne Sexton pretty much gave convention the two fingers. As a 1960’s suburban housewife, a mother, a woman 5woman battling depression and a poet, she was out of sync with what society expected of her and felt the pain of the disapproval and isolation that ensued. In her poem, Her Kind, from the collection To Bedlam and Partway Back, apropos her experiences of madness, she speaks on behalf of the marginalised about what it’s like to be ostracised by society. There’s a puritanical strain in society that sees a woman as either a slut or saint; this isn’t right, a woman needs to be everything. Maybe for some women, marriage and kids is not the fairytale they were expecting and that should be okay. But in an oppressive society, Sexton feels condemned, a witch:.

I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

In the middle ages, women who spoke out about religion or challenged the patriarchal order were burned as witches. It was a form of societal regulation. But despite her vilification, Sexton’s speaker is not giving up on what she believes, she’s creating a new place in the woods, where everyone is welcome. She’s riding the cart to the pyre affronting society with her nude arms waving. Like Rich, in the previous poem, had to search unfathomable depths, Sexton embarks on some kind of night-time reconnaissance mission above the houses, in order to first, express her true nature and second, find some definition of womanhood she can relate to; because reality isn’t reflective of her truth:

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.

Feminism has evolved over the years to encompass not just women’s rights but rights for all marginalised groups, the disabled, LGBT, ethnic minorities and minority religions but I’m not certain that the intersectional nature of the movement is working. It’s proven difficult to establish a feminist world view to suit everyone. Feminists of course acknowledge the discrimination faced by others and can offer support, advice and share information but can feminism successfully advocate for the rights of all without risking taking the focus off women’s issues specifically? Gender discrimination applies to all genders of which there are many. Cis, bi, Non-binary, Trans, and the fifty-four other gender options recognised by some social media sites. Gender diversity is new ground for many of us, and incorporating the language into mainstream vocabulary will take time, we‘re all learning. American poet Rebecca Foust in Abeyance, a letter to my transgender daughter is a poem about a parents love for a child. A child who happens to be transgender. Not a pariah, just someone whose gender identity differs from the sex assigned to them at birth. TENI, the Transgender Equality Network Ireland seeks to advance the rights and equality of trans people and their families, who often feel isolated, misunderstood and excluded from society. In the same way the speaker in Anne Sexton’s poem feels like an outcast, transgender people too, live on the periphery of society, at risk of violence and discrimination:
letter to my transgender daughter

I made soup tonight, with cabbage, chard
and thyme picked outside our back door.
For this moment the room is warm and light,
and I can presume you safe somewhere.
I know the night lives inside you. I know grave,
sad errors were made, dividing you, and hiding
you from you inside. I know a girl like you
was knifed last week, another set aflame.

It’s normal for parents to blame themselves when something about their child is considered an issue: ill-health, mental/physical disability, behavioural problems, learning difficulties. The same is true for parents of non gender-conforming children. Some parents learn the hard way that doing what they think is best, may not be the best option. In 1970 the mother of Kirk Murphy took her 4yr old to a gender identity clinic where doctors claimed they could cure pre-homosexuality.  After years of invasive treatment to correct his effeminate nature, he remained gay, ashamed, mentally damaged and died by suicide at 38. David Remer, born male but reassigned after a bungled circumcision also took his life at the age of 38, prompting transgender advocates to suggest you either accept a child, or lose them. Why is difference always seen as dangerous? Will there ever be a time when every human being is understood, accepted, respected and welcome to participate fully in all aspects of society?
Rebecca Foust might not have the words but she wants her daughter to know how much she was/is and will always be loved. In her own notes on the poem she recalls watching cabbages in her garden nearly turn themselves inside out to take in as much sun as possible and she compares this to the love a parent has for a child; it goes deep:

I know I lack the words, or all the words I say
are wrong. I know I’ll call and you won’t answer,
and still I’ll call. I want to tell you
you were loved with all I had, recklessly,
and with abandon, loved the way the cabbage
in my garden near-inverts itself, splayed
to catch each last ray of sun. And how
the feeling furling-in only makes the heart
more dense and green. Tonight it seems like
something one could bear.

When parents feel a child may be disadvantaged in some way they automatically fear for their future. In a article I was reading, the mother of one transgender teen who transitioned from female-to-male, said the fear she felt dissipated because her son was so joyful after the breasts that tortured him had been removed. The most important lesson she learned was hope – knowing her child could be happy and productive. And hope is what Foust leaves us with also. Parents brought together by mutual love for their daughter. Hope fills the air and their hearts, because parents love heart and soul, not gender:

Guess what, Dad and I finally figured out Pandora,
and after all those years of silence, our old music
fills the air. It fills the air, and somehow, here,
at this instant and for this instant only
—perhaps three bars—what I recall
equals all I feel, and I remember all the words.
So how do women in Ireland fair and what’s the gender situation here? Well, not great to be honest. Notwithstanding the gender pay gap which sees women earn at least a quarter less than men; patriarchy in Ireland has ensured the following: that women are underrepresented on boards (about 36%), in politics (35 dail seats out of 158!), academia and the arts; that 1 in 5 women experience domestic violence; that access to basic healthcare for women is denied, forcing thousands to travel overseas to obtain an abortion. Women don’t have autonomy over their own bodies. Ireland was the last country in the world to legalise contraception and is the only country affording equal rights to life to both woman and foetus. The UN has repeatedly criticised Ireland for failing short of its obligations under international law to protect the human rights of women. The state and church have consistently blocked the advancement of women. For forty years there was a marriage ban for female teachers! Up until the 1960’s the church considered that childbirth made women unholy or unclean because it resulted from sexual activity and they were often ostracised and forbidden from going to mass until they had been ‘churched’, that is: had the sin of childbirth washed away! Thousands of unmarried pregnant women, vilified and banished from their families and communities, were sent to live and die in secret, in state funded mother-and-baby homes or laundries. The gruesome and harrowing truth of one such place came to light recently with the discovery of the remains of hundreds of babies in a disused septic tank on the site of the Bons Secour woman 7sisters home in Tuam, Co. Galway. Child trafficking and illegal adoption were state policy and the government, according to Susan Lohan of the Adoption Rights Alliance, are terrified of opening an investigation, fearing it will dwarf anything that has gone before. At Mary Robinsons inauguration speech in 1990, she called for an open, tolerant and inclusive Ireland, and with the strains of Mna Na H’eireann ringing in the countries hopeful ears, the poet Eavan Boland read her poem The Singers:

The women who were singers in the West
lived on an unforgiving coast.
I want to ask was there ever one
moment when all of it relented–
when rain and ocean and their own
sense of home were revealed to them
as one and the same?
After which
every day was still shaped by weather,
but every night their mouths filled with
Atlantic storms and clouded-over stars
and exhausted birds?
And only when the danger
was plain in the music could you know
their true measure of rejoicing in

finding a voice where they found a vision.

Eavan Boland, like many Irish women, has struggled to find her place in a society hell-bent on silencing the voices of women. Over the years she has located herself centre stage in a habitually male dominated poetic tradition. Myth is a huge feature in her poetry, myth and the lost history of women. Her work focuses on the troubled role of women in times past and like Adrienne Rich diving into the wreck to find our names were never written, Boland combines domesticity and myth and focuses on the exclusion of women from the history books. What we read/have been told is at odds with what actually happened. For example, this years centenary celebrations acknowledged for the first time in decades, the roles played by over three hundred women in the Easter Rising. Boland’s poem Domestic Violence reflects the social and political shifts in Ireland as she equates the disharmony between a couple with that of a country:

It was winter, lunar, wet. At dusk
Pewter seedlings became moonlight orphans.
Pleased to meet you meat to please you
said the butcher’s sign in the window in the village.

Everything changed the year that we got married.
And after that we moved out to the suburbs.
How young we were, how ignorant, how ready
to think the only history was our own.

And there was a couple who quarrelled into the night,
Their voices high, sharp:
nothing is ever entirely
right in the lives of those who love each other.

2.

In that season suddenly our island
Broke out its old sores for all to see.
We saw them too.
We stood there wondering how

the salt horizons and the Dublin hills,
the rivers, table mountains, Viking marshes
we thought we knew
had been made to shiver

into our ancient twelve by fifteen television
which gave them back as gray and grayer tears
and killings, killings, killings,
then moonlight-coloured funerals:

nothing we said
not then, not later,
fathomed what it is
is wrong in the lives of those who hate each other.

It’s a poem about conflict: within a country and within a relationship. Thinking again about the misrepresentation of women in history, it’s not surprising that she’s the victim here because that’s how women have always been portrayed. I mentioned Mo Mowlam’s disappearance from the roll-call of names associated with 1998 Good Friday Agreement (Why? Because she was brave, clever?) but why do politicians make constant referrals to the disappeared mothers of Northern Ireland (Because they were victims?) In Domestic Violence, we hear the silent voices of ordinary people howled down, by a country tearing itself apart:

3.

And if the provenance of memory is
only that—remember, not atone—
and if I can be safe in
the weak spring light in that kitchen, then

why is there another kitchen, spring light
always darkening in it and
a woman whispering to a man
over and over what else could we have done?
4.

We failed our moment or our moment failed us.
The times were grand in size and we were small.
Why do I write that
when I don’t believe it?

We lived our lives, were happy, stayed as one.
Children were born and raised here
and are gone,
including ours.

As for that couple did we ever
find out who they were
and did we want to?
I think we know. I think we always knew.
wombOur final three poems today are a celebration of womanhood or two aspects, at least, of womanhood that are rarely praised – menstruation and menopause. Lucille Clifton was born in New York. The first in her family to graduate, she was poet laureate of Maryland in the 1980’s. Like Rich and Sexton, her poetry reflects the upheavals of the 60’s and 70’s, and she writes about relationships, child abuse, black heritage and slavery. In her Poem in Praise of Menstruation she compares the menstrual flow to a river, the river of life. Traditional odes to women compliment their eyes, hair, lips, etc., here Clifton sings the praises of the fertility of women, the monthly cycle that is beautiful and faithful and ancient and female and brave:

if there is a river
more beautiful than this
bright as the blood
red edge of the moon if

there is a river
more faithful than this
returning each month
to the same delta if there

is a river
braver than this
coming and coming in a surge
of passion, of pain if there is

a river
more ancient than this
daughter of eve
mother of cain and of abel if there is in

the universe such a river if
there is some where water
more powerful than this wild
water
pray that it flows also
through animals
beautiful and faithful and ancient
and female and brave

It’s such a liberating poem about the truth and beauty of menstruation.  Fertility is something to be celebrated not condemned as it has been in patriarchal societies. Menstruation gives rise to gender inequality and is a taboo in many cultures and religions. In Asian countries menstruating women are considered unclean and are forbidden from cooking, praying or even sitting with the family at mealtimes. A haemorrhaging woman is seen as a pollutant. Organisations such as Binti UK, work to empower women in disadvantaged communities, by promoting awareness about menstrual health and providing dignity and practical guidance. In her collection Quilting, published in 1991, Clifton offers two companion poems that address the menopause. That wonderful time when, as the Chinese say, the body’s energy moves from the womb to the heart, to a place of wisdom and self discovery, away from caring for others and into, to use Virginia Woolf’s phrase, a room of her own. To My Last Period is both a tribute and a measured goodbye, not to womanhood but to the girl who never arrived:

well, girl, goodbye,
after thirty-eight years.
thirty-eight years and you
never arrived
splendid in your red dress
without trouble for me
somewhere, somehow.

now it is done,
and i feel just like
the grandmothers who,
after the hussy has gone,
sit holding her photograph
and sighing, wasn’t she
beautiful? wasn’t she beautiful?

Clifton’s poems are clean as bones. Insightful and unflinching, her language is casual as she most sincerely addresses her womb in Poem to my Uterus and wonders where she can go without it, her black bag of desire. You know, the way something is described to you can have a huge impact on how you perceive it. Women have always been fed the same line – that once they enter menopause it’s game over, they are no longer of any use to society, they become undesirable, invisible. This is another one of those myths Adrienne Rich was talking about; we perceive menopause as bad. Clifton doesn’t view the loss of her uterus as the end; she might not know yet where she’s going but she’s going somewhere, she’s still a woman. Her femininity will be changed but not lost. Echoing Rich who alone, dove into the wreck of womanhood and Sexton, who alone rode into the fires of ignorance, Clifton must now walk alone and barefoot into a new future beyond roles and stereotypes and without her old girl – beyond sexuality:

you uterus
you have been patient
as a sock
while i have slippered into you
my dead and living children
now
they want to cut you out
stocking i will not need
where i am going
where am i going
old girl
without you
uterus
my bloody print
my oestrogen kitchen
my black bag of desire
where can i go
barefoot
without you
where can you go
without me

So there you have it, a whistle-stop tour of feminism!  When I was younger, anytime any woman appeared on TV talking about women’s rights, the males in my household would roll their eyes and change the channel and being an impressionable child, I found myself doing the same thing! But the lonely voices for gender equality: Bell Hooks, Coreta Scott King (wife of Martin Luther who devoted her life to civil rights work), Betty Friedan, Yoko Ono, Gloria Steinham and Germaine Greer have now become a symphony of millions of men and women fighting to change our oppressive society from the inside. Members of the Men’s Rights Movement, which originated as a backlash against feminism have become the Pro-Feminist Men’s Rights Movement, because they too see that patriarchy reinforces unequal gender relations. Pro-feminist men are involved in anti-violence work with boys; counselling male perpetuators of violence and supporting anti-pornography legislation. Social media, has been instrumental in highlighting the sexism, discrimination and injustice faced by women on a daily basis. #yesallwomen was set up in response to #notallmen (asserting not all men are sexist) because all women are subject to sexism, and it’s used by women throughout social media to share experiences of sexism and harassment. Sexism and misogyny are so normalised, so insidious in our society that we sometimes fail to notice it or we question, when we feel uncomfortable about something, whether it‘s really happening. The everyday feminism project, set up by feminist writer Laura Bates, raises awareness of women’s experiences by cataloguing instances of sexism faced by women around the world on a daily basis. Notwithstanding the over-sexualisation of women in music and cinema; the fact that Women’s fiction is a sub-genre (Men’s fiction is simply fiction); the gender pay-gap; educational, occupational, political and social inequalities;  there are thankfully, a plethora of groups out there empowering young women today. The National Women’s Council Of Ireland provide workshops for young women on leadership, public speaking, media training, body image, self-esteem building. Free To Run is a charity that uses outdoor activities to empower women. Girls Brigade Scotland challenges patriarchal traditions and Hockey Club teaches girls to get up when they fall down, to play fair, to push themselves but help their team-mates. The girls themselves found playing team sports with other girls to be more inclusive, whereas the boys were too aggressive and never passed the ball! We could take that as a clear metaphor for inequality – men refusing to pass the ball.

Our lives aren’t one-dimensional and being a woman isn’t the only identity she possesses. She may be black, Asian, disabled, Islamic, Christian, short, etc and so face many forms of discrimination. Intersectional feminism seeks to understand how sexism relates to race, religion, size, age, appearance. So for example, as well as advocating for the white woman who makes 77c to the man’s Euro, intersectional feminism includes the black woman’s 60c and Hispanic woman’s 54c! But is intersectional feminism broadening the movement too much? Is it creating more labels, separating, classifying, perpetuating the idea of ‘other’, ‘difference’ – which are patriarchal constructs – and creating more confusion and room for disagreement? Actually, this is the problem I have with feminism. It’s become so fractured leaving many women afraid to identify as feminist for fear of being scorned by whichever brand of feminism they are not aligned with. For instance, are you a liberal feminist or a radical one? Do you want a seat at the patriarchal table or would you rather smash it to pieces? Are you an eco-feminist or a theological one? Do you believe pornography is exploitative or see it as a way for women to express themselves sexually? Do you believe that transgender women, having enjoyed the privileges of men, should now be recognised as female? There are over 100million women living with the consequences of Female Genital Mutilation (cutting of female genitalia) does feminism fight this human rights abuse or would that be an attack on cultural identity? The latter, according to Germaine Greer who has always been critical of the imposition of Western attitudes on the rest of the world.

Can feminism advocate for all marginalised groups? If the answer is yes, then I believe that women will always be seen as a sub-category, a minority group and will always experience sexism.  Maybe I’m wrong, but feminism started out as advocating for the equal woman 4rights of women, ALL women. We’re not there yet. Just look at how much ground has been lost since the recent Trump presidency. His Global Gag Rule –that’s the withdrawing of funding for NGO’s providing information, counselling or abortion services – will wipe out any assistance to women in countries like India where the US invests $16m in health programmes, or Latin American where 13% of maternal deaths are the result of botched back-street abortions. On a more positive note, before I conclude, on International Women’s day last month, Iceland announced it will be the first country in the world to make employers prove they offer equal pay regardless of gender, ethnicity, sexuality or nationality. You have to hand it to Social Affairs Minister Thorsteinn Viglundsson who said ‘you have to be bold in the fight against injustice.’

I think feminism, as a movement, needs to stick to the plan. Then, going forward as equals, men and women can work together on securing a greater equality for all of humanity, through another movement, something akin to Humanism. Is it foolish to envisage a world within which every gender, race, religion, physicality is equal, a world without minorities, where markers of difference are opportunities for unity? Is humanism a castle in the sky?  If it is, then maybe feminism could be the foundation we put underneath it.

 

You might enjoy reading work from other feminist poets such as: Alice Walker, Carol Ann Duffy, Margaret Atwood, Susan Howe, Muriel Rukeyser, Medbh McGuckian and Louise Gluck.

Music today from: Nina Simone, Kate Bush, Patti Smith, Anthony & The Johnsons, The Gloaming, Aretha Franklin, Caged Bird Sings, John Spillane & Eric Serra.

 

https://etudesirlandaises.revues.org/3183http://d.lib.rochester.edu/teams/text/shuffelton-codex-ashmole-61-how-the-good-wife-taught-her-daughter-introductionhttp://wordsnquotes.com/post/99722793438/carolyn-kizer-a-pioneer-in-feminist-poetry-dieshttp://www.boxturtlebulletin.com/tag/kirk-murphyhttps://www.morganmckinley.ie/article/irish-gender-pay-gap-stands-20-according-morgan-mckinley-studyhttp://www.thejournal.ie/women-talent-bank-gender-balance-state-boards-1588110-Jul2014/http://www.telegraph.co.uk/women/womens-life/11830018/French-feminists-hijack-Paris-street-signs-to-celebrate-women.html

The Guardian – Jessa Crispin 2017

http://www.biography.com/news/hidden-figures-movie-real-women

http://www.ecstatic-awakenings.com/womb-awakening/

The World is Yours for the Reading!

The Poetry and Music of Books and Readingbooks-1

 

All of human life can be found in books. We’ve been carving clay, bone, stone, silk and wood for millennia and began printing books over five hundred years ago. We read to broaden our comprehension of the world and ourselves. We read to relax, gain wisdom and be entertained. And that’s not all, being able to connect with the world’s greatest minds and writers, is a marvel, a gift.

So today we’re going to look at the theme of BOOKS in poetry and music. Emily Dickinson will be transporting us to all sorts of imaginary places with Rae Armantrout and Tony Hoagland. We return to the world before the web in the company of James Arthur and his encyclopedia. We meet Charles Simic and Nikki Giovanni in the library, Ralph Besse in the bathroom (more about that later) and conclude with Czeslaw Milosz on the spirit and resilience of books; conversing all the while with the greats who have laid themselves out for us.

Books are the ultimate mode of transport. They can take us into ourselves and out of this world faster than a frigate, as Emily Dickinson wrote:

There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry –
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll –
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears a Human soul.

Really what she’s talking about is escape. Reading a book is travelling first class without putting your hand in your pocket. Faster than the swiftest steeds or the chariots of the Greek hippodromes, a book can transport your soul to extraordinary places. Dickinson rarely left her house and in her seclusion wrote the poetry that became a wormhole, through which future generations could access or try to interpret her unreachable presence. So I suppose you could construe the poem as her way of validating her reclusive nature. Living her life vicariously and using literature as a substitute for living; knowing life by reading life. Then you have the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda who knows life by living life and in his Ode to the Book it is the first thing he says:

When I close a book
I open life.

Through Neruda’s eyes, the world is a very different place. In his poetry, onions and tomatoes even socks are exalted to reverential heights and he praises the mundane and ordinary, with all the epicurean pleasure of a poet in love with the world:

I hear
faltering cries
among harbours.
Copper ingots
slide down sand-pits
to Tocopilla.
Night time.
Among the islands
our ocean
throbs with fish,
touches the feet, the thighs,
the chalk ribs
of my country.
The whole of night
clings to its shores, by dawn
it wakes up singing
as if it had excited a guitar.

This wonderful life lures him with excitement and experience, that he may discern for himself the smoked beef and burning metals of his reality. He praises the book as a source for continued self-improvement, but there has got to be time for both. Books have inspired him to live and if books are life distilled, then Neruda wants to be a part of the process.

Book, let me go.
I won’t go clothed
in volumes,
I don’t come out
of collected works,
my poems
have not eaten poems–
they devour
exciting happenings,
feed on rough weather,
and dig their food
out of earth and men.
I’m on my way
with dust in my shoes
free of mythology:
send books back to their shelves,
I’m going down into the streets.

Neruda’s poetry is not born of books but feeds on the rough weather and rich soil of the human race; he secretes poetry from life. Dickinson in effect, extracts life from poetry in order to create her own literature. We are all in a sense formed and informed by the books we read and the lives we lead and both Neruda and Dickinson portray a consciousness illuminated by their individual interpretations of art and life.

I learned about life
from life itself,
love I learned in a single kiss
and could teach no one anything
except that I have lived

When I was a teenager, I could find just about anything in a collection of reference books my mother bought one Christmas. Prior to the internet, World Books were our very own in-house library. They contained everything we needed to know about the world: from cattle ranching in Houston, to dog pedigrees and the teachings of the Dalai Lama – my school essays must have been astonishing! I have a very clear image of my brother sitting at the dining-room table, studying for his Leaving Certificate with volumes spread open in front of him.
The poet James Arthur in his poem Ode To An Encyclopedia not only celebrates the hefty hard-covers on the built-in shelf in my parents’ living room but commemorates all that they represent: the innocence and sureness of childhood, the confidence we had that our lives like the alphabet, would fall into place and that the world at our fingertips would be ours forever:

you were my companion
on beige afternoons that came slanting through the curtains
behind the rough upholstered chair. You knew how to trim a
sail
and how the hornet builds a hive. You had a topographical map

of the mountain ranges on the far side of the moon
and could name the man who shot down the man
who murdered Jesse James. At forty, I tell myself

that boyhood was all enchantment: hanging around the railway,
getting plastered on cartoons;

 

The curious phenomena between the covers of the encyclopedia can take us just as far into our imagination as any piece of fiction. Every word a writer pulls into existence conjures all sorts of images for a reader, so opening a book can be a risky business.   In her prose poem Imaginary Places, from her 2004 collection Up To Speed, American poet Rae Armantrout intrudes on the privacy within which a book is written, to investigate the complex relationships between the reader and the writer, the reader and the words, the book and the environment.   Each brings something to the process.  We follow language into a book and find ourselves persuaded by it.  As readers, we allow someone else to take the lead and between the lines discover how brave and curious we are to follow – we cast our nets into the sea of the writer’s imagination.

Reading, we are allowed to follow someone elses train of thought as it starts off for an imaginary place. This train has been produced for usor rather materialized and extended until it is almost nothing like the ephemeral realizations with which were familiar. To see words pulled one by one into existence is to intrude on a privacy of sorts.

booksAnd yet a book is an invitation to trespass, to absorb and be absorbed. Reading, as a spiritual activity (because there are few relationships more beatific than a reader and her book) is beautifully rendered by American poet, philosopher and art collector Wallace Stevens. In The House Was Quiet And The World Was Calm, Stevens’ 2-line stanzas focus on the ‘transaction between the reader, the book, the house, the night and the world’; the holy communion and the ultimate transcendence of each by the act of reading:

The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The reader became the book; and summer night

Was like the conscious being of the book.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.

The words were spoken as if there was no book,
Except that the reader leaned above the page,

Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be
The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom

The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
The house was quiet because it had to be.

There’s something so magical about reading in the stillness of the night. The world is hushed, distractions quieted, the book and reader become one. Reading itself is a form of meditation, where all divisions disappear and everything becomes interconnected.

For Stevens, The words were spoken as if there was no book and similarly, I think the house was quiet because it didn’t exist anymore either, the reader had transcended it. It’s a perfect example of the importance of creating that private reading space for ourselves; out of distraction and into solitude. We’re left with the ideal image of the reader naturally reflective, leaning late and reading there. It’s an image that appears passive but is it?

In Reading Moby Dick At 30,000 Feet, Tony Hoagland creates what Rilke called outer standstill and inner movement. He might look relaxed leaning back into his seat on an airplane over Kansas, but in his mind he’s fighting whales aboard the Pequod. It further demonstrates how a book can take you to anywhere, from anywhere. Faster than Emily Dickinson’s frigate and before Hoagland’s plane arrives in New York, he can fire a harpoon or round the Cape of Good Hope simply by turning a page:

but now my eyes flicker

from the in-flight movie
to the stewardess’s panty line,
then back into my book,
where men throw harpoons at something
much bigger and probably
better than themselves,

wanting to kill it,
wanting to see great clouds of blood erupt
to prove that they exist.

He further echoes Pablo Neruda’s assertion that in order for life to be known, it must be experienced wholly and fully.

Imagine a century like a room so large,
a corridor so long
you could travel for a lifetime
and never find the door,
until you had forgotten
that such a thing as doors exist.

Better to be on board the Pequod,
with a mad one-legged captain
living for revenge.

Better to feel the salt wind
spitting in your face,
to hold your sharpened weapon high,

to see the glisten
of the beast beneath the waves.

 

Again, books help us make connections; with different cultures and societies; points in history; our imaginations; with ourselves and the world in general. Just as Steven’s book connects the reader to the house and the night, reading Moby Dick at 30,000 feet closes the gap between Hoagland and his own feelings; connecting him to the past through Melville’s imagination; his present as a passenger aboard a flight learning something about himself that’s likely to influence his future. It’s a good example also of how books can help reduce stress. I’m not completely comfortable with air travel but I can often transcend the steel tube by losing myself in a novel or engaging article.

Ralph M Besse, a trustee of Ohio’s Ursuline College wrote an article for the Foundation of Economic Education in 1956 entitled The Philosophy of Reading. In it, he advocates for making more time in our lives for reading, by creating the desire and establishing the habit. Besse suggests having reading material always close to hand, reading everything and reading it everywhere – bed, the commute the work and interestingly, the bathroom – which is where he read Moby Dick! Award winning Serbian-American poet Charles Simic just goes to the library:

There’s a book called
“A Dictionary of Angels.”
No one has opened it in fifty years,
I know, because when I did,
The covers creaked, the pages
Crumbled. There I discovered

The angels were once as plentiful
As species of flies.
The sky at dusk
Used to be thick with them.
You had to wave both arms
Just to keep them away.

Now the sun is shining
Through the tall windows.
The library is a quiet place.
Angels and gods huddled
In dark unopened books.
The great secret lies
On some shelf Miss Jones
Passes every day on her rounds.

She’s very tall, so she keeps
Her head tipped as if listening.
The books are whispering.
I hear nothing, but she does.

 

I love that poem. It’s a beautiful idea. That in the magical quiet of a library, forgotten books-antiquevolumes of antiquarian books replete with enchanting wisdom, whisper to one another of the magnificent secrets locked within their creaking covers. Books share their riches and the conversations are overheard by the librarian, who’s also seen as a magical figure and an inspiration to many young people frequenting their local libraries. African-American poet Nikki Giovanni wrote very movingly about Mrs. Long in A Poem for My Librarian, saying:

She would go to the big library uptown and I now know
Hat in hand to ask to borrow so that I might borrow

Probably they said something humiliating since southern
Whites like to humiliate southern blacks
But she nonetheless brought the books
Back and I held them to my chest
Close to my heart

Simic also credits his librarian with spawning his eclectic interests and owes much of his knowledge to the thousands of books he withdrew, on his regular visits to the library. Another American, Maya Angelou, credits the library as having saved her life as a youngster. She was abused and didn’t utter a word for six years, but God put a rainbow in the sky and she was taken to a library. For Angelou, a library is a rainbow in the clouds.

If a library is a rainbow, then a book is a crock of gold. We are surrounded by them and can converse with the greats at any time. Sometimes those conversations are life-saving. Reading as an anti-dote to isolation was espoused by former professor of English at Yale University, William Lyon Phelps, in a speech he gave in 1933 about the pleasure of books. He said that “in a roomful of books you are surrounded by intimate friends.” Friends that are always accessible.

Books are our mentors and role models and whether we’re seeking an escape, self-knowledge or emotional support: they ward off loneliness, connecting us to other people, worlds and discoveries. Phelps advocates collecting a private library “One should have one’s own bookshelves, which should not have doors, glass windows, or keys”. He also says that owning your own books is preferable to the “guest in the house” that a borrowed one is: “Books are for use, not for show; you should own no book that you are afraid to battered-bookmark up, or afraid to place on the table, wide open and face down”. I love this speech. This is exactly how I feel about books. I break their spines, bend pages and mark poetic lines and phrases, because, I agree with Phelps: books are for use. My friends don’t appreciate it but I think books are like comfortable shoes, you need to break them in, walk around for a while until you’re no longer aware you’re even wearing shoes. An unused book is like an untold story. My books are lined with insoles and my friends no longer loan me theirs.

No matter how over-used my books are, I’ve never managed to destroy one completely. This brings me onto my final point about books. They will outlive us all. There’s a story# about the Polish poet Csezlaw Milosz, that on a return visit to his birthplace he walked up to an oak tree and embraced it. Affirming his connection to the earth, but also to the book. Because the English for book derives from the German Beech and the French inner bark of trees. In his poem And Yet The Books, Milosz describes them as separate beings …. still wet as shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn.

“We are,” they said, even as their pages
were being torn out, or a buzzing flame
licked away their letters. So much more durable
than we are, whose frail warmth
cools down, with memory, disperses, perishes.

I imagine the earth when I am no more:
Nothing happens, no loss, it’s still a strange pageant,
Women’s dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley,
Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born,
Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.

 

Books are so much more durable than we are; Milosz’s own books were banned in Poland until the 1980’s and one month after Phelps gave his speech on the pleasure of books, the Nazi’s oversaw the burning of books with “un-German ideas”. Yet books persist and whatever happens in life, they will be there to gather the evidence. They are guardians of memory, the Dictionaries Of Angels, whispering their secrets, derived from people and overheard by all who tilt their heads to listen.

As for me, well before I really knew books, I loved them. The musty yellowed paper of old volumes of poetry, the magical cover designs, the crisp-feel and fresh-smell of newly printed novels. I wanted books on the bookshelf. I wanted them near. Then one afternoon, I chose one and sat down on the armchair to read. I’ll let Dylan Thomas tell you what happened next:

I could never have dreamt that there were such goings-on
In the world between the covers of books,
Such sandstorms and ice blasts of words,
Such staggering peace, such enormous laughter,
Such and so many blinding bright lights,
Splashing all over the pages
In a million bits and pieces
All of which were words, words, words,
And each of which were alive forever
In its own delights and glory and oddity and light.

books-2

Music today from Fionn Regan; Mark Knopfler & James Taylor; Loreena McKennitt; Sting & Anoushka Shankar; Gregory Alan Isakov; Susanne Vega; Sean Harkness and John Williams.

 

The Poetry & Music Of Alternatives To January Gym Membership!

Today, I invite you to join my fitness protection program, and look at the poetry and music of take-care-2things we can do instead of joining the gym in January!  It’s a peculiar month isn’t it. Dark, cold and penniless and after spending too much money on the wrong things, we’ve only just sat down to enjoy the luxurious Belgian-chocolate-fudge-cake-with-chocolate-butter-ganache-and-rum-and-raisin-(double)icecream we so richly deserve, when we find ourselves being vilified (by ourselves!) for over-indulging and hasten off to the nearest gym before said chocolate cake has had time to reach our salivating lips!  That is of course if we read the newspapers, magazines, blogs, social media posts that perpetuate this kind of unhelpful, ill-timed, stress-inducing madness. My advice? Don’t buy into it. Take a bath instead.  All it is is somebody else’s idea of a reality that just mightn‘t suit us. We can be the authors of our own ambitions and stick to what we feel is right for us. It’s hard not to get sucked in though, especially when around every corner lurks a gym or a night-class or a tai-chi-for-beginners-instructor telling you YOU’RE DOING LIFE WRONG!  So today we’re putting the brakes on, and using the first month of the new year not to beat ourselves up but rather build ourselves up.

take-care-6Think about it, many of us have just spent some more time than usual with our families and despite the obvious joy and good fortune in having people to share the holiday with, we can easily lose ourselves in the chaos, we fall back into old familial roles and patterns, tension is high, old wounds and hurts get reopened that can leave us feeling a little vulnerable and maybe questioning our life choices. I’m not sure that the answers we’re looking for are on the treadmill or under the weight machine though.  We might just need to ask ourselves a few basic questions, then sit quietly and wait for the answer to come from within. Why let a magazine article or sign at the local supermarket decide our fate? If the response we hear back is in fact a date with a rowing machine then yay! join in February, but if we decide that what we really need is an evening or two with our feet up then we’ve just saved a large amount of money and extra pressure and guilt for all the sessions we know we were going to miss.

So with the help of today’s poets I’ve come up with a few alternatives to dumbbells and Divorce/girl powerdipping bars.  After weeks of socialising , one of the first things we need to do before making any resolutions or life changing decisions is to get back in touch with ourselves to re-centre. The Argentinian poet Susana Thenon in her poem Nuptial Song believes that the only way for us to truly know ourselves, to rediscover our inner voice and appreciate the wonderful person that we are, is by being happily married … to ourselves. You heard m! Because we live in such an externalised culture it’s essential that we create moments of solitude for ourselves to get to know ourselves, to seek out our souls and nourish them. But we’re so afraid to take this journey inwards. Why? Well maybe we don’t go there often enough and fear what we might find: that we’re dreadful people who’ll never be good enough? But what if we find that we’re actually alright and just as good as anyone else? And remember solitude is different from isolation. If we sit quietly with ourselves for long enough we find that we have all answers to all the questions that have been evading us for years. Nuptial Song, is a poem about paying attention to emotional pain.

Tess Gallagher then gives us a credible alternative to kick-boxing …. Hug someone!  In a take-care-4recent show about happiness, you might recall I talked about little things we can do everyday to improve our well-being and one of them was to give, especially of ourselves. Reaching out to someone in need can have enormous benefits for both the giver and the receiver.   Psychological research tells us that loneliness is as detrimental to health as smoking is and with that in mind it’s important that we make more time for people; the elderly, the marginalized, those who live alone, we don’t know who out there is struggling or how much.  And it goes both ways: reaching out to is equally as important as reaching out for, asking for help when we need it. And you know, something as simple as a hug can go along way. A hug releases hormones that lower blood pressure, slows the heart rate, what’s known as the cuddle hormone oxytosin can reduce stress and above all reduce feelings of loneliness. It’s a common thing to be asked by a homeless person for spare change but what if he/she asked for a hug? How would we deal with a request like that? Well in  The Hug, American poet Tess Gallagher responds in a way I think we would all like to think we would respond.  She’s standing on the street hugging her partner when a homeless man walks up ’can I have one of those’ he asks. The overriding theme of the poem is love and I think what Gallagher proves is that it is not limited.

take-care-7Something else we might do as we look ahead is to remember that even though the hopes we have for ourselves don’t always match up to our reality, we are far from failures. Jack Gilbert, in his poem Failing and Flying, reminds us to focus on the positive.  The first line reads Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.  Icarus was the Greek character whose father warned him that his wings would melt if he flew too close to the sun, but he was a young man who got carried away, did what he wasn’t supposed to and ended up drowning in the sea, we remember him as the boy who failed not as the boy who flew. Failure is a tricky one, our reaction to it is to stop trying, our minds trick us into believing we can’t do things but Gilbert, no stranger to emotional pain, wants us to stop convincing ourselves we can’t succeed. To stop seeing things as all bad. He so beautifully cites the end of his own marriage as an example, even though the relationship is over, it did exist once, full with passion and promise and wonderful memories the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist. Gilbert, I think has a lot in common with Rilke, who we also read today, he travelled a lot, lectured to support himself, he mostly avoided fame and wrote for the love of it not to be lauded. And he uses a quote from English poet GK Chesterton which I love That anything worth doing is worth doing badly, meaning that how we do things is the way they should be done, that we are good enough, that individuality trumps excellence every-time. Finally then Gilbert goes further and trumps himself with a concluding line that we could all benefit from remembering, that we are not failing just coming to the end of a triumph. Reminds me of Samuel Beckett’s famous lines ever tried, ever failed, no matter, try again, fail again, fail better.

So look at all we can achieve instead of going to the gym in January! We can spend more time getting to know ourselves; live life more fully; question everything so we can form better opinions about ourselves and others; be more compassionate by reaching out to others; changing how we view things like failure, if we can do that maybe we can change how we look at other negatives in our lives and most of all we can come to realise that maybe things aren’t as bad as we thought they were; maybe we’re alright as we are.  We can stop being so hard on ourselves and making January gloomier than it has to be. I think when we’re forced into doing things they don’t work out as well as when we choose to do something for ourselves. So let’s take the time to think about we really want, because change, if we want it to work, takes time not added pressure.

Follow your inner moonlight; don’t hide the madness.
Ginsberg

Also on todays’ show:  Go To The Limits Of Your Longing by Rainer Maria Rilke, Some Questions You Might Ask by Mary Oliver, In Spite Of Everything, The Stars by Edward Hirsh.  Music from Atli Ovarsson, Jacob Collier, Al Martino, The Frames, Bell X1, Nina Simone, London Metropolitan Orchestra, Josh Ritter.

 

 

 

 

 

Into The Darkness They Go, The Wise And The Lovely – St. Vincent Millay

darkness-2“Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody.” – Mark Twain

Now, apart from the absence of light, what’s the fuss about darkness? Well it’s when everything otherworldly happens. Ghosts and vampires and werewolves come out, the early Saxons called it the death-mist, and although the darkness is not without its dangers, it’s the mystical time for dreams and magic. The time for imagination and contemplation. Shakespeare brought us the Prince of Darkness from King Lear, composers like Satie and Debussy wrote tranquil Nocturnes for solo piano, Chopin wrote 21 of them, the first was written by the Irish composer John Field, known as the Father of the romantic nocturne. Creation began with darkness, into which light is then created, because you can’t have one without the other. Incidentally, as far as lighting architects are concerned, much beautiful light can only appear because of darkness. In fact, they’re always looking at new ways of lighting our cities in order to preserve the darkness, because we’re producing too much light. If you ever see those night shots of the earth from space, it’s supposed to be dark, but all you see are lights, spoiling the darkness, not reaching the people they’re supposedly meant for. I guess if we appreciated the darkness more, we’d be able to enhance it with light rather than trying to eliminate it altogether.

So today we’ll come at DARKNESS from a few angles beginning with the blindness of Jorges Luis Borges.  The Argentinean short-story writer and poet in his 1974 book In Praise Of Darkness takes us on a journey of self-realization in the company of darkness. Like his father before him, Borges became blind in his fifties and many of his later works focus on the effect this had on him as a writer. The darkness of the title poem though, also means old age, something his blindness has been preparing him for. A time for reflection and inward focus, or the time of our greatest bliss as he calls it, freedom from the distraction of all the eye sees I suppose, the things that steal us away from ourselves. And rather than reject the coming darkness, he welcomes it All this should frighten me, he says, but it is a sweetness, a return. He speaks of blindness as an involuntary meditation, a time to get to know himself, remember and enjoy in peace the great books he read, the people he knew, the things he did, without being bombarded with new information all the time. It struck me how preoccupied we are nowadays, news reports, facts, figures, social media updates, stuff coming at us every minute diverting our attention from ourselves, leaving little time for inner focus and centeredness. For Borges, sitting quietly in the darkness of himself, he will come to find his algebra, his key his mirror.

Just press play and listen to the show!

Night-time is an occasion for contemplation and imagination and a lot of writers and poets find they’re at their most creative in the dark. Particularly before sleep or waking, because you’re closest to your dreams and seem to be able to access more easily the abstract corridors of the brain. My Darling Turns To Poetry At Night is a love poem by Australian poet Anthony Lawrence from his new collection Headwaters. And it appealed to me because when I first started to write poetry, I wrote at night or around the dreaded 4 in the morning. Actually I was watching a Tedtalks the other evening about the 4am mystery, the idea that you’re awake at worst possible hour, along with the morticians. Faron Young and Leonard Cohens song 4 in the morning, Judi Dench’s movie and Wiswava Szymborska’s poem where she calls it The hollow hour. The very pit of all other hours, well the mystery of all these, can all be traced back to the 1932 surrealist sculpture by Alberto Giacomo ‘The Palace At Four in The Morning’, that’s the start point apparently for every artistic depiction of 4am, but a very productive hour it seems. Anyway, Lawrence uses the obsessive quality of the Italian Villanelle form to compare his lover to poetry, in all it’s beauty and complexity. In the stillness of the dark this love becomes apparent and glorious as the stars, the commas on her face, her heartbeat is a metaphor, a late bloom of red flowers that refuse to fade, ah the romance of it all  the dreamy nocturnal quality and this is a love that will last for eternity as he concludes that their bodies will leave ghost prints on the bed.

The epigraph of the poem First Night, by American poet and professor Billy Collins, comes from a quote by Spanish poet Juan Ramon Jimenez The worst thing about death must be the first night, and that gives us an idea of where his thoughts are going. Jimenez lost his father when he was only eighteen, experiencing quite young the darkness of his first night. Collins raises more questions about what happens after death, to both the dead and the living, will the dead gather to watch the sun and moon rise for example. When you lose someone it’s hard to see past the next minute let alone day, so doubts about whether there will be a sunrise, a language, a bed for any of us abound. How feeble our vocabulary in the face of death, he says, again being unable to find the words to express our grief. Collins concludes, as do all our writers today, by reminding us to pay more attention to our lives, our world, enjoy what we have while we have it. Being present and finding alternative ways of dealing with grief, is one of those little tricks to better living that all the great philosophers talk about. I’m reading a book by Sarah Bakewell at the moment about the life of the 16th century French philosopher Montaigne, he was heavily influenced by Greek & Roman philosophers like Seneca and Plutarch and they were always conducting their own little thought experiments on ways of living without anxiety.  Plutarch suggested that if you lose someone precious you can try valuing them differently by imagining that you never knew them, thus producing a different emotion! He famously put this in a letter to his wife after the loss of their daughter, I’m not sure if she found any consolation in that but the intent of course was to ease her suffering. Anyway, for those of us who have lost someone, there’s no denying the truth in Jimenez’s words, that for the living at least, the first night is the worst after a death.

Also on today’s show: Wait by Galway Kinnell,  Lay Back The Darkness by Edward Hirsh and  They Sit Together On The Porch by Wendell Berry.  Music from Matthew & The Atlas, Alice Boman, Will Oldham & Johnny Cash and more …..

darkness

“Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.” Mary Oliver

Poetry and Politics

So where does dreamy poetry meet gritty politics? Well according to English poet Percy politicsShelley in his essay In Defence Of Poetry ’Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world’ , what does he mean? That poets have some sort of moral power or influence? I think what he means is that poets are not just writing poems, just like politicians are not just making laws, but they’re both engaged in imagining new ways of perceiving and being in this world of ours.
So in this way, passion and emotion run deep in both poetry and politics, appealing to the sense that things could be otherwise.  Both are concerned with values, rights and nationhood. Rhetoric is a big deal, the basic purpose of political rhetoric is to move men to action or alliance, poetry moves us in emotional, individualistic and immeasurable ways.
Poets are in the business of communication and expression, and have always invoked controversy for their social and political commentary. Politicians use poetry to their advantage too, in terms of speech-writing say. A little bit of flair can make any speech artistic and create lines that will be remembered for generations. Think of JFK’s inaugural speech “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country”. Style is substance in political speech writing and poetry with it’s imagery and rhythm can strike the right chord. Poetry has always been read at Presidential inaugurations, JFK had Robert Frost; Bill Clinton had Maya Angelou and Obama had Elizabeth Alexander and here in Ireland we went a step further, and got a two-for-one offer in our poet-president Michael D Higgins!

Political poetry is a poetry of social concern and conscience, a way to exercise ones right to freedom of expression, which is what today’s poets have done.

In his poem Negro, Langston Hughes gives us a gripping account of the African-American experience through history. Hughes confronted racial stereotypes and his African-American themes made him a primary contributor to the Harlem renaissance of the 1920’s. He wrote the poem around the time of the birth of the civil rights movement, a time of racial pride. It is a direct and comprehensible lesson in black history, violent and oppressive yes, but this is a vital culture, central to the development of the world as we know it, the sense of pride is palpable, I am a negro, black like the depths of my Africa, powerful, there’s a huge freedom there and still a hope for that oft elusive future.

From his prison cell, the romantic communist poet Nazim Hikmet urges us to live life as if there’s nothing named death. Hikmet was a Turkish poet, playwright, novelist and memoirist.  He was repeatedly arrested for his political beliefs and spent much of his adult life either in prison or in exile in Russia. Why did I choose him? Well he was a rebel, a romantic and he stood up for his beliefs, whatever the consequence – which was usually incarceration. His poem On Living, informed in part by his communist leanings, and the length of time he spent behind bars, is concerned with the politics of living; working at ones life as one would an occupation; making it as passionate and fulfilling as possible – living is no laughing matter he says, whatever our circumstances we must live as if we will never die.
Jean-Paul Satre once said ‘Everything has been figured out, except how to live’, but here Hikmet urges us to be happy, achieve our potential, never let our fears or societal expectations hold us back. Our purpose, as is sees it, is to live life, not just look for the meaning in it. For one day this world will grow cold.

We also read The Mother, today, recollecting the emotions aroused by the Easter rising, from Irish revolutionary poet Patrick Pearse. The Rising was an insurrection in Dublin of about 1,200 men and women from the Irish Volunteers, Irish Citizen Army and the women’s group, Cuman na mBan. They were fighting for independence from the UK and although the rebellion failed, it did pave the way for the creation of a free state six years later. The rising was led by intellectuals and artists – sixteen of them were executed including the teacher & poet Patrick Pearse whose poem The Mother, written the night before he died, describes a mother’s thoughts on the death of her two sons (both Patrick and his younger brother Willie were executed). Why this poem above other rebel poems of the rising?  Well it’s intensely emotional, it’s the Irish the mother thing, we all know they live for their children.

Political poetry does more than just arouse feeling, it can take us right into the heart of society, it will always be there to remind us where we are, who we are, to move us, to offer solace, to carry news, sometimes that news inspires, sometimes it enrages – ‘Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry’ Auden wrote in his elegy for Yeats and as we’ve seen from Hikmet and communism to Chinese revolution and Irish rebellion, from Shelley after Peterloo in 1819 who said ‘ye are many and they are few’, Gil Scot Heron ‘the revolution will not be televised’ it seems that politics has hurt a lot of poets into poetical response.

One of the penalties for refusing to participate in politics, is that you end up being governed by your inferiors.
Plato

Also on the show: Adrienne Rich, Li Young Lee, Muriel Rukeyser along with music from The WaterBoys, Sam Cooke, Billie Holiday & John Grant.

 

Hope Floats

 

There is surely a future hope for you, and your hope will not be cut off. – Proverbs 23:18

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Our show today is all about HOPE. A salv to last weeks poetry of FEAR we’ll take a slightly more optimistic attitude of mind to look at what role hope plays in our lives. The things we hope for in people, politics, health and in society.  Puritan American poet Emily Dickinson famously called HOPE

The thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all

Creating a beautiful metaphorical description of hope as a bird singing in the soul. And it’s interesting she does that because two symbols of hope that come to mind are the Dove and the Swallow, the swallow being the first bird to appear at the end of Winter, heralding the beginning of Spring. She goes on:

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.

Meaning that nothing, not even the worst hardship or storm could weaken the strength and resolve of the human spirit of HOPE. So with the help of our featured poets we’ll be looking at the places we might expect to find hope, or where we may be surprised to find it with Lisel Mueller.  It is spiritual and physical we are surrounded by it. ‘It hovers in the dark corners’ she says, it’s hope that’s in the earthworm segment, the dogs tail, ‘it drops’ she says ‘from the mushroom gills.’ Sometimes it hides in these places making it difficult for us to maintain hope in tough times, but it is there, inventing our future, inspiring us, it is she says ‘the singular gift we cannot destroy in ourselves’. Meaning hope is intrinsic to life. It is our survival mechanism.

Khaled Mattawa reminds us that it was the hope of a better future that kick-started the Arab Spring five years ago. Young people in the Middle East and North Africa led a major uprising demanding political, economic and social change.  In the early days of the revolution, Mattawa wrote ‘Now that we have tasted hope, we would sooner die than seek any other taste to life’. Hope in the sense of it being a provocative day-dream as opposed to a passive one, people were not content to just accept the bad that exists. It’s true that many cities involved in the uprisings were left traumatised and beleaguered, and fatal mistakes were made, but there were victories, not just ends, but beginnings, evidence that sometimes we can win, hope and  encouragement to keep going.

Irish poet Derek Mahon reconciles the shadow and the light to reassure us that despite the worst that is certain to happen, everything is going to be alright.

You know hope can an have impact on everything from health to work to personal meaning. And as we’ve learned from our poets today, the hard times are going to come but as Emily Dickinson said, it would take some sore storm to abash the bird of hope.  But when I think of Ernest Dowson’s poem on how fleeting life and everything in it is, I just wonder how much it really matters whether we choose hope or despair, neither are wrong, they each reflect human feeling. Story-teller Maria Kallman says We hope. We despair. We hope. We despair. This is what governs us. We have a bipolar system. And I suppose, at the end of the day, we do whatever we can to get ourselves through situations. I know for me anyway I can’t be positive everyday, but on those days, when I can’t be hopeful that everything is getting better I try, at least, to hope that everything is not getting any worse.

Hope is important, because it can make the present moment, less difficult to bear. If we believe that tomorrow will be better, then we can bear a hardship today.
Thich Nhat Hanh

Music today from Glen Hansard, Foy Vance, India Arie and more ….