Poetic matters

 

The Colombo International Book Fair (CIBF) is a carnival. On the surface, a literary carnival — you get the books, book stalls, book lovers presumably, book launches and various literature-related events. Good stuff, but not for me. I do visit, but only for an hour or two. I prefer to spend that time at the Kavi Poth Salpila, the poetry-book stall run by award-winning author Mahinda Prasad Masimbula.

I stopped by for a few minutes on Tuesday. It was not the ritual stop, but a pause for a quick perusal before proceeding to the ‘Sankhathana Mandapaya’ (The Discourse Pavilion) where I was to be a panelist discussing the question, ‘Does poetry still matter?’

My quick-browse let to the purchase of a few books: verses penned by Masimbula’s for a teledrama based on his book ‘Manikkavatha,’ W A Abeysinghe’s translations of a set of poems by Pushkin, Nandun Yasitha Dissanayake’s long-titled latest collection, Kanchana Amilani’s ‘Kala Rekha (Timeline)’ and Timran Keerthi’s ‘Maduravathi nam tharu rataava.’ They constituted a short answer to that odd but perhaps relevant-to-some question I was supposed to help unravel a little later.

It was an interesting discussion. The discussion was live-streamed and there does not require transcription even in condensed form. As always, my fallback to being chronically unprepared was the fact that others always say something interesting. I owe the moderator, Tinaz Amit, and the fellow-panelists, Dr Sujeeva Sebastian, Shirania Rajapakse and Anupama Godakanda. As always, the discussion stayed long afterwards and inspired further reflection.

Does poetry matter? Does anything matter, for that matter? Once the second question pops up, the first is rendered meaningless. Matter-less, if you so wish.

People do make careers of their art. Some become wealthy. Most, historically, die in poverty. Extravagant spending can land the best in dire straits. I had thought Shakespeare died poor and said as much, but apparently he did not. The lives artists get to lead are not always related to the worth of their art. The point, however, is that it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if art pays. It doesn’t matter if no one understands. Or rather, it matters very little. Some do enjoy accolade-glow. It’s nice to be recognised. Recognised or not, however, people write, paint, compose music, dance, act etc. There’s reward in the act and that’s not always something one whispers to oneself by way of consolation.

There are poetry-matters moments. I mentioned a couple. The first was about Pablo Neruda. He recounts that he got into a brawl with someone in a bar. That someone was tossed out. When Neruda walked out sometime later, the man was there and came towards him. Neruda’s initial thought was that the man wanted a second round of fisticuffs. No, he had been distraught when he learned that he had dared to attack Pablo Neruda, whose poetry he had recited to the woman he eventually married. And then he proceeded to recite the poem. Poetry mattered then.

Three years ago while visiting my niece in Madison, Wisconsin, I observed a demonstration condemning the genocidal attacks by Israel on the people of Palestine. There was a young man carrying a placard with the following legend: ‘Every Beautiful Poem is an Act of Resistance.’

Worth a write. Back then I wrote a daily article for this same paper, the Daily News. So I wrote about beautiful poetry and resistance. That day, coincidentally, poem popped up in Facebook Memories:

So let there be stones
beautiful ones
cut by hand or time
with edges that can wait
for moonquake and anarchy
those necessary preconditions
for bloomage and bleeding
mirrors that fracture desolate skies
and trigger
the eruption of rainbows,
stones gathered
from every stoning
that turned broken bodies
into words
to re-cleanse
our desecrated hearts.

Related. So I related the relationship. Poetry mattered. Matters in matters of the heart, matters in acts of resistance. Like pavement stones.

Matters very little, someone might say, although others would argue that poetry did play a role in preparing hearts for resistance and rebellion. The true dimensions of the matter at hand was perhaps best articulated by Neruda. It’s a line I’ve quoted often and which I mentioned during the discussion as well: ‘Ah! If only with a drop of love or poetry, we could placate the anger of the world; but that requires resolute hearts.’  

There was a drop of poetry in Madison, Wisconsin. There was a drop of poetry outside a nondescript bar somewhere in Latin America many decades ago. Drops of love, they could also be called. The anger of the world does not subside easily, but something distasteful was nevertheless quelled. Dissolved. Just with a drop of poetry.

And here I am, more than fifty years later, talking about love and war, tears and poetry. Matters. And in this way are hearts made more resolute, I do believe.