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.
