By Praniti Gulyani
My first brush with the emotion of linguistic ownership, and what it felt to have a “voice of my own,” came to me through a poem I had written.
Driven by personal impulse, I submitted it to a journal for possible publication, and got an affirmative response, with the editor specifically stating how he enjoyed reading “my” poem, and how I have a unique and original voice “of my own” that must be cultivated and taken ahead particularly in the area of social justice.
Thereafter, I rechanneled my ability to string verses together, and wrote extensively about instances that unnerved me: ranging from domestic violence, to the restrictions heaped upon Indian women during menstruation, and patriarchal domination as observed in my household and beyond.
During my writing endeavors, I observed the shapeshifting and role-altering ability of poetry. From printed words on a page, it somersaulted into a medium of communication. Adapting the “attracting” capability of a magnet, it brought people together and made them think. Like an aesthetic pond, it gave people a gathering spot, encouraging them to sit by its edges and converse.
Above everything else, I watched poetry turn into a pair of supporting shoulders for people to unload their emotional burden onto—and, most importantly, for them to lean on. As I observed the intersection of people and poetry, I realized that I had inadvertently become a part of a historical cohort of poets who used this art of words as a means of creating an impact.
However, my role did not end there.
I think that is the best thing about being a poet. Even though you might write several hundred poems over the course of your literary career, the freshness of that first poem does not waver. Every poem that you write feels like washing your eyes with rose water all over again, brushing away the grime of the fast-paced work life, and experiencing the almost unreal beauty of slowing down, staring and discovering—the world as well as yourself.
According to a report by Human Rights Campaign (HRC), Nicole Cozier—leader of HRC’s Diversity Equity and Inclusion Team—describes how “poetry helped her explore her identity as a queer black woman” and how “it is at the core of her social justice work.”
She also describes how “when she was first coming out and exploring her own identity as a queer Black woman, she was able to express herself, to find community, and feel validated through poetry. Maya Angelou’s “Phenomenal Woman” is one poem that particularly spoke to her.
Additionally, poetry has also played the role of a “translator”—breaking down seemingly complex issues that are written about in technical and complicated language, into simple and comprehensible sentences that are most often guided by human emotions.
For instance, Hilda Raz, a poet who often writes about environmental issues, uses her poems to express an undying love for nature. In her poem, “Some Questions about the Storm,” she writes, “Do you name your trees? / Who owns the trees?”
Expressing her environmental fears, Raz uses strong imagery in her poem to bring the attention of the readers to the aftermath of cutting trees. “What’s real is the broken crown. The trunk shattered” she declares, in ‘Some Questions about the Storm.”
As opposed to conventional forms of writing like prose and long form fiction, poetry encourages experimentation and rebellion simply by way of its form and structure, namely the “way in which it is written.” Poetry—as a form of literary expression—involves creative freedom and continuous experimentation with traditional grammatical rules.
This is further proven by the free exercise of “poetic license” —a term that refers to the linguistic freedom that a poet or a writer has that allows them to break boundaries and adopt an independent stylistic path if they feel that this befits the nature of their work more than the continued usage of typical linguistic conventions.
Amanda Gorman, who is the youngest poet at age 22 to present at a Presidential Inauguration, affirmed the revolutionary nature of the “poetic form” by saying “I believe that poetry is the language of the people. Poetry is not like prose because it inherently challenges you to break from the norms of convention. You are supposed to play with grammar, you are supposed to play with language and metaphors and similes. It is automatically a type of rebellion against the literary status quo.”
Therefore, the ability—and most importantly “available opportunity” —to conquer previously established boundaries is what associates poetry with revolutions and change, making it a strong medium for the establishment and exploration of social justice.
As an individual, my experience with using poetry as a means to navigate issues pertaining to social justice in my everyday life has not been particularly smooth. Whenever I attempt to write about incidents that fall outside my cultural community and traditional bandwidth, I am often looked at with raised eyebrows that ask me about the capacity in which I am writing about problems that do not personally concern me, particularly because “they are a far throw from my cultural experiences.”
Over the years, I have come to terms with the fact that raised eyebrows are the harshest interrogators—and overpower directly posed questions that emerge from the human mouth. While such questions fizzle away after leaving the lip, the incessant inquiries made by raised eyebrows persist.
This is because questions that are perched on the tip of raised eyebrows do not come alone. They are accompanied by emotions of uncertainty, disbelief, and, most significantly, doubt-filled eye contact.
However, my answer to these questions has remained somewhat unchanging.
I am able to write about issues that extend far beyond the scope of my cultural community with ease and demonstrated finesse. This is because I firmly believe that, as members of the human race, we are connected by the aftermath of social injustice.
Even though the nature of each injustice-causing incident might differ, the uncertainty, fear and unpredictability that they bring with it is somewhat, if not completely, the same.
I don’t think that my tears will be shaped any differently, and flow faster or slower as compared to the tears shed by someone in another country. While the sobs might differ in amplitude and mannerism, the distress that they contain is somewhat homogeneous.
Moreover, I am certain that anger—no matter where it is experienced—will not soften the heart of the person enduring it. The flames of distress and a pulsating need for change that occurs after the onset of anger is almost similar.
All in all, when the impact of social injustice is the same—and the emotions that occur thereafter are almost identical and not tailored to fit the previously established measurements of culture or experience, I do not see a reason for my verses to be any different.
