Shillong, Oct 22: Half and One, a forum that provides audio and visual content, recently organised a poetry video contest.
The winner was American poet Jo Lamm for her poem Black Man In A Hoodie.
The event held at Marriott Hotel in the city on October 11 was witnessed by creative personalities.
Neil Wallang, Operations Manager of Half and One, its creative head Babatdor Dkhar and Arts and Culture Minister Paul Lyngdoh spoke on the occasion.
The event included reading out of poetry by the participants, screening of videos from the final 6 shortlisted poets (International) and
distribution of certificates to shortlisted Indian poets.
The poets who read out the poems are Mahima Sinha – Red, Vile, Womb is a Woman, Marbamonlang Rani – Love (Bam Kwai ha Dwar U Blei), Riniki Chakravarty Marwein – Cherrapunji, Eleanor Swer – Reverie and Dr. Judita Syiemlieh – Vantage .
Prize winning poem by Jo Lamm
black man in a hoodie
my head is shaved
my build tall and broad
my skin dark.
walking down the streets of minneapolis
i wear a hoodie.
look people straight in the eye,
some armed with white skin
and shady eyes that hint of fear.
i watch as he crosses the street to avoid me or
she clutch her bags tighter to her body.
pale men puff up their chests
like wild animals preparing for battle and hold
their heads high
yet create space between us and look away as we pass
not daring to make eye contact.
police officers drive by
slow their car…
perceiving threat,
black man in a hoodie.
as if by the nature of my pigmentation and my casual attire
i’m concealing drugs or leaving the scene of a crime
carrying a gun.
who is carrying the gun?
who is in danger of being shot?
these officers assuming that
i am trying to conceal or hide my guilt
under my hoodie…
kinda like
the kkk cowards
reeking of shame,
hiding their identities beneath
white ghost hoods at the site of a rally or a lynching,
revealing only beady cowardly eyes.
nah, it ain’t that complicated.
i have nothing to hide
i have no shame
i wear my hoodie
’cause it’s damn cold in minneapolis.
my brothers and sisters,
we wear hoodies to represent who we are, and
what we are not.
we are proud
we will not give in
and take off our hoodies
to make someone
else feel more comfortable
or safe.
i am not responsible for your bias or assumptions
or threat misperception.
acknowledge your ignorance and educate yourself.
look into my eyes and see if there is actual threat.
say hello to me and allow me to greet you with a genuine smile,
wish you a pleasant day.
i am not a threat
i am not a hater
i just want to be a free man on the street and wear
my hoodie in peace.
Love (Bam Kwai ha Dwar U Blei) by Marbamonlang Rani
In a small village where the sun shone on both sides,
and the sky was the only sea we knew,
I gave birth to my first child.
The hearth was warm, the dishes kept piling;
we’re running out of mula said uncle,
quick! the guests keep coming.
Take mine said aunty
as she squatted on the floor instead.
When the waft of pudoh melted into celebration,
the kids drooled.
The milk in the tea was as thick as my joy,
which, first of its kind
was served hot in my hut.
Grandfather had just picked a stout Ïar Ryngkuh
for dinner, while the neighbours’ rooms
were inhabited with the pungent smell of Tungrymbai.
When the clan had gathered
to name this nameless child,
they named it Love,
born beautiful but blind.
Love grew up to be kind,
inviting unknown guests to supper but
love was robbed each time.
When it gave its Jaiñkup to the cold,
they left it naked,
when it sung, they slit its throat,
when it fed the hungry, it was bitten
and although gifts were given, they were stolen
because after all,
Love was blind.
But that didn’t matter because love was kind.
When Love had loved well,
it was buried.
That day,
the rain had wet somebody’s clothes that almost dried,
the sun wasn’t shining on either side,
the women pasted lime on betel leaves for Kwai,
the children stopped playing La dikut u sai tyllai
(as if they knew the thread that bound mine had been detached).
That day,
the hen was spared but the pig was slaughtered,
the dog howled and the cat curled
beneath the bed where Love rested.
I sat on the floor mourning until my eyes swelled.
They fed me pumpkin (which I didn’t like)
and plain rice, then followed young girls
who’d been off ering red tea for the hundredth time.
For three days and three nights,
the doors were left open
for Love’s soul to fly to heaven,
but when the soot from the rice-pots had been cleaned,
and the curtains washed,
when service was over
and the coffin had been laid, even then
Grief stayed
Reverie by Eleanor Swer
Always had been more influenced by fear
Always had been more captious & powerless
Full of trepidation & consternation
Dodged confidence scattered & broken.
Dissembling to be some other original,
Not freely acknowledging what’s really true,
Jealousy over someone else’s destination
While purposely blocking one’s own view.
Perfecting stagnation over the years
Fabricating trust issues with the self
Underestimating chances & the values of a risk
Hesitancy- the only thing preached & practiced.
Love at first sight but no action towards it
Only replaced by the abstract scenes
For there was just no acceptance of loss whatsoever
So instead turning into a ignorant pretender.
Love at first sight but no action towards it
Only replaced by the abstract scenes
For there was just no acceptance of loss whatsoever
So instead turning into an ignorant pretender.
Bitter thoughts of retort and response
Only because of lack of prediction?
Only because of mindless navigation?
Only because of thoughts of destruction.
Now a weak man, not able to start over For time is not really anyone’s best friend Losing himself in thought; his only sanctuary Helplessly lost in imagination and agony.
Realising he did not know best at the end
Never gave it all to the world; to himself Never lived boldly through his whole lifetime He owns a guilt-structured mind like having committed a crime.
This delicate world where he owns a part in
Never has been a good story to tell.
Living with constrictions, unhappy & blind.
All driven by a pure cynical mind.
Cherrapunji by Riniki Chakravarty Marwein
wound down window
framed our silly faces,
our petite fingers scooping
fog into our borrowed car,
far from how those bigger
boys after school threw
a couple of albino butterflies
into a sun-hot jar,
their cruel hands versus ours:
little and gentle, only shaping
to cup some of the veiled
atmosphere, we pursued it
fiercely but it gave us none, it
wouldn’t be seized by eight
year olds, we didn’t
give up till a flattened tyre made
us knit our scant
brows, we jumped out in a little
queue, and while
our adults sorted out the
car mess we shifted our
bodies to the roadside’s
edge, dropped our heads to
meet tops and ends of
lush greens, our sight
seeing interrupted by my aunt
yelling her cry towards us, pulling
our slight arms back to our half
-fixed car, packing us in with
her awkward quick flapping
hands in rhythm with her
repeating
be careful, those fog-
monsters, their spectres
their thrill is to pluck children
to phantom them
aunt’s swift tongue was
shaping her into an anti-hero,
we jerked at her rod-like
arm crossing over our already
shaken looks to wind
up the window, turning us into
giant skinny butterflies shut in a
borrowed car. we kept
wheeling till we got
slowed down by a roadkill. the still
thing looked like curled
clay, pink blood spotting it like roses
over a little grave, it made us quiet
as a prayer;
it’s done paying its last life’s sins,
ending
our little kidnapping mood, but
not the air, uncle
sped like in a chase, like
our tyres killed
that rural dog, like the fog
thought it was its kinder. it grew
thicker like an avenger
aunt was noiseless till
we finally hacked into
the greyed noon and saw
hints of her familiar place, where
she softly belled
we have reached
the caves, thank you
sweet Jesus.
Red, vile, womb is a woman by Mahima Sinha
For aeons and stories told,
a woman brings upon life; epics; wars; deaths.
Women, celebrated.
Women, burned underneath the pyre of men, for men.
I will speak of three women.
The Red. The Vile. The Womb.
Red, this woman, is one among the women in Pahalgam.
Women in Pahalgam
drape sarees of silk
around their waists,
every dawn.
Enshrine the parting of their hair with vermilion,
every dawn.
Their bodies making way
To the monsoon loo of the continent
And patriarchy.
Husbands with liquor and odour
they had acquired
Much of the world, not.
As the silk loosens, every dusk,
illuminating whips on the surface
Of their skins. Black and indigo. Sometimes emerging in colours of the rainbow, sometimes not.
Women in Pahalgam are beyond
The bruises and the silk they hold.
Beyond what they had been:
draping sarees, enshrining vermilion, being graced with whips.
Women in Pahalgam are also burned.
Sometimes with the sarees of silk
Which once around their waists; sheltered them.
Sometimes without.
The Vile sells her body for a living,
In the bustling bazaars of Sonargachi, Calcutta.
Two minds revolve around the bazaar.
The lover hides her heart behind
breasts.
The man carries a ‘qainaat’ (world) in his eyes but the lover.
The pimps scream prices for a ‘jannat’ (heaven) per-hour
‘Sahebs’ and their pockets fixed on bare waists.
The man with the ‘qainaat’ lusts for one, his lover.
The Vile.
She merges jasmine buds into the density of her hair
Sonargachi rages with Vile and the man. It’s a mid-summer afternoon.
The man with this ‘qainaat’ is ejaculating inside a little space behind the walls of a fuming stall.
Vile, the maiden, is pouring her heart with the jasmine buds.
———
Womb, the woman, is a mother. Vrinada.
An envious mother.
In India,
Tulsi (Basil) is planted and worshipped in porches and
Lawns.
Once, one lady
Was devoted to one intensely.
Tulsi, that plant, later
Transformed into a whore
Without the slightest of her sight.
I’ll tell you of Vrinada who
Loved a man.
This, who would occur into her fore-lawn. Every morning.
For 17 years
This silly maiden thought
The man woke up to her sight.
Vrinada learned for once and all.
He was fascinated by the plant. That wretched thing.
The one for which she had lived for 17 years, took away from her the one who she was yearning to live
for the next.
Vrinada, no more a fool,
Wretched Tulsi from her roots and dumped her into hell;
It died.
No more was Tulsi
planted and worshipped in porches and
lawns.
Vrinada cried.
Three women, worshipped and scorned at.
Red, vile, womb is a woman.
Vantage by Dr Judita Syiemlieh
Standing here alone, forlorn
Facing the lake, changing colours like a chameleon
The lush green hills, vales, and valleys
As far as the eyes could see.
The mist lifted from the earth
Farmers toiling yet smiling
Children in winding lanes
Their songs and shouts infectiously echoing.
The sky so blue, looks, untrue
Snow white clouds dotted it too
Those who stand near me
Feast their eyes, souls intimately
They lean on me
Took shelter on me
Notice me not as they sat
Sharing their joy, even broken heart.
But I grow stronger
My roots run deeper
I spread my branches wider
Birds, insects, I shelter.
I am wiser, I am free
I am a Senior Pine tree.
(Credit to Half and One for all the poems)
