Having read my post on Patricia Lockwood’s “Rape Joke,” a friend sent me an article about women poets in India who have taken up the subject of rape. You’ve no doubt read about the increasing problem of violence against women in certain parts of India, Delhi in particular, and the gang rapes that made international news. One poet explains her intentions:
‘With debates increasingly centering around violence against women, the topic has become common ground for all of us. We have become one entity, irrespective of where we come from,’ said Tamizh poet Salma. Her poems are often devoid of illusionary imageries and soaring similes. ‘I call sex, sex. A rape, rape. People have often asked me why my language is so stark and descriptions so explicit. How else would you convey what a woman goes through? Poetry is constantly evolving and this is part of that evolution,’ she said.
This article got me thinking about the evolution of the rape poem. For centuries, rape poems came from the pens of men. These poems, such as Shakespeare’s “The Rape of Lucrece” and Spenser’s “The Fairie Queen,” addressed classical rape, stories from mythology. They were not meant to help the reader understand real instances of rape; instead, they served as metaphors, ways to address other subjects. Essentially, women’s bodies were not women’s bodies but political symbols.
Even later, with Seamus Heaney’s “Act of Union,” rape is used as a metaphor for Britain’s control of Ireland, a common theme in earlier Irish poetry. Likewise, many scholars consider Yeats’s “Leda and the Swan” to be an allegory for the “rape” of Ireland. With its erotic, sensual imagery, “Leda and the Swan” turns rape into an aesthetic experience, which makes Yeats’s sonnet one of the most revered works of art and exemplifies a problem that is common in art from painting to film: the eroticization of rape.
So rape is sexy and rape is useful for “loftier” discussions than women’s lives. In her book Watching Rape: Film and Television in Postfeminist Culture, Sarah Projansky points out that “scholars and media pundits alike casually invoke rape metaphors…to convey a sense of ‘ultimate’ degradation or horror or to illustrate the humiliation of nations (e.g., the “rape of Kuwait”). Simultaneously, they neglect the particular experiences of [those] who actually experience rape.”
When women finally began writing rape into poems, the narrative changed dramatically. Suddenly, the rape poem became personal, intimate, and painful. Rape was no longer a metaphor but a gritty reality. In a strange way, women reclaimed their bodies as sites of personal violence instead of national symbols. Poets like Adrienne Rich, Marge Piercy, and Ntozake Shange expressed the complexity of woman as victim: being betrayed by a friend, being treated like a criminal by the police, feeling guilty and dirty, trying to overcome victimhood, etc.
But the depiction of rape on a personal level does not rule out politics. If the personal is political, then these poems are fiercely political, which just what the Indian poets are saying. Poetry can be healing, as it has been for countless victims in programs like Lifecentre, and it can nurture empathy, helping readers understand the experience of sexual assault and of living with the threat of this kind of violence. But it can also be a revolution.
Contemporary rape poems often serve to challenge, disrupt, and destabilize patriarchal power dynamics and gender norms that create male subjects and female objects, punish and silence transgressors, and perpetuate rape culture, i.e., community complicity. I came across this story from Julie Buffaloe-Yoder, who describes submitting a poem about her friend’s brutal rape to a literary journal and receiving a disturbing response from the male editor who told her to stop writing rape poems because he was “sick of wenchy women poets who are always bashing men.” Clearly, he was threatened by her poem. Her response, of course, was to write another one.
In Civil Disobediences: Poetics and Politics in Action, poet Anne Waldman wrote:
Perhaps women have the advantage of producing a radically disruptive and subversive kind of writing right now because they are experiencing the current imbalances and contradiction that drive them to it. They are turning to skillful means in figuring out how to combat assaults on their intelligence and time [and bodies]. She–the practitioner–wishes to explore and dance with everything in the culture which is unsung, mute, and controversial so that she may subvert the existing systems that repress and misunderstand feminine ‘difference.’ She’ll take on the subjects of censorship and abortion and sexual harassment. She’ll challenge her fathers, her husband(s), lovers, male companions, warmongers, micromanagers, spiritual teachers. Turn the language body upside down. What does it look like?
After I read Lockwood’s “Rape Joke,” I thought about a few things in my life that I hadn’t written about. I thought about the time I was riding my bike to the library, nearly a decade ago, and two men in a pickup truck followed me. I could feel it all over again. And then I wrote this:
Quick, the hammering fear
as they pull up alongside
in a beat-up work truck
Words I cannot repeat, will not
words thrown like hammers
fired like hot bullets
I tell myself
to look straight ahead
keep riding, pedal harder
One block free
they find me again
I try to hide the shudder
It is the loveliest kind of day
a day for falling in love
or dipping your feet in the creek
A neighborhood of Victorians
pale pink, creamy yellow, baby blue
sidewalks interrupted by old trees
But the truck rumbles again
Locusts that keep coming, shadows I can’t shake
They have fists and gasoline and terrible tools
I have only the slender frame
of my bike and myself
a voice caught in my throat
Done taunting, they gun it
disappear into the city
their laughter still squeezing my throat
I stay inside for weeks
for the clouds watch my every move
the air itself trembling with murderous desire
In The Guardian, actor Romola Garai writes about Maria Alyokhina’s hunger strike in a Ural Mountains prison and Pussy Riot‘s continued defiance–from behind bars and through supporters–against Russia’s corrupt regime.
Alyokhina is a 24-year-old poet, mother, and student. After Pussy Riot, feminist performance artists, performed “Punk Prayer” in a Russian Orthodox cathedral to protest the church’s increasingly close relationship with Putin’s government, she became the de facto spokesperson of the three arrestees with zingers like: “I thought the church loved all its children, but it seems the church loves only those children who believe in Putin.”
Her fervent arguments didn’t stop the court from sentencing the women to two years in a rural prison camp, but Pussy Riot won’t stop fighting. In a recent interview, fellow Pussy Riot member and prisoner Nadezhda Tolokonnikova vowed to continue her political art once she is released, and now Alyokhina has endured an eleven-day hunger strike after authorities prevented her from attending her parole hearing.
Hunger strikes always make me think of Alice Paul and remind me to be grateful. In her fight for US women’s suffrage, Paul endured taunts, violence, imprisonment, and psychiatric evaluations in a sanitarium. In response to Paul’s hunger strike in Occuquan Workhouse, authorities strapped her down and force-fed her raw eggs by shoving a tube down her throat until she vomited blood.
It’s easy to forget that much of what we have comes from the struggles of other people.
Interestingly, the suffragist motto was “deeds, not words.” But sometimes words are deeds, no? Isn’t that what Pussy Riot’s trial was about?
Alyokhina’s strike may have just ended, but Guantánamo Bay detainees are more than 100 days into a hunger strike and force-feeding has reared its ugly head. Many detainees have been confined for more than a decade without charges, and they are protesting President Obama’s failure to close the prison as he promised in his campaign.
In 2007, detainee Adnan Lanif participated in a six-month hunger strike. Originally from Yemen, he had suffered a brain injury as a result of a car accident and traveled to Afghanistan to obtain medical treatment from a charity, but the US believed that he was headed for a training camp. He was held in Guantánamo for ten years, seven months, and 25 days until he died.
They are artists of torture,
They are artists of pain and fatigue,
They are artists of insults and humiliation.
Where is the world to save us from torture?
Where is the world to save us from the fire and sadness?
Where is the world to save the hunger strikers?
But I circle back to Russia, thinking of how writing and revolution have always gone hand in hand in that vast landscape. I’m reminded of Anna Akhmatova, the censored Russian poet who once wrote of her “tortured mouth, / through which a hundred million people shout.” When Akhmatova had the chance to leave her country for a refuge, she refused and spent the rest of her life under surveillance, losing loved ones to gulags. Yet in her lonely, restricted existence under Stalin, she managed to chronicle the Terror through verse.
Like Stalin, Putin seems to think he can silence anyone by making them suffer. And so does the US–not just with Guantánamo, but with our entire prison industrial complex, which spreads far and wide. Alyokhina’s loud voice has already made her a political prisoner. What will she sound like when she is freed? A tortured mouth? Thunder and rain?
By the time Akhmatova wrote “You Will Hear Thunder,” sorrow surrounded her, staining cobblestones and crowding empty rooms, but her pen still ran across the page:
You will hear thunder and remember me,
And think: she wanted storms. The rim
Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson,
And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.