Building the future [May 18th 2019]
All those letters those pleasures really
Dealing in things patinaed with future
Of children grown strong and safe, newing in strength and safety
Now each moment is grit, scouring
as it leaves for the next moment coming
All those letters, now just words on paper
To the lake the poison flows
You drink from the lake. You are the poison.
We had nothing and then you took that from us
Everything we have done has come to nothing
All this distance we have come, it has been for nothing
And yet
We would go farther, for less
You have never understood this
When life and suffering rhyme together
Then each fiery breath into our lungs is a planet
We are waiting, and the dust of your avarice settles over us
You wish it would choke and bury us
But we eat it, we swallow it
No Pompeii we
You must remember this:
Nothing comes from nothing, nothing ever could
All you see is the snow and the rubble, but
Always, the roads are blacker there.
Vidya: Tell us about your artistic practice.
Sumudu: I find it quite confronting to talk about practice, because I don’t really have one, though I always aspire to disciplining myself into some sort of routine. I write poetry all the time. I start with image and work the language towards the feeling I want to evoke. Having engaged and discerning readers who give me feedback is very important to pushing the poems beyond my blind spots. Building the Future wouldn’t exist without the workshopping process of the West Writers Group.
What prompted this poem?
I deal with my biographical past a lot in my poetry. But I also write about the things I see in the world so writing for the moment is already something I’m familiar with. I still found the Djed prompt to write for the moment difficult, because of the weight of it.
I literally go through everyday thinking about apocalypse—how do you write to that? This poem is trying to give gravity that feeling of overwhelming unlocatable dread. There is a lot of privilege at play when we only feel the diffuse horror of the times—for many people the horror is visceral.
Is poetry a first instinct for you when responding to current events?
Is poetry my first instinct? No. My first instinct on Sunday the 19th of May 2019 was to go to brunch with my family and try not to cry—to escape the reality. Again that’s privilege at play.
I don’t think art can save the present moment, and that is the truest thing I believe at this time. And I don’t concede that I am being cynical—the way the zeitgeist arranges itself today is unlike any other time, and the pressures on civilisation are not issues of civilisation itself. The machine of climate apocalypse is heavy and vast, and cannot be affected by micro populations. I cannot see how art will enfranchise us to power, nor can I see how art can free us of the hegemonies that control us.
But perhaps art makes me possible, and thus is foundational to any further action.
This poem shifts so dynamically and beautifully from despair to a kind of revenge aria; the ‘you’ defeated, the ‘we’ rising. Who is the ‘we’ in this poem?
This is a despairing and angry poem so it makes sense that it ends in a feeling of revenge. No matter the suffering, existence cannot be erased. It isn’t about memory or legacy— it is about fact. Life is lived.
The ‘we’ in poem is the refugees on Manus and Nauru. I am putting my words and my imagined reality into their mouths and their realities. It is an appropriative act. The ‘you’ in this poem is me, is Australia who voted to continue keeping these people in our concentration camps. The ‘you’ is all the middle-class 1st gen and 2nd gen immigrant brown people who voted to keep these people in torturous stasis.
There is no moral argument as to why the LNP won that election except that a lot of well-off citizens felt nervous about losing some money. That’s who we are, we are the bad guys.
I am struck by the images in this poem: visions of historical and environmental destruction, of mass displacement, dust.
I think about the story of Noah’s ark sometimes; how he gathered all his family, and all the things he wanted saved after the flood, and all the assets he would need to survive the 40 days and nights, and then the subsequent re-build. I see a lot of parallels in the fascistic white supremacist corporate governments like ours. There is a gathering, and there is a gate-keeping.
I feel over-whelmed when I think of the future, and then I slap myself, because what I’m scared of as a rhetorical, is reality for so many people. I guess I’m haunted by that.
What are your thoughts on the editing process?
I find the feedback from members of West Writers Group to be really important to how I conceptualise a poem. With this one, I got the notes that it was too diffuse and that I was piling image on top of image but I wasn’t active enough with my intention. That’s the first significant part of the editing process—looking at the piece from the vantage point that my peers have given me.
I am pretty amenable to being edited, and welcome it because it is a collaborative thing. I have learned that no good comes from capitulation though. It is important to know the core of the work, and hold hard to it, if an editor wants it changed. It wasn’t necessary with you though—you were very gentle with me, and got what I was doing immediately. And you pointed out things that needed to be resolved. Again, it gave me a better perspective to achieve my intention.
Who are some poets you’re currently reading or commonly turn to?
I am currently reading:
- Kristin Chang, Past Lives Future Bodies (thanks Jen Nguyen)
- Jos Charls, Feeld
- Rae White, Milk Teeth
- Tayi Tibble, Poukahangatus
- Tishani Doshi, (on the internet!)
- Norman E. Pasaribu, Sergius Seeks Bacchus
- Liu Waitong, Wandering Hong Kong with Spirits (thanks Grace!)
I commonly turn to:
- Carl Philips
- Ellen Van Neerven
- Sumitra Chakraborty
- Shastra Deo
- W.S Merwin
- Federico Garcia Lorca
About the author
vidya rajan is a writer, editor and performance-maker. she currently lives in melbourne and is a writer in residence at the malthouse theatre. you can get in touch on twitter.