Teesta Review: A Journal of Poetry, Volume 5, Number 2. November 2022. ISSN: 2581-7094
Tracing Covid-19 via Darwin to Mumbai-Delhi routes: a collaboration between Adelle Sefton-Rowston and Sunil Sharma
--- Adelle Sefton-Rowston and Sunil Sharma
Editorial Note:
This article
contains four poems, two by Adelle Sefton-Rowston, and two by Sunil Sharma,
followed by each poet’s reflective commentary on the other’s words and ideas.
Poem One by Adelle Sefton-Rowston: ‘The Source of his Infection’
Mr Jones of the Manor Farm
has locked the hen-houses for the
night
but was too drunk to shut the
pop-holes.
Health Minister Natasha Fyles
is fronting the media to put to bed
rumours about a lockdown.
“Critically we
do not know
the source of
his infection.
This is a very
serious virus and must be taken seriously.”
Frightened though they were, they did not want Jones
back.
The importance of keeping the pigs in
good health
was all too obvious.
“There are
concerns about the man
being in close
contact
With a Darwin
taxi driver.”
Our vulnerable
population
Travel
predominantly via taxis.
And the new
case was asymptomatic.
It’s impossible to venture out of the
shelter
But none of the old dreams had been
abandoned.
And the whole thing would be over in a
fortnight, they said.
Old Major cleared his throat and began
to sing…
and it was a stirring tune,
something between ‘Clementine’ and ‘La
Cucaracha’.
And when the human beings listened to
it,
they secretly trembled,
hearing in it a prophecy of their
future doom.
“The entire
sector is under workforce pressure
due to the
breakouts the nation is experiencing
and it is necessary to begin saving up
again.”
But if there were hardships to be
borne,
they were partly offset by the fact
that life nowadays had
a greater dignity than it had
before.
Let us face it: our lives are
miserable, laborious, and short.
And liberty is worth more than ribbons.
But already it was impossible to say which was which.
They had nothing to go upon except
Squealer’s lists of figures,
which invariably demonstrated
that everything
was getting better and better.
Poem Two by
Adelle Sefton-Rowston
“We are
attempting to aggregate information
So it is easy
to find”.
(Critical
Resources – Northern Territory Secure NT)
Napoleon approved of this poem
and caused it to be inscribed on the
wall of the dog barn,
at the opposite end from the seven
commandments.
Napoleon himself was not seen in public
And has been
taken to the Howard Springs
Quarantine
Centre.
“Many of you
know the devastation this particular variant causes
Serious harm,
prolonged recovery,
Intensive care
and death.”
Territory
authorities have sought to
Restrict
people
From any
non-essential shopping.
“Hardware
stores will only be open for
Click-and-collect.
And not for the
purposes of browsing”.
There was need of paraffin oil, nails,
string, dog biscuits, and iron
for the horses’ shoes.
Foolish and wicked
rumours had been circulated
that the van which
took Boxer away
was marked ‘Horse
Slaughterer’.
The outbreak
has delayed
the highly
anticipated trial
of a NT police
officer
Accused of
murdering Aboriginal teenager
Kumanjayi
Walker
In the
community of Yuendumu.
Several of them
would have protested
if they could
Find the right
arguments.
Their sole wish
now, and in the past,
Was to live at
peace and in normal business
relations with
their neighbours.
Poem One by Sunil Shama: ‘Scorching Bonfire’
This summer is unlike any other. It burns holes in the
mind and heart—and scalds the tiny veins of skin.
There is
death in the air and smoke hangs heavy. The dead
are piled up in sheets, waiting—while the undead
walk the deserted streets, benumbed; streets under
curfew, joy gone out of lives. Wailings of the sirens
of
the ambulance or
cop-cars, unsettling, while the birds fly off in
the coppery vault, taunting; the sun is angry!
The spectacle is on, as usual, grim, grimmer!
TV blares the predetermined lines of
sterile arguments and rackets, while
the hospitals and homes gasp, in quarantined
gated communities, across the geographies.
Like a noir film, the shadows whisper, in semi-lit
alleys, with dead ends, ruins.
And,
the dead, memory-keepers claim,
will sure rise up together soon,
like an army of leaping spectres, hungry
—as Rome did; a Rome when Nero watched and it burnt
down, in scorching fires that have left a long trail in history; a trail that
cannot be erased—
for answers from the living!
Poem Two by Sunil Sharma: ‘Infernos Burn Slow and long
here’
Once sylvan, the city’s innards remain wounded and
critical; bleed profusely.
Darkness descends. The sun disappears, furies are out,
and ghosts
released into the shadows, near the River of the
Sighs; soft moans heard now distinctly, above the noise.
The streets becoming open-air funeral sites, the heavy
air pierced by the gasping of the dying, and the cries of the orphans and
bereaved, walking in haze.
The tortured faces, praying hearts, helpless eyes – it
is inferno, real time – new kind of living in a costly hell, 2021.
The fires were few earlier, slow-burning, sad, silent,
unseen, in corners, away from the public gaze, now livid, hungry, these orange
creatures rage across the streets, golden ogres gone mad, huge bellies and
insatiable carnivorous appetites; the massive blazes roll down the avenues and
royal paths, once trodden by the colonial masters,
and, now by the native lords. The conflagration, wild, uncontrollable, fuelled
by the whispers of the dead, dying and in mourning, this fierce, red eyed
monster
threatens to engulf the Forest of Deep Silence around
the towers and
slums and destroy it totally, suddenly, by
cleaving a long passage, with the multiple fiery
tongues, and soon, will reach the outer perimeters of the Citadel of the Iron
King and his council playing dice, and
smash the thick, one-way mirrors and the stony walls
that prevent them
to see and hear the general anguish, pain and mayhem,
being unleased by the hour, across a murky landscape,
a collage of white shrouds and broken hearts and homes
infernal places do not fade so easily. Infernos slow
and long
and melt solidifies. The dead shall rise up again
from the assigned margins, seizing centrality in the
power narrative.
… and then the storm will erupt from
the dim underworld, demolishing every barrier in its
route upwards!
Adelle’s commentary: A letter to Sunil from
Alabama
Dear Sunil,
Hello from Alabama! I have started my
placement here in America on a Fulbright scholarship, teaching literature and
creative writing in prisons, and researching prison arts programs for reform.
Since I have not travelled in some time, the long flights from Australia were
rather overwhelming. I am not allowed on campus at Auburn University for ten
days in case I have been exposed to COVID, which is highly likely after passing
through four airports.
So, analysing your poems is keeping me
occupied and offering me (ironically given the topic) some reprieve from being
in isolation. I first read your poems, however, to a friend before leaving
Australia. She is an 'antivaxxer' and believes the pandemic is either a hoax or
not really a big deal. Yet reading your poems to her helped point out the
privilege one has here of choosing to be vaccinated in the first place. The
alternative to not vaccinating is a risk of having to go to hospital and
receive (top) medical care, another choice of privilege. I was left thinking,
how many people in your beloved Mumbai would be so incredibly grateful for the
opportunity to receive a free vaccination and avoid the hell fires of death and
carnage that your poems depict.
Indeed, your first poem, 'An Exclusive for
Different Truths' points directly at our differing experiences of COVID. My
friend lacks belief that COVID is real because in her words 'People are not
dropping dead in the streets'. My response, however, is immediate gratitude
that this is not the case in Australia, as you prove the possibilities for
COVID to rip through societies like a plague of impending torture and death
that nobody can escape. The opening line: 'Once sylvan, the city's innards
remain wounded and critical, bleed profusely' reminds me of the war zone you must
be experiencing in India, hearing 'soft moans...above the noise' like a soldier
walking through a losing battlefield of the dying.
Hence, 'An Exclusive for Different Truths'
powerfully reflects the new way of life we must all endure. Even how one departs
this life has changed, with 'open-air funeral sites...cries of the orphans and
the bereaved, walking in a haze.' There is certainly an element of disbelief
you capture in India, but it is the disbelief of how this pandemic has
traumatically impacted so many people in ways that are even too grotesque for
the eyes. My heart bleeds for your people, as you portray how even those left
recovering from the disease, are tortured from missing loved ones, that they
may wish they too were taken: 'Grief and death go hand-in-hand-anger muted.'
There is a portion of Australians, perhaps
about ten per cent in the Northern Territory, who are angry too, but it is for
very different reasons. Vaccination is compulsory, and without proof of
up-to-date records, people are being stood down from their jobs, and cannot
enter places such as clubs or movie theatres. People are angry at this level of
power and control, and the loss of liberties they are experiencing for making a
choice about their own body. People protest on the Esplanade in Darwin every
weekend, chanting "people are vaccinating against a loss of liberties, not
against COVID". Their faces too, are as you describe, 'tortured...helpless
eyes – it is inferno, real time – new kind of living in a costly hell, 2021'.
But your poem reveals, to many who should
perhaps read it in Australia, that the costs of COVID are more than economic,
it is a cost of human life. 'Orange creatures rage across the streets...massive
blazes roll down the avenue.' Those poor souls from the slums, there is no
expensive funeral for them, bodies are burning in barrels on the side of the
road, keeping up with the death rates, fuelling the 'insatiable carnivorous
appetites' of flames in burning barrels. This likeness to Dante's 'Inferno'
makes the inconvenience of a compulsory vaccine seem trivial and profusely
insignificant. Society here has been divided on the issues of liberty for the
cost of economic growth, but your poem presents a different truth in
paradoxical symmetry: 'The dead shall rise up again/ from the assigned margins,
seizing centrality in the power narratives.'
Similarly, your second poem provides the
reader an even more sensual experience at this challenging time in India,
inviting us to a place around the burning barrel, when you write: 'There is
death in the air and smoke hangs heavy'. In this even more vivid description,
bodies are described as being 'piled up in sheets, waiting – while the undead
walk the deserted streets'. I can relate to this macabre feeling of impending
death and imagine the vultures circling in the thick smoky haze above. Here in
the Northern Territory body bags were sent to remote communities before there
had even been one death. The horror these community members felt, as if they
were the walking dead, angrily pleaded with the government to send cleaning
products instead. In your beloved India, it is easy to understand why even 'the
sun is angry' and perhaps the setting sun is all there is to watch from behind
the helplessness of 'quarantined gated communities, across the geographies.'
There doesn't seem much hope in seeking warmth from a fire of burning bodies.
Through your poem however, I am there with you, even though I could never be.
Your emotional guidance through hells as a lyrical labyrinth is just as you
describe it: 'Like a noir film, the shadows whisper, in semi-lit alleys, with
dead ends, ruins'. I want to be there in solidarity at an open-aired funeral,
but, it is a dead end.
Paradoxically I sit in my unit in Alabama in a
time when tourist VISA's in India would never be permitted. But through this
poetic exchange there is an intimate opportunity to hold each other, and the
whole world. The meaning of the word 'essay' is 'an attempt' and through this
literary commentary, we can at least attempt to meaningfully capture 'a long
trail in history; a trail that cannot be erased – for answers from the living!'
All my very best, stay safe
and well.
Yours, Adelle.
Texts, places, politics and pandemics: Reading Adelle Sefton-Rowston, a
commentary by Sunil Sharma
Constructing a place, its
history, geography and politics – in short, society – out
of a given text is a challenging job at the best of times, and, worst at the
worst of times.
You have to “read” a given
society, a timeline and context, as signs embedded in a textual document. If
that happens to be in the mode of poetry, the “view”, the “evidence” is very
limited. A formal reading consists of words scattered as strings on a white
surface; words, paras that evade the mind/eyes, like the virus terrorizing the
world through its many mutations.
Words as your only feeble
guide to the capturing of a culture looming in the background.
From text-to-context;
context-to-text – it is a pendulum and a reader has to be a literary Sherlock
Holmes!
Besides that, serious
writing has got its own subconscious and echoes of many ages and dimensions can
be heard and recorded.
Again, it is slippery
terrain. Any act of hermeneutics involves a tenuous reading and interpretation
that can get challenged by any contemporary or subsequent reader.
But the joys of reading are
many. A supple text yields multiple meanings and to decipher its dim contours
needs a special kind of training…and listening.
While reading poet Adelle’s
two representative poems that deal with a grey landscape of pandemics, I become
acutely aware of the many textual surfaces operating in these two marvellous
poems and their tonal varieties, colours and voices – poems as critique of a
society and its politics; poems as repositories of many voices, tones and
perspectives and, above all, the hidden voice of the poet as an observer,
playful, sympathetic, satirical, direful.
A close reading made me
aware that the poems are deceptively simple. Going below the sounds and verbal
surfaces, you can hear, strangely, the tone of Mark Twain, an echo among other
echoes at the level of the subconscious. I hear Gogol and Toni Morrison
submerged somewhere. Or is it my mind projecting them as my favourite
traditions of signatures questioning the status quo and silences through
humour, satire, pathos and activism.
Writing that is political.
Writing that subtly
questions the official versions of realities of a given era – and hypocrisies
of the folks, part of that social structure.
Writing as resistance – open
or subtle.
Coronavirus has exposed many
schisms in the world and its politics. It has badly exposed the governments and
nations divided along the questionable economic category of first and third
world.
The fact remains that the
pandemic has exposed the double faces of the populace and their chosen masters.
It has also urgently brought into focus the sterile debate of pro-vaccine and
anti-vaccine followers, while deaths and diseases continue to dog a beleaguered
humanity, the poor as the most vulnerable sections.
The first poem, “The source
of his infection”, deconstructs skilfully the lyrical and swift movement of the
voices and POVs of the shifting scenes. It is playful, humorous and satirical,
bitter, sad, angry and appalled by the anti-humanism of the opinion makers of an
isolated society.
Look at the opening lines
that set the tone: ‘Mr Jones, of the Manor Farm, / has locked the hen-houses
for the night, / but was too drunk to shut the pop-holes’.
See the official reaction to
a dreaded virus: ‘Health Minister Natasha Fyles / is fronting the media to put
to bed / rumours about a lockdown. / “Critically we do not know / the source of
his infection. / This is a very serious virus and must be taken seriously.”’
The fast-paced movement of
the poem from one to another scene/character and tone is breathtaking in its
range and scope – a poetic montage!
This poem registers the
surprise, denial, officialspeak, dread, and confusion.
The “they” do not want Jones
to be there, being afraid of the farm-man and the taxi driver, the real drivers
of the economy but most powerless: ‘Frightened though they were, they did not
want Jones back. / The importance of keeping the pigs in good health / was all
too obvious. / “There are concerns about the man / being in close contact /
With a Darwin taxi driver.”’
The poem concludes with the
ambiguity favoured by the state spokespersons everywhere: ‘“We are attempting
to aggregate information / So it is easy to find”.’
The indifference and
anti-humanism of the elites – still searching for the source of infection and
relevant information – can be a telling indictment of a system sunk in apathy.
Public health, decisive action, remedial medical interventions are lacking in
the state apparatuses and scepticism of anti-vaxxers and religious divides
further complicate the picture.
Social justice is evasive in
a democracy, so is the finding of the right source of the infection which is
riddled with delays and procrastination. It boils down to a lack of political
will. Equity of medical care is skewed.
The State does not care
beyond symbolism.
Who is the real transmitter
of infections?
Mr. Jones or the State?
These are moot questions in
this open-ended narration.
But the poet's sympathies
can be easily located in this multi-tonal text.
Or are we as “readers” making
up the texts and adding further to its surfaces and depths, in that gesture of
decoding the verbal artefact?
Are we co-creating the text
in a creative process?
Like Shakespeare being
discovered by every succeeding era of readers as decoders of cultural messages
and symbols?
The second poem, “Critical
resources…”, carries on the same spirit of questioning and reporting the
pandemic and allied things in a vein of satire and humour and pathos.
The opening lines set up a
binary of a dictating authority-figure as the centre and dissident-writer as
the periphery: ‘Napoleon approved of this poem / and caused it to be inscribed
on the wall of the dog barn, / at the opposite end from the seven
commandments.’ The poem is displayed on the wall of the dog barn! That conveys
a lot.
Talking of the virus and its
threat, Adelle says, summing up a national mood of fear and anxiety: “Many of
you know the devastation this particular variant causes / Serious harm,
prolonged recovery, / Intensive care and death.”’
Feeding on the collective
fear, the authorities have put restrictions on the movement of the people –
instead of finding a quick solution to the infection – and also taken a
decision to postpone the trial of a cop who had killed an Aboriginal teen: ‘The
outbreak has delayed / the highly anticipated trial / of a NT police officer /
Accused of murdering Aboriginal teenager / Kumanjayi Walker / In the community
of Yuendumu.’
This is the most political
moment for me as a reader of this second poem – the mosaic of various scenes
and movement of voices – that juxtaposes shifting scenes and voices. Protecting
a cop as an accused and delaying the trial of a murdered teen who belongs to
the margins of the State!
It concludes on a sterile
note, reminding me of an Eliot-wasteland; a de-radicalised age: ‘Several of
them would have protested / if they could / Find the right arguments. / Their
sole wish now, and in the past, / Was to live at peace and in normal business /
relations with their neighbours.’
Both the poems artistically
paint grim realities of a pandemic-hit society and its many responses to it –
political, official, personal and religious – and they unveil unsettling
glimpses into the general psyche of a community under enhanced threat from an
unseen virus. Every text – canonical or non-canonical – carries the unconscious
of its creative mind and some submerged voices. Such supple texts get
re-constituted and re-constructed by the other half of the writing process –
reading that makes it complete, unless a new reading deconstructs it again and
re-makes it in the fashion of the given age’s predilections and ideologies.
Adelle Sefton-Rowston’s
poetic texts are rich documents of an age bewildered by an inner threat of
Covid-19 and refuses to acknowledge its causes – late capitalist age’s
excessive greed; destruction of climate; political and biological warfare; the
ascendency of the rightist forces – and downgrading of the working classes.
Dystopia is no longer a
sci-fi fantasy. It is happening, right here, real-time in Darwin, Mumbai and
Toronto, and elsewhere, and a post-humanist dispensation and the powers that be
refuse to take it seriously.