Prior to our first Cold Boat pop-up event, I took
part in a poetry workshop with Carolyn Forché at Newcastle University. It
was a fascinating conversation about writing practices, docu-poetics and Poetry
of Witness. An honour to be in the same room as this brilliant poet, the
conversation began with tailored advice on each of the participant's research. We were recommended
to turn off the internet, cease journal writing, carefully consider our
handling of "materials that have to do with others" and the nuances of the
paratactical imagination. Listening to Forché talk about poetry
was like consulting an oracle. There was an overwhelming sense of wisdom, of
music and a strong social conscience. Humanity and the vocational nature of poetry was felt at the heart of every topic. "Write
alone. Write often. Write quietly."
As Forché coined the term Poetry of Witness, there
was no better person to ask questions about the mode and in particular,
how quiet or how loud it should be. One of my concerns when writing about
contemporary issues, especially humanitarian disasters, is we often learn about
them at a distance, through the media. Are we dehumanised by this delivery,
reading about horrors on our phone screens as we travel home, frustrated by
dipping network coverage, distracted by text messages, our ears full of
music? Do we now have access to so much of what happens in the world we
struggle to focus and digest the extent of the devastation? I
wondered, can we ever write Poetry of Witness sensitive to and appropriately
meditated, when we are so removed and yet consistently
bombarded by it, in a seemingly endless stream of more recent and more
terrible events? Forché, of course, gave a brilliant
and succinct answer, one I'll share here. "Argue for the
authenticity of your experience. Push back against silencing. How did you come
to know about this thing? Write about it." I did just that, in this poem-film collaboration with Phil Begg 'Lunar Mare' available in our new digital archive here.
Poetry of Witness is something I have always felt
compelled to write, in the belief that whether inward or outward looking, a poem with conscience is a real implement for change. But there is always the overwhelming nag. The guilty gut wrenching feeling: this
thing I want to write about did not happen to me. Anything I write will be insincere, unfelt. I raised the issue of ownership with Forché, who spoke
about The Country Between Us, her time in El Salvador and
how she witnessed the Civil War unravel. On her striking poem, 'The Colonel',
she said "No-one else was writing about it. It wouldn't be known. It would
be silent." This instilled a sense of confidence, to believe in
the power of writing Poetry of Witness whether it is prompted by direct or indirect experience. Receiving these stories with empathy and solidarity defines our humanity. As Forché deftly
added, "the dead cannot write."
When writing any poetry, not just Poetry
of Witness, there is much attention to be paid to silence. It is, after all, historically just as political as sound. In 1917, for instance, a 'Silent
Parade' of 10,000 New Yorkers marched to protest racism and lynching. Today Amnesty International
are also using silence to fight back for human rights. Forché traveled with
Amnesty to El Salvador where she wrote 'The Colonel'. If you know
this poem then you'll never forget its opening line, "What you have heard
is true". Being heard is the engine of the poem. Thinking about this in light of technological pros and cons to Poetry of Witness, it seems timely and appropriate to share a
new app devised by Saatchi and Saatchi, with Amnesty to adopt
technology to raise awareness of silent voices. Each time you turn your phone
onto silent mode, it generates a post to highlight the voices of those who have
been silenced, incarcerated and their rights
discriminated against, simply for their beliefs. Below is an advert for this free Silent Protest app. I tried it out earlier today and it worked brilliantly, sharing the story of Narges Mohammadi, a human rights defender in Iran sentenced after an unfair trail to sixteen years in prison.
With digital communication overtly accessible today and its volume frankly turned up to max in all our lives, I think this app intelligently reminds us of the real capability of our
voices, as a route to educate and facilitate change. As writers, it can help us consider how poems of address can utilise the silent spaces of a
poem, both the physical blank spots of the page and the ever compelling unsaid. This silent space, I believe, is charged with static. Poetry of Witness is at its most potent when we can hear those silent spaces crackle.
