Three ways poetry can transform our wounds into compassionate action
Indian sprinter Milkha Singh was destined to win gold in the 400 meters race at the 1960 Rome Olympics. After all, he had clocked the world record of 45.8 seconds at preliminaries in France. At the final in Rome, he was leading the race till 250 m when he unexpectedly slowed down to look back and ended up fourth. While the legendary sprinter regretted this moment for the rest of his life, we wondered, “why did he look back?”
Many years later, his biopic revealed that what made him look back in that decisive microsecond was the memory of his painful past. When his family was massacred during the India Pakistan partition violence, his grandfather commanded him to “Run Milkha run. Don’t look back”. He ran from his traumatic past and became one of the fastest runners on the planet. But when he expected it the least, his past caught up.
Little did he know that the collective trauma lives in the subconscious of our body. And it keeps surfacing again and again till it finds its resolution.
After the Rome Olympics, Milkha Singh got an opportunity to travel back to his village in Pakistan, where his parents were murdered. He cried his heart out and met his childhood friends. That one visit healed his wound. In the following race in Lahore, Milkha Singh ran like nothing could hold him back. The President of Pakistan gave him the title of “The Flying Sikh.”
Not everyone is as lucky as Milkha Singh to physically visit their past and heal their wounds. We need poets like Gulzar, whose poems create portals for us to travel back to the source and heal our souls.
Poets are sensitive beings who notice the societal divides, let them sink in their bodies, and germinate into verse. Poetry transforms personal pain into archetypal messages. Whether it’s Gulzar writing on Indo-Pak partition trauma, Elie Wieselreminding us of horrors of the holocaust or Maya Angeloucapturing the essence of racism in the USA, they speak to people across generations and geographic locations. In their poems, we are seen, comforted, awakened and released.
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
― Maya Angelou, Caged Bird
Writing poems has been my healing practice since the age of nine. But I did not know how to help others in a similar journey till I met my teacher Arawana Hayashi at the Presencing Institute.
Arawana introduced me to the awareness-based social arts called Social Presencing Theater (SPT). I soon learnt how awareness practices could help embody and express the deeply felt experiences at a personal or societal level. I started integrating SPT and poetry in working with gender trauma in my work and personal life. The poems and insights generated over seven years of inner work were published in my first book, “Trading Armour for a Flower“, as a poetic pathway.
I thought it was my personal journey until a woman from Israel asked my permission to translate the poems into Hebrew and change the pronoun from “he” to “she”. Zohar Zoharah Noy-Meir started reading them to the victims of gender trauma in the Red Tent circles. She told me that the poems gave voice to the unexpressed emotions and healed their divides.
For the first time in my life, I realised that poetry could create space for collective healing. Zohar inspired my wife, Sonali Gera and me to host SPT based Embodied Poetry dialogue circles in cafes, public grounds and living rooms across India.
Soon, I had a humbling realisation. No one came to these gatherings to read my poems. They came to meet themselves. Poems were a doorway through which they stepped in to meet their wounded parts. And as we did this collectively, we mirrored each other and created a new narrative. In short, we transformed our wounds into collective poetry.
After ten in-person and ten online circles, I saw a three-step process through which poetry facilitates collective healing. Very similar to Milkha Singh’s healing journey.
1. Collectively witnessing our wounds
Spiritual teacher and author of the book “Healing Collective Trauma“, Thomas Hubl says that the way to heal our trauma is to witness it collectively. Poetry creates such a space.
Like Milkha Singh, Amrita Pritam also took the long train ride from Pakistan to India amid the partition riots. She became a “refugee” overnight, travelling alone to an unknown land with two kids and one blanket. That night she wrote a poem that called us to reckon with the collective suffering on both sides of the divide.
Rise o beloved of the aggrieved, just look at your Punjab
Today corpses haunt the woods, Chenab overflows with blood
This fertile land has sprouted poisonous weeds far and near
Seeds of hatred have grown high, bloodshed is everywhere
- Amrita Pritam, A call to Waris Shah (translated by Khushwant Singh)
Amrita’s verse takes us beyond shame or blame to embrace our shared brokenness. My wife and I experienced a similar phenomenon when we were invited by MAVA (Men Against Violence and Abuse) to host a poetry dialogue circle in Shivaji grounds of Mumbai. Men and women from diverse walks of life attended. The gathering opened up with the poem “Million Small Irritation” as the genesis of gender violence. We invited participants to form small groups and create social body sculptures (like tableaus we see at the Republic Day parade) to show how they experienced gender trauma in their lives. As we embodied each other’s struggles, new wisdom started emerging as phrases and sentences. We weaved it all together to co-create a new poem– “Purity hidden in our blindspots“.
A woman shared that “I could voice the cry that my grandmothers had muted for generations. It found resonance in our shared space”. Another participant, a retired Army Officer, said that “poetry gave legitimacy to the emotions that I had buried inside”. The irritation that had the potential to become unacknowledged violence had found its place in his living room.
2. Integrating our past
As Milkha Singh revisited his old village and embraced his painful memories, he started feeling whole again. Thomas Hubl calls this process “integration”. It is how we metabolise our painful past to create fertile soil for the emerging future. Poet Amanda Gorman did it when she read her poem “The Hill We Climb” at the Joe Biden’s swearing-in ceremony. In her lines she integrated all our divides and created a new field for hope and humanity.
Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true:
That even as we grieved, we grew.
That even as we hurt, we hoped.
That even as we tired, we tried.
- Amanda Gorman, The Hill We Climb
In another poetry dialogue circle, we were hosted by a women network. Around twenty women and six men gathered. We opened the dialogue with the poem “He Longs to be Understood” that touched the unexpressed power needs of men and women. It led to an animated conversation on patriarchy. Many women were angry with men for exploiting the power and controlling women’s expression.
Neel, who was quiet so far, finally spoke. He shared how he might be the patriarch in the women’s narrative. However, he did not choose to be one. His mother and wife expect him to be the tough guy, manage finances, take unpopular decisions and be a bad cop to his kids. He sits alone on many nights, longing to be home, cook food and play with his kids. Neel’s vulnerable reflection opened many hearts. Shobha, an entrepreneur, shared that while her father was alive, she could not relate to him as a patriarch. But after his death, Shobha took over the family business and the provider role. Within no time, she found herself behaving exactly like her father. A patriarch she never wanted to be.
This heartfelt poetic dialogue helped us reconnect with our base relationships and embrace the parts we could not relate to so far. It gave birth to a new narrative with a sense of wholeness.
3. Transforming our wounds into compassionate action
For Milkha Singh, his wound transformed into freedom almost immediately. He became the “Flying Sikh” he was born to be. Later he established a charitable trust to help other struggling sportsmen.
Poetry, too, has similar power to heal what’s broken and inspire compassionate action. When a defaulting tea-seller was presented before the Railway Magistrate, Bharat Chugh, he was torn by the tea-seller’s poverty. Instead of following the legal mandate, Chug acquitted him and wrote a poem. In a recent article, Justice Muralidhar shared that Bharat Chug’s “poignant poem” is shaping the High Court judgements and inspiring others to serve the poorest of the poor.
The law required me to punish him,
it’s dry, blindfold diktat and arbitrary whim;
I chose to exonerate him, but didn’t say anything;
how could I ask him not to earn his bread — when the state couldn’t bring…
Could I think of a more honorable way,
this boy could have earned a living —
selling honest tea — with fair billing.
For legal authority was there, but moral authority I had none,
my nation’s law had somewhat failed, and poverty had won!”
- Bharat Chug, Tea Seller and the Judge
Sometimes poems are the keys to unlock a movement. A poet has very little say in what may unfold. I had one such humble keymaker experience when India announced a lockdown on the 24th of March 2020. Within a week, 23 million migrant workers had no option but to walk on foot, thousands of kilometres back to their villages. When the images of millions of men, women and children walking and dying on roads came through social media, my heart broke. Their collective trauma was unbearable for my little ego world. I cried for many nights letting my helplessness and angst transform into a poem, “A Long Road of Inhumanity“.
The poem triggered conversations that resulted in a citizen movement called Dignity of Labour. My colleagues at the Presencing Institute invited me to create a social art performance based on the poem. Our performance video was featured at the Global Forum, followed by a dialogue among more than a thousand global changemakers. We did similar forums in India, leading to rapid funding and the launch of new initiatives to support migrant labourers.
However, the most transformative part of this journey was the shift we experienced within ourselves. Poetry and embodiment helped us to see the world from the eyes of the migrant labourer. It dissolved our rescuer-victim duality. We could feel the strength of their spine. We decided to call them “nation builders” and support them in creating local, rural enterprises.
The pandemic proved to be much bigger than all our relief work. It brought humanity to its knees. The collective trauma and resulting systems crisis have pushed us into deep fear and fragmentation. It’s a call for poets and social artists worldwide to create spaces where we could reckon with our collective suffering, reconcile with our loss and regenerate wellbeing for all.
“Healing is in being found and giving words to parts of our body that had no voice yet”.
Gratitude: I am grateful to:
Sonali Gera for co-hosting many embodied poetry dialogue circles
All the wonderful people who organised, hosted and participated in 20 online and offline gatherings over last two years.
The Himalayan Writing Retreat team and the participants of the Blog Writing Workshop for co-editing and shaping this article
Manish Srivastava is a senior faculty and co-director of Social Presencing Theatre at Presencing Institute. His first book, Trading Armour for a Flower, has become part of gender trauma healing circles across many countries. His upcoming book “Midnight Journey of a Seed” offers a poetic pathway to develop resilience in the face of the pandemic. Follow him on www.sacredwell.in for the upcoming poetry healing circles.
Does this virus really care
For the stories, we tell
Is it aware of its lethal spread
Or any benign side effects
Will it spare you
For your bureaucratic power
Or grand religious affairs
Will, it ever feel remorse
For unfair deal, it gave to those
With more burden and suffering
Will it get any credit
For the radically reduced carbon footprints
Or the management insights generated on LinkedIn
Is the virus aware that we are already infected
By the destructive pathogens of fear, greed, and hatred
Can the virus stand its own insignificance
And bear our unprocessed projections
Does the virus know it could be an unconscious cure
for many ills, we humans cause on ourselves
Viruses are innocent
They come and go
Humans need stories
Some to scare
Some to survive
Life sits alone
On an old armchair
As we celebrate the sacred fire of Holika Dahan, I am reminded of all the pain and conflict, our land has witnessed in the recent past.
Rituals offer deeper meaning. Mythology is collective psychology. A sacred fire is more than the annihilation of evil King Hiranyakashyapu or celebration of faith of a divine child Prahlad.
The sacred fire is the flame of truth within each of us that longs to burn all that hold us from our true nature. Beyond our armours of race, religion, gender, or region. To rebirth us into the field “out beyond our wrongdoings and rightdoings” that great poet Rumi spoke about many years back.
As I stand in reverence to the sacred fire of Holi, my heart opens up…
(A reflection on current political environment in India and world. Poetry in Hindi followed by translation in English)
Divide and rule
इतना विदेशी नहीं
जितना बताया गया
धर्म और जाति के नाम पर
इंसानियत बाँटने वाले
आज भी सत्ता पर विराजमान हो रहे हैं
पर किसी और का नाम है
और अंदर कोई और मेज़बान है
सत्ता का खेल है भाई
कल तू देश से खेला
तो आज मेरा एक प्रांत तो बनता है
के नाम पर कितना खेलोगे भाई?
आज इतना समझ आने लगा–
नेताओं का nation जनता से अलग होता है
उनकी परिभाषा में तो
हम बस उनकी सत्ता और स्वार्थ के ग़ुलाम हैं
पर ना जाने कब ये मदहोश जनता समझेगी
Nationalism एक national-illusion है!
जनता के अनजान डर पर पनपता
ये उसी “divide & rule” का वंशज है
और इंसानियत को बाँटने वाले -isms का बड़ा भाई
यदि दिल की खिड़की खोल के देखें
धर्म के जड़ों को झँझोड़ के देखें
सम्प्रदाय के बेड़ों को चंद पलों के लिए तोड़ के देखें
और तकिए के नीचे से सत्य का पन्ना पलट के देखें
तो एहसास होगा कि हर लिबास के पीछे मैं हूँ
और समाज का विभाग कर के राज करने वाले खेल का
सबसे बेख़बर मुहरा और सबसे बड़ी मात भी मैं ही हूँ
— दिल की गहराइयों में क़ैद एक आवाज़
Divide and rule
“Divide and rule”
Is not that foreign
As we are taught
Those who divide humanity
On name of religion and caste
Are still rising to power
Who invites us to the show
Is way different from who rules
So is the game of power
Yesterday, you played the nation
Dare not stop me from playing this faction
How long will you play this chord?
We can see now–
Nation defined by political leaders
Is different from the ones they serve
In their definition,
Their ego & power is the center
And we are their dumb slaves
Wonder, when will we the intoxicated people realise
Nationalism is a national-illusion
Thriving on the unknown fear of its people
Running the bloodline of same old “divide & rule”
It is the big brother of all other “isms” that fragment humanity
If we open our hearts
Shake the roots of religions
Break the bounds of caste and creed
And pull out the truth hidden below our pillows
We will know..
The one hidden in any costume is “me”
The one who gets played this dirty game of divide and rule
And the one who looses the worst…
Is also “me”
— a voice prisoned in depths of our hearts!
from the Sacred Well