|
|
|
|
|
Poetry has an uncomfortable relationship to political power. For centuries,
poets were the mouthpieces of administration, forging ballads and lyricizing
history. The voice of the poet sung the deeds of the ruling class, not
the daily lives of the people. In the modern world, poetry is less beholden
to power, but vestiges of its earlier subservient role linger. In part,
they remain in the mere idea of poetic diction, as if some mysterious,
elusive muse must descend upon us to transform our speaking voices from
prose, as it were, to poetry. And no amount of MTV popularity will make
poetry the place people turn for news. One considers this history when
reading Trapeta Mayson's poems, in part because her works threaten to
overturn it. Mayson's poems give voice to speakers who have traditionally
been silent. She sketches stories of girls who have been forced into womanhood
too early, of men struggling in economic situations they cannot overcome,
and of lives in which dreams are put on hold by the challenges that accompany
simply waking up for another day. Of silence, she writes, "I come
from people who largely believe that things like pains and suffering are
as connected to us as arms and legs. One isn't encouraged to talk so much
about him or herself because others may be going through much worse."
But Mayson's poetry doesn't exist to establish some relative scale of
suffering. Reading of the trials - poverty, domestic violence, the glare
of hatred reserved for INS bureaucrats who must tear families apart -
her various narrators endure, one is less inclined to heave a sigh of
relief that the subject's miseries are so much greater than the readers
than to ask how the world gets to such a sad state in the first place.
If poetry has some blame for its part in making history a tale told by
the victors, Mayson's poems hold out the promise that the form may somehow
yet be redeemed.
|