Examine a close reading of Excerpts from Amar Jiban with textual references and critical perspectives.

The bildungsroman heroine’s feminism and womanhood distinctly enlightens revolutionary iconoclasticism in this canonical colonial third world cosmos reechoing resonances foreshadowed by the lion of literary and social London, Mary Wollstonecraft’s polemical treatise A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. Unladylike pursuits overwhelms diabolical fretters of patriarchy and misogyny into obscuration and oblivion through overarching radical free thinking intellectualism pioneered by the foundational wave of feminism and advocacy of womens’ rights movement. Dethroning the quintessence of manhood from the legacy of thronedom and the exilic banishment of masculinity creeps as gothic macabre to androgynous imperialism. Commodification of women as reproductive machinery is the penultimate masculinist subjectivity of the object of male gaze, viewing womanhood and femininity through the polarizing lens of fetishization and/or voyeurism.

Manhood cannot penetrate into the kingdom of womanhood being a stingless bee drudge and thus cease into the brink of annihilation. As a cornerstone and milestone of women writing, autobiographical excerpts from Amar Jiban, chronicles the opportunity of education; ushering emancipation and liberation of femininity and womanhood from being entangled and mired by subservience and servitude within the hearths and parlours of the domesticity and/or domicile. Responsibilities and obligations ought to be performed as a coalition of egalitarian fraternity and gendered pluralistic solidarity. Women possess their freedom and liberty vis a-vis men and thus the otherization of gender stereotyping shouldn’t relegate them through subjugation and subordination, subservience, servitude and servility.

Entitlement to their feminist identity bears testimony of individuality which must be preserved even after wifedom and maternity. Stagnation of a conservative microcosmic milieu inextricably, nonetheless handicaps this female empowerment phenomenon into the quagmire of dormancy. Bolstering economic independence of training female workforce and contraceptive pills for preventive birth control measure policies in case of incessant bondage of child-bearing were to be fought in the then contemporary reactionary revolution.

Oftentimes women are perennially perpetrated into the rigidities of flesh trade for the sustenance of her soul as relevant still today. Overwork from overtime work at night and wage inequality underpay status quo exacerbate inhumane working conditions chilled by cold and exhausted by heat, subjected to the perils of unguarded machineries and poisonous fumes. Then the leisure and pleasure of married life’s housekeeping and homemaking, unfortunately strikes catastrophic consequences of fatalistic dowry and/or widowhood.

Advancing intellectual professionalism of females visavis the progressive career orientated educated males is inevitable for the companionship furthering continuity of the human race. Observant and sensible daughters, affectionate and empathetic sisters, faithful and chaste wives and reasonable and tenderhearted mothers idolizes womanhood and femininity which the author lionized through the characters and settings of her novel that alludes to Vindication of the Rights of Women: idiolect of feminism: “I do not wish women to have power over men but over themselves” and “it is not empires, but equality and friendship which women want” through exerting womanliness in context of truth, freedom, education, wealth, experience and knowledge of life.

“One of the philosophizing serpents that we have in our bosom” and “hyena in petticoats” alludes to the then contemporary anti feminist perspectives in view of gynocentric transgressions. However, holistic betterment of mankind essentializes the vis a-vis coexistence of manhood and womanhood as an egalitarian ethos and thus womanliness is not enmeshed within subjection of objectivity and fragmentation of selfhood. Material, financial, intellectual and emotional bursaries prolifically transform feminine empowered individuals to prosper and progress whether the public discourse of political philosophy or the private discourse of domesticity.

Rassundari Devi’s prose narrative is the embodiment of persistently tenacious girlhood, maidenhood, womanhood transcending the recalcitrant barriers of patriarchy’s misogynist locked room adversities. Her bold rage and fiery temper are shrewd and poignant to subvert the enslavement of housewives as reflected in these rhetorics: “Is this my fate because I am a woman? … Just because I am a woman does it necessarily mean that trying to educate myself is a crime?” To Rassundari Devi’s histrionic protest, bondage and imprisonment forthrightly laments powerlessness and captivity of womankind.

Misfortunes of widowhood furthermore exacerbates the drudgery of existentialism in case of women like her as vindictive in the prolific denunciation of widowhood: “Toward the end of my life I have been widowed. I feel ashamed and hurt by the realization that even if a woman has lived her life fully, has brought up her children and lives behind her sons and daughters to carry on, her widowhood is still considered a misfortune.” Rassundari Devi inexplicitly abolishes conservative widowhood custom to eradicate funebrial crisis associated with survival instincts of women’s individuality.

Predicament of womenfolk always coerces womankind and relegates them to the status of a caged bird or fish caught in a net. The protagonist is grief stricken and frozen hearted as epitomized by the state of an elegiac plaintiff; who has been engulfed by the blazing forest until Lord of the Heavens’ celestial grace bestows “womenfolk to get together and study books”.

Further Reading, References and Endnotes

Rassundari Devi’s Amar Jiban: Challenging the Norms, Dr. Ritambhara, Notions, Vol. 6, No. 3, pp. 1-6

Feminism and the Economic Independence of Woman, Guoin Griffis Johnson, The Journal of Social Forces, May 1925, Volume. 3, No. 4, pp. 612-616, Oxford Journals.

Chapter Title: Introduction to Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, 1891 New edition, London: T. Fisher Unwin Ltd, 2-30, Book Title: Millicent Garrett Fawcett, Book Subtitle: Selected writings, Book Editor(s): Melissa Terras, Elizabeth Crawford, Published by: UCL Press. (2022)

Chapter Title: Style as Noise: Identity and Ideology in A Vindication of the Rights of

Woman, Book Title: Feminist Theory, Women’s Writing, Book Author(s): Laurie A. Finke

,Published by: Cornell University Press, pp. 1-41.

Reconceptualizing Gender, Phule, Brahminism and Brahminical Patriarchy, Uma Chakravarti

Rassundari Devi Amar Jiban pp. 1-13

https://ananenglishliterature.wordpress.com/…/rassunda…/

Let Me Relish the Drizzle, the Dude

I get the feeling that every once in a while

You drum up something special just for me,

Whether mundane or whether a minor miracle.

I’m scorching in the field, raking and weeding,

Blinded in buckets of my own sweat. Tired.

Out of nowhere, a cooling drizzle blows in.

I’m helping a friend move a clunky armoire,

And we can’t heft the damn thing into the truck.

Then a biker dude pops out of the hedges to assist.

Is this from You for me? Or am I making it up?

Am I so desperate to find a hint anywhere

Of kin and kindness to ease my aloneness?

However You work, let me think my pleasure.

Let me delude and amuse myself. Let me relish

The drizzle, the dude, and smother You in thanks.

Into Your Folds

There’s a song You sang as a bird flew near.

She heard it and plummeted into Your folds,

Never to be seen again.

Please, can You start over? Repeat it just once?

I only caught the first faint notes,

And am circling back.

World, hush – all thoughts, loves, woes, worries.

I drift into the winds of silence.

There! It begins again.

Delicate chimes strike high above a hum of hope.

The tones beckon, entice, captivate.

I must get closer.

Not All Your Answers

Ill at ease, squirmy,

Sick to my stomach,

Heave-ho.

Anything for relief –

But no, it’s You, Lord,

Replying.

Not all Your answers

Come dripping in joy.

So be it.

A clap of thunder –

A horse rears and bolts.

I hold.

A Trail of Suitcases

I find a trail of suitcases

Stretches out behind me.

Each is broken and drips

Madness and mistakes.

I find my clenched hands

Hefting two new suitcases

Heavy with my sad stories,

Packed full with tragedy.

I find my fingers weaken

And loosen and intertwine.

The suitcases fall away,

Bang, crack, and splinter.

I find my hands reach up

In a prayer for the end

Of all suitcases, trunks,

Storage sheds, and attics.

I find I stand up straight;

I stop staring at sidewalks

And see the clarity of sky.

I find that I beg for love.

Sky Diving Full Naked

I can only relax,

I can only unwind,

I can only laugh,

When I know I’m giving everything.

My seconds to You, Lord,

My days to You, Lord,

My life to You, Lord,

When I know I’m begging for more.

Sky diving full naked,

Topping the Alps full naked,

Sitting silent full naked,

When I know I’m blasting beyond.

Now I do anything,

Now I walk anywhere,

Now I greet anyone,

When I know I’m all of me for You.

DK Jammin’ is 73 years old and lives in Colorado. He graduated from Yale University with a law degree, raised a daughter, and worked at the Texas Legislative Council in Austin. He is the supervisor of the Words Department for the Center of The Golden One. 

His poetry publishing credits include: “The Coffee Maker” in Macrame Literary Journal, “A Landing” and “A Fly Comes Your Way” in The Accendo Review, “As I Imagine” in Soul Poetry, “She Sails Our World” in Metapsychosis Journal, and “Goddess of My Inner Joy” was published in the Men’s Poetry Journal, “Enkidu.” He has been a playwright, lawyer, and a psychotherapist, but recently he has been inhabited with the muse of poetry and cannot stop writing.

For the last year or so, poet/tech sorceress Sanya Khurana and I (Annie Finch) have been developing the meter app Poetcraft. Poetcraft will include the first AI in the world able to scan and teach a range of different English meters. I am deeply excited about this project, which aims to move the English language back towards the core human magic of metrical diversity and, to my mind, nudge the world onto a more sustainable, joyful path.

Poetcraft will be trained on 4000 scanned lines of poetry, 1000 in each of four different meters. We have now finished collecting these lines, and we are seeking people who love meter and have experience with scanning to help bring the app to the next step as volunteer Scanners. All scansions will use the classic system of scansion introduced in my workbook How to Scan a Poem and in my classes and online videos. They will use the following symbols: wands, cups, edges, and–as needed—half-wands, ghost cups, and rests.

I am excited about this project and hope you might want to be part of it as a volunteer Scanner.

Q AND A

How will the process work?

Scanners will choose a poem from the project’s Google Drive and scan it on a computer using standard keyboard techniques (forward slash and backslash for wands and half-wands, lower case u for a cup, hashtag for a rest). After saving the scanned version on the Drive, you will mark the poem as scanned on an Excel sheet. That’s it!

How many poems will each scanner need to scan?

As many as you like. We expect each scanner to scan, on average,100-500 lines.

Will I have any support?

Each scanner will be given access to a “cheat sheet” created by me that summarizes the method of scanning used in the project and the use of each of the 6 symbols, and also suggests simple hacks to help you scan faster and more efficiently—and will also soon have access to a brief video going over the same material.

How good will I need to be at scansion to participate?

You should be an experienced scanner, but you don’t need to be a complete expert.

As you go, you will find that the experience of scanning many poems will raise your skills to another level.

What if I get stuck and can’t figure out how to scan a line or passage?

If you get stuck, leave the line unscanned and type a note next to it saying COULDN’T SCAN. All scansions will be doublechecked by an expert scanner, and finally triple-checked by me personally, so we will catch it.  

What is the timeframe?

You can start anytime. We hope to finish most of the scansions during the spring and to wind up no later than July 1.

Is there any compensation?

As a gesture of gratitude, all scanners will be offered six months free use of the Poetcraft app (value of projected cost is $99/month).  We will also be proud to list the names of all Scanners on the Poetcraft website (if you prefer not to be listed, just let us know).

I’m in! What’s the next step?

Please email us at scansions@poetcraft.org stating your interest, and we will get you started!

Talk to Me About…

Talk to me about hope

because I see too many without it.

Talk to me about emotional pain

because it has taken the place of joy.

Talk to me about hate

because it has become too easy to spew.

Talk to me about our children

because what they are learning is unhealthy.

Talk to me about war

Because the innocent suffer the most.

Talk to me about truth

Because I have heard so many lies.

Talk to me about change

because without it we can not evolve.

Talk to me about life

because we are seeing too much death.

Talk to me about loving one another…

Because it is the one thing that can change

all of those other things I want to talk about.

***

Burn Me

Burn Me! Burn me with your touch

The pain reminds me I am still alive

Suffocate me with you Kiss

It is a sweet death and worth the cost

Cut through me with your gaze

So you can see me for who I am

Take away my memory of anyone before you

No memory is more beautiful than yours

Blind me from seeing the future

My dreams are all that I want to see

Bury me with your love

For only Heaven can compete with it.

***

Love

No monetary value can be placed on love

And with love, even a heathen can change his life

What love puts together can not be shaken 

and it is only through love that all good things come

In this life, things are given and taken away

and in the end, riches will mean nothing…

Only Love will remain

Kristy Ann Raines is an American poet and author born, Kristy Ann Rasmussen, in Oakland California, In the United States of America.  

She is an accomplished, International Poet and Writer.  Kristy has two self-published books on Amazon titled, “The Passion Within Me”, and  an anthology with a prominent poet from India, Dr. Prasana Kumar Dalai, titled, “I Cross My Heart from East to West.”

She has one children’s book coming out soon, titled, “Tishya the Dragon”, and a few other Children’s Stories to follow. Kristy is also working on finishing two very special books that have been in the works for a few years titled, “Rings, Things and Butterfly Wings” and “Princess and The Lion”.

Her biography and a collection of thoughts on her life called, “My Very Anomalous Life”, will be the last to publish. 

Kristy has received many awards for her unique writing style and also for her work as an Activist and Humanitarian around the world.

Kristy also enjoys painting, making pottery, writing song lyrics, and being with her family.  She is married, has two wonderful children, and is a proud Grandmother of three beautiful Granddaughters with one Great Grandchild on the way! 

Respect for the teacher 

Thank you so much, teacher,

You have worked hard.

Always be respectful,

There is no time for fatigue.

Let your hard work be justified,

Let us protect you.

Always smile,

Push the era.

Let us remember you,

Let us enjoy the lessons.

When asked, “Who is your teacher?”,

Let us think of you in our minds.

I have boundless respect for you,

I have not disrespected you.

You who taught us,

Thank you, teacher.

The Dark Night of the Soul

[Originally published in Spare Change News and in Fleury’s book: “It’s Always Sunrise Somewhere and Other Stories”]

     Benny stares through his basement window and he can feel his heart rejoicing once again by the absence of the sun. The sun has become his worst enemy since his parents died, his wife left him and his only son has been officially declared MIA (missing in action) while fighting the war in Iraq. These days, he hardly leaves his apartment. He closes all the shades, draws all the curtains and turns off all the lights while he just lies on his back with his hands clasped behind his head and his eyes transfixed at the white ceiling. Sometimes he lays with his back to all the stuff he has accumulated over the years. Stuff that he can’t seem to bring himself to get rid of. He likes to rummage through other people’s trash and bring various things to his already cramped space. There is so much stuff in his place that there’s hardly any room for himself. 

Clothes carpet his floors; empty take-out boxes are all piled up in one corner of his bedroom next to the TV and there are a number of shopping bags filled with trash rotting in the kitchen and maggots have taken residence under them. His window overlooks the sky and he often feels like God is looking down on him. The phone lately has been ringing with a sort of desperate urgency, yet Benny remains completely still as if he hasn’t heard it at all and just lets the machine deal with the incessant calls. His friends, or at least the few he has managed to hold on to, must be wondering about where he is. He has once before tried to end it all by starving himself of food and water for nearly two weeks. But at the last minute changed his mind and decided to have a can of coke and a slice of pizza.

     He has ceased to maintain any sort of personal care and he is beginning to smell. His apartment has a stale order of decay swirling lazily around the air. The smell is akin to rat and mice droppings, if you’ve ever had the misfortune to smell that particular odor. There are litters of unwashed dishes in the sink, mold all over his bathroom walls, a mailbox full of unopened mail and a mass of newspapers piled up in front of his door. From an outsider’s point of view, it would seem as if no one lives there at all. Day after day, Benny just lies there, living a death in life with nothing to look forward to or get up out of bed for. “What a waste,” he thinks to himself. “Just taking up space.” Death seems to be constantly tip-toeing around him, waiting for the right time to finish him off.

     He remembers happier times when his wife Lola sat in the sand on the beach on Martha’s Vineyard building a sandcastle with their son, little Jimmy. Her long straight Brown hair flirting and twirling in the summer wind while Little Jimmy screeches with joy and laughter “Daddy look! Look Daddy. I made a castle! I made a castle!”  He remembers looking on and smiling with an open book on his lap and thinking how complete his life is finally, as the summer wind gently lifts his blond hair off his forehead. He remembers feeling the joy of a man who constantly keeps winning the lottery repeatedly every time he thinks about his life with his beloved family. His parents were still alive back then and they used to go visit them on the cape where they all lived. But his bouts with depression and psychosis have driven his wife away. She could no longer tolerate his bouts of rage and paranoia that plagued him when he was ill. She begged and pleaded with him to seek treatment, but he refused to admit that he is even sick at all.

Eventually, his denial and the ensuing consequences drove her away. She feared that had she not left him, she would start hating him and she could not contend with that possibility. So in spite of herself, she left and took little Jimmy with her. That exacerbated his already declining mental health. She had custody and he had the weekends. His visitations became less and less regular as his life careened out of control due to his untreated mental condition. Before he knew it, Little Jimmy turned eighteen and joined the army. He had an on again and off again relationship with Lola. On when he was well, off when he was not.

     Now lonely and bereft of emotion, he lies motionless on his disheveled bed staring at the ceiling of his sinister apartment waiting for something, anything to happen to make him feel alive again. He used to be a man who made things happen; now he has become a man who waits for things to happen. He used to walk around with a half-smile on his face, a twinkle of joy and mischief in his eyes and a restless eagerness in his steps. He used to be the life of anywhere he happens to be, always ready to crack a joke or laugh at someone else’s. He used to pretend to walk around like a sad man with his head hanging over his chest, and then suddenly perk right back up again laughing at himself. Now, he feels that his fire has been snuffed out by a giant bright red hand that has descended directly from hell.

     The phone is ringing again and it goes directly to the machine. “Hey Benny. It’s George. What’s goin’ man? I haven’t heard from you in days. I’m starting to worry. Call me.” He lies still unresponsive.  He decides that tomorrow he will do something, anything, even though he does not know what it is. He’ll find out when he actually does it.

   The next day, a streak of sunlight slices his bedroom floor and for the first time in months, he does not mind its shiny glare. “Today’s forecast is expected to be sunny and temperatures are expected to reach record high for March.” He listens to his clock radio as he gets out of bed. For the first time in months, he has decided to clean himself up. He showers, shaves, puts on clean clothes and even cleans his dirty apartment. He opens his nightstand and grabs his rosary beads. He makes the sign of the cross using his middle finger first on his forehead, then chest then his left and right shoulders. He then says a quiet prayer then leaves the apartment. He passes in front of the mirror and smiles at himself as he heads out. He gets on the train and heads and finds himself getting off at the stop near the beach, the same beach he used to spend time with his family. He spends all day at the beach, watching happy families, seagulls and listening to the soothing sounds of the waves. He is waiting for darkness to fall and soon, the sun descends into the belly of the sea and everyone has left the beach. He lies in the sand on his back with his hands clasped behind his head as he stares into the dark skies, which he feels promises him nothing.

At midnight, he gets up and walks toward the sea. The voices of his wife and son echo in his ears from that perfect summer day he remembers so well— “Daddy look! Look Daddy!”—as he enters the sea until he is completely submerged to dwell forever in its abyss. Just then, back home his wife left him a message about possibly getting back together if he’s willing to go into treatment, his son is leaving him a message announcing his homecoming and the moon emerges to hover over the sea and diminish the darkness. His soul wishes he was there to come and see.

Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured Haitian American Poet, Educator, Author of four books and a literary arts student at Harvard University online. His latest publication “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self”  & other titles are available at all Boston Public Libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, University of  Wyoming, Askews and Holts Library Services in the United Kingdom, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, Amazon etc…  He has been published in prestigious publications such as Wilderness House Literary Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, Litterateur Redefining World anthologies out of India, Poets Reading the News, the Cornell University Press anthology Class Lives: Stories from Our Economic Divide, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene among others…Visit him at:  http://www.authorsden.com/jacquesfleury.

Big Check

A big check weighs us down –

till deposited. Then it disappears

into the realm of business

the business we did before

that big check weighed on us.

But from the bank’s parking lot

through the door, through that

line, lined up to the teller, it still

was part of our mystery of money

heavy in our pocket. We try to look

causal about it all, want the teller

to think that we are used to big checks

earning, carrying, and depositing them.

She takes it, looks it over, checking things

we can only guess at. She never looks our

way. She clicks away, and our big check

even as heavy as we thought it was, disappears.

                     Photo

It saves that moment, one of the many

we pass through every day, every hour,

but this one is caught, frozen and will

never change. The photo captures

a street scene, one we all live through

holds it. The couple at the curb, about

to cross will never cross. They have gone

this far and no farther. We don’t know if

they are happy or sad. They are just this

couple in this moment. What are they

thinking? What did they just say to each

other? Will this action, this about to go

across this street, make a difference in

their lives? Will they look back and say

that this made all the difference? We don’t

know, will never know, but that moment

for them has become part of us, part of

us if we hold this picture and watch it go

through the things the photographer was

trying to convey to us about time and its

mystery, the way we are in the midst of it

and never know what is next for us and for

the people around us – or even that couple

who he or she stopped in the midpoint of

their day out together and made it stay fixed

one foot off the curb, the other about to

follow.

                      Side-Effects

Of course, they warn us about side-effects.

the unintended consequences of taking

whatever it is we’re taking or are thinking

about taking. They’re the stuff of small print.

You could end up with “swelling of ankles or

feet.” How about “confusion, difficulty breathing”

Along with such things as “dizziness, faintness

or lightheadedness.” The things we take come

with their own litany of possible side effects.

Imagine “black, tarry stools” or “bleeding gums”

as you take a daily dose of what they’re selling.

Even TV ads touting the latest meds for public

consumption are weighed down with side-effects

both mentioned by the voice-over and in print

at the bottom of the screen. They give us a group

dancing and singing followed by their warnings.

It’s as if the cure or whatever we’re taking to try

To cure or at least curtail one thing brings on an

Assortment of other candidates for our undoing.