Worship, Theology and the Arts: Poetry Corner
The Stone and
the Woman by Carole Fontaine
The Lost Girls
by Carole Fontaine
The First
Freedom by Carole Fontaine
Traffick in
the Suburbs by Carole Fontaine
Honor Killings
Make Dishonorable Men by Carole Fontaine
Sine Qua Non
by Jason Paul Bachand
Veteran's
Cemetery by Jason Paul Bachand
A Note From Carole Fontaine: A number of my poems were read as the completion
of this year's United Nations Consultation on the Status of Women, at general sessions on
Female Infanticide, Human Trafficking, and Crimes of Honor. A literary benediction among
lawyers, politicians and Human Rights defenders - who are allowed nothing beyond the
'secular' to nourish their weary souls. So I write, upon request, for their various
events around the world. Beyond this, my Human Rights poetry is routinely delivered to
over 250,000 websites world wide. I am currently finishing up a volume of the poems I
have been sharing with the world. I give full rights to any member of the ANTS community
who would like to use them in worship. - Carole
The Stone and the Woman
(In the Islamic Republic of Iran, stones used for public executions must be neither
too large, nor too small; proper stoning requires that the stone must be just the right
size in order to cause serious pain and injury without killing the victim too
rapidly.)
How is a stone
Different from a woman?
Just the right size,
One makes death;
Woman,
Made to give life,
Cruelly dies…
Her age? No matter.
Her crime? Look at her:
Defence against a rapist?
Peddler of her flesh?
Just choose the crime
That looks the best
As index of social morality,
And pile up the stones
Of brutality.
Not too big:
She will die too soon.
Not too small:
She must bleed and swoon
From the pain
All gather to see.
O, Defenders of Morality!
You soil the Qu’ran
With impunity,
So eager to make your world
Safe from sin,
You re-enact it again and again.
The Lost Girls
Where Greed is the God,
Daughters are expendable.
Where dowry is blackmail,
Doctors are dependable:
Why spend thousands of rupees later
When you could abort your daughter now?!
What a savings for any fine family!
Let all society to Custom bow!
But who will be the brides for later,
Meek breeders for those precious sons?
Ah, the world is never short of females,
And none more obedient than trafficked ones!
She brings no dowry but her womb,
But she costs very little, too.
She can be gone in the flash of a stove fire---
What else can a comfortable family do?
Let daughters be absent around the table;
Let sons prevail and only sons!
Who will march for the little daughter,
Denied her life before it’s begun?
Light a candle for the little lives
Denied of even a single breath!
March until the whole world knows
People of faith say “No!” to such death!
Dedicated to Swami Agnivesh and his November 1, 3005 March against Female
Feticide. The Boston WUNRN Workshop participants were unanimous in their
condemnation of selective female abortions, and endorse the upcoming protest against the
practice.
The First Freedom
Philosophers debate
what it means to be free,
a human with such dignity,
as brought by rights and guarantees:
is it freedom of speech,
which leads naturally
to every part of thought being free?
or, freedom of worship,
however we please?
or freedom to own
and hold property?
Not for the girl child
such abstract philosophy:
for her the First Freedom?--
the simple the right to Be.
Traffick in the
Suburbs
It does not matter where she lives.
It does not matter who she is.
No matter if her skin is white
Or brown, dark or light—
A child: she can be intimidated;
Her future, her voice eliminated.
She is ripe for trafficking
The first second no one’s looking
So, look, then!
Hear! Now, care!
The signs of her are everywhere!
Her life depends on you
And whatever you might do.
Educate her.
Liberate her.
Retrieve her life from male demand,
Hold her body as sacred as holy land
Renewed and rinsed of horror.
Now, are you looking for her?
Honor Killings Make Dishonorable Men
They say it is for honor.
It is not.
They say it is for family.
It is not.
They say it is Tradition.
It is not.
They say it is Religion.
It is not.
Give it a real name:
call it despair
that makes a man
find his courage there,
in slaying a female!
Such an honorable deed!
such an inconvenient need,
keeping women alive
just so they can breed!
Are they human, these brave men?
Do they also bleed,
or have human feelings,
or only the need
to feed upon helpless
and those who depend–
a mother, a daughter, a wife, a friend–
all fodder for honor
men shall never achieve
by such bloody measures,
for such raging greed
to be powerful, male,
in control, and avenged.
When all the women are gone,
where is their honor then?
Sine Qua Non
by Jason Paul Bachand
I split myself this morning
putting away knives.
I paused to let the blood scramble out,
And in the liminal minute
The light show, the fanfare, lasers and fog Went dead, and God was Goddess.
She was unconquerable on the throne usurped
By overendowed bulls; mighty and concordant
Behind the scenes. Resplendent in silver, silk,
Ambrosia, she offered a goblet of tears for making
All things new.
As I drank she turned, and was all at once and always
A chambermaid delighted to arrange,
Prone and in the barest cloth Undiminished for all of
us stoking apathy.
I hoped to be a bird on her shoulder,
Giving no thought to authority,
Sold to the discipleship of possibilities.
The knives away and wound bandaged,
I went to the park, sat under an oak to wait for her call Within the
multitude of homeless faiths.
Veteran's Cemetery
by Jason Paul Bachand
I made my business date with the cemetery for 9am Sunday.
The realization that sex and violence were cinnamon and sugar
For a hungry heart pressed me to wanderlust in the rows of absolutes,
Where ancient sepulchures had struck the ground with a heavy bass note,
As matter-of-factly as the tablets of the Law of Moses:
"Though shall not commit murder."
Among God's only blameless soldiers, the blades of grass,
Vigilant in their watch on the history of death,
It seems that cupped palms make a seamless gutter for the blood
Of the first sin,
Ivory hands that flip from steeples to fists wantonly
At the instant religious foment creates a fork in the narrow way.
Blowing the Shofar: Dick Hanks leads the WOTA class of Psalms and Worship in Israel for its festival meal in Noyes Hall, spring 2006
Updated March 8, 2007