THE FOLLOWING POEM BY NEAL HALL WON THE FIRST PRIZE OF ONE LAKH RUPEES IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2020
Matriarchal Patriarch is a poem about patriarchy being passed down through generations by the hands of the women of the family. According to the poet, patriarchy is matriarch. It has been passed on by the same hands that have raised the boys of the family which has also mistreated and mishandled the females of the house. He says it has been passed on by the mothers of the household to the sons of the house to mistreat his wife. The mother-in-law allows patriarchy to take over. The patriarchy is passed down through the activities of women; things done by mothers and mothers-in-law to their daughters and daughters-in-law. He blames the women of the house for the never-ending patriarchy that has allowed the men to mistreat the females over the ages.
The poem Matriarchal Patriarch is powerful in nature. It has dared to put the blame on the woman rather than the man for the passed on patriarchy. The poem is strong and well-built. It puts forward the face of the matriarch that has never been looked upon. The daughters and daughters-in-law have faced injustice over the ages by the hands of their husbands, fathers and brothers but in reality it has been by the hands of the mothers and mothers-in-law that has raised the same men and who have allowed the mistreatment.
fate is not in your stars
but in part and parcel in you,
that you are an underling
the hand he raises is made of
the same hand you raised
you gave birth to,
breast fed and raised
his hand
fault is not in fate
but in part, in you,
you, this grievous weight bearing arch
shouldering a patriarchal fist
it’s you who teaches the son
it's his hand that sees in plain view
your hand when you raise your hand
against his sister, your sisters,
your daughters-in-law
you can’t demand your yoke be lifted
while you yoke your sisters beneath you
fault is not in fate
it grows in you, you gave birth to,
breast fed and raised the man
who raises his hand
fate and fault are not constellations
but a distillation, a condensation of
culturalized, traditionalized condemnations;
birthed, breast fed to raise the back side
of its hand to your daughter’s face that she
comes to know his will and her lowly place
it’s you, your hard-handed, handiwork
mandating domestic vocations over
economic emancipation from his high-handedness
it's you, the pretty ones
and ones the pretty ones say
are not so pretty
it grows in you in hues of light,
lighter and the lightest of white,
it’s your black specter cast from your black sun
beneath which the contours of your
dalit sister’s darker darkness can’t shadow
your deep well waters of matriarchal
privileges of light and lighter without being
brutalized within inches of her life
it’s you, your lipstick’d matriarchal arithmetic
dividing, subtracting meager domestic wages on
a niggardly patriarchal abacus that does not add up
nor divide out evenhandedly from your hand
it’s you, your hand that demands your
handmaid sisters enter separate doors to sit
lowly your floors before separate plates,
separate knives, separate forks, separate glasses,
made to eat separately sitting your cold matriarchal floors
too many their bodies your floors,
sitting there
too many of their hopes your floors,
dying there
and you wonder why he raises his hand at you,
you, the mother of daughters and daughters-in-law,
you who desecrate every universal law of dignity
against your daughters, your daughters-in-law
fate is not in fault
and fault is not in fate
they’re seeds in you to grow in you,
your daughters, your daughters-in-law
who grow to become mothers and
mothers-in-law who violate every
universal law of humanity against
their daughters, their daughters-in-law
you can’t demand the man above you
to lift his yoke from you while you
yoke the woman beneath you
it’s his eyes of his hand
that watch your hand clench
a matriarchal fist of misogyny
it’s you who teaches the son
you who gave birth to,
breast fed and raised his hand
that demand the dowry,
burns your flesh,
acid splashes acid to you
and your daughter’s face
it’s your hands, it’s in your hands that
first uncle’s hands first rape your first daughter
for the first time and her tears cry to try
to tell you for the first time and your first reply
to her tear-filled eyes is to bear this and
bury it in the wounds of her womb and
never speak of it a second time
fault is not in fate
fate is not in fault
but in part, in you,
growing in you that
you are his underling
it grows in you, you gave birth to,
breast fed and raised the man
who raises his hand against you
fate is not in your stars
but in part and parcel in you,
that you are an underling of
your raised hand against you
About the poet
