The International Foundation for Crime Prevention and Victim Care (PCVC) organized an All India Poetry competition in connection with the International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women (November 25th). The competition category strictly stipulated an original poem in English, written in any style on the theme of `Violence Against Women.' A panel of imminent writers and poets in the field of literature served on the panel of judges.

At the results announced yesterday by Dr Prasanna Poornachandra (Ph.D. Criminology), Founder Trustee, PCVC, Goa's journalist/writer Ethel Da Costa's poem `Madness (Dedicated to Durga)' was judged third in the winning list of eight finalists from among 151 entries received from participants all over India. At a date to be announced shortly by the Foundation, the winners have been invited for a poetry reading to an august audience in Chennai or Delhi.



Madness
(Dedicated to Durga)

by Ethel Da Costa

There are times when inspiration flutters like wayward children
disappearing with swift quickness before I capture them into cages of words.
so many questions
ink running wet on an empty page
these cages seem alone without their mad prisoners.

Shadows of the night descend upon my failing spirit
my pen awaits with impatience
lest my fingers be broken for the truth.

Isn't it a crime to keep me chained to my voice?
when mere mortals walk in oblivious bliss
smiling the muscles of their wiry smug mouths
`Poor thing.' `Wild thing.' `Is it true she is mad?' `Why don't they put her to sleep.'


Sin?
Blame it on Eve
Why am I trembling in fear?
`But the bitch brought it upon herself'
Running fingers of hot molten wax against raw skin
`Bruise her. Hit her. Draw blood. Yeah, let's see some blood.'
I shudder in cold sweat, waiting for daybreak.

Sin?
Go on, dust me under the carpet
push me into a dark corner with a broomstick
sweep the murky streets of your subconscious
is it why my voice is hoarse screaming the truth?
So many nude souls
So many broken bones
Is this judgment day?
Is this the split second when the head severs under the guillotine?

Father I confess
`Poor thing.' `Wild thing.' `Is it true I'm mad?' `Why don't you put me to sleep.'


An abused woman writes alone
ears hear silent anguish
it is the walls I face.

Pillows on beds groan
lamenting the burden of guilt carried to sleep
pacing a thousand floors
sores on the feet
broken minds, aching fingers, restless hands
hundred voices pushing against the skull
I know them. I hear them. I talk to them while you sleep.
I believe every woman has her own price to pay.


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