Young poet Ranudi Gunawardena explores the wombscape, childhood in rural landscapes and the uncanny in nature, her work already published in literary magazines such as Action, Spectacle, Chestnut Review, Magma and Sho. She studies at Williams College, Massachusetts, USA. Of her collection of poetry shortlisted for the Gratiaen Prize titled Wombful of Weeds, she says: [...]

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Retelling patriarchy: The view of a girl child

Meet Ajith Perakum Jayasinghe and Ranudi Gunawardena in our series on the writers shortlisted for this year’s Gratiaen Prize
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Young poet Ranudi Gunawardena explores the wombscape, childhood in rural landscapes and the uncanny in nature, her work already published in literary magazines such as Action, Spectacle, Chestnut Review, Magma and Sho. She studies at Williams College, Massachusetts, USA.

Of her collection of poetry shortlisted for the Gratiaen Prize titled Wombful of Weeds, she says:

“It is a girl-child’s opening into the gendered world of adulthood and its everyday violence(s) in rural Sri Lanka. It contains poems in which the child first comes to encounter the other –within and without –in the forms of femininity, masculinity, (hetero/homo) sexuality, nature and natural disasters, and the uncanny. Wombful of Weeds aims to capture the danger lurking at the edge of girlhood as desire, period rituals, domestic violence, and fathers. It wants to retell patriarchy from the female gaze, to point at the (phallic) violence of the pastoral image. It wants, most of all, to remember that the landscape of the womb was never void, was, is, and always will be creating, desiring.”

Usual Erasures
(Originally published in Magma Issue 91: “In the Flesh”)After school in the bus hurrying
homewards, I feel its difficult floweringin my stomach: the mangled hibiscus,
flesh-petaled and tearing, the nectar

seeping a thickening red from its split
and singular ovary. In the aisle, pressed

against unknown bodies writhing
in the afternoon-heat, the nauseating

thought: in between the skirt-pleats,
attached on the back of my white

school uniform, the detached petal,
a hibiscus-saturated stain. Rising through

the public intimacy of mingled sweat,
I smell the frightening rawness

of myself, then, search the numerous
and dismembered faces for a gesture

for the erasure of shame. Suddenly
under my skirt-pleats, against

my disbelieving upper thigh, the cold
crawl of an ownerless hand. In

my grandmother’s garden, a hibiscus
of fire blazing behind my ear, I had frozen

still one blameless morning at the sight
of an indigo rat-snake— how it wrapped

its reptilian flesh elastic around the tree
-trunk, stretched its fangless mouth open,

and thrust inside the tree-hollow its festive
head. How the skin at its throat swelled

transparent and revealed the bird-egg
snatched from the nest.

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