POEMS
Travail
These three poems were written because war was impending, constantly on the horizon: America bombarding on a moonless night and the British have always gazed on Mesopotamia. Saddam's cruelty was well chronicled, but the cruelty of war hung heavy over the world.
The second was written because of personal dread and being an Indian Christian and an advaitin, a pilgrimage to Mathura in search of conches didn't seem out of place.
`Easter's child' was written because the death and mutilation of children in war is hard to bear as at any other time.
Event of war
AP
The ways of living
Ate the important texts of tomorrow
There will be ash not sacred or sublime
And we will huddle in houses
Like in an H.G. Wells story
When it is over there will be many of us toothless
Rip van Winkles
Without a dream.
Out of the dark wombs
Of death
Will arise a generation that has
No sense of a future
Sorry vultures
With no carcasses to mourn over
As they shred them for picking
Hungry and distraught
They will move in packs
And there will be no children playing
Termites will eat the books that survive
Like in my daughter's dream
Shuddering she awakes
Knowing that the end of the world is being considered
Two men foresee our damnation
Whores and wives clap them onward as they march to war
Well fed soldiers on either side lecherously looking towards combat
As the people beg
Before the willing maws of the earth
Which open outward to clasp the clotted blood of nations.
Easter's child; Poem for Ali Abbas
It's Easter Week
Yet before the lilies open
Their yellow studded
Pollen strands
Ali will die
Unless he flies to "Landen"
He knows that the
Christians of a far country
Killed his parents and brother
And he is alone,
Dying
His Body the Sign of The Cross
Yet Ali of the beautiful eyes
Whose face smiled an innocent's smile
Wants to Live.
Lands End.
But in his breath the desert grains of Mesopotamia blows
Oh America
You are still without a history
And what history you make
Is of the dead.
Bring forth your people and ask them
While they ring their Easter bells
Of Ali's agony.
When you drive your cars
Eat your toffee apples
Remember there was a boy
Who loved life ever more
Than you can imagine.
Even were he to live
He would bring fire upon this earth
Merely by his dying gaze.
You destroyed the museums and painted scrolls
Out of your pent up jealousy and greed.
Your imagination bleeds as it spews his guts.
The boy will live beyond the time
Of the destroyed Assyrian head
Sculpted in marble and tossed on the ground
By looters spawned by the cruelty of Saddam, Blair and Bush.
The world never forgot Nero
And you who chose Belfast as the site
Of your maudlin and impotent speeches will never be forgiven.
Prayer to Krishna
Last night a man died Or rather we heard of his death
The day ended as suddenly as it began
four children without father lying frightened in bed
The world seems suddenly very large and odd
Blue and cold
Endlessly without a door or windows
Full of shame and wilting hope
Tomorrow will begin again
A day which carries us to some
Distant country
We will find a tea shop
A buffalo or two and a boy herding them
and below that a memory of a
different time
and maybe we will heal and
maybe not.
SUSAN VISVANATHAN
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