Poets Against War continues the tradition of socially engaged poetry by creating venues for poetry as a voice against war, tyranny and oppression.
Susheel Sharma
46 years old
PROF Susheel Kumar Sharma has been teaching English almost for 25 years in various Indian Universities. He takes keen interest in social issues and human developement programmes. He has published three books, 24 research articles, 27 book-reviews and has attended more than 50 seminars and presented papers there-in. A collection of criticism on his book of poems has been published in 2008.
Poems on the Gulf War
Three POEMS ON THE GULF WAR
I
The white birds Sitting on the seashore Have lost their colour In their effort To swim across the sea. They bear the brunt Of heavy oily waves And look like the Pieces of a letter That has been torn and thrown into water For bringing the message of death.
The letter does not weep on a death. But, On the death of the sea The birds not only weep But also die - - Perhaps they die knowingly. So that the Angels of destruction and death May take pity On the sea And, also, on them.
II
In the school I was taught the Song of Peace And not the Song of War.
In the school I was taught to play carom And not the tricks of war.
In the school I was taught the lesson of hard work And not the one of cheating.
In the school I had taken a vow to serve people And not to kill the innocent.
Were my teachers wrong In imparting me such an education?
Perhaps, they were. Therefore, their lessons Could not be used And I and my country Lost the war.
Then, where should I Send my son for schooling - - To my alma mater Or To the Camper’s school?
III
Mother Are you angry and you, too, o sister only because I have not written you a letter. I want to, but am unable to write. I bring a piece of paper and also a pen and, now, I am able to sit in a chair too. But, words start metamorphosizing when I recollect soldiers with guns in their hands tanks ready to crush human beings souls trying to leave the bodies. The letter turns red. Your tears only are there on the piece of paper trying to wash bloody spots. My pen moves on but the letter remains a piece of paper only a piece of paper which you don’t need but I will because once again I’ll make an attempt.
Gulf War 4
With the martial music in the streets Cars were replaced with tanks and jeeps with armoured vans. Papa brought me a gas mask Instead of chocolates. Mummy started crying instead of singing lullabies - - her brother had been killed. Grandpa instead of taking a walk to the seashore Was confined to a damp corner of the cellar and kept on muttering The story of Abel and Cain. And I, Instead of making sand-houses and collecting pebbles and shells on the seashore, started counting cockroaches and collecting the peeling-sand. Who knows if this very sand will be needed to make a house.
Seven Poems on Gulf War
SEVEN POEMS ON THE GULF WAR
I
The white birds Sitting on the seashore Have lost their colour In their effort To swim across the sea. They bear the brunt Of heavy oily waves And look like the Pieces of a letter That has been torn and thrown into water For bringing the message of death.
The letter does not weep on a death. But, On the death of the sea The birds not only weep But also die - - Perhaps they die knowingly. So that the Angels of destruction and death May take pity On the sea And, also, on them.
II
In the school I was taught the Song of Peace And not the Song of War.
In the school I was taught to play carom And not the tricks of war.
In the school I was taught the lesson of hard work And not the one of cheating.
In the school I had taken a vow to serve people And not to kill the innocent.
Were my teachers wrong In imparting me such an education?
Perhaps, they were. Therefore, their lessons Could not be used And I and my country Lost the war.
Then, where should I Send my son for schooling - - To my alma mater Or To the Camper’s school?
III
Mother Are you angry and you, too, o sister only because I have not written you a letter. I want to, but am unable to write. I bring a piece of paper and also a pen and, now, I am able to sit in a chair too. But, words start metamorphosizing when I recollect soldiers with guns in their hands tanks ready to crush human beings souls trying to leave the bodies. The letter turns red. Your tears only are there on the piece of paper trying to wash bloody spots. My pen moves on but the letter remains a piece of paper only a piece of paper which you don’t need but I will because once again I’ll make an attempt.
IV
With the martial music in the streets Cars were replaced with tanks and jeeps with armoured vans. Papa brought me a gas mask Instead of chocolates. Mummy started crying instead of singing lullabies - - her brother had been killed. Grandpa instead of taking a walk to the seashore Was confined to a damp corner of the cellar and kept on muttering The story of Abel and Cain. And I, Instead of making sand-houses and collecting pebbles and shells on the seashore, started counting cockroaches and collecting the peeling-sand. Who knows if this very sand will be needed to make a house.
V
Replying to the child’s question ‘What is peace?’ I said, ‘Peace does not bring death, ‘Sirens do not blow in peace, ‘One has not to hide underground during peace. ‘In peace one can buy bread from the market. ‘People, in peace, do not cry. ‘People, in peace, are not desperate and timid, ‘Gas-masks are not needed in peace. ‘Everyone gets work in peace, ‘In peace you hold a flute and not a stengun, ‘In peace it is all calm and quiet and no disorder, turmoil, rapine or perdition, mayhem, perturbation’.
Then I prayed silently - - Lest the child should ask ‘Where is peace these days?’
VI
Can you return me my brother or my son?
They had not gone to participate in a war but had gone to bring me a loaf by standing in a queue.
I was to stand there. But I did not go there and stayed back thinking how a man without arms would catch a loaf for his old mother (in whose eyes there is still a little light left).
Your words: ‘peace’, ‘shelter’, ‘love’, ‘friend’, ‘guardian’, ‘protection’, ‘tutelary’ have lost their meaning and are empty for they cannot fill a hungry man’s belly. A belly needs bullets or a bread.
You cannot provide the latter.
To whom should I go for the first - - to the enemy or to the friend?
VII
You might have thought That the poets’ imagery Had become stale. Therefore, they need to be helped By establishing new norms, New myths, new symbols, new rhythms and new tones.
You thought it easiest By killing thousands of innocents By arresting thousands of innocents By letting the corpses rot in the open By not giving bread to the hungry By snatching water from the thirsty. But, you assessed me wrongly. I am a poet and not a dog That for an image I shall pull the intestines Of an innocently crying child. Nor am I an oyster To fill up my belly From the oozing blood of a wound. I am a man – neither B … nor S … .
