Poetry by Jhilam Adhikary

Ode to War poetry

Young men silent A ground full of bodies Rotten flesh… A foul smell… Something that you can’t find In mere books of history. The one who is most in pain Will be treated last And the better ones will be forced to get up. No food, no med… Just  a few thousand poets Telling their stories. It’s just mud around No trees, no flowers No nature to be found Nothing serene, no serenity, Humans suffering at the brink of humanity, Destruction! Destruction! I, a misanthrope, Relishing it’s beauty, But the heart hurts The mind is in pain I’m in pain A confusion An irony. Two lovers separated by war One lover dead Something, I, a lover, can’t imagine, One lover waiting, One writing a letter, One lover injured, One is dying, Ia lover too And I am crying. Beauty of Destruction Beauty! Destruction of Beauty Hell! Poets trapped in pandemonium Poets with guns in their belts, Poets with battered bodies, Singing as their skin melts, On a ground of exploding bombs, Under a sky of dropping shells. Blood! Blood! Scream no more! Blood is not the problem, Blood is the relief of the darkest night Blood is glow of the red moon, Blood here is beautiful. Blood here is a grave, Blood is the medal of the dead The poets want the medals, The poets are begging for death. The trenches are dark and narrow, And they claim it’s hard to breath. Their land had lied to them, They were told this pain was holy No flesh would be churned by gases And the suffering, momentary. The poets had believed them Nationalism, Patriotism, Glory! Glory! Glory! A million died in the trenches alone The disabled shell shocked, a hysteric memory And the world till date celebrates, Man's stupidest, dumbest  folly While I sing along with  Owen… “Dulce et decorum est Pro partial mori”

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