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
Destruction of Beauty
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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