Description

These poems look at the social fabric of protest and dissent from an insider’s point of view. Guha plays with satire and undercuts it with a subtle sense of despair, which pervades his poetry. India’s North East — and the hills where the poet resides — surface as a motif of hope and nostalgia, and occasionally retreat.

ANANYA S GUHA was born and brought up in Shillong, where he now lives. He has ten collections of poetry, and his poems have been featured in anthologies, including The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry (2012). He has been publishing his poetry for the last forty years, in India and abroad.

          FROM THE BOOK

See How They Weep

I am whispering in the moon, it says I am cut, bleeding.
I look up at the sun and it says I am in fury,
will descend to scald the earth so that it burns.
I ask, why are so many people dying in India and the world,
aren’t we all human?
And God says yes you are, but you are killers as well.
I ask God, the trees, the hills, the mountains, why don’t they kill,
is it because they are not human?
No says God, it is not so because they have already been killed,
by you.
See how they weep.

Blooming

I look at drops of water in scattered seas.
Drops of blood, which I see are thirsty.
No hospital wants them, they are scarce.
They just pierce bones.
They dry very soon, dispirited.
Use them to grow flowers, they will bloom.

Spreading the Word

Message me if anymore are killed
or blasted by a mine or bombed
by a cowherd or one pretending to be.
I’m 24/7 on the mobile or apps.
Simply message me,
I’ll review all recent deaths
and order an inquisition as to:
were they due to cow slaughter or terrorist attacks
or farmers’ suicides or plain suicide
or rape;
just let me know then,
the inquisition will send the report
and I can message you back
for you to forward, backward or spread the word.

Hawks Flying

It does not happen that I’m tired of being a man.
I’m tired of death and dying.
Bombing and fighting. Missile chasing and shooting.
I’m tired of rabid hating. And dividing the race
with a contorted face.
I’m tired of homilies.
And similes uttered by leaders who are brackish.
I’m tired of peace-mongering, warmongering, bloodletting.
I am tired of these and the hawks flying.

On Sale

Bits of rain and blood.
The weather has changed,
blood has not.
It is for sale, drop by drop,
in markets, shops.
The rumour has it,
even malls will sell it export quality.
Every country is improving its quality
and the good news is that
there is no duty charge or sales tax.