O! Poets where art thou?

O! Poets, now,
we don’t have Nature-
delivering lands or Spring
swimming streams for you.
we have many mounts of the dead
like in Mohenjodaro
many fears hanging faces
like in Guernica
between our daily walk and way
of (every up and down) life
but, if your pens are dry, come,
they can have enough blood here!

no parrots, sparrows or mynahs
flying blue sky overhead.
packed demons fall
as explosive-eggs
from their angelic but heartless-
and they will bombard
in our sleeps and symmetries too.
O! Poets, come,
with your dried-up pens,
they can have enough blood here!

no petals’, dews’ or meadows’
hanging and kissing tales under our feet.
writhing skeletons and wailing skulls
grow everywhere.
our feet now familiar with red cry and hell well,
know the blood of men, of animals,
of birds, of trees, of water, of sky, of fire
and very well know the blood of blood
trampled by (myrmidon) boots
and speared by (uniformed) bayonets/bullets.
O! Poets, come,
with your dried-up pens,
they can have enough blood here!

for our land, for our routes,
for our truths, for our family flowers,
and for our black gold,
their eyes and arms of drones
erase our innocent shadows,
and giving our departing breaths
to the (already polluted) lungs of News/history.
they fell our land’s breathing breasts
upon our faith’s pristine plates and serve them
to the mouths and feelings of our helplessness.
O! Poets, come,
with your dried-up pens,
they can have enough blood here!

O! fulfilled leaders of the World,
O! Men in powerful suits, you are the real terrorists
you thinking fossil fools, some day,
you will distinguish certain truths from your lies
you will find the rise of your nominal promises
over our valued lives and the proverbial changing color
of the vulture vampire called the Man.
this is for yours and ours children to know
that human is the only true to self beast worm.
this is not for their children’ children’ children
to wear on their dreaming steps of future to avoid
a final journey in search of an air of life … Wake up!
but, that time is just an eye’s-blinking-summer away, if,
we allow those burdens eating terrorists and termites
to gulp the minds and the limits of our motherlands !

(ah! they do say that the God saves their land and their land-men,
but the stranded God asked them when he lost his way home that
“how far is my heaven from this hell made by you?”
then, they piloted him pointing at a petrol-land,
and said: “Lo.. this is your new home where oil is your throne,
sit tight and rule upon this treasure! ”
ha ! the God deliberately burned off beyond the invisibility
with the help of an indigested aviation fuel shitted out
from the painfully burning butt of a suiciding rocket!)

O! Poets, come here,
come with your dried out and thirsty pens,
they can have revolting blood
from our massacred mass’s mounts

we don’t want manna
we don’t want miracle
we don’t want martyrs
we don’t want missiles

we don’t want life … we don’t want this life.
but, just let our unsuccessful blood and unheard tears
flow through the backbones of your pens!

Sanju Clement is a Promethean—poet—painter who hails from Kerala (India), land of gods, devils and monsoon too. His poetic and artistic invention is that he starts from the zonal heights of the light of Metaphorical Surrealism but he will land on the realistic feet of Metaphorical Realism, which truthfully mirrors in almost all of his poems and paintings. He is compiling his books of poesy on Love and Political/Protest poems. Read other articles by Sanju.