Solemn Signature of Death by Ananya S Guha

A journalist reports
we kill, in this country
of hills, mountains and
plains. In this country
barricaded by snow peaks
walls, land which know no
country, only people
We have forfeited songs
of  freedom, slung over
shoulders of enslaved race
we talk peace, not war
but war is in raging footpaths
we wage it against relenting writers
to a photo finish.
In Kashmir even as snow capped mountains
are hidden by rising sun
the blood spots tarnish a nation
now, as refugees come to our embattled
country, we say no to high raised peaks
simmering with discontent.
The journalist was blasted seven times
till her brains outwitted her body.
Solemn signature of death.

Tainted with Love by Ananya S Guha

Whither the dead
ha’ penny thoughts
the tortoise and the hare
run, in this impending fun
Brown soldiers black
black, brown
their shirts are shrivelled
into guns they hold
Terrorists come and go
the common man might
know, who the soldier
who the terrorist
the police arrive to gun
it is mayhem
and the gaping wound
that tells all the sorrow.
At crack of dawn
a son is born
father murdered
mother prepares
three coffins
for father, son and
I say my prayers quietly
what do soldiers want?
where is the brave war
and what are suicide squads?
the rose buds faint in red
tulips open into gaping wound
my praying beads are tainted
with love.

Hush by Ananya S Guha

Killing a sixteen year old
hush, the shadows are falling
you called  him beef eater
hush the mother god is silently
you saw his skull cap
and did him to death
hush, skull caps are silently
the protest in a country
not-in-my- name
hush the country
is conspiring
children are hiding
women are conniving
the ageless country is mourning
death of its ‘beef eaters’
lower castes and those
whose shanty rooms
are never in sun’s eye
nature is re visiting
mad inferno in swirl.

Them and Us by Ananya S Guha

The roads are black
Pilgrims die like cattle
Paying homage in blistering
Terrain is not enough
Even if the gods do  not bless
Terrorists do
In the name of a country
We cannot travel
Kashmir’s gates are too near
Death or the valley of guns
If it is not our soldiers
It is theirs
We are mangled
Them and us
Our bodies are them and us
Our corpses too
Why even our gods are
Them and us.
Why cannot we be them
And them us?
Because the blood is not
Them and us !

Nobody is Martyred by Ananya S Guha

Blast those stones
Blast the rocks
Deafen the bombs
Shock the guns
Blast till eternity
Blast the hell out of me
Create kingdom of death
Kill me not him her
There is no war
Only silence of death thunders
Only hounds stalk
The mayhem is not over
Bits and pieces left over
Knock my skull
Nudge my bones
Blast and when you blast
Yourself just remember
In killer’s hands
Blood stained
Nobody is martyred.

My Land by Ananya S Guha

Wounded is my land
hurts at every hill, valley
mountains, or in sultry plains
Even when a bird soars across
winged skies, it hurts
never know when it will plummet
down to seas or, deep deep gorges
Strange is my land
there are mosques, temples, churches
synagogues even
But it hurts
never know when blood
will splatter across their sacred walls
Historical is my land
when the plains rumbled with  battles
foreigners unsettled came to settle
there were wars and canons
but it hurts
you never knew who would win
who, lose and who the traitor!
Penurious is my land
but it hurts to see them
sleep by pavements after
selling their wares there
Uneducated is my land
little children don’t go to school
they sell, or steal or serve tea
And their parents beat them.
Even sell them in a growing
demand and supply market.
It hurts
to hurt
be hurt in my land
of so many seas
so many rivers
so many givers
so many takers
with the population
drowning in them.
River is my land
land  is  my land
sea  is   my land
ocean is my land
hill is my land
mountain is my land
valley is my my land
cold is my land
heat is my land
dust is my land
filth and hovel is my land
slum is my land
hunger is my land
dark circled eyes is my land
but with it’s every breath
I stagger across its straight
and winding roads
searching for a  name.
Its name.

Eradication of Poverty by Ananya S Guha

Rivers are dried
Fed up of the blood
Which coagulates the shores
And leaves a trail
Spots of blood
People carry to towns
Then the cities
Their hands spotted with blood
Their minds clogged with blood
Their clothes stained with blood
Their money stained with blood
Then they taste blood
Little children cry in hovels
Beggars turn mad
Make them taste this blood
Let it stain their hands
They can open blood banks
Become wealthy
Eradication of poverty.

Land Submerged by Ananya S Guha

In Kashmir
there is no lull
break the hull
free the land
free the shackles
children, men women
politicians, aristocrats,
intellectuals, thinkers
free them,whisper to
them truth and how the
body and the land mingle
don’t talk to them of that
neighbouring country.
they know it how neighbours
can be rotten. but talk to them
the movement of the human
heart. don’t talk to them of
this country. they are tired
to be drawn into battles.
talk to them of beauty,
mountains and cherubic
children with glowing cheeks.
talk to them of spiralling mountains
and watery lakes. Speak simply
speak.heart to heart.
pray even if they are enemies
( as you think)
pain will dwindle
them into seven seas
can you see a land submerged?

Spreading the Word by Ananya S Guha

message me if more 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 terrorists
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
spread the word.

Hawks Flying by Ananya S Guha

It does not happen
That I ‘m tired of being
A man
I’m tired of death and dyiñg
Bombing and fighting
Missile chasing and shooting
I’m tired of rabid hating
And dividing the race
With contorted face
I’m tired of homilies
And similes by leaders
Who are brackish
I’m tired of peace mongering
War mongering
Blood letting
I am tired of these
And hawks flying.

Death Trap by Ananya S Guha

So kill them
since they look different
a pint of beer tastes better
after death, after you have
licked blood. So you don’t
want them to work in your
country? You want them
to carry trolleys,or swing
the broom? Whatever it
is your memory is pretty
tainted. You and your people
came once, when the land was fertile
now febrile, so cut out this claptrap
and wait for the death trap.

Law by Ananya S Guha

Now block people from
entering  a country
as they snatch guns
also jobs
so let others snatch
guns will be more available
as well as jobs
let them use guns
to snatch jobs
which they never got
then how will you legislate?
if jobs and guns are equal?
Tell you what
smash all the jobs
have only market survey
for guns, import and export
then build houses with them
promote tourism
protect restaurants, hotels
schools, colleges, encourage
suicides, too many manics
let your gun toting machines
build a country. Stop people
let guns enter,sea sides, resorts,
towns, shops, let calumny be perfect
man’s hazards will stop.
Everyone protected by sanguine
laws. To bar people use guns
to prevent them from snatching
your work, use guns.
They will  speak in  multitudes,
crescendo of voices. Law.

National Anthem by Ananya S Guha

Separatism raises a  noise
is a discordant voice
who is separate
a country’s streams
over the beams
forts and ramparts
whatever departs
I want a homeland
in a water land
I want language
to assuage
rave and rant
with all my don’t
I want a land
not very bland
fertile, febrile
so that I can rile
make them vile
and sing with gusto
National anthem

Going to Hell by Ananya S Guha

A legislator   rapes a minor
everyone is ashamed
not of the legislator
but of themselves
people keep silent
murmur, silence is
a better half. more understanding
keep silent. some curse the man
and do some verbal bashing.
but everyone is abash
that this could happen
politicians are mummified
it is better to embalm them
in scathing darkness.
judicial procedures go by the book
he is released as per procedure.
by procedure too, let him go to hell.

Travelling to Moon by Ananya S Guha

The  Berlin wall fell
inches, slow degrees
the Korean will or will
not, but people will die
out of nuclear  exhaustion
farmer suicides
hole out black money
fill coffers with gold
I see a snot nosed
dirty haired child
in the morning’s sun
the hills have refused
him to enter their world
peopled with trees, grass
the morning dew. The
child sniffs at the wind
his satchel is empty
but his mind is filled
with tricks
the Berlin wall has fallen
Kashmir is a crucible
get yourself a sortie
travel to Mars or Moon
it’s better there
ever since Armstrong
paid a  visit.

Treading On Dreams by Ananya S Guha

I tread on stones
breaking into ice
I tread on stones
changing to water
fossil not stones
changing into ringing
gun shots
bullets not water
are they illusions
guns into bodies
bodies into death
rivers  into blood
I tread on them
my eyes cannot
hold,which is what.
At night I dream
peacefully of animals
skinned,and bodies
men, women and children
swathed in all white.
Sleeping peacefully.
I do not tread.
Somehow sleep must
not be disturbed.
Now,I am going to tread
on their dreams.

Fidel Castro by Ananya S Guha

Fidel Castro
is dead
I remember college
Neruda and his poems
I suddenly remember
words such as communism
and  revolutionary
I remember the seventies
eighties. nineties
and the two hundreds
three hundreds I keep
looking at spaces and strands
of time, future in looking glass
Alice and her memories
Long live him
because he is dead
and he gave finally
that golden handshake
to immeasurable time.
In 2016 I read that he was dead
I actually forgot that he was alive
Now I will forget that
he is dead.