It's All in My Hands: Poem by Saroop Dhruv

In a moment

the city turns to pebble, stone, dagger, razor

ruin, spark, flame, ash

In a moment,

mobs with hammer, pickaxe, shovel and hand grenade

pulverise the city

My pen collides with the skeletons of history

Winds howl, like the death rattle of corpses waking from their slumber

Whirling winds of death shake the very pillars of civilisation

Hurling dust into an ebbing faith in life

Sinking claws, vomiting blood everywhere.

In a moment, vision is blinded and directions obscured,

The skin of humanity flayed off

I: a poet

I cannot exist as a mere reporter.

Nor as a court bard.

I want to grit my teeth and speak without mincing my words

about this conspiracy

But for that

I must retrieve my pen

from a deep dark well —

my father’s well,

my ancestral well,

the well that is the final refuge of women

who dive to their own shameful death.

I have to throw in a fishing hook, and pull out

my pen, a brand new pen

with my hands alone.

I like this poem because it is hard-hitting and covers a lot of ground. The well part is particularly strong. Reminded me of Heaney's 'Digging.' Saroop writes in Gujarati, and that helped give the poem context.

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