The Hand Wielding the Pen and Gun
I write poems by this hand
which helped my mother
to crush the grains in a stone mortar
by raising and hitting down with the pestle
before the grinding mills came to a nearby town.
I write poems by this hand
which got wounds swinging the hammer
to hit hard on rods to make holes into the rock
in our deep well, and filled them, with explosives
to blow off and find the burst of water.
I write poems by this hand
which drove the bulls cracking the whip
while ploughing and moving the cart
and drawing water from the well in leather sacks,
before the electrons flew through the wires to my village.
I write poems by this hand
which uprooted for wages the groundnut plants
beside the ghats from morn till dark on school holidays,
when the lack of rains shrivelled
our crops at our village.
I write poems by this hand
which made the eyes of professors wet
by scribbling short stories in my classical tongue.
I write poems by this hand
which quenched my thirst and of the kin
fetching waters from the falls in the hills
where herbs with healing powers grow.
I write poems by this hand
which feels restless to wield the gun
on seeing the coffins of our soldiers
taken to the graveyard in silence `
overwhelming with rage and fire.
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poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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