I want to write, I want to paint
The earth here is not brown but
blood red
shining like a bride in the night
spring snow slowly disappears
in the fading light of God’s
sinning flesh
behind my courtyard a savage war unfolds—
windows shattered smoke rising
violent moonbeams crossing borders
I see a genie in the park
gathering half-burnt lipsticks
from the bodies of runaway girls
stones tall and tattooed
whisper through blistered lips
as if waiting
for their mother’s wedding
I say it clearly now—
I do not want to die
I want to write and I want to paint
The country of burnt cotton saree
My country does not exist on maps
or in the atlas—
I see it in the eyes of pigeons
and parrots,
often I gather it from the memories
of my mother’s burnt cotton saree,
or trace its shape in the tears of blind carpet weavers,
people say my country is made of ancient silk thread,
six inches long:
one blue, another red, and the
third green,
I do not know whether it is a quadrangular figure
or a square.
I have not observed its resemblance
in any other country of the New or
Old World,
my father speaks in a hilarious accent;
you cannot make sense of his race
or religion,
like the fragrance of a ghazal in
any language.
My ignorance of geography is terrible—
I search my pockets for coins of Pompeii
while buying spicy bread in my neighbourhood.
In the day my country shrinks like
a shrimp,
in the night it swells like a pregnant elephant—
carrying a wild, secret adventure,
these days, when I travel, I hear
them say
those without a country can
go anywhere;
I bite my lips, resist, and surrender
to the blockade in the bleeding sea.
Blond blackbirds in the city
The lips of my city slowly swell,
split by the bites of famished cats—
streets, sleepy dark-chocolate tunnels,
a shared address no one dares to speak,
salt on the tongue—soldiers clean
their guns,
eyes glazed by flickering adult films in the desert,
as if hunger could be rehearsed,
as if war could be softened by shadows,
I see nuns hurriedly bury women
and children,
killed in a candlelight bombing at
the school—
wax and bone melting into the
dew light,
perhaps one day the blond blackbirds will fracture the sky,
will break the silence over
who blindfolded
the beastly tanks, who taught
glittering metal
to forget its own reflection,
what are you doing? I am dreaming—
my sons and daughters hammer
their nails
into the broken windows of our names,
I hide inside my charred skin,
press my tongue into memory
until it tastes like smoke, like iron
like forgetting,
why am I the only one not frightened,
or the only one who remembers how
to be afraid?
Memory of the bridge my father built
I am a psychiatrist, full
of sunshine.
When I am not in my clinic,
I play cards with wailing lilies
in disguise.
Every night I sleep alone,
with bags of unclaimed helmets in
my room,
as if they had eyes watching me—
fearful of making a mistake.
How strange:
killing people in a slaughterhouse is not a crime.
There is nothing left of language
after you have cleaned its bones,
festering like ancient orchids.
There is no cure for feuding nations
over mushroom clouds—
everything is predetermined
and repetitive,
even the memory of the bridge my father built.
Is it blood or ink we sacrifice?
Will war ever end?
I am not sure.
Ashwani Kumar is a poet and political scientist, currently a visiting professor in the United States. His most recent book is Map of Memories (2025)