CVR (03-03-1954 / chembra)

Guantanamo You Are Not Only A Poetry

Guantanamo you are not a poetry at all
what all you accounted was
that of the blood you sucked.

afghanistan, iraq,
african capes,
the southeast asia,
where all the streets and avenues
what you've chewed and spat
was the fresh flesh fragranted
with new blood of ours.

guantanamo, do you know me?
i am from yemen.
through the plastic tubes,
prepared by the hottest ovens,
especially for the death factories,
what you gave me was the
only the question,
'are you hungry? '

soon, the venomous bubbles of gas
in the matrix of your empirical insolence,
answered it, blasting into the void.

guantanamo, you must have known
nicholas nickelby*, the teacher.
when the children of dotheboy's school
braved to be hungry,
mr squirrel*, the principal, poured sulphur liquid
into the dry throats of kids;
mr smike, the poor boy who absconded,
was brought back;
this time blows were given
on his cheeks by mr squirrel,
instead of the sulphur gruel.

and then it was this nicholas*
who blew on the cheek of squirrel
and uttered, 'wretch, touch him again.', **
as a reward for his punishing smike.
you are more cruel than his uncle ralph;
i say this, as your ancestors came
from the same england;
you can't help rising such a detainment.
to pay tribute to your mother

guantanamo, you are not at all a mother.

are you smiling at cuba?
no guantanamo, you can't.
your smiles won't bring to you
even the smallest grain of sugar
to smear on your tongue
your smiles won't bring to you
not a counter of cigar to puff at

mr patriot uttered:
what did you say? fed us?
ha! don't you know, we are fasting?
we all refused the gruel mixed with
your venomous milk.
if our ancestors had fed us with native venom,
it would have been far healthier and tastier
than a drop of poison from abroad.
that's why we are on hunger strike.
this hunger is not at all greater
than the soil of our land, we know.

the plastic pipe you pushed into our throats,
vomited the fat and odour of olive oil
into our stomach,
how soon it passed out!
we heard mr leonardo, your bosom friend,
whispering keeping the lips hugging your earlobes:

'it was simply a flow of foams and bubbles! '

when mother reached us feeding
what did you do to her?
mother only surrendered to death!

you unclothed my father and hung him,
hung him head down,
inflicted heavy blows on his medulla,
pierced his urinal pass-ways;
your drainage brimmed with blood he spewed;
you left him, from a purposeful hearsay,
we all knew, for a natural death.

we see dear mr herbart,
in the celebrated city square,
you were spending time with her.
the silence of the midnight has flung her
squeals and screams into the air,
that echoed on the walls of the detainment,
and shattered on the floors,
like a big glass pane falling from the window.

guantanamo, you are not at all a poetry...

do you know, what my bosom friend
mr patriot, yes, my friend
in the detainment told me? :

'the chest piercing pain;
in my throats, in my stomach-
all, all pain only.
but for the cause of my land...
so never mind! '

guantanamo, i've never forgotten:
the moaning of a girl;
your mr hostile was raping her,
mr.mohassin dug
never spilled a drop of tear
when he said this.
he raised his hands
to shout against something, in vain...

'this is tormenting, mere infliction, '
the four-men-inmates uttered.

a man with scowling vision
came as if he were the physician,
he said: we look after them well, nursing too.'

this time the watchdogs never burst into laughter.

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