<p>We are living in tumultuous times. War clouds are looming over several countries in the world, while suffering and grief have become par for the course. </p>.<p>In India, too, we recently were witness to Operation Sindoor, which was launched in response to escalating tensions along the northern front with Pakistan. This is one of the many recent military operations that underscore the region’s delicate balance between diplomacy and defence.</p>.<p>As is the case with news, headlines soon fall silent. In its space, speaks poetry. Poetry, in its fragmented precision and sensitive truth, offers the soul’s register of war; one that resists propaganda and fake news, and honours complexity. You see, war is not just fought between countries, but also internally — wars are fought in memory, in mourning, in exile. When we look at Japanese poetry, we see another dimension — the nation’s confrontation with nuclear warfare. We have a term for it — Hibakusha, which refers to the people affected by the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The word translates to ‘survivor of the bomb’ or ‘person affected by exposure.’ The hibakusha poets developed a unique vocabulary for describing the human-made apocalypse. Carrying the influence of haiku, they wrote about war in spare, sparse terms. Toge Sankichi’s poem, Give Back the Human draws a parallel between its restrained lines and the often elaborate war poetry from the West. Give Back the Human says, “Give back my father, give back my mother;/Give grandpa back, grandma back;/Give me my sons and daughters back. Give me back myself. Give me back the human race. As long as this life lasts, this life,/ Give back peace/That will never end.”</p>.<p>Toge Sankichi was 24 at the time of the Hiroshima bombing and died from leukaemia caused by radiation in 1953. There is a monument dedicated to him at the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park, where visitors can read this poem. </p>.<p>During war, the distance from home hits even harder. In Postcard from Kashmir, Agha Shahid Ali says, “This is home. And this the closest/ I’ll ever be to home. When I return, the colours won’t be so brilliant, /the Jhelum’s waters so clean, /so ultramarine. My love so overexposed.”</p>.<p>What we read or watch as news of current conflicts is reality in someone’s life. These poetic voices remind us that behind every statistic lies someone’s universe, altered or utterly destroyed. This is war poetry’s highest calling. Not to glorify or to condemn but to witness. And this witnessing helps preserve something essentially human that war seeks to destroy. War is not foreign policy; it is lived experience. How can language preserve dignity amidst destruction? When the human cost is so very high? And yet, war poetry does. And in doing so, it holds up the light to the destruction humans are capable of.</p>.<p>I recall sitting with Mosab Abu Toha’s devastating poem, [You Were So Small in My Hands], unable to process how it made me feel. “You were so small in my hands/no shrapnel could hit you,/but the dust and/smoke of the bomb/rushed into your lungs. No need for any gauze. They just closed your eyes. No need for any shroud. You were already/in your swaddle blanket.”</p>.<p>I come from a family of soldiers. I recall my father and his friends during the Kargil War, hoping that they’d be called up by the nation to serve. It was touching to see this motley group of veterans earnestly talking about plans. I think you’ll understand why I want to end with the last stanza of The Gift of India by Sarojini Naidu: “When the terror and tumult of hate shall cease/And life be refashioned on anvils of peace,/And your love shall offer memorial thanks/To the comrades who fought in your dauntless ranks,/And you honour the deeds of the deathless ones/Remember the blood of thy martyred sons!”</p>.<p>(World in Verse is a monthly column on the best of new (and old) poetry. The writer is a poet, teacher, voice actor and speaker. She has published two collections of poetry.)</p><p><em>Send your thoughts to her at bookofpoetry@gmail.com</em></p>
<p>We are living in tumultuous times. War clouds are looming over several countries in the world, while suffering and grief have become par for the course. </p>.<p>In India, too, we recently were witness to Operation Sindoor, which was launched in response to escalating tensions along the northern front with Pakistan. This is one of the many recent military operations that underscore the region’s delicate balance between diplomacy and defence.</p>.<p>As is the case with news, headlines soon fall silent. In its space, speaks poetry. Poetry, in its fragmented precision and sensitive truth, offers the soul’s register of war; one that resists propaganda and fake news, and honours complexity. You see, war is not just fought between countries, but also internally — wars are fought in memory, in mourning, in exile. When we look at Japanese poetry, we see another dimension — the nation’s confrontation with nuclear warfare. We have a term for it — Hibakusha, which refers to the people affected by the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The word translates to ‘survivor of the bomb’ or ‘person affected by exposure.’ The hibakusha poets developed a unique vocabulary for describing the human-made apocalypse. Carrying the influence of haiku, they wrote about war in spare, sparse terms. Toge Sankichi’s poem, Give Back the Human draws a parallel between its restrained lines and the often elaborate war poetry from the West. Give Back the Human says, “Give back my father, give back my mother;/Give grandpa back, grandma back;/Give me my sons and daughters back. Give me back myself. Give me back the human race. As long as this life lasts, this life,/ Give back peace/That will never end.”</p>.<p>Toge Sankichi was 24 at the time of the Hiroshima bombing and died from leukaemia caused by radiation in 1953. There is a monument dedicated to him at the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park, where visitors can read this poem. </p>.<p>During war, the distance from home hits even harder. In Postcard from Kashmir, Agha Shahid Ali says, “This is home. And this the closest/ I’ll ever be to home. When I return, the colours won’t be so brilliant, /the Jhelum’s waters so clean, /so ultramarine. My love so overexposed.”</p>.<p>What we read or watch as news of current conflicts is reality in someone’s life. These poetic voices remind us that behind every statistic lies someone’s universe, altered or utterly destroyed. This is war poetry’s highest calling. Not to glorify or to condemn but to witness. And this witnessing helps preserve something essentially human that war seeks to destroy. War is not foreign policy; it is lived experience. How can language preserve dignity amidst destruction? When the human cost is so very high? And yet, war poetry does. And in doing so, it holds up the light to the destruction humans are capable of.</p>.<p>I recall sitting with Mosab Abu Toha’s devastating poem, [You Were So Small in My Hands], unable to process how it made me feel. “You were so small in my hands/no shrapnel could hit you,/but the dust and/smoke of the bomb/rushed into your lungs. No need for any gauze. They just closed your eyes. No need for any shroud. You were already/in your swaddle blanket.”</p>.<p>I come from a family of soldiers. I recall my father and his friends during the Kargil War, hoping that they’d be called up by the nation to serve. It was touching to see this motley group of veterans earnestly talking about plans. I think you’ll understand why I want to end with the last stanza of The Gift of India by Sarojini Naidu: “When the terror and tumult of hate shall cease/And life be refashioned on anvils of peace,/And your love shall offer memorial thanks/To the comrades who fought in your dauntless ranks,/And you honour the deeds of the deathless ones/Remember the blood of thy martyred sons!”</p>.<p>(World in Verse is a monthly column on the best of new (and old) poetry. The writer is a poet, teacher, voice actor and speaker. She has published two collections of poetry.)</p><p><em>Send your thoughts to her at bookofpoetry@gmail.com</em></p>