We are the grandchildren of the Raj; a grafting of two nations, one a golden bird, coveted by the other to be the jewel in her crown, an ignoble flourishing and an inglorious falling, breathless broken branches sickly stumps. From these we come; sprouts and suckers seeking the light. Saplings still so tender it hurts; we see the warped twisted roots and rage at the four million dead in Bengal the Jalianwala massacre the cannon fodder of the world wars the callous division of land and people the distorted telling of history. We see other roots too; the feet of the golden bird, a web of shame and glory vedas and violence wisdom and weakness chivalry and misogyny. The language of our mothers grieves it cannot give us all her riches. We hear the language of the Other, that of Shakespeare, Keats and Shelley make it our own infuse with our spirit empower with our prayers and our protests. We take for sustenance what we will and grow.
by Poonam Jain
Poonam Jain has always loved reading, but came late to writing. Her poems are an exploration of her own spiritual journey, as an Asian woman living in the UK, and her response to social injustice, based upon experience of social work, counselling, and of life. She performs her poems regularly, but is now seeking to have a wider audience and to build up a community to share feedback and support.Find her at http://www.poonampoems.blogspot.com