Gardens of Stone

Feroz,

An excellent poem. I`m amazed that you find out that you have a sensitive bone in your body. :)

Your poem reminded me of a sher from Ghalib that a friend sent me a little while ago:

Sab kahan, kuch Lalah-o-Gul main Numayan hogayeen

Khak main kya sooratein hongeen, jo pinhan hogayeen

``Not everything, only a bit is revealed in the Tulip and the Rose

What faces they must have been, those that are now hidden in the earth``

Regards,

Fozia

A sadly touching poem, Feroz. I first understood the true nature of war when I visited the Vietnam War Memorial in D.C. a few years ago. As I saw friends and loved ones tracing the names of their sons, fathers, friends and crying silently for their ``wilted dreams``, I realized that war is ultimately about death. It`s ironic that we fight and sacrifice the lives of our children simply for our tombs, for our bodies lie much longer beneath the ground than above it.

Re: temporal

You are right, as usual!

This poem was penned in 1982 on the 40th anniversary of the Dieppe raid, on August 19, 1942, during which the Canadians, under Lord Louis Mountbatten`s orders, who was in charge of Aliied Special Operations Directive, attacked a French village heavily defended by the Germans and were simply murdered. Mountbatten simply wanted to test the German defences and approved the plan with out the required back-up support, which would have made it a success. Those Canadians who were not killed were taken as prisoners by the Germans.

To this day, the Canadians have not forgiven the British for this act of the murder of their soldiers and regard Dieppe with the same bitterness with which the Australians and New Zealanders regard the mass slaughter at Gallipoli. Even the Canadians have not forgotten or forgiven Mountbatten for this and some Canadian veterans personally hold him responsible for the murder of nearly 3,500, out of a force of 5,000, Canadians who never returned from Dieppe. The disaster was covered up by the British and Mountbatten was simply transfered to New Delhi as the allied commander in charge of the India-Burma theater of operations. It was due to his wartime services there that Mountbatten was given the title of Vicount of Burma.

The poem was penned during a highschool trip marking the Dieppe anniversary and the cemetary was not Arlington, but the National Canadian Forces Cemetary in Ottawa. Since then, it had been collecting dust and it was by chance that while rifling through some old boxes that I came across it. Since this was after Kargil, I tought I submit it to Chowk, because like Dieppe, Kargil was blunder also.

It trully astounds me as to how much human misery Mountbatten was capable of causing!

Feroz,
A thoughtful piece of writing.
Unfortunately in the India/Pakistan/Kashmir case
these Gardens of Stone are bound to grow. And they
are neither fruitful or attractive.

Ras

nice sentiment..a lil too verbose.

rizvi

Feroz:

Sad, moving thoughts illuminating the futility of violence.Despite Baron von Clausewitz`s `war as an instrument of State`s policy` or Lenin`s modification `peace as an instrument of State`s policy`

Sad it is because in the tough grind of political diatribes it is Ramrakha or Allahpyara who is turned into ashes or dust. Almost invariably.

A digression, Feroz. The cemetries we see here (in North America) are well laid out, organized, and maintained. It is easy to imagine the poet in you strolling in the Arlington cemetry, overwhelmed by these thoughts.

In the subcontinent the only cemetries I found well organized smacked of the remnants of the Raj. The qabrastaan, the Muslim graveyards are haphazzard, ill kept, disorganised. Poor Allahpyara`s family can barely afford a white shroud. Tomstones are a few months chapaatis on the chataai for the average folks.

Despite this I enjoyed the poem.

regards

good work...the perfect candidate for a sting song.

This brought tears to my eyes. I cannot believe it is written by someone I thought had no compassion for anyone but for himself.

This brought tears to my eyes. I cannot believe it is written by someone I thought had no compasion for anyone but for himself.