Today I read Jacinta Kerketta’s poems
a tribal lady in India’s Jharkhand
wrung into anger, despair
as a community bereft of love
used by corporate houses
for illegal mining, youth taking
to arms and rebellion.
Arrogance, contempt for people
is lust. Jecinta writes of the fear
of a people, rage, their privacy
innards shaken, when wealth
attacks people yet to read books
or throw away a gentry.
Mining. Mining.
Wealth, health.
Exploit them to the hilt
they will be crucible of fire.
What angst, what pity?
Reading Jacinta’s poems I think
history is mad, society rabid.
Mother works in a house, is treated
with contempt. Mother goes to the
house, waits till the husband takes
his meal.
India is strange. They tell me
there are many Jacinta’s.
I found one.
Today.
Jacinta’s poem, horrendous,
raking, but truthful all the same.
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