Ammi

There are times of vacancy the between of fingertip and key
thought, thought-break and thought again
the routined interruptions of routine
times of passing
when the world watches me
and I feel you watch the world;
you are resident
not so much in memory
as in eye
in gesture
and the mannerisms of humour
and feigned agitation,
and I lament
that I cannot touch my feet
in venerating you;
that much is different
yours were tender,
so tender on the eye and my hands.

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Marianne's 'words'*

Latitude
It’s relative,
this Equator thing;
there times, sure there are,
when there’s just one line
a blissful coincidence
with nothing spilling over,
not tears nor question mark curl
no degrees of difference or distance
a twinning, if you will,
but that co-equatoring
is a strange intersection
expanded by love
to claim ‘forever’;
latitudanality rules!

Abyss

The classic misnomer
in love’s surface dictionary,
flagged with warning sign
grave tone
and wide eyed no-no,
but made for endless freefall
and happy surrender to death.

Catharsis

Cleave and drill
extract and burn,
that’s progress;
and the earth gathers
arrogance and smirk
blends with tear
and yields the sorrow of say-it-all:
a single blade of grass.

'ආවට ගියාට'
ආවට-ගියාට කිව්වට
ඇවිත් යන්නේ නැති ඔබ
නිරතුරුවම සිත්-මාවතෙහි සරන්නී
හද-යහනේ සැතපෙන්නී

Asunder

It’s about a misspelled word
a glance poorly angled
the unsaid that is heard:
love is regent
in a fragile kingdom
where break
is article of faith
and re-unite
an outlaw,
a sweet rogue
with a one-kiss ration to cash
before eviction.

Insouciant

The dress-code
of the pursued.

Stopped

Always a comma
disguised as full-stop.

* My friend Marianne David complains now and then.  'You don't write,' or 'you don't write enough'.  So I asked her for words and promised her words in return.  Some, like 'stopped', were not word soliciting words, but I worded, nevertheless. 

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Old words

Old words smell different

revisitation-frayed

they read out differently

from written-time

and now;

it must be those other words

and their fragrant specifics

or memory squeeze

or just the moment inscription

on old words,

but they smell different

as if layered by other eyes

that robbed or gifted;

yes old words smell different

from today’s words

so fresh that they cry

for the thousand eye-fingers

that make for fraying;

maybe it’s the dust of neglect

as much as the fingers of visitation,

but old words smell different

now and then. 

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Rain and wetness

(a note to Bob Marley)

“Some people feel the rain, others just get wet... !”  -- Bob Marley

There are rain days of drenching

and crazy laughter;

and I’ve known enough of these

cloud-break clothing

sneaking through cloth impediment

to commune with skin’

I’ve taste that water

on hair and breast,

and it has even burnt

cheek and finger.

There are days of drenching

made of finest drizzles

that said ‘monsoon on the way, go home’

and pinned an after-thought,

‘monsoon on the way, so what?’

There are days of drenching

made by after-rain dampness

and they come with landscape-altering colour

incredible greens against impossible blacks,

and fairy-tale haze.

There are days of drenching

made of rain-absence

when sun and dust and wilting vegetation

bring all the rains that have fallen

and all the rains that must

someday. 

I can’t remember the last time I got wet, brother.  

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Yesterday and today

Days
of lonely tune
and longing.
want the fill 
between sigh and sigh?
Come.
you might have to whisper
password

though,

or touch heart's gate.

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Faith Sutra at Kelaniya

Flower-rinse
is as ritual as offering,
the one to un-residence dust
and the other to expiate sorrow;
and yet eye is not eye enough
to assess success rate
and dust remains
in particled particularity,
like the kleshas
that await that other rinsing
with the maturing of paramitas,
but this side of going beyond
incense and flower
fragrance and ember
dew drop and dust
another rinse is possible,
for faith gives way slowly to comprehension
the victory of light over darkness
begins with the first modest spark
and that perhaps
is the long and short of sansara.
[From the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves,' shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2011]

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