Heritage is for meditation

Heritage is nostalgia’s twin 

it is a straw to a drowning nation

some may say,

but no, nation’s never sink,

people do,

they roll in wistful wave

and crash on insecure rock

lose themselves in today’s sand

and cling and cling and cling

to ancestral grandeur

and in their dazzlement

miss in line and curve

crafting and elegance

and in the buddhalambana preethiya

the buddha vacana passes by

or stays and stays and stays

unseen

unseen

unseen. 

[Inspired by the photography of Hiranya Malwatta]

LEAVE A COMMENT

Winter's tales

Winter’s tales
are as blue as the heart
as white as love
in its virginal beginning
warm as a book of poetry
as beautiful as a snow flake
poetic like white on black bough
raindeered and sleigh-belled
a desert and an orchard;
it's about the depth of etching
of a name and a time
its replaceability over season,
it's a short story or one act play
two characters in conversation:
I and I-Can't-Get-Over.

LEAVE A COMMENT

Blues

Far away leaves
are blue in color
like far away hills
not one-blue, no
but gradations of blueness
from contour to contour
from sea to land and sky
for there are blue-tinted days,
evenings mostly
made for soothing
and certain tears
blue-made and indescribable.

LEAVE A COMMENT

Greens

It was a sun-kiss time 

a last-kiss time

on a rain cloud day

and the sun took care

to touch and touch

each tree, each leaf;

5.27 pm on Sunday

is a time of greater sun

but yesterday

it was goodbye light

that fell

soft as all partings

made of love

warm embrace making hard green

light alighting for the apple shade,

one hue to thebu

two for plantain,

one for the big leaves

and a brush of lightness

for the yet to open hopefuls,

one for guava and another for guava leaf,

the jambu had a spectrum,

the karapincha got a splash

but not the kohomba

and then it was over

but green will never be green again

and I

will never be me. 

LEAVE A COMMENT

Finger Poetry

Infinity

is a beyond-word

it’s an out-there

untouchable,

like tomorrow,

but a little this side

this today and now

is catchable

in different perfections

where imperfection

of color, line and material

play with finger and brush

thread and weave

to contest all poverties

to mark presence

to mark those

as yet untouched

constellations

made of diamond and pearl

petal and insignia

bead and pendent

butterfly wing

and memory

the perfect pageant

and frozen drumbeat

elegant vessels on perfect waters;

no,

infinities are not grasped

but their outlines

are handcraftable

with finite tenderness.  

[Inspired by the photography of Chandana Wijesinghe and published in the UNDO Section of 'The Nation']

LEAVE A COMMENT