A curl of cinnamon

Cinnamon is bark
is bite and flavor-flush,
intoxicating aroma too,
a lakeside, a garden
commodity and profit-giver,
and like all things exotic,
it begins with sweat,
the arc of labour,
the art of crafting
the curl and bind
of political economy
game for child
business as usual for end-adult
necessity for primary-adult
a taste of heaven
cooked on earth
with hands
and fires that resisted dousing
century after century after century.

[Inspired by the photography of Rukshan Abeywansha]

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Rain-takes

Fresh, so fresh, exciting!
hot, so hot,
hotter than Global Warming at its worst
water is play-invite
rain or sun
it’s lightness of being
light, so light
it’s made for flying
flyer and spectator
when it rains, it rains
we live with it, we play
like snow
made for snowmen and snow angels
and sun
for tan and crop
and drying clothes,
embrace empowers
curse detracts
and that’s the story
the poet missed
when a lie was immortalized:
‘rain, rain, go away!’

[inspired by the photography of Rukshan Abeywansha]

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Satheesh

And Satheesh

you were so much like your father

spirited but not in-your-face

nor mine,

and your heart-timbre

was voice

in the long-breathed drag

wavering as the waves

of the great oceanic wilderness

that is also refuge

wavering in the less tempestuous flow

and the egoda-megoda

of life

in a boat that has now crossed

leaving cadence and echo;

haunts, brother.

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Signatures of sustainability

Their footprints will grow

as shadows do

longer by the hour;

smiles will not grow wider

for the yawn of dream and reality

collapses fast in dream-fade

and in that short road to adulthood

smaller footprints will show

that life follows life

city skyline grows higher

landscape becomes art form

children will smile

now and then and again,

and in the swift movement of nation

from the here to there

of design and architecture,

glitter and ambience

poverty remains alas

slow of foot,

resilient.

*Pic by Rukshan Abeywansha

[Published in the 'UNDO' section of The Nation, April 22, 20112]

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Token

From a sick woman's countenance
memory of caring,
from a man who lost his legs
a betal-chew smile,
from the sunday papers
the courage to say no,
from the roadways
an unexpected colour-mix,
and from the sky
the poetry of cloud movement;
strung together
with words from adictionary conversations.
wrapped in heart-paper made for breaking
at touch and kiss and glance:
my token of love
on a slow afternoon.

[From the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves', shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2011]

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For Tutu

Who are you,

tell me,

two years is long enough

incognito is not forever,

are you a lizard

of the colour-changing kind

or a monitor,

a tick perhaps,

or grasshopper,

are you clown, politician or hobo,

or is this long obstinacy of not-telling

a marker of knowing,

arrogance of a kind

or compassion?

Are you a constitution

a corporation or cooperative,

a flea-farm or field of dreams?

Are you story book or lovability,

gatekeeper or head-of-household,

and do you say to yourself

in the national language of your choice

as you offer blanks tagged with wag

to my daily questionnaire,

‘I have no idea what the fuck you are talking about, man!’? 

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Love masks

And love

is about masks

the make-up that makes-up

the lavish blush

of divine colour

the immemorial woo-dance

and the inevitable sweats

of maintaining the unsustainable

and then the undressing

and dress-down of knowing

caress of believed perfection

sharp pull back of hand

at wart and scar

the congenital dry skin of fallibility

abrasioned by the masking years

and the slow and difficult learning:

beauty doesn’t have to come smooth

or in pleasing geometries.

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