Word-choke

There are words
forbidden
or let’s say
of the rather-not kind;
they come to lip
and back to throat
and I wonder
in these bovine days
if I might slip
and choke.

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Communion Song

One story-flower to another,
anecdote to anecdote
the re-posting of favorite songs
finding breathing-space moment
grudgingly yielded by work-need
to text about silly things
like traffic and places to be,
things to do and things undone
the renewal of claims
in different languages
and summary dismissal
in anticipated one-liners:
this is our communion
our covenant in said-unsaid  mix.

 

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Horton Plains is made of moss

Pic by Dilshan Boange



 

Eyes have swept the plains
rolled over hillock
moved with wind on grass
surveyed the trees
looked for Sambur,
dropped from World’s End
risen with spray
where the elephant slaughterer
did not fall,
taken in the slope
of Kirigalpotha
alighted on Ravana’s port
Thotupola
delighted in April’s bloomage
picked at ferns
strange and familiar,
and missed the moss
those touch-me-nots
of wide eyed sweep
of things visit-marked,
softer though,
more delicate to touch
eye-unguent
to those with sight.

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Prisons

And of prisons it was thus decreed
some would be bar-made and some unbarred
some to separate the free from the incarcerated
and some with lines erased,
yes so erased
that ‘free’ comes with query mark
and imprisonment is the worst kept secret
in the metropolis.
And of the former kind,
there are those who are bowled,
and those less picture-perfect.
The goldfish looks with compassion
and knows the futility of keeping notes
but we,
we eye one another with pity
and even empathy
keep notes;
we might as well collect mirrors
while we wait the clock-guard
to interrupt the monotony of delusion
if nothing else.

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Kaudulla

Man and elephant
beast and beast
they’ve stared
at one another
stared down, backed off
trampled and shot
fallen and picked up
an ancient love-hate
in a modern twist
of encroachment
unrolling of map
bullet-marking
of traditional homeland
but here
for now
there is peace
(of a kind)
one shoots
and the other gets shot,
beast and beast
in informal ‘acceptability’
of grudge and shrug.

[Inspired by the photography of Rukshan Abeywansa, published in the FINE Section of 'The Nation', December 16, 2012]

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Prabuddha IX

This is the ninth part of the translation of Mahagama Sekera's epic poem 'Prabuddha', an exercise that has the permission and blessings of the immediate family of Mahagama Sekera. Parts I, II, III, IV, V, VI , VII and VIII were published in www.malindapoetry.blogspot.com.

 

He was hero thereafter

To those who wore bellbottoms and mini skirts

to those with hair gathered high

and stylishly tied

to those thick lipped

and with long fingernails

to married women

lascivious and seductive.

 

And they cast their lustful glance

with puckered lips all lipsticked

but not for his voice

or handsome face

‘Vernon went abroad

for a conference

how about a weekend, darling,

let’s say in Belihuloya?’

 

But whatever the gains

whatever the heights he scaled

his mind was steadily impoverished

his soul lay felled and sprawled on the ground.

 

Those lipsticked lips

were red and full of mindless lust

and mascara-ridden eye-edge

burned with envy;

cutting through the convivial conversation

was hatred, unadulterated.

 

‘Prabuddha!

empty this life is

barren it is.

Look!

just beneath the flimsy gold

in the intersection of fragrances

between fingers of hands

extended for shake, for greeting

the contours of hypocrisy

in its full nudity.’

 

Hoodwinked

over and over again,

he felt.  

 

They were at the table

these well-groomed folk

important personalities

pushing away in their drunkenness

the polished silverware

grabbing with both sides

devouring the meats

dripping with juices and saliva

and he thought:

‘I too am like a creature

fed and fattened

for table, for feast.’

 

‘You are an outsider

among them

a foreigner;

this is no place for you

leave!’

 

‘Yasodha!

But I cannot go,

cannot leave you.

I’ve sold my soul to the merchants

just to please your mind

gladden your heart,

sold it to the merchants

to be one with you.

And since then

and until now

I’ve known no peace

just disillusionment

an emptiness

regret.

 

And to unfetter myself from regret

from disillusionment

I spill wine with friends

until midnight and beyond

until freed of memory

until senseless,

gambled in gambling dens

until event last cent was gone.

And yet there is no peace,

no contentment, no relief.

Come consciousness

and the mind breaks into sobs:

“You must leave!”

But I cannot

I cannot leave you.’

 

Various absences

When you go away
and when you come
when you weep
tears to addresses
other than mine,
toss name
again and again
float in a teenage stupor
from rehearsal to concert
to photograph and photo-edit
when you sit here
and when I feel I am absent
and absented
through all this and more
now and again
you are
beautiful
still.