Myself

Not proxy

with power of attorney,

not second-best or second-rate,

not default or consolation prize,

flawed and feared perhaps

object of ridicule
failure too

and at times
absentee landlord

but still welcome

through the doors of hurt and annoyance

a faltering voice

that is heard

even when singing out of tune,

a number one in a one-number numerology

an aksharaya that’s irreplaceable:

that’s who I am,

to her

and her,

I like to think.

 

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Alchemy

Pic by Tharindu Amunugama

And those alchemists

the honest ones

for whom metal was metal

and not plastic and bonds,

yes those ancient ones

and the new

the turn-to-gold

of labor

and by way of usurpation

legal and otherwise,

did they not have eyes

or mind

or heart

to see universe in sand-grain

the elemental transformation

the exercise of suzerainty by gold

and end of day

and the happy relinquishing to silver

come dawn?

[Inspired by the photography of Tharindu Amunugama]

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Patience

Pic by Tharindu Amunugama

Waiting is of many kinds

it is a platform vigil

for life-trains that may arrive

or have passed in eye-blink moment;

waiting is a lover’s tryst

a mendicant’s wish

and news made stale by night wind

and neglect;

waiting is a short text message

between life and life

a train that was missed

and a train going in the wrong direction,

waiting is an end game of hope

in hopeless longing

for the beloved

misnamed or mis-taken.

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Mirror walks

Pic by Tharindu Amunugama

Mirrors are walls

they stop

they force reflection

and those who come

they stay, stare and turn around

as though glass was armed

with cut-glass prohibition;

they don’t invite,

don’t say ‘walk in’

don’t say ‘explore’

don’t say ehi-passiko

but this water-glass  landscape

of grass and grass-reverse

of branches that graze

or dip into water

and upturned hills,

like an embroidery-reverse

disarms;

we could drown in our mirror-waters

we could suffer cut-glass scrutiny:

there are no shortcuts to the other side. 

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Bodhisatva Yield

Is it the Buddha that is drawn
from wood and learned-image,
the Gauthama of long ago
the prince turned mendicant
revered beyond veneration
or the name and notion
passed from century to century
in the gather and discard
of perception?

And is the yield
of buddhalambana joy
born of crafting skill
or the imperfection of seer?

Where lies Buddhatva,
in choice of subject
chiseling skill
the chisel, the wood
the eye or finger
the weight unleashed
the strength held back?

Is it a bird, an elephant
that is re-birthed
or just the artist
in bodhisatva yearning?

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