The beginning and end of forever

Forever begins

with heart-stop,

a virginal rebirthing

and umbilical dissolve

that separates and erases

all illusion

of heart, touch and things mis

named.

Forever never ends, though;

it just gets lost in the

Alzheimeic plains

of reason and other encounters

The first love is also the last, I think. 

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

Ode to banishment

Beyond the railway track
parallel lives merge 
with words and laughter
and unexpected meeting of eyes
that obliterate narrative 
they are airlifted
from the island of  sorrow;
beyond lunchtime exchanges
heart-food digests 
with the after-wash
of spray and rain
tosses the gospels of love
re-numbers time's sad pages;
and in the later this-side
of trains and food
I am told
'I am sick of words'
and banished
to vast word-less continents
unparalleled 
and unhappily un-merged. 

Crazy love dreams

Over an embankment 
and exotic insomnia
tripping along stepping stones
in improbable arrangement
between and through library shelves 
surreptitious tiptoeing 
among forbidding commonalities 
in the flipping of scripts 
and recovered transliteration
thus did memory roll slumber 
and yielded the you 
of that other time of color 
so diminished now.

Residencing

And so I write to report,

that in the ambivalent crafting of landscape

that is city,

this symphony of multitude and madness,

in the discoloring of green and blue

among the soft stone in hard arrangement,

in the grand aggregate

and glossy individuality that contains nothing,

this too may pass in the relentless dissolve of time;

but perhaps a random girl

a creature of polite address and conversation,

petal and hue in a grand bouquet

of thorn, weed and synthetic assembly,

like a faint, familiar fragrance,

trapped in the amber of memory,

may remain.

[From the collection 'The Underside of Silence']

Wine Sutra

Lips are for wine

of a particular kind

but grape drawn intoxication

dark red or gold

is discolored and poor

against the liquid maturities

of heart aged wineries

that give distilled word-essence

and the exotic silent aftertaste –

and yet, for all the delights

of lip and heart

your extensive vineyard gives

it is the trace of fingertipped grace

on fingertip-lips

that’s wine unsurpassed.

පසන් කොඩිකාර

ආවා ගියා ද 

ගිහින් ආවද  

මෙහේම හිටියද 

තවමත්
ඇවිත්
නැද්ද?

ඒ කෙසේ වෙතත්... 

හීන් ම හීන් හඬකි 

ඇසුන නෑසුන 

සුවඳකි 

අතැඟිලි අතරින් ගිලිහෙන 

රසදියරකි 

දැනෙන නොදැනෙන ස්පර්ශයෙන් 

නොමැකෙන දෑ  කළ.

පිටස්තරයෙකි පිටුවහල් කළ 

හැඳුනුම් පතක් නොමැති 

නන්නාඳුනන හිතවතෙකි 

නේවාසිකයෙකි 

අනේවාසිකකම් කියා දෙන  

          ජීවිතයේ 

          ගීතයේ 

          වචනයේ           

          වීදියේ 

          ප්‍රේමයේ.

නික්මයාම තුල ජීවමානයි 

පරාජිතයි ඔහු අප පැරදුන බැවින් 

පිබිදී සිටී අප  අවදි කළ  බැවින්

තවමත් අසල්වාසියෙකි  

විශ්වාස කළ සත්‍යයන් ද 

අවතැන් වීම වෙනුවෙන්ද 

පෙනී සිටි බැවින් 

දෛනික සිපිරිගෙදරින් 

පලා  ගොස් 

තහනම් දේශයේ සිත් සේ 

මං පෙත් හෙළි කළ බැවින්  

මළවුන් අතර ජීවත් වූ බැවින්  

මියගොස් ජීවිතයට වරමක් 

දිනාගත් බැවින් 

කළු-සුදු විශ්වයකට  

වර්ණ වත් කරයි 

හීන් ම හීන් හඬකින් 

සුවඳකින් නම් කල නොහැකි.   

For Pasan Kodikara

He came in and went out

or was it the other way about?

Anyway, 

he was a whisper and a fragrance

utterly intangible

and yet with intangibility stamped

a presence that stayed and stayed;

he was ‘out’

as in outcast and un-belonged

he was ‘in’ 

in a way we could never be,

in life

in song

in word

in love

omnipresent in absence

absent in his astrally 

lost because we were lost

found because he found us

just by being

by inhabiting fidelity

to held beliefs of un-belonging

by trespassing 

out of everyday prisons 

by living 

among the dead

by dying

to enter the afterlife 

of life he crafted

with whisper and fragrance.

Also read:

Pasan Kodikara in and out of text

Pasan Kodikara -- a poet lost in translation

Pasan Kodikara left behind the softest footprints

Pasan Kodikara -- the perfect Bohemian

තිරය විවර වූයේ පරිපූර්ණ බොහීමියානුවාගේ නික්ම යෑමට යි

පසන් කොඩිකාර: පරිවර්තනයේ අතුරුදහන් වූ කවියෙක්