From the Peacock Caste

Seeing the unforgiving drought

racing and roaring in

spouting dust from mouth and nostril

breaking door and window of nest

gathering whatever hands can lay on

migratory birds do flee to the faraways

However dry the zone may be

they remain on branches dead and dying 

and none, not one of the peacock caste

to lush places fly

If there are kids without toys

at play in a garden nevertheless

swoop down instantly they will

and drop a feather or two

as per the custom of the tribe. 

[translation of "මොනර කුලයෙන්" from the collection "මීළඟ මීවිත" (The next wine) by Ruwan Bandujeewa] 

In a certain valley….

On either side of the river

from a long time ago 

two mountains rise

bound in love 

They cast gaze

on the other’s face

and nothing else

have they done

And yet now and then

from mountain eyes

tear drops roll

down to the river below

They burst out 

and as thin streams roll

and gather at the river,
this is apparent. 

[Translation of Ruwan Bandujeewa's "එක්තරා නිම්නයක..."]


එක්තරා නිම්නයක....


ගඟ දෙපැත්තේ
බොහෝ කල් සිට
ප්‍රේමයෙන් බැඳි
කඳු දෙකක් ඇත

උනුන් වත දෙස
බලා ඉනු මිස
මෙතෙක් කල් වෙන
වුනු දෙයක් නැත

නමුත් ඉඳ හිට
කඳු ඇසින් වට
කඳුළු කැට කැට
ගලා පහළට

සිහින් ඇළ දොළ
ලෙසින් පැන නැග
ගඟට එක්වෙනු
දකින්නට හැක ...

Aerial Music

Unheard, unsung

and yet not unmade,

there’s a timeless music score 

of wingtip, flight-path and synchronicity 

played to the accompaniment

of orchestral skies

the singular note of an oboe

rising above depravities 

the cardinal errors of acquired incapacity 

and sorrows embedded 

in earthy things.

[Inspired by the photography of Sajani Amarathunga]

Our Mother*

She's taller now:

too tall to hold 

to cuddle too old; 

queen you were

and she princess

then as now, 

and you

are as you were

in your distance and proximity

words and words not said;

your children, all of them,

are safe

in a cradling that endures

the mortality of passing.

*On behalf of all her children

The conspiracy of night

Life and light in synonymity:

one yields and is also made of the other

but involuntary glance

through random windows 

gives moon-wires 

bent by wind

and blushed by rain

conspiring with ardent trees

and pliant foliage.  

We can paint it

transliterate 

or just breathe it all

and tell our hearts,

“open now 

the beloved has arrived’

The most ancient love song

There are times
when I am visited
by flowers;
bouquets,
with a florist's tag:
deepest sympathies.
My voice is too weak to say,
'not yet,
although her heart has died for me,
mine has not, for her'

[From the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves']

A ship without anchor

“For a canoe that comes to pick flowers 

to be with bullets riddled

in the middle of a reservoir

let license be granted to a lotus

among red petals a pistol to conceal.

“Instead of bringing forth separately

for common internment 

let us decree that the ocean 

must henceforth construct a plain

for a river another river to meet 

face to face.”

“Alright friend,

but tell me

of what use is the proximate sound of a lighthouse 

for a ship that has its anchor lost?” 

[translation of "නැංගුරම නැති නැවක්" from the collection "මීළඟ මීවිත" (The next wine) by Ruwan Bandujeewa]