“Love is never illicit!”

A midnight assertion 

took me to many yesterdays

the loving turning and re-turning of pages

the rolling of words on a mind-tip 

and an evening of finality,

that moment   

when Seeress asked and the Master replied

and where at the exhaustion of query

even after blessedness was acknowledged 

two questions had arrived and in arrival were answered:

“Was it I who spoke?  Was I not also a listener?”

I re-read the prophetic prescription

the nutshell version 

of the book “All about love”

and, in the manner of our days,

pressed ‘ctrl F’;

I called for “illicit”

and then 

in seerish presumption

from that unyielding text requested,

“And what of the licit, Master?”

There arose 

from the flame-tip

of an oil lamp

lit in a long forgotten temple 

the softest silence

and which, bathed 

in timeless luminosity 

decreed: 

‘transliterate!”

And so in crippled tongue

this I am compelled to say:

It is no sin 

to name the undefined 

but we desist

on account of vulgarity;

the beloved is nameless

and therefore variously named;

the question of propriety

is a verse on moonlight

so why write about luminosity 

when to let it clothe 

is verse enough? 

Oh! Beloved!

I’ve digressed

so let me 

to the country of love

return.

The architecture of poetry

A word

or maybe just random letters

these are the gifts unintended 

but there is a filing instrument 

again a gift unintended

yes hurt 

can chip away

smooth over sharp edge 

cut clean

and hand over to heart

these raw materials 

with which

by and by

splendid pavilions I make

for who knows whom

if so desired to stay awhile 

Location

Rise, roll and crash

then run 

touch feet

worship-like

and run back

laughing-like

rise, roll and crash

in endless repeat

it’s not the you 

of first arrival

and it’s not someone else

no

the evening post exclaims: 

waiting for things that never arrived

waiting for things that might come

sifting grains 

and shifting blues 

are splendid places 

for feet to grow old

in the brine of being

Gossamer Girl

There's light thieving in

street light, home-light and moon;

it's quiet here and cool

but I wish it would rain

blend-light further blurred

is guest, not thief

There's a feast downstairs

a quiet consumption

of demand and request

a chewing out with burst

and a resolution with smile

You in your infinities

I in my dust-speck

We in familiarity 

Gossamer of a kind 

A joy and a pleasure

Not to rally round 
for yet another scarecrow to make
but the the threshing floor 
of its birth to fertilize 
a joy and pleasure
surely for the straw




[translation of "සැපකි - සතුටකි " from the collection "මීළඟ මීවිත" (The next wine) by Ruwan Bandujeewa]

Faces

The river's face and mine
after a long, long time did meet

The river 
into my face peered 
scratched head with fingertips
and a sign of recognition sought,
I felt

Beloved,
having seen us
not separately
but together
a moment more tarried
took a turn and hid
the river did






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

A sandesaya to Gamini Fonseka

Tell us of the roles you play

the scripts that come alive
as you walk and walk,
speak and say nothing,
in your gaze and gesture,
out there in those other locations
among the other heroes
supporting casts
props and equipment.
Tell us about that life,
the parameters
within which they capture
moment and a love note
a kiss and an arrow;
the contortions of the human condition
the comedy, tragedy and other undefined things.
Tell us about the play of power,
of dignity and arrogance
the slippages
between ‘possible’ and ‘impossible’,
loose words, and
silence that draws from the eternal verities.
Tell us about the heroines,
the casuals,
the portraits shattered with gunfire
the images that were not bullet-proof
but which survived.
Tell us,
in this land beyond recall,
how tall you are,
how commanding;
give us the dimensions
of profile and bearing.
Do you, for example,
hold the screen in a clenched fist
or in your determined eyes,
or have you disappeared
in the burning black-white frame
of your own exhalations
or crushed like the cigarette-ends
you ground out
to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’
as per script
or out of it,
as was your way?

[first published in 'The Nation' in October 2006, a few days after his death]