The poet’s curse*

It must be an unwritten love

or a love without words

something between verse and verse 

a teasing ethereality 

an absence or a longed-for 

too precious for the vulgarity of form

or description;

yes, poets who write about love

may not have it

but are nevertheless loved —

for theirs is the language of belonging

not ownership,

in the feudalism of romance

they care not for deed

but tenuriality 

— even in passing —

is land enough for love.

This they know.  

*”It is a poet's curse to be able to write about love but not have it…”

Even the Menik Ganga peed*

Two hundred breasts

when by two divided, one hundred women

the feast was splendid indeed

even the Menik Ganga** fell incontinent upon its shores

Having removed a hundred jewelled girdles, brasiers, pearl necklaces and earrings 

The mango was cut, slice by slice, even as the Goddess Pattini residence held

Even Manamperi*** peeked out hearing the whistles and joyous cheers

Submerged was the Vedahiti Kanda with the yolk of peacock eggs

Two hundred smoldering eyes

when by two divided, one hundred women

the feast was splendid indeed

even the Menik Ganga** fell incontinent upon its shores

[translation of "මැණික් ගඟටත් ඉවුරේ චූ යයි" from the collection "මීළඟ මීවිත" (The next wine) by Ruwan Bandujeewa]

*A politician threw a party to celebrate sexually abusing a hundred women — news item

** Literally, ‘River of Jewels’ which, for many Sri Lankans is the holiest river in the island, and which falls into the sea in the Southern Province, the ‘territory’ of the said politician

***Reference to Premawathi Manamperi, beauty queen of Kataragama, abducted, raped and killed by those tasked to put down an insurrection

Kundalakesi

Lifted in coiffered arrangement -- cloth wrapped tight
Princess who with red buneela petals the floor bedecked
Circled thrice in homage -- the bed where Sattuka lay
Kundalakesi of a machete's seven blows 

Grabs necklaces does Sattuka -- peddles weed does Sattuka
Law enforcement does visit the humble hut now and again
Princess who drew from Sattaka -- the whiplash sting
Flying to Welikada with a packet of rice armed 

Gamble he does -- brothels frequents too Sattaka
Princess who never complained until now
Who from the bed in consternation fell 
At the little girl's plaintive cry 'No, Thaatthe, No'

Circled thrice in homage -- the bed where Sattuka lay
Kundalakesi of a machete's seven blows 



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

Prasanna

Like soft light

reflected from guitar strings

and heart-glass,

like long silence

between monosyllables,

a half smile from knowing eyes,

slow in so many ways

because the mind raced

or had a long time ago --

still life,

that's you:

quietness that delights

in moments that stay 

long after capture 

and the exit

of all conspirators.  

Pics by Sharni Jayawardena

“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