America

(awaiting the second coming)

America of Grandfather Whitman 
is no less green and no more red 
a thousand years later,
the tribes that watered his gardens
visible and invisible now as then 
wear badges of insult and humiliation
pride and prejudice, in the silence 
of courtrooms stifled, in the decadent dance  
of black and white to white-out guilt,
and the dignified citizens he spawned
count surreptitiously sporadic victories
chew on the chagrin of centuries buried deep.

America that was and would become pluralised 
as vivid, varied and numerous as immigrant and native
so defined and transformed in redefinition,
the relevant political economies 
of the before, the now, 
the becoming and futures imagined 
Americas, no more poor no less wealthy
than the colonial cousins deemed lesser in the South
and the bedfellows of genocide up north, less but not as low,
Americas and Americans of that time 
were not museumed as were those lands and children
that were and came before. 
America of the eternal verities:
America of joy and sorrow
America of profit and loss
America of praise and blame
celebratory and notorious America and Americans 
as collective overall, 
as segment through cleaving 
historic and accidental 
with and without blood-letting.

Misnamed but not misbegotten America,
led by manicured arrogance 
objected to in word —
many and not so many —
by poets who dissected past,
navigated the present-complex 
mapped her countenance 
traced scars and tears
wrought in tectonic fracture, 
marked the petrified glacial horror 
and the meltdowns that bled
into lake and river —
love’s slow obliteration of history,
unearthed griefs discarded 
and the most ancient of the simplest joys,
are writing, as I write, a blueprint 
for a carburetor that can reboot a corroded engine, 
a redemptive radiator and filters too
made of the finest gauze, membranes and papyrus 
whose resilience was branded in unnecessary wars. 

First there were none 
and then there were thirteen
between the Mississippi River and Appalachian Mountains
a constitution there was 
from the Iroquois Confederacy wrought
copyrights were not waived 
they were made not to count;
first there were thirteen states
and then the bowels of the Founding Fathers spilled out
their entrails snaked their way South and West
there was annexation by gun 
and by rights arrogated upon herself —
                the Guano Act of 1856,
the alibi of accumulated excrement was milked 
and seabirds and bats never knew or cared 
the fertilizer of insatiable greed was strewn far and wide, 
excremental increment was foundational  
then and later and even now, 
and not just in the United States of Amnesia:
that which was Britain, France and Spain,
that which was Mexico
that which was nothing of marauders therein 
that which was commonly held and not priced 
that which was priceless in the philosophies that reigned 
were mapped, named, marked and stamped —
the greatest land theft in remembered history.  

America of the United States 
overruled dignity and civilisation 
subdued righteous and righteousness 
and still its enormous stomach hungered,
and so gluttony spawned blood-letting
one hundred and thirteen and counting 
brown, black, yellow and white blood 
obliterated the red of the native,
Prepared America,
America of Guano-Seek
America of Seizure 
America the Self-Righteous
America of Mis-Naming,
America in democracy’s bastardization,
Jittery America manufacturer of enemies 
America the Pawn of Weapon and Pharmaceutical 
Urinating  America, territory-marker, 
a beast with one hundred and twenty eight heads 
friend of despot, monarch, junta and zealot 
Forgetful America inks rules in languages she does not know.

Grandfather Whitman floats over leaves of grass
sharp blades lacerate and his words, drenched
with blood of unknown signature, and
addresses poets and freedom fighters
the patriarchal, the fratricidal, the theatrical and obsolete:
“America was not mine, I did not create nor own, 
America was and is a fantasy, it’s dimensions
are now surreptitiously shifted 
and now in bold brush-stroked arrogance redrawn,
America was a noun, when I recorded
her continental cleavages, examined the syrups
of her veins, and traced her monumental coporeality,
America is noun, still, improper and egregious,
a gun, a drone, poisonous gas, climate-wrecker, 
warlike, war-liking and warrior, idiomatic aberration,  
thrusted down throats of the untrusting,
sugar-coated happy pill for the naive,
metaphor for desecrated temples, past-tenser of cities and peoples;   
I am not America, but America claims me, claims 
the bold with the timid, grotesque with the handsome, 
claims the apple and the pie, sticks fingers in exotic dips
draws out profit, purchases anonymity, apathy and horror —
I can no longer say ‘growing pains, be patient’;
I am too long dead to awake or awaken 
but I hear there are one hundred Freedom Trains on their way,
I hear they can swim, I hear they can fly, I hear
that they are sealing military installations and confiscating weapons  
and disarming the misinforming with transcendental smiles,
I hear they come to rewrite all my words, and to them
I say: “welcome citizens of the world, I am honored.”

Ode to clothes

Here's a choice:

"torn clothes if you like.”

Distinction is a social construct

this truth we know 

this truth we unlearn 

with singular determination

and train eyes to worship

fashion and trend

those deities manufactured

as all deities are 

to obtain confirmation 

and make profit on the side,

and not everyone is like Voltaire

able in five minutes 

to talk away his face 

so he could bed the Queen of England

if he so wished,

not everyone can erase with ease

consecrated inconsequentiality 

and not everyone can peel away makeup

un-layer deceitful garments 

and bring forth the heart 

resplendent with blemish and wart;

as for me, I wear clean clothes,

some torn and some not

in adoration of preferred comforts

for I have no eyes 

to see eyes that will not see.

The ways of the lotus

Trope and symbol
rises now and now reclines
in the currency of power
and yet so  non-aligned,
bloomage of an artist’s imagination
watered by histories
and preferred extrapolation —
the unpaid stamp-duty
of commissioned omission
and republics squandered;
pavements meanwhile
agitate for compensation
speak of narratives obscured
the footnoted stories of the submerged
the roots that sifted soil
picked nutrients
made for fragrance and texture
and reed songs wrecked
by excessive love
equal to hatreds unresolved;
and as for the lotus
through abstraction and misrepresentation
away from metropole and galleried effusion
it rises, the lotus does
as it has, as it must,
again and again.
  

To my Kolombian lover

Surreal and amazing is this sunset
the moonrise and the dawn
dressed as they are
in the colors of your radiance
the radicalism you had
for so long hidden from me


And as you sing love songs
of tomorrows and tomorrows
the fragrance of roses
having wafted over barricades
and perfumed Parliament
your voice is a garden of love
whose petals were until now unknown

Your Sri Lankan flag flutters
in defiance and hope
and makes me tremble
putting to shame your fingers
gaze and words
as they caressed my heart
all these years of knowing and loving

And I remember those other times,
not too long ago,
when you spoke of symbol and trope
and with fine ideological blade deconstructed,
skinned a lion, blunted a sword
mixed colors so ratios were blurred
and in the name of 'Sri Lanka'
you assigned to each religion a single vote
and a single vote too to each ethnic group

And I remember those other times,
again not too long ago
when selling off national assets
as per Bretton Woods diktat
went unnoticed
'countries are markets,
boundaries meaningless'
so the economists said
and you, my love,
in the wisdom acquired
from geographies and coffee shops
where ladies and gentlemen
so refined with classical western culture
civlized by the Greek and the Romans
quoted Keats, Shakespeare and Wordsworth
and sometimes even Marx, Althusser, Lacan and Gramsci
you, my darling,
were not perturbed,
but that was then,
way back then.

Countries are markets and toys
histories irrelevant, heritage too
except of course the homeland discourse
when the doctrine of unboundedness was shelved
to accomodate the carving of a map
to placate a thug

The flag is now wrapped around your waist
what a garment, what a lovely sight
never have you looked this beautiful, my love

'system-change, system-change,' the slogan screams,
and I applaud, eyes shining, voice breaking,
remembering all those years and even yesterday
of badmouthing individual or party,
blaming politician and policy
but holding in reverence, never touching
'the system'

The system was and is invisible
but not unidentifiable, as you now know
and when we send it home, so to speak,
out will go capitalism
out too the IMF option,
out will go exploitation
out will go the neoliberalist lie
out will go privilege
out too the lifestyles
that system rewarded you with
yes, with tax-breaks and easy-paths
to certificate, profession and career
and Colombo will be swept over by the rabble
the baiyas and godayas and others outdated
the uncivilized riff-raff providing sneer-content
for Puswedilla and his ancestors

My dearest, the road to Tomorrow
is not a superhighway, this you know,
there will be tear-gas, water-cannons and baton-charges
there will be arrests and detention,
perhaps torture and death

I hope not, sweetheart
if the long march against all tyrannies
and not those comfortably selected
takes you to unhappy places,
the barricades or a police cell
if you are shackled in some K-point
the torture-death chambers
that mimic the political architecture of the late eighties
you might find people unlike any you've seen before
people whose body-odour and crude-words
are signatures of class
identifiers that locate them
and of course you,
whispering 'this is what the system is all about comrade'

They might ask about police brutality
'Lasantha, Lasantha Wickramatunga'
I am sure you won't forget that name,
but you would also enumerate thus:
'Manjula Asanka and Raseen Chintaka of Boossa,
Appuhamuge Edward of Hunumulla,
Magoda Pathirage Hema Vipul
Sathasivam Madism of Karadiyanaru,
Manjula Prabath Wijewardena, Mawanella,
Chadik Syman Wickramarachchi, Peliyagoda
Sunanda Dias, Gampaha
Nadaraja Karan and Pavun Raj Sulakshan,
Sumith Prasanna Munasinghe, Embilipitiya.'

'From 88-89?' they might ask,
but you can tell them,
'no, they belong to Yahapalanaya times'

And then they'll ask,
'How about 88-89 sahodariya,
do you know who died?'
'Why,' you would reply, 'Richard, Richard De Soyza!'
But before they can interject, you would add
'And not just him
for there was Ranjithan Gunaratnam,
indeed just one Richard there were 60,000 Ranjithans.'

For now you see,
and now you know
and thus we grow,
you and I
and all of us,
through innocence and ignorance
arrogance and conviction,
from darkness to light
slumber to wakefulness
selectivity to the overall
beyond comforts and comfort zones
in the necessary radicalization
that leaves far behind
precipitating factors
and misbegotten rewards,
the yield of class and class privilege

Surreal and amazing is this sunset
the moonrise and the dawn,
dressed as they are
in the colors of your radiance
the radicalism you had
for so long hidden from me
or which I never had eyes to see,
but now you see
and I do too
and that all the difference makes.

ස්වර්ණවන්නියේ සයිමන්

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

එසේ සිදුවිය එය,
සයිමන්
වන්නි අම්මාගේ
තන් පුඩු තොලගාමින්
කැඳවුයේ සාරයයි මහා පොළොවේ
සභ්‍යත්වයන් පෙරළා
ජීවිතයේ පෙළයි නෙළුවේ
දඩයක්කරුවන් මෙන්ම බෝධිසත්වයන් ගැනද
යුක්තියේ රිසිවරුද
රිසිවරයන්ගේ අතපසුවීමද
දේශපාලනයද කවියද
පැවැත්ම සහ චලනයද
අපහාසයද ලක්වූවන්ද එයට
උරා බිව් ඔහු
මෙසේද සටහන් කළේය:
'වසලයාද බ්‍රාහ්මණයාද ඔබමැයි --
එබැවින් රිසි සේ ජීවත්වනු මැන
ස්වර්ණවන්නියේද සිදාදියේද,
අපැහැදිලි මෙන්ම පැටලුනු නිවෙස් තුල --
අසඩක් නොවේය මම.'

මා තනිව සිටියදී

 

 

 

 

 

"මා තනිව සිටියදී මම මගේම මිතුරිය වෙමි" -- සිබිල් වෙත්තසිංහ

මා තනිව සිටියදී
කුඩා දැරියක්
නියරක් දිගේ දිව විත්
ඇලක් තරණය කොට
දෑතේ එල්ලී
සෙල්ලම් ගෙවල් සහ පුච්චපු කොස් ඇට වලින්ම සැදුනු  
තැඹිලි-දවස් වෙත කැඳවන්නී

තනිව සිටියදී
යුගයෙන් යුගයට යමි
කිසිදා මහළු නොවන දෑස් සොයමි
අත්තම්මාගේ ආදරය ද
අම්මාගේ ඔවදන් ද නෙලා ගනිමි
මැසිවිලි සහ කඳුළු අවසන
දැවටෙමි අහල පහළ
ඔවුන් ගේ දොර වැඩ වල
මා ඔවුන්ගේ ආරක්‍ෂිත දෑස් තුල

තනිව සිටියදී  මා
විදෙස් බල පත්‍රය වීසි කරමි කැළණි ගඟට,
හංවැල්ලෙන් ගුවන් ගත වෙමි
එකතු වෙමි උද්ඝෝෂණ, රැස්වීම් සහ පාගමන් වලට
තේ කඩවල අල්ලාප සල්ලාප අතර
ඈත අතීතයෙන් එන අනාගතයට උරුම
ආදරවන්තයින්, ආදරය සහ රාගය
පිරිමදිමි, සිත්තම් කරමි
 
තනිව සිටියදී මා
දොලගලක් වෙමි පෙරළෙන
පාපැදියක දම්වැලෙන් ඝර්ෂණය සොයා ගනිමි
මෙතෙක් නොදුටු
රවී-ක්ෂිතිජ රංගන   
රඟදක්වන තෙක්
ඉවසා සිටිමි.

ඔබේ ඇද කුද

හිස් කැටපතක් සහ ඔබගේ විනාසකාරී ගති පැවතුම්
ඇතොත් එකිනෙක මුණ ගැසෙන මොහොතක්
ඇරඹෙනු ඇත එතැනින් නිර්මාණකරණය
එයම වේ කැටයම ද කලාවද

පුරුදු වන්නට මැස්ම
ඇවැසිය ඉරුණු රෙදිකඩක්
ඇඳුම් මසන්නා ට
යළි යළිත් කැපිය යුතු වෙය
රුක් කඳ
ඉස්තරම් වඩු කම් පිණිස

ඇවැසිය බිඳුණු අස්ථියක්
වෙදකම් පිණිස වෙදදුරුට
නැගෙනු වස් කිත් යසස්
ඇවසිය ඔබේ නෙක ඇද කුද

-- ජලාල්උද්දින් රූමි
(පරිවර්තනය:මාලින්ද සෙනෙවිරත්න. සංස්කරණය: සුනන්ද කරුණාරත්න)