ON LOVE

Love is a regent

with an entourage 

there is terror, fear, sorrow 

courtesying even as they hurt

poisoned darts

to make heart tremble

dismantle mind 

wreck hour into minutes

that can never add up to 60 again;

invites embrace

and melting 

and we grip hard to force the issue

or loosely to make for easier dissolve,

or run away 

on account of poverty

(we can't pay the price),

when all there is to do

is caress,

with fingertip

with gaze

word

and silence.   

[From the collection 'Stray kites on string-less days']

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MUTTIAH

What was bigger, do you think,

the Kookaburra or his eyes?

What mesmerized more,

the glint,

unwavering focus

the afterwards-smile?

He was made of grin-and-bear,

this boy who came from a mountain

this man who caught insult

and tossed it back

to bounce and spin

and disarrange wickets.

He was slighted

but was not slighting;

the Smiling Assassin

never killed;

he just wrote some poetry

with finger, wrist, mind, eye and heart.

And we,

the beneficiaries

of the mis-hit that went for SIX,

the miss that took his off-stump

or slid by keeper for four,

the brilliant run-out

and breath-taking catch,

and of course the wickets,

the wickets

that fell and fell and fell

like the records that will take time beating,

yes, we

can salute.

You made us taller, Murali.

Thanks.   

[from the collection 'Stray kites on string-less days]

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FOR SIMON

Life was a twirl of smoke
and madness
black, white and shade
word-weave was your thing,
wasn't it Simon?
In the sacred groves
you make your tracks these days
does nihilist meet lover,
does Yasa toss the burden of memory
at Suba
and Suba throw back?
Is the Afterlife Mullegama Galkanda
as silent with history
as it was this side of death?
Does it get covered by wilderness
uncovered by civilization
and re-covered by the eternal verities?
Did the dadayakkaraya forgive caricature
and the heart,
does it gasp 
in love's breathlessness,
still?
And is the golf-cap
lighter 
than the lightness of your being
and loving
here on this earth you walked
so many centuries ago?

[From the collection 'Stray kites on string-less days']

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COMMANDANTE

Ah! Che,
Yes, you are now brand
and product
capitalism’s artifact
pin-up boy
for everything 
you objected to
yes, 
your face is 
on t-shirt
and hoarding,
web-banner
and fb wall,
profile pic
and other places
you would never have dreamed about. 
Not your fault, companero,
no, not at all;
it was not about victory
but the march
the journey
and you touched
and touch
and will touch
and change and change and change.
Slowly, yes,
but still, surely, 
yes, surely.

Hasta Siempre Commandante!

[from the collection 'Stray kites on string-less days]

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PACIFIER

(for my daughter Dayadi Sucharya)

And she looks deep into my eyes

now and then.

Asks: are you crying? 

Says: wait a little, don’t go.

She runs into her room

brings out her most prized possession,

‘The Good King Sivi’.

Lady Birds her love

and waves her heart as handkerchief

in the manner of magician and lover

wipes tear and instructs:

‘Read this and you will remember me’.

She’s such a grandmother,

this daughter of mine,

and such a child too.

[from the collection 'Stray kites on string-less days]

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THE HELA HATAN OF RITIGALA

(for Ritigala Sumedha)

These hills are ancient,

older than the stories

and poetry

the dance and the dancer

the warrior and the war.

They live

because they are lived in

and their stories re-related

not only with word on paper

but in the grace of movement,

the tempered steel

the focused mind

the heart of equanimity.

These hills are ancient

because they are new

and are renewed 

and their spirits reawakened

with the particularity of gaze

the clasp of hands

the sprinkling of labour

the veneration of a tradition.

There are winds 

               that swirl as mist;

they are made 

               of the life-breath

of the immortals,

the defenders 

of a land and lifestyle,

the thousands 

of the Yaksha Nation;

they are made of strong belief

and tender engagement,

feet that know earth

hands that protect flame 

and eyes bereft of anger;

made of you and I

and a history un-visited

and is yet both of our now

and tomorrow;

made also,

among other things,

of a man called Sumedha,

history-born, 

tradition-resident,

of the soil, the waters

and a mountain

called Ritigala.

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A Christmas Advertisement

And so they went

from one store to the next

          to the next and next

all bedecked with Christmas colour

melodied with Christmas cheer

the fake mistletoe the red-nosed reindeer

and Santa too,

the glitter and shine

the bells and lights,

all screaming ‘Purchase!’

all carrying the soft small-print tag

‘In the name of Jesus!’

(of was it the other way about?),

all laid out for them folks

armed with crisp currency notes

and easy plastic.

And they came,

they saw

they were glad too,

for they went away

duly garmented,

while the raiment of the Savior

so visible all over

remained unvisited.

The eyes of the faithful

Were fervent in prayer,

Elsewhere.

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The most beautiful eyes

I can see me in your eyes,

can you see you in mine?

She asked.

In your eyes, little girl,

I see roads and skies

patterns that capture thought-train

randomness that turns heartbeat into petal

and road into river.

In your eyes,

my petalled-heartbeat,

I see thorn and laughter,

tear and resolve,

breaking, breaking and breaking

renewal, renewing and reward,

a child, mother and sister,

impossible loves

quietly slipping

into possible togethernesses,

fingers reaching out

to touch your cheek

and your arms opening wide

to receive world

and your fingers trembling

at the touch of a baby’s breath.

In your eyes, my darling,

I don’t want to see me

or places I’ve come from

or things I want to do.

There’s so much to see

so little time

but that’s alright.

Just look around,

that’s enough.

[written for my daughter 'Mitsi' (Mithsandi)]


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ANCIENTING

Take old woman

and unravel:

whisk away whisker and worry line

Smooth out skin-bend

wrought of smiling.

Take old woman and un-wrinkle

obtain little girl.

Easy.

Sad!

Reverse gear process:

Take child and craft woman

craft further

find old woman.

find death.

Impossible!

Thankfully.

[from the collection 'Stray kites on string-less days']

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AT THE MAUSOLEUM OF LOVE

At the mausoleum of love

on any given night

or day

the loved and the loving

bend low

touch ground

and memory rebirths

the beloved;

while the unloved

they pillage

in the manner of a nidan hora

assassinate again and again

desecrate again

heart and time.

Love eludes some,

and I wonder why they wonder why.

[from the collection 'Stray kites on string-less days']

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COLOUR-TOUCH PHOBIA

There’s a blank sheet of paper

screaming for colour

and I dare not touch it,

not even with fingertip

or gaze

for I know nothing

of tragedies and triumphs

poised for a dive

that cannot be reversed. 

[from the collection 'Stray kites on string-less days'] 

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ON COLOUR, TENDER

Pastel shades

are made of pain

persistence,

tumouring

          heart-shredding with love-blade

they offer immortalizing kiss

and drain life with smile

and so unlike hard-colour,

that peculiar wash of friendship

disavowal and fear of ambiguity

the sliced and secured arrogance

that definitive afternoon cup of tea

drawn from knowing.

[From the collection 'Stray kites on string-less days']

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ON COLOUR, HARD AND SOFT

Hard colour

is made for defining,

for contouring

categorization and theft

grab and run

stick-ups and waylaying;

pastel shades now

they are for corporate crime

they slip knot,

slide from layer to layer

and no one notices.

[from the collection 'Stray kites on string-less days]

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OCTOGENARIANISM

A line for every path walked,

wrinkle for every twist of fate,

colour-shade for layers of being

and navigations that intersected

absorbed and was consumed

by navigation,

and the specks

the scars

markers on a cartography

of living and dying;

it is not the trace

or embroidery-reverse

of the ashta loka dharmaya,

but how mind, heart and sinew,

fingertip and fist,

tender gaze and angry eye,

doubt and finality

touched, caressed, banged against

got hurt and cooled

in the play

of joy

and sorrow,

profit-loss,

fame and ill-fame

and praise and blame.

Look.

It’s history

and a retelling

of an ancient tale

told and retold.

Read it; it’s your story.

[from the collection 'Stray kites on string-less days']

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ODE TO INCARCERATION

And of prisons it was thus decreed

some would be bar-made and some unbarred

some to separate the free from the incarcerated

and some with lines erased,

yes so erased

that ‘free’ comes with query mark

and imprisonment is the worst kept secret

in the metropolis. 

And of the former kind,

there are those who are bowled,

and those less picture-perfect.

The goldfish looks with compassion

and knows the futility of keeping notes

but we,

we eye one another with pity

and even empathy

keep notes;

we might as well collect mirrors

while we wait the clock-guard

to interrupt the monotony of delusion

if nothing else.

[from the collection 'Stray kites on string-less days']

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THREE MONTHS LATER

Like always,
she is present
and absent,
in and out of me,
i speak her words,
wonder if my face mimics 
manner and humour,
love and confusion,
and i remember
the intensity of giving
equalled by an intensity of refusal;
she was proud
and such a child
in her gifting 
and embrace,
mother and teacher,
but such a student too.

And I, 
I cannot remember
the kiri-suwanda,
that baby time
or her giving
for time-squeeze
and event-mix
arrived 
with the curse of awkwardness 
she left
so did I
each to a specific banishment
each in a specific abhinishkramanaya,
and our returns never coincided
our orbits chose to slip 
and miss.
I was not her eka-pun-sanda,
not all the time;
but i was, i am sure,
now and then,
and that's all that matters
in the matter of thanksgiving.


[written in memory of my mother, January 2010] 

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ODE TO WEATHERING

ODE TO WEATHERING

There is dust

a stupor rising

from being and becoming:

it is the brain-residue

of the after-rain

of overflowing days

dripping into a plastic container

through tiles that once leaked sunlight.

We clean up

the vomit of global warming

await the next retching

and worry about our children.

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THE DIMENSIONS OF INFINITY

To the fish in the net

a single drop of water,

to the incarcerated

a sliver of sky,

to the guitarist

whose hands were cut off

a pick,

and

lip-red

to the heart that said ‘no’

to a love that will not return.

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UNCLOTHING

Thread by thread,

a slow dismantling,

removal of colour

wrecking of pattern

unscrambling motif

a miscarriage of line and space:

so many names for fragmenting.

Our disguises are many

and our unclothing unpredicted

but the mirror,

she knows

so it matters not

which hands rip apart

our garments

or why:

it is a has to be done thing

so says the Book of Love.

[From the collection 'Stray kites on string-less days']


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ODE TO FORGOTTEN MELODIES

They have a way

of come-and-go,

without invitation

with no warning,

those tunes

made of place and encounter

and a long time ago;

but they go

and as they go

they trip and smirk

and rush to destinations

we are not supposed to know,

but I’ve heard that they hide

in this hide-and-seek

climb and slide world of

Ludo

and Snakes and Ladders

lurk in other people’s minds

or tiptoe around

the cacophony of the latest hits. 

So fickle,

these ditties of a long ago;

so unworthy to be theme-song

of a love gone waste

or a history squandered

and yet so adept

at trumping mortality. 

[from the collection 'Stray kites on string-less days']

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Mumia Abu Jamal*

Yo Mumia,

give us news:

type it all out

on your dread-lock type-writer heart

pin it on the memory of a radio show

fold it in a jailor’s guilt

sail it on the waves of complicity

tell me how long 30 years is like

my brother Political Prisoner,

unravel the meaning

of justice, decency and civilization

those easy alibis for invasion and massacre

the age old guns-in-booty-out of empire;

whistle your story if your fingers are tired of twiddling

in unison with the waiting-for-you

of friend and detractor;

write to us again

the love story of your democracy

your citizenship

and your freedom

that is envied so much

by so many.

*Mumia Abu Jamal, wrongfully convicted of murder, completed 30 years in prison on December 9, 2011.  His sentence was commuted to ‘life’ from execution by lethal injection on December 8, 2011.

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STOLEN MOMENTS

Piece of land that jumped over

the Waste Lands Act

arrested by a mendicant from Europe

to piddle on his hasty little-mindedness;

piece of cloth

embroidered with valour-thread

and discontent

splashed with the orphan blood

of the vanquished,

handkerchief gathering melancholia

frayed edges of history

and history’s footnotes

time’s irrelevanced archive:

yes, it was in this soil

was it not,

was it not here

that the lost melodies

of stolen moments

were finally pieced together

and laid to rest

wrapped in that dust-made banner,

never to rest in peace,

ever?

[from the collection 'Stray kites on string-less days']

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KISSES

In an impossible city

on a street lined with rare emotions

on forgotten clotheslines and heart-sleeves

hang incandescent smiles,

I am told;

not for all eyes, no

but those that are lipped

and are themselves lost

in oblivion. 

[From the collection 'Stray kites on string-less days']

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PAVEMENT STONES

Some newly laid

so newly laid you want to step around them,

and some wearied of feet

chewing gum, spit

and conversation remnant;

pavement stones know stories

know kicked-in-the-gut

insult;

are made of morning, noon and night

witness to all prosecution

innocent to the end

of a rope and sword-swing.

Yes, pavement stones

are drops of poetry

waiting to be flung at the oppressor,

didn’t you know?

[From the collection 'Stray kites on string-less days']

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A NEW NOTE TO ABIDIN

(AFTER NAZIM HIKMET)

Come Abidin,

let us to the Pearl of the Indian Ocean

the tear of all tears

blood soaked and benign.

There, I have heard

lives a painter*

who turns apple into orange

draws it out of table, table-cloth and frame

to feed revolution;

who disguises scream as laughter

anguish as resolve

and tickles himself to death

so he can live forever.

*reference to Gamini Haththotuwegama.

[from the collection 'Stray kites on string-less days']

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