Colourlessness

There must be something

called transparent time,
whose segmenting and segments
slip through the world's fingers
and settles in hearts;
moments that stutter
unrehearsed words that surprise lips
and call for a gathering
among pages
that refuse book-marking.
there must be, i believe,
night-blue textures
awaiting stardust sprinkling,
a little magic that makes
these colourless time-slivers
visible.
now and then.

[From the collection 'The Underside of Silence', shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2009]

LEAVE A COMMENT

She and I

Amid news stories and fairy tales

news room gossip and editorial direction,

in the to and from of my passing

in glance, random word and the swapping of jokes,

in the unplanned way of elements

and reasoning of a madman,

I saw her.

she was not waiting for me, nor i for her,

we were just passing through

through a nation and a century.

an accident,

nothing more. 

I was waiting for myself

and she,

she waited for herself. 

we ran into one another

and ourselves.

said our apologies.

left.

And day after day

from heartbeat to heartbeat

in the now, the evermore and

worlds and years iIve inhabited

and those that took up residence

in my heart

with or without invitation,

there's a girl

who never arrived,

a girl that went away

and a girl that never will leave

the pieces of heart-made paper

as such I use to

paint her face

from a time I remember.

[From the collection 'The Underside of Silence', shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2008]

LEAVE A COMMENT

Snake Charmer

And in the end
once the long day's work is done
and applause has disappeared
into other conversations
and night-plans,
once snake has charmed
and monkey entertained,
does charmer steal away
into dream-box and wonder,
'who was the player,
and who the played;
who was monkey and cobra,
where are my scales,
where is my tail,
did I bring them home,
or were they used
to gift-wrap audience
and celebration?'

*Inspired by the photograph, taken by Piyumika Pathirana

LEAVE A COMMENT

Devotees at Ruwanweliseya

These faces
that of child, man and woman,
carrying karmic signature
devotional intent
talisman of learned history
and unconscious genetic strain
of event, personality and metaphor,
are they the same mix,
more or less,
of those who came before
and will they come again
and again
until final erasure?
These footsteps
silenced by chant and babble
are they different in texture
sansaric print
weight of veneration
in blend of tenderness
and callosity,
as those of the first flower-giver?
And the flowers,
were they similarly fragranced
century to century
through blood and marriage,
rupture and benevolence?
Did the flame enlighten then
in eruption, flicker and death
as it does or does not now?
There is time and time
heart, sinew and thought
the play of the kleshas
resolve and resignation
a sil-suwanda connecting millennia
like pirith and thread,
break and continuity;
unities defying description,
as it was
and will be.

‘Consciousnesses’*

They come and go

these waters from long ago and tomorrow

captured now in ice,

now drawn from a child’s bubbled joy,

and then again from epileptic froth,

decorated with plasmic red,

salted,

‘souped’,

gathered from a continent and a cloud

spit and polish

a whale’s breath and a butterfly wing;

they come to wet sand, erase footprint,

leave trace as line and dampness --

and in the brief residency

and momentary caress

sand says ‘mine’

and spray just smiles. 

[*Inspired by Piyumika Pathirana's photograph above]

LEAVE A COMMENT

Ode to a boat untouched by time

Between the visited and to-be visited

the embraced and the longed for

the place we came from and those which await

the before and after of wave-break and sunset

of dawning of death

love and solitude,

among yesterday’s archaeology

things traced and extrapolated

in the unexplored seabed of dream

amidst thought-shoals unnamed

and currents that dodge anticipation

there is a moment that invades sand

examines the woodwork of being

where madness unites with sanity

lover with lover

where broken dreams scramble into awkward image

where random clicks and structured browsing conspire

to reveal, hide, corrupt and erase,

designed for indescribable grip

intersection-scissoring

and cleansing

by abandonment.

[Inspired by this photograph by Hiranya Malwatta]

LEAVE A COMMENT

Life is brick-made too

The one-bedroom, toilet and kitchen,

rudimental household-start,

the many layered mansion

the forbidding wall

fortressing against intrusion and envy

the house of the ill-willed and generous

Tyrannical and warm-hearted

the corporate towers of the blush-less

the temples of justice

where collar-colour and bare-necked

get castled or acquitted

as per swayability,

the residences of gods, demons and belief-systems

those articulators of faith and credulity

yes, parliaments too

they are all blue-printed in brown

frilled with scar and callous

obliterated even

in labour’s immemorial clays

unseen, unseen, unseen.

[Inspired by the photography of Ishara Kodikara]

LEAVE A COMMENT