Peradeniya

These pinks from long ago
so fresh, so ancient,
brings back a day,
a month, a year
February 22, 1987.
Today, a bouquet for love's innocence
but for me,
a funeral wreath.

Twenty one years
is nothing for the sun
for me, a century;
a time that the colours of Peradeniya
will not let me forget.

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

LEAVE A COMMENT

Peradeniya

These pinks from long ago

so fresh, so ancient,

brings back a day,

a month, a year

February 22, 1987.

Today, a bouquet for love's innocence

but for me,

a funeral wreath.

Twenty one years

is nothing for the sun

for me, a century;

a time that the colours of Peradeniya

will not let me forget.

Ode to discoveries

Isn't it also true

that it is when one stops looking,

beyond border and horizon,

at footprint and temple,

when we stop listening

for the sound of dawn

the call to prayer

the thunder of the train

the whisper of the rain

that we find

that which is rare

that which is blind to request

deaf to wish?

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

LEAVE A COMMENT

For the reluctant child

These are your hours, child,

dew-driven, tear-born,

these hours are clothed

in garments of waiting

old clothes imprinted with immemorial pattern

dust-dusted, star-clad,

bleeding boring histories

of request and decline.

These are your hours, precious,

heart-made, word-driven,

made of simple thing

like endearment and never-to-be

i-love-you, i-like-you.

These are empty hours now,

they are yours, nevertheless.

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

LEAVE A COMMENT

The country and I

In the search for the perfect word,

the discovery of flawed approximation

and the awkward articulation;

in the hesitant blending of verbalization and silence;

the interminable shuttle between the said and the heard

                             the wanted and provided

                             the dreamt and the lived                

                             the you and I;

I have walked a resplendent territory,

swept with the fragrance derived from pain

caught in the glow of moonbeams on water,

a liberated, liberating country

a mischievous grin

a knowing eye

a continent, an oasis, a flower, a fragrance—

yes, best left undefined.

[From the collection 'The underside of silence', shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2009]

LEAVE A COMMENT

The underside of silence

 

When glass touches glass,
when wine meets lip,

what words curl in gaze? 

Tenderness,

eternity,

moment,

glacier,

us?

  

Pick.

And tell me…. 

What does a glacier look like from beneath the surface?

What is the colour on the underside of silence?

Is there not music below freezing point?

When you melt, does your body disappear

into cloud or harvest,

starlight or smoke-ring,

you or me?
 

[The title poem of the collection by the same name, shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2009]

LEAVE A COMMENT

Residency sought

Elemental mother,

whose heart has known time’s crafting knife

and yet remains unscarred by time,

in your heart is a residency I’ve longed for,

in your eyes waters that heal,

and from your fingertips

flow narratives gathered from broken histories

they teach me things,

simple things like patience

like tenderness

like giving,

and even love.

Yes, often from a distance. 

A fingertip away, an arm’s length maybe,

beyond sight perhaps,

and I think,

even when time and space are so warped

I can see you no more.  

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

LEAVE A COMMENT

The ebb and flow of life and death

One man’s liberator

is another’s terrorist;

but life is often black and white

and frequently coloured,

necessitates killing and death

it’s a tug-o-war

with elemental configuration

battle of hook and knife,

hearth and coin

this way and that we pull

and in the play of clutch and release

probabilities and despair

the drowning on the sand

and burial at sea

the kleshas come

as wave-weave

and wind-twist

sweet nothings and bitter love

pieties and paramitaas

gathered, chopped and sold,

there is short-change in purchase

in small talk and silence.

We come from water

And like water we go

Each to a receptacle

of love and forbidding

some as fish,

some not.

[Inspired by the photography of Ishara S. Kodikara -- see link below]

[Written for the 'Eye' section of 'The Nation' (November 13, 2011)]

LEAVE A COMMENT