Ode to projectiles

I am thinking of projectiles:

the toss of a rock and a teargas canister

multiple arcs of a stone bouncing on water

the throw from the bounday

accusation in court

a token of love into a trashcan 

as an orchestra goes silent

a prayer for a child unconscious 

a shooting star disappearing into target

color-throw from one end of sky to the other

and a thought, a plea and a voice

moving across the uneven earth

and through other trajectories 

coming to rest on a singular card 

that says ‘heart-locked’ 

and concludes ‘yours’ 
but perhaps 

not just mine.   

Earth of the salt

Metaphor for flavor

belonging and goodness,

enricher of idiom and language,

symbol of political stance,

issue of elemental intercourse,

token of a kitchen’s viability:

salt.

It does not come from sea,

not from play of sun on water,

salt:

it does not arrive,

it is made.

Salt:

It has a synonym

here in Puttalam. 

[first published in 'The Nation,' July 30, 2006]

Lost and found in dimensionality

Dimensions 

without name or number

or named and numbered

but in another tongue

polarities and marmalade

benumbing ascents and descents

to one unable to fly

and yet with sole so scorched 

that feet resist gravity 

lyrics and paint 

beads that charm

cards stacked and read 

and illegible,

all mesmerizing artifacts

makes for silence

across dimensions 

and poverties 
priceless

The poem addressed by a tree to its flowers

It appears upon inspection

that a few more flowers

are due to blossem

therefore

if there are any flowers

that would voluntary wilt

raise hands just once 

before the wind arrives

[translation of "ගසක් තම මල් අමතා කී කවිය" from the collection "මීළඟ මීවිත" (The next wine) by Ruwan Bandujeewa] 

From the Peacock Caste

Seeing the unforgiving drought

racing and roaring in

spouting dust from mouth and nostril

breaking door and window of nest

gathering whatever hands can lay on

migratory birds do flee to the faraways

However dry the zone may be

they remain on branches dead and dying 

and none, not one of the peacock caste

to lush places fly

If there are kids without toys

at play in a garden nevertheless

swoop down instantly they will

and drop a feather or two

as per the custom of the tribe. 

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

In a certain valley….

On either side of the river

from a long time ago 

two mountains rise

bound in love 

They cast gaze

on the other’s face

and nothing else

have they done

And yet now and then

from mountain eyes

tear drops roll

down to the river below

They burst out 

and as thin streams roll

and gather at the river,
this is apparent. 

[Translation of Ruwan Bandujeewa's "එක්තරා නිම්නයක..."]


එක්තරා නිම්නයක....


ගඟ දෙපැත්තේ
බොහෝ කල් සිට
ප්‍රේමයෙන් බැඳි
කඳු දෙකක් ඇත

උනුන් වත දෙස
බලා ඉනු මිස
මෙතෙක් කල් වෙන
වුනු දෙයක් නැත

නමුත් ඉඳ හිට
කඳු ඇසින් වට
කඳුළු කැට කැට
ගලා පහළට

සිහින් ඇළ දොළ
ලෙසින් පැන නැග
ගඟට එක්වෙනු
දකින්නට හැක ...

Aerial Music

Unheard, unsung

and yet not unmade,

there’s a timeless music score 

of wingtip, flight-path and synchronicity 

played to the accompaniment

of orchestral skies

the singular note of an oboe

rising above depravities 

the cardinal errors of acquired incapacity 

and sorrows embedded 

in earthy things.

[Inspired by the photography of Sajani Amarathunga]

Our Mother*

She's taller now:

too tall to hold 

to cuddle too old; 

queen you were

and she princess

then as now, 

and you

are as you were

in your distance and proximity

words and words not said;

your children, all of them,

are safe

in a cradling that endures

the mortality of passing.

*On behalf of all her children

The conspiracy of night

Life and light in synonymity:

one yields and is also made of the other

but involuntary glance

through random windows 

gives moon-wires 

bent by wind

and blushed by rain

conspiring with ardent trees

and pliant foliage.  

We can paint it

transliterate 

or just breathe it all

and tell our hearts,

“open now 

the beloved has arrived’

The most ancient love song

There are times
when I am visited
by flowers;
bouquets,
with a florist's tag:
deepest sympathies.
My voice is too weak to say,
'not yet,
although her heart has died for me,
mine has not, for her'

[From the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves']

A ship without anchor

“For a canoe that comes to pick flowers 

to be with bullets riddled

in the middle of a reservoir

let license be granted to a lotus

among red petals a pistol to conceal.

“Instead of bringing forth separately

for common internment 

let us decree that the ocean 

must henceforth construct a plain

for a river another river to meet 

face to face.”

“Alright friend,

but tell me

of what use is the proximate sound of a lighthouse 

for a ship that has its anchor lost?” 

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

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

Gossamer Girl

There's light thieving in

street light, home-light and moon;

it's quiet here and cool

but I wish it would rain

blend-light further blurred

is guest, not thief

There's a feast downstairs

a quiet consumption

of demand and request

a chewing out with burst

and a resolution with smile

You in your infinities

I in my dust-speck

We in familiarity 

Gossamer of a kind 

A joy and a pleasure

Not to rally round 
for yet another scarecrow to make
but the the threshing floor 
of its birth to fertilize 
a joy and pleasure
surely for the straw




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

Faces

The river's face and mine
after a long, long time did meet

The river 
into my face peered 
scratched head with fingertips
and a sign of recognition sought,
I felt

Beloved,
having seen us
not separately
but together
a moment more tarried
took a turn and hid
the river did






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

A sandesaya to Gamini Fonseka

Tell us of the roles you play

the scripts that come alive
as you walk and walk,
speak and say nothing,
in your gaze and gesture,
out there in those other locations
among the other heroes
supporting casts
props and equipment.
Tell us about that life,
the parameters
within which they capture
moment and a love note
a kiss and an arrow;
the contortions of the human condition
the comedy, tragedy and other undefined things.
Tell us about the play of power,
of dignity and arrogance
the slippages
between ‘possible’ and ‘impossible’,
loose words, and
silence that draws from the eternal verities.
Tell us about the heroines,
the casuals,
the portraits shattered with gunfire
the images that were not bullet-proof
but which survived.
Tell us,
in this land beyond recall,
how tall you are,
how commanding;
give us the dimensions
of profile and bearing.
Do you, for example,
hold the screen in a clenched fist
or in your determined eyes,
or have you disappeared
in the burning black-white frame
of your own exhalations
or crushed like the cigarette-ends
you ground out
to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’
as per script
or out of it,
as was your way?

[first published in 'The Nation' in October 2006, a few days after his death]

Earthworms

“O Father

why do we not go

for the Ploughing Festival?

Even the king today

will step into the paddy field..

should we not this silence break

and inform them all

how we made fertile this soil

hidden in the bowels of the earth?”

“Little one,

the blade of the mammoty

must into the dark mud cut

and of those who fertilized

and those who did not

is quite unconcerned —

so dig deeper into the dark mud

for son,

it is inadvisable 

to crawl 

to surface openness”

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

The sun has another reservoir emptied

Flowers from resplendent waters picked

fish and cormorants thereafter banished 

the sun this time around had emptied 

and by the wayside a reservoir laid

Upon a cheek with dismal silt marked 

a scar from a brick-maker's cut

a decaying skull 

the sign of a long dead love

There's no one, none at all

blue-clad waves to caress

just a heart lacerated 

by bottles of pest-killing poisons

Flowers from resplendent waters picked

fish and cormorants thereafter banished 

the sun this time around had emptied 

and by the wayside a reservoir laid

The sun it's eyes roll this way and that

wondering if there may come by 

an inquirer who may survey 

and the reservoir's story obtains ere the rain clouds arrive.

[translation of "ඉර මෙවර තවත් වැවක් හිස්කර" from the collection "මීළඟ මීවිත" (The next wine) by Ruwan Bandujeewa]

It must be so

For the bearing of sweet fruit
upon fraternal canopies
all the poisons mixed in soil
perhaps the niyangala roots did sip

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

Speechless crows

Even just now
in the Pettah
there are crow eggs
in Jam, Bo and Kottamba trees
bursting

when the young come out
are crows with response ready  
to questions they will surely ask?

Mother takes broom in beak
sets out at dawn
sweeps the roads
large compounds
and vast gardens
but however much she strives
strangely do the cruel leaves
descend on the morrow

tomorrow too 
she'll take flight
'Mother, why can't we
just go somewhere
to a small garden
of our own?"

On Malwatte Street
Father sells necklaces and rings
stainless steel
thorn-cut wings 
break off and fly
throughout the day
his soles swell come evening
as we watch
why can't we too
be like the golden oriole 
like the blue-breasted dove?

Even just now
in the Pettah
there are crow eggs
in Jam, Bo and Kottamba trees
bursting

as for the questions they will ask
are parent-crows equipped 
with ready response?

[translation of "කපුටන්ට කෝ උත්තර?" from the collection "මීළඟ මීවිත" (The next wine) by Ruwan Bandujeewa]

Silk Road

In neither East nor West
of a silk-clad silk-worm 
that came along the Silk Road
there's no mention,
but why?

At the bottom of boiling pots of water
dead young worms disintegrate
the screams of the dying at scorching 
as splendid silk does rise

An orphaned baby worm
never having dreamt of silk
among the dark mulberry bushes
curls up against the cold

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

The Aukana replica on Bauddhaloka Mawatha

In these regions resides not

an errant prince 

who his father buries alive

for refusing to reveal 

where the royal riches were kept

no, just kings who calls on sons

divides wealth as fit

In that vast conference hall

where the kala wewa ought to have been

international book fairs - exhibitions and sales - beautiful dances

passionate debates among ancient seers

of philosophies numbering sixty two

theatre - skincare — cookery demonstrations

like the five blossoms sway

Every now and then arrives someone looking for true image within a replica

tarries a moment or two seeking to detect in replica an error

someone who hasn’t seen original is by replica pleased

original and replica in identical pose remain

[Translation of Ruwan Bandujeewa's poem "බෞද්ධාලෝක මාවතේ අවුකන අනුරුව" in 'මීළඟ මීවිත' (The Next Wine)]

Residual Hills

Filling eyes with a gaze

strolling across the plains

and in solitude murmuring

are residual hills

of clouds unconcerned 

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

In the darkness

The danger spots to point

‘ere the clan could perish

a firefly voluntarily 

into a cobweb flew

The breeze an arm stretched out

to a rose bush landed a blow

‘twas the dew and not flower

that was thrown first and first to fall

The lovely dew-laden idda

milk-white in morning visitation

to the cemetery delivered,

a honey-bird to rest retired

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