and fling back;
embroidery-reverse
is no less perfect
and is as pure
and you can claim
that I was 'reverse'
and you the original and righteous
weaver of tale and tear.
time saw this, as they say,
and that is all that can be said
or needs saying.
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Showing posts with label Gratiaen Award 2011. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gratiaen Award 2011. Show all posts
Tuesday, 17 July 2012
Another option
My poetry
and fling back;
embroidery-reverse
is no less perfect
and is as pure
and you can claim
that I was 'reverse'
and you the original and righteous
weaver of tale and tear.
time saw this, as they say,
and that is all that can be said
or needs saying.
[From the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves', shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2011]
and fling back;
embroidery-reverse
is no less perfect
and is as pure
and you can claim
that I was 'reverse'
and you the original and righteous
weaver of tale and tear.
time saw this, as they say,
and that is all that can be said
or needs saying.
Wednesday, 30 May 2012
Ode to a snake-charmer
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?'
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 photography of Piyumika Pathirana and taken from the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves,' shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2011]
Tuesday, 29 May 2012
Ode to language
There
was language before
there will be language later
but the now-language
is not language we've ever known.
This language recognises words,
moves them, empowers,
perfumes and endows with lustre
and yet is differently constituted.
This language of the now
is the private universe
where rainbows un-curve
to give colour to cheek
where flowers spray
gene-defying fragrance,
It is uncommunicable.
It is all we have and need.
[From the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves,' shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2011]
there will be language later
but the now-language
is not language we've ever known.
This language recognises words,
moves them, empowers,
perfumes and endows with lustre
and yet is differently constituted.
This language of the now
is the private universe
where rainbows un-curve
to give colour to cheek
where flowers spray
gene-defying fragrance,
It is uncommunicable.
It is all we have and need.
Saturday, 19 May 2012
Strange nations
There
is a country
without guarded borders,
a land that does not issue visas,
eminently accessible, one would say.
This nation
unmarked on maps
beyond the imagination
of cartographer and politician
is bathed in tropical sunlight,
watered by beauty,
chiselled with extra care,
a work of art, one would say.
It is un-peopled though
or less-peopled, shall we say?
For its entry points, so evident,
are seen only by the blind,
detected only by the mindless;
it is a place of insanity
an impossible territory
reserved, I like to think,
for those whose love
spill over the reservoir called possible.
Reserved, I like to think,
among others,
for you and I.
a land that does not issue visas,
eminently accessible, one would say.
This nation
unmarked on maps
beyond the imagination
of cartographer and politician
is bathed in tropical sunlight,
watered by beauty,
chiselled with extra care,
a work of art, one would say.
It is un-peopled though
or less-peopled, shall we say?
For its entry points, so evident,
are seen only by the blind,
detected only by the mindless;
it is a place of insanity
an impossible territory
reserved, I like to think,
for those whose love
spill over the reservoir called possible.
Reserved, I like to think,
among others,
for you and I.
[From the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves,' shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2011]
Friday, 18 May 2012
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.
[From the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves,' shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2011]
LEAVE A COMMENT
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.
[From the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves,' shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2011]
LEAVE A COMMENT
Thursday, 17 May 2012
My waking moments
doubts and
other things
made for
torment,
rinse my
sorrows
in memory
water,
i arise like
the young sun,
pure and
innocent.
It's a
moment,
splendid and
child-like,
but it comes
just once
every 24
hours.
[From the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves', shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2011]
Saturday, 12 May 2012
‘How did you come back from where the heart took you?’
If you are asking me,
I'd say this:
no road-sign, no map
for hearts
though contoured
slip through fingers
evade cartographer.
There's a price to pay
for heart:
salute love
and concede reason,
give up choice;
there's no agency.
Did not ask,
did not plan,
do not complain now;
there might have been mirror
but I didn't see;
there are people
and they never asked my name -
so i said 'conclude, as you will'.
There are no auspicious times,
nor my ignorance,
as of now.
[from the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves,' shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2011]
I'd say this:
There were no name-boards
or landmarksno road-sign, no map
for hearts
though contoured
slip through fingers
evade cartographer.
There's a price to pay
for heart:
salute love
and concede reason,
give up choice;
there's no agency.
Did not ask,
did not plan,
do not complain now;
there might have been mirror
but I didn't see;
there are people
and they never asked my name -
so i said 'conclude, as you will'.
There are no auspicious times,
not for heart,
not to my knowledge,nor my ignorance,
as of now.
Tuesday, 8 May 2012
The Hela Hatan of Ritigala
These hills are ancient,
older than the storiesand 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.
[From the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves,' shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2011]
LEAVE A COMMENT
Thursday, 3 May 2012
This hour
it flies from a thousand buildings,
from houses and vehicles,
bicycles and buses,
gathering dust
and the grime of the diurnal
but fluttering nevertheless in an eternal dawn.
Morning rain
dissolves tree and city,
traffic light and the early riser
billboard and shop sign,
and city maps get smudged
in a black-river spill.
Then there is a day-start rush
school books and lunch boxes,
the ritual repeat of a timeless whine:
brush-your-teeth, I-don't-want-to,
where-are-your-shoes, I-don't-know,
where's-my-kiss, budu-saranai-chooti-doo.
The skipping of meals
the frequent tea-breaks
the anecdotal hours pass,
the daily quota of conversation
swirls around work
and dreaming.
It is all wrapped
didn't you know,
by word and memory,
image and burning,
the coolest gaze
and a voice
from yesterday and tomorrow
a voice for moment,
from moment to moment.
from houses and vehicles,
bicycles and buses,
gathering dust
and the grime of the diurnal
but fluttering nevertheless in an eternal dawn.
Morning rain
dissolves tree and city,
traffic light and the early riser
billboard and shop sign,
and city maps get smudged
in a black-river spill.
Then there is a day-start rush
school books and lunch boxes,
the ritual repeat of a timeless whine:
brush-your-teeth, I-don't-want-to,
where-are-your-shoes, I-don't-know,
where's-my-kiss, budu-saranai-chooti-doo.
The skipping of meals
the frequent tea-breaks
the anecdotal hours pass,
the daily quota of conversation
swirls around work
and dreaming.
It is all wrapped
didn't you know,
by word and memory,
image and burning,
the coolest gaze
and a voice
from yesterday and tomorrow
a voice for moment,
from moment to moment.
[from the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves,' shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2011]
Sunday, 15 April 2012
Shelf life: Indeterminate
(for oldness)
These are the libraries
made of novels and epic poetry
rarely perused
seldom cited:
and yet there are letters
words and metaphors
tapestries woven
with labour
and the threads of being,
the bartering without permission
wheels that turn
despite impediment and age-limit,
the fruits of our today
the catch that fell through
the butterfingers of political economy,
the story of a child
and her tomorrow
and the transcripts
of a timeless,
careless
civilization.
[From the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves,' shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2011]
LEAVE A COMMENT
These are the libraries
made of novels and epic poetry
rarely perused
seldom cited:
and yet there are letters
words and metaphors
tapestries woven
with labour
and the threads of being,
the bartering without permission
wheels that turn
despite impediment and age-limit,
the fruits of our today
the catch that fell through
the butterfingers of political economy,
the story of a child
and her tomorrow
and the transcripts
of a timeless,
careless
civilization.
[From the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves,' shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2011]
LEAVE A COMMENT
Saturday, 14 April 2012
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.
[From the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves', shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2011]
Wednesday, 11 April 2012
Some texts are made of leaves*
They are flipped with the fingers of the eye
unwet and wet
read with care by those conversant
with the language
of colour, texture and passing
and passed over too
for there are preferred texts
and ones tossed aside
for later and never;
but leaves
come from dust and to dust they go
without complaint
through gaze and ignoring;
they conspire with sun, shade and wind
wear the garments of the day’s seasonality
without shout, let us repeat
but whisper
the eternal verities: ‘birth, decay, death’
all laid out in leaf-texts
that need no words,
not even these.
[*This is the title poem of the collection that was shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2011. I have posted this earlier, but starting today I will post the entire collection of 56 poems, one per day]
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