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 Some texts are made of leaves. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Some texts are made of leaves. 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.
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]
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
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