Ode to a finger-nation

Ours is a finger-nation
at times clenched
at times open
to hold
to give
to take
ours is a finger-nation
that can index anger
that can accuse,
but a five-finger land
is hand
because thumb
must break bread
with other digits
or starve
because hand is not hand
that is all indexed;
we were always fingered
in our horror
in our recoil
in our accusation
in our grief and remorse,
fingered
in recovery too.

 

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Ode to courtesy

Love is an arc
a toe-nail trace
softer than yesterday’s admonishment
harder than tomorrow
for hearts tarry
at ironwood resolve
and woundable blade
not out of fear
but courtesy.

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Anura’s World

[For Anura Srinath*]

Which world is this
of line and paint
curve and smile
abandonment and play;
these children
who are they
that run over page and heart
tickling memory
pointing finger
turning page
from yesterday
to today and tomorrow;
do the creatures and portraits
come alive at night
dance in fairy rings
and are they wrapped
kept safe
within an unnamed flower
and a tender petal embrace;
is what's being saved
our yesterdays
or the delightful tomorrows
of children yet to come
and adults whose hearts
refused to grow?

*Inspired by the work of Anura Srinatha [see http://www.nation.lk/edition/photoscape/item/14226-anuralokaya-2.html]

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Word-choke

There are words
forbidden
or let’s say
of the rather-not kind;
they come to lip
and back to throat
and I wonder
in these bovine days
if I might slip
and choke.

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Communion Song

One story-flower to another,
anecdote to anecdote
the re-posting of favorite songs
finding breathing-space moment
grudgingly yielded by work-need
to text about silly things
like traffic and places to be,
things to do and things undone
the renewal of claims
in different languages
and summary dismissal
in anticipated one-liners:
this is our communion
our covenant in said-unsaid  mix.

 

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Horton Plains is made of moss

Pic by Dilshan Boange



 

Eyes have swept the plains
rolled over hillock
moved with wind on grass
surveyed the trees
looked for Sambur,
dropped from World’s End
risen with spray
where the elephant slaughterer
did not fall,
taken in the slope
of Kirigalpotha
alighted on Ravana’s port
Thotupola
delighted in April’s bloomage
picked at ferns
strange and familiar,
and missed the moss
those touch-me-nots
of wide eyed sweep
of things visit-marked,
softer though,
more delicate to touch
eye-unguent
to those with sight.

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Prisons

And of prisons it was thus decreed
some would be bar-made and some unbarred
some to separate the free from the incarcerated
and some with lines erased,
yes so erased
that ‘free’ comes with query mark
and imprisonment is the worst kept secret
in the metropolis.
And of the former kind,
there are those who are bowled,
and those less picture-perfect.
The goldfish looks with compassion
and knows the futility of keeping notes
but we,
we eye one another with pity
and even empathy
keep notes;
we might as well collect mirrors
while we wait the clock-guard
to interrupt the monotony of delusion
if nothing else.

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