As she lay sleeping

The word unsaid

and spoken word

danced among pigeons 

chased pollen and dialects

and at sunset sat

across an oaken table

stirred weariness

into coffee and violets

compared notes. 

Meanwhile

in an orphaned city

where highways left byways

and flew over rabbits and tortoises

the road not taken

met the chosen path

and in gravel tones

smoothened by silences

talked of the lost maps of sanity

where

where we were before

has forever been erased. 

There were also lemons

that had never heard of lemonade

pigs ignorant of bacon and sausage

lovers yet ignorant of heartache

delicate vases pouring scents

that twirl in Dry Zone dust

to gather the songs

of the voiceless.

There is blood and despair,

sunlight bested by cloud

trembling rain and grass

raw woodapple smiles

that creep under elephant fear

to flavor sambol and resurrections

no one will ever record.

There’s news of an earthquake

and a kidnapping

chips falling where they did

murder legal and otherwise

percolating the gastric juices

so necessary

for the consumption of the unpalatable.

And it rained

and it rains

gigantic turtles

escaped from an evolutionist’s cage

arrest eyes and time

and all things unregistered

commerce in the black markets of defeat

where the marrow of a city

lie amid scattered vegetables

too dead for resurrection.

In the rear view mirror

the road runs away

and the competitive spirit

brings closer the pursuer

people bend and swerve

up ante and give the V-sign

only to be stopped by red light

and pedestrian crossing

the accidental intersections

four letter words

that coin new vocabularies

in the consecration of impatience.

There’s a window pane

and a tree

a curtain and an alarm clock

conspiring to stop dream

and nightmare

a blue balloon and a kite

catching lightening and curse

watermelon pink

splattered on a pavement

where cats given up on love

settle for wayside food.

There are hands that would hold

eyes that will not close

a bedside vigil

in candle lit despair

a book with intoxicating ink

the music of turning pages

and hearts

so many times turned

inside out

that reverse works just as well.

There’s a foot step

on a footfallen landing

abandoned keys

and rust frayed knives

that cannot cut or blunt

and words that return

wearing unrecognizable vowels.

They gather at your feet

all these creatures of your making

they mean no harm

they dare not touch

they would not go

had they the choice

but will disappear with the first stirring

and you in half-sleep stupor

and fully awoken clarity

without cry or smile

will gather what’s left

from pre-sleep memory

toss it all into the garbage can

return to bed

and sleep.

Bless you, my child. 

 

Lost lines

Those things that don't arrive

on demand,

things that stop fingers

and interrupt beautiful stories:

where they went

and where they go

who knows

who will tell?

They may break into words or song

crumble into syllable and dust

creep into conversations

as filler or frill,

but lost lines

return in disguise

alleviate other headaches

fill spaces differently made

energize.

Don’t believe,

but flip the question and ask

‘where did those other lines

that came without saying

and wrote themselves almost

where did they come from

which lyrics or love notes

did they escape from?’

All lines are lost

and words are people

looking for the once-familiar

but gone

perhaps forever. 

Lost lines are consolation prizes

in competitions no one ever wins. 

Ode(s) to reflection

And it was recommended

by sages of long ago

from long-ago lands

in long-ago tongues

that silence reveals 

what clutter clouds

that true reflection

obtains from stillness

within stillness

within stillness still. 

[Inspired by the photography of Tharindu Amunugama] 

Flowers that kiss

Fade they will

even the most beautiful

of beautiful flowers --

but wilt is an eye-trick

in a tryst with time;

as long as gaze is older than gazed

as long as gaze is shaded by love

time conspires to conceal decay

re-name it in an alphabet

of changing hue and texture

as perfumes that grow sweeter

as they lose their baby freshness

and if all this failed

there’s the one redeemer:

a flower that lifts lips

and with one kiss

make poor the thousand kisses

of lips and gaze

received

and as for me

as recipient of poverty-gift  

I tell myself:

'you can die now'.  

Faith above politics

In other times
contested terrain
lapped at
by tongues
that won’t hold,
food for rhetorician;
but Kachchativu
on Feast Day
recovers
and notions of divinity
lift
and free the faithful
from tongue and cheek:
blessed they are
for in that silencing
by prayer
land becomes land
and identities merge
and disappear.



[Inspired by the photography of Chandana Wijesinghe]

Truth

Not in the gaze
of half-closed eyes
not in postural balance
not in symmetry
not in craft or crafting
the collapse of dimensions
not in any of these
and other ephemerality
and yet embedded
in the ways of clarity
the path to which
The Word describes.




[Inspired by the line drawings of Gamini Abeykoon]

These other children

One mother
many children
each lined and colored
by karmic DNA
of the natural kind
to have and hold
to open and close
delight and sadden
flower and perish --
a passing glance
at sun, rain and wind
and then
in maternal embrace
recline.