Winter's tales

Winter’s tales
are as blue as the heart
as white as love
in its virginal beginning
warm as a book of poetry
as beautiful as a snow flake
poetic like white on black bough
raindeered and sleigh-belled
a desert and an orchard;
it's about the depth of etching
of a name and a time
its replaceability over season,
it's a short story or one act play
two characters in conversation:
I and I-Can't-Get-Over.

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Blues

Far away leaves
are blue in color
like far away hills
not one-blue, no
but gradations of blueness
from contour to contour
from sea to land and sky
for there are blue-tinted days,
evenings mostly
made for soothing
and certain tears
blue-made and indescribable.

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Greens

It was a sun-kiss time 

a last-kiss time

on a rain cloud day

and the sun took care

to touch and touch

each tree, each leaf;

5.27 pm on Sunday

is a time of greater sun

but yesterday

it was goodbye light

that fell

soft as all partings

made of love

warm embrace making hard green

light alighting for the apple shade,

one hue to thebu

two for plantain,

one for the big leaves

and a brush of lightness

for the yet to open hopefuls,

one for guava and another for guava leaf,

the jambu had a spectrum,

the karapincha got a splash

but not the kohomba

and then it was over

but green will never be green again

and I

will never be me. 

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Finger Poetry

Infinity

is a beyond-word

it’s an out-there

untouchable,

like tomorrow,

but a little this side

this today and now

is catchable

in different perfections

where imperfection

of color, line and material

play with finger and brush

thread and weave

to contest all poverties

to mark presence

to mark those

as yet untouched

constellations

made of diamond and pearl

petal and insignia

bead and pendent

butterfly wing

and memory

the perfect pageant

and frozen drumbeat

elegant vessels on perfect waters;

no,

infinities are not grasped

but their outlines

are handcraftable

with finite tenderness.  

[Inspired by the photography of Chandana Wijesinghe and published in the UNDO Section of 'The Nation']

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THREE MONTHS LATER*

Like always,
she is present
and absent,
in and out of me,
i speak her words,
wonder if my face mimics 
manner and humour,
love and confusion,
and i remember
the intensity of giving
equalled by an intensity of refusal;
she was proud
and such a child
in her gifting 
and embrace,
mother and teacher,
but such a student too.

And I, 
I cannot remember
the kiri-suwanda,
that baby time
or her giving
for time-squeeze
and event-mix
arrived 
with the curse of awkwardness 
she left
so did I
each to a specific banishment
each in a specific abhinishkramanaya,
and our returns never coincided
our orbits chose to slip 
and miss.
I was not her eka-pun-sanda,
not all the time;
but i was, i am sure,
now and then,
and that's all that matters
in the matter of thanksgiving.

*Today is the 3rd anniversary of her passing. 




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WIRE

Thin

taut-able, bendable

line and particle aggregate

made for walking

meant to stop

made to break

and sing,

wire is heart-string

and thought-stream

metaphor for entanglement

simple sibling

of a human twin

that will not laugh

but can be made to smile

at a pinch. 

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Meal

Tests balancing-skill

between greed and need,

a little less gives burn

a little more floors;

a delicate thing

is meal.

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