Kaudulla

Man and elephant
beast and beast
they’ve stared
at one another
stared down, backed off
trampled and shot
fallen and picked up
an ancient love-hate
in a modern twist
of encroachment
unrolling of map
bullet-marking
of traditional homeland
but here
for now
there is peace
(of a kind)
one shoots
and the other gets shot,
beast and beast
in informal ‘acceptability’
of grudge and shrug.

[Inspired by the photography of Rukshan Abeywansa, published in the FINE Section of 'The Nation', December 16, 2012]

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Prabuddha IX

This is the ninth part of the translation of Mahagama Sekera's epic poem 'Prabuddha', an exercise that has the permission and blessings of the immediate family of Mahagama Sekera. Parts I, II, III, IV, V, VI , VII and VIII were published in www.malindapoetry.blogspot.com.

 

He was hero thereafter

To those who wore bellbottoms and mini skirts

to those with hair gathered high

and stylishly tied

to those thick lipped

and with long fingernails

to married women

lascivious and seductive.

 

And they cast their lustful glance

with puckered lips all lipsticked

but not for his voice

or handsome face

‘Vernon went abroad

for a conference

how about a weekend, darling,

let’s say in Belihuloya?’

 

But whatever the gains

whatever the heights he scaled

his mind was steadily impoverished

his soul lay felled and sprawled on the ground.

 

Those lipsticked lips

were red and full of mindless lust

and mascara-ridden eye-edge

burned with envy;

cutting through the convivial conversation

was hatred, unadulterated.

 

‘Prabuddha!

empty this life is

barren it is.

Look!

just beneath the flimsy gold

in the intersection of fragrances

between fingers of hands

extended for shake, for greeting

the contours of hypocrisy

in its full nudity.’

 

Hoodwinked

over and over again,

he felt.  

 

They were at the table

these well-groomed folk

important personalities

pushing away in their drunkenness

the polished silverware

grabbing with both sides

devouring the meats

dripping with juices and saliva

and he thought:

‘I too am like a creature

fed and fattened

for table, for feast.’

 

‘You are an outsider

among them

a foreigner;

this is no place for you

leave!’

 

‘Yasodha!

But I cannot go,

cannot leave you.

I’ve sold my soul to the merchants

just to please your mind

gladden your heart,

sold it to the merchants

to be one with you.

And since then

and until now

I’ve known no peace

just disillusionment

an emptiness

regret.

 

And to unfetter myself from regret

from disillusionment

I spill wine with friends

until midnight and beyond

until freed of memory

until senseless,

gambled in gambling dens

until event last cent was gone.

And yet there is no peace,

no contentment, no relief.

Come consciousness

and the mind breaks into sobs:

“You must leave!”

But I cannot

I cannot leave you.’

 

Various absences

When you go away
and when you come
when you weep
tears to addresses
other than mine,
toss name
again and again
float in a teenage stupor
from rehearsal to concert
to photograph and photo-edit
when you sit here
and when I feel I am absent
and absented
through all this and more
now and again
you are
beautiful
still.

For hearts that wait for hearts that may never arrive

Its genetic signature is such
that it is resilient
to the blows of rejection
the horrors of post-love displacement
keeps doors open
until the harsh winds of rejection
blow them away
and applauds the vulnerability
thus enforced
cheering the door-less walls
waiting for arrival with sunlight
of in the stealth of night
a moonlight bathed entrance
and hums the theme songs
of togethernesses
longed for
and if by chance
and if by error
the heart-thief drops by,
if apologies are rendered
for mistake and uninvited peep,
the heart is so made
that it breaks
like Faiz said a long time ago
it breaks and breaks
into hopeless longing again
and again.


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Prabuddha VIII

This is the eighth part of the translation of Mahagama Sekera's epic poem 'Prabuddha', an exercise that has the permission and blessings of the immediate family of Mahagama Sekera. Parts I, II, III, IV, V, VI and VII were published in www.malindapoetry.blogspot.com.
 

From that moment

he was one of them
from that moment
he too danced with them
in tune and in step
in perfect harmony.

It was the festival of intoxication:

floating in alcoholic stupor
lost in lust
high on power greed
high on money need.

And the lecherous eye

cast its inevitable glance
not on his incomparable voice
but its profit potential. 

From then on

he mixed sweetner into love
stirred it up into lust
poured his voice
and let it sit
trapped in the circularity  
of music record.

They were sold in the thousands

these intoxicating discs
his voice swirled in city mansions
echoed among splendid furniture
wafted from balconies.
 
His voice descended from up above
wandered from avenue to road to pathways
city to town to village
into the ears of impressionable youth;
and they began wearing bellbottoms
wrapped around themselves large, wide belts,
gathered in street corner and junction
danced the twist
sang with him
‘‘The time it is a-passing
to freeze it all,
hold it tight
this is it,
fun, fun, fun!’

The voice that went away like wind

came back as shining silver rupee coins.

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Prabuddha VII

This is the seventh part of the translation of Mahagama Sekera's epic poem 'Prabuddha', an exercise that has the permission and blessings of the immediate family of Mahagama Sekera. Parts I, II, III, IV, V and VI were published in www.malindapoetry.blogspot.com

Then someone said,
‘Heard you are an artist
how about a song?’

Prabuddha went to the piano

As though seeing a dear friend
When lost, alone and helpless in a far off country.

‘Jagan mohinee…..madhura bhaashinee

charu dehinee…kamala vaasinee
sarasvathee devee…vande
sarasvathee devee…..

Kampitha kanchana maala poojitha kinkini noopura jaalaaa

paada saroje katee thataake chanchala narthana leela
sa-paaa…..ma-paa…pa-da…ga-ma-paaaa
ga-ma-pa-nee….ni-sa-nee-paa….’

They stared

as though he sang the incomprehensible
in an incomprehensible tongue
ill at ease the seemed.

Is this not sweet, this music? 

or have they heard music sweeter still?
do they not understand
tell, pray, what reason for this silence?

‘Master!  This does not please

and not for lack of appreciation,
a pop song it was
that all expected!’

‘A pop song!  A pop song!’

they cried

‘Hey, come one, come all!’

come dance, come sing
for the time it is a-passing
to freeze it all,
Hold it tight
This is it,
fun, fun, fun!
Money, money, money
money to eat
money to drink
money for meat, the choicest cuts
money for drink, the finest wines
got to live for the day
got to have the rupees and the cents
got to do the whatever-it-takes
got to do the whoever-gets-hurt
got to have the money, money, money
hey, come on, come all,
come baby, it’s time to dance
time for fun
time for games,
time to sing and dance
time to forget all
for this, baby, is it
the ultimate
paradise and nothing else!’

Amazing!

Big bellied men, tall and stout

wheezing women, wide of waist
arose from a stupor
tapped their feet, shook their legs
waved arm, threw back head
Set a-trembling their excess flesh:
 
‘Got to do the whatever-it-takes
got to do the whoever-gets-hurt’
 

Arm around waist

they hugged and danced
embraced and kissed
swaying in wine-drenched dream
parents, kids, grandkids,
lost in the half-conscious of song
found in the fully-awake of lust
in an incestuous blend and blur.
 
‘For the time it is a-passing
to freeze it all,
hold it tight
this is it,
fun, fun, fun!’
 
The minister came up,
offered hand:
‘You are a great artist
Wow!’
 
Yasodha kissed him:
‘Beautiful darling,
so wonderful!’

Inferiority complex had left the building

where embarrassment hid, he did not know
‘I cannot myself remember yesterday
and all of you and I, we are one,
we are equal now!’


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Face etchings

In line
in texture
skin colour
and the contortions
provoked by moment,
in the intensity of gaze
dropping of glance
are birthed
a hundred transparencies;
there are communities
laid upon these features
histories etched in curve
in scar
in wrinkle
unwrappable
as trial and injustice
triumph and contentment
love and equanimity
and also
as unspeakable
incoherencies
best left undeciphered
for reasons of decency
and the sanctity
of the unstoppable
need to object,
to rebel
and survive

[Inspired by the photography of Nalaka Sanjeewa and published in the UNDO Section of 'The Nation']

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