The Aukana replica on Bauddhaloka Mawatha

In these regions resides not

an errant prince 

who his father buries alive

for refusing to reveal 

where the royal riches were kept

no, just kings who calls on sons

divides wealth as fit

In that vast conference hall

where the kala wewa ought to have been

international book fairs - exhibitions and sales - beautiful dances

passionate debates among ancient seers

of philosophies numbering sixty two

theatre - skincare — cookery demonstrations

like the five blossoms sway

Every now and then arrives someone looking for true image within a replica

tarries a moment or two seeking to detect in replica an error

someone who hasn’t seen original is by replica pleased

original and replica in identical pose remain

[Translation of Ruwan Bandujeewa's poem "බෞද්ධාලෝක මාවතේ අවුකන අනුරුව" in 'මීළඟ මීවිත' (The Next Wine)]

Residual Hills

Filling eyes with a gaze

strolling across the plains

and in solitude murmuring

are residual hills

of clouds unconcerned 

[translation of "ශේෂ කඳු" from the collection "මීළඟ මීවිත" (The next wine) by Ruwan Bandujeewa]

In the darkness

The danger spots to point

‘ere the clan could perish

a firefly voluntarily 

into a cobweb flew

The breeze an arm stretched out

to a rose bush landed a blow

‘twas the dew and not flower

that was thrown first and first to fall

The lovely dew-laden idda

milk-white in morning visitation

to the cemetery delivered,

a honey-bird to rest retired

[translation of "අන්ධකාරයේදී" from the collection "මීළඟ මීවිත" (The next wine) by Ruwan Bandujeewa]

Stoppage

Paper boats on after-rain water

criss-cross of ekel-brush on dust canvas

a half-opened window 

open unto full-truths of silence

lives passed by in click-capture 

solitudes made for paper-cuts and word-letting 

a slow barefoot January stopped

in mid-stream or water’s edge

it does not matter.  

While you were gone….

While you were gone we stuck flowers in our hair and filled socks with sand — FB post by Kalani Kumarasinghe

Socks with sand and balloons with water

flowers in hair and shadows from petrified rocks

ashes that will fight to differentiate 

and dust that dances, sings and settles down

Laughter filtered from overnight rain

frowns banished to adultness unwished

floating scoops of ice-cream

find cones called forth by a clap of hands

policemen on roller-blades 

chase pedestrian crossings 

freed from the tyranny of tar

and the weariness of feet

was that a clarinet going higher than the highest tree

was it a squirrel that drew the curtains

was it the monsoon that’s curled in a mangosteen

and why couldn’t the avocado decide if it’s vegetable or fruit?

someone stuck flowers somewhere 

someone filled the balloons

someone alarmed an alarm clock

and a clothes line asked for tea

Do you hear the sound of that laughter?

Bus goes over precipice; eight including the driver dead, 29 seriously injured — News Item

“There was no mist at the time. I was in the front part of the bus.  There were no vehicles coming from the opposite direction, but the driver for no apparent reason suddenly turned the bus towards the precipice”  — a survivor

With a shaking left hand

Nandasena

driver of sixty three dash seventeen fifteen

the day’s first gear fell

giving out a gora-gora sound

the bus came out of the depot

and began climbing the mountains

Each time he checked the road

from the side glass on the right 

he only saw his wife

whose three month’s almsgiving

was done two days before

From the rear view mirror

frequently peeped

his little boy

who drew 

Thaththa’s bus

again and again

The echo of the horn

the bell that rant near his ear

he didn’t hear

his wife’s voice came through clear

“Further up near a bend

there’s been an earth-slip

I will warn you Nande

when you get closer

What did you have for dinner

and what did our son draw yesterday

and the little girl Nande

can she now plait her hair all on her own

In the midst of a ring of mountains filled with tears

upon the grass on that yonder slope 

there’s one singular place still Nande

where we can laugh

Can you hear the sound of that laughter….”

[translation of "ඇහෙනවද ඒ සිනා සද්දේ " from the collection "මීළඟ මීවිත" by Ruwan Bandujeewa]

Menaka

Clutching a posy of coffee flowers
at the foot of the mighty Uthuwankande
Mammale my friend,
there's sobbing I can hear --
it's Menaka

By the Hingula waters
to sit you down,
with a silver hairpin
I once from a bungalow took
decorate those locks
already bedecked with coffee-flowers,
step back and admire, 
another day will not dawn
Menaka,
not for me

Clutching a posy of coffee flowers
at the foot of the mighty Uthuwankande
there's sobbing I can hear --
it's Menaka.

[At Bogambara, on the 7th day of May in the year 1864]

[translation of "මේනකා" from the collection "මීළඟ මීවිත" by Ruwan Bandujeewa]