Prabuddha IV

This is the 4th part of my translation of Mahagama Sekera's celebrated epic poem 'Prabuddha'

She came
smiling
like the moon peering over mountain
like water leafing over rock
like frozen music
sweet and full of spirit
as she got off the car.

And hearts stop and stutter

as an evening wind brings
the image-issue
in the sky of a dying sun.

He forgot himself

forgot the violin
and all he knew
of string and bow
as she sat on gold hued carpet
listening, learning,
saw he long fingers dance
on violin string.

You are the violin in my hand

music is nothing if not your voice
and as you caress my heart string
you draw out music as yet unheard. 
 
I was blind, was without speech
until I saw,
until I heard
you.

The countless stars

lit up the limitless universe
the moon grazed on tree top
with its cloud entourage
the blue shades of the bamboo grove
played and played
on the river’s gurgling waters
in the dim-light of dusk;
and you
whispered soft music
into my ready ear. 

The moonlight-white

of breast and nipple
that grazed and pinched garment;
did you not notice
the immense pain
it inflicted?

And day by day

new and renewed
you arrived
and when you did, sweetness,
I felt
again and again
‘I have nothing!’

[Parts I, II and III were published in www.malindapoetry.blogspot.com]

Unveilings

Skin-scratch draws blood
each un-layering draws more
reveals much more,
the sinew and tear
scar and welt
the discomfiture we hide
with elegant smile-cloth
and practiced uttering
and each veil-wall
exiles the world
imposes incarceration
consecrates private pain
celebrates fracture
and the world revolves
in its preferred disguises
the preferred speeds of lie
and self-delusion
and we become the sum
of our anxieties
the nothing
of abandoned
commonalities
and wrecked solidarity. 

[Inspired by the photography of Amanda Jayawardhana, exhibited at 'Upanetha', first published in the UNDO Section of 'The Nation', November 11, 2012]

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Prabuddha III

Everything changed that moment.
A strange solitude was birthed in his mind,
and freedom fled his world.

There had been no sorrow
for until then sorrow
was an unguent
contentment
that engraved on finger
as it ran on string;
no sorrow there, no
no bliss, no
and the yield of song,
joy and sorrow
are not two
but one,
not sorrow and not joy either
and until now
equanimity evened out
smoothened mind.

With eyes that did not judge
did not qualify or weigh
until now he saw
in their equivalency
joy and sorrow,
just like warmth and coolness,
light and dark.

As evenings ebbing light
crept into his meager quarters
he made union with violin
time’s immemorial signs
left the mind
violin and he were one,
hand and fingers  
they were string and strum
they were violin
and string and strum
were he
and the yield of seamlessness
was undulating song
a sweetness that rolled into roar
a wave that broke upon
the still night
and spilled over too.

All childhood tribulations

perculated from fingertip
rose as sweet aesthete
erasing memory;
he forgot himself
forgot all,
became instrument
of an invisible hand
and from the unconscious fingers
birthed from the unconscious
a faint fragrance.
And time passed,
eons rolled from one to another
infinite it was
without dimension it was
but for him
time was this,
this moment
and nothing else,
forgetting histories
dismissing the futures they engendered
in the deepest depths of silence
a faint music arose.

He turned eye upon himself

now and again  
and saw
in the rise of applause
in an award he had received
a photograph in a paper,
he saw himself
in infinite diminishment
and further dwarfing
day by day,
ignorant
that day by day
among unknown masses
he grew tall
and taller
into giant proportion,
did not know either
that his voice settled
in countless admiring minds
and echoed and echoed thereafter,
unaware was he
of image skin
that had grown
in layer upon layer
around persona,
did not know
or else did not care.

He was like child

who saw and heard wailing and wail
at funeral
saw and heard dance and song
at wedding feast,
in utter incomprehension
like child
who smiles at flower
without knowing what ‘flower’ meant,
until eye paused
and gaze fell
on
Yashoda.

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Rawness

And when you peel off make-up

remove collar and undo button
erase proper noun
convention and taught-truth
sanctioned feel
and tear-propriety
ready laugh and practiced smile
the necessitated courtesies
we are reduced to the skeletal
of primordiality
fear-made and hope-made
naked in absolutes
un-languaged and sparse
in that other wilderness
no less empowered
no less lost.

[Inspired by the photography of Achini Pabasara Ranasinghe, 'Upanetha' Exhibition, and published in the UNDO Section of 'The Nation', November 4, 2012]

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Prabuddha II

‘Sir!
For centuries upon centuries
I’ve listened to your voice
listened to your violin,
saw your picture in the papers
read all accounts of you
your work,
I’ve wanted and waited
to see you
for so long;
can you teach me
to sing to make music
the way you do?

Listen!

This is my favorite of all your songs:
“You walked with me, from lifetime to lifetime
You showed me the way, from lifetime to lifetime…”

Look!
This is my autograph book
and it is those words I wrote
on the very first page.

Please!
Write something on these pages.’

Prabuddha flipped the pages

Where unknown names
had scribbled their lines:

‘Best wishes to you!’

‘Remember me, won’t you
the day your dreams come true?’
‘Seek and you shall find!’
‘Love is the sweetest pain’.

‘I don’t know how to write such things, child

let me just write down my name.’

‘No! No! No!

You are such a great person
how could you ever
be at a loss for words?
You must write something,
something you’ve never written before
for anyone!’

Prabuddha turned to a blank page,

scribbled his name and date.

‘You are so bad!’

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Layering

One weave upon another
a layering of epic stories
of leaf and soil
time-mass accumulates
lost history insulation
beyond gaze
beyond excavation
like slulines
and birdsong
and frames that collapse
in the exhaust of light
heaviness of cloud
burdens of perfection,
nature yields
faces and plates
soft dimensions
and distinction
by and by
to eyes that can lay truth
and unlayer illusion.

[Inspired by the photography of Aravinda Chandrapadma]

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PRABUDDHA

1

It was like a new lifetime

after a spent lifetime,

he felt;

like a new birth

following death,

he thought.

The white-clad nurses,

white sheets and white walls

and other white things

merged and rolled out

like a curtain, a screen

a veil of mist

to the slowly opening eyes

of awakening consciousness. 

And all the sounds,

within and without the ward

crashed like an ocean

a thunderstorm

and in bits and pieces

as single note and the Holy Ohm

the music of the conscious

he began to hear.

After countless aeons,

time,

frozen and thick,

caught the warmth

of slowly opening eye-light

began to flow

by and by. 

And recollection permeated eyelid

unfolded like a series of stills

upon the white eye screen.

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