Interface

Open eyes
and then enters
rock, pebble, sand granule
blue, red and yellow
in their specific intimacies
lines that curve
with and without light
shades that toss and turn
in anxiety and agitation
mystery and bewilderment
surprise and sorrow
but framed
always and always
by eye-limit
and poverties of imagination;
and in the long corridors
and vast halls of extraction
there’s a world that bends
to lens and mouse-click
warps known dimension
finger-flips the heart,
still even,
and there
in interface and union
we are cursed or blessed
by and eye and world
now and forever.

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Ode to a finger-nation

Ours is a finger-nation
at times clenched
at times open
to hold
to give
to take
ours is a finger-nation
that can index anger
that can accuse,
but a five-finger land
is hand
because thumb
must break bread
with other digits
or starve
because hand is not hand
that is all indexed;
we were always fingered
in our horror
in our recoil
in our accusation
in our grief and remorse,
fingered
in recovery too.

 

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Ode to courtesy

Love is an arc
a toe-nail trace
softer than yesterday’s admonishment
harder than tomorrow
for hearts tarry
at ironwood resolve
and woundable blade
not out of fear
but courtesy.

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Anura’s World

[For Anura Srinath*]

Which world is this
of line and paint
curve and smile
abandonment and play;
these children
who are they
that run over page and heart
tickling memory
pointing finger
turning page
from yesterday
to today and tomorrow;
do the creatures and portraits
come alive at night
dance in fairy rings
and are they wrapped
kept safe
within an unnamed flower
and a tender petal embrace;
is what's being saved
our yesterdays
or the delightful tomorrows
of children yet to come
and adults whose hearts
refused to grow?

*Inspired by the work of Anura Srinatha [see http://www.nation.lk/edition/photoscape/item/14226-anuralokaya-2.html]

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Word-choke

There are words
forbidden
or let’s say
of the rather-not kind;
they come to lip
and back to throat
and I wonder
in these bovine days
if I might slip
and choke.

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Communion Song

One story-flower to another,
anecdote to anecdote
the re-posting of favorite songs
finding breathing-space moment
grudgingly yielded by work-need
to text about silly things
like traffic and places to be,
things to do and things undone
the renewal of claims
in different languages
and summary dismissal
in anticipated one-liners:
this is our communion
our covenant in said-unsaid  mix.

 

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Horton Plains is made of moss

Pic by Dilshan Boange



 

Eyes have swept the plains
rolled over hillock
moved with wind on grass
surveyed the trees
looked for Sambur,
dropped from World’s End
risen with spray
where the elephant slaughterer
did not fall,
taken in the slope
of Kirigalpotha
alighted on Ravana’s port
Thotupola
delighted in April’s bloomage
picked at ferns
strange and familiar,
and missed the moss
those touch-me-nots
of wide eyed sweep
of things visit-marked,
softer though,
more delicate to touch
eye-unguent
to those with sight.

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