Mahinsa

[A life less worth than a terrorist's son?]

There must be a book,
a text or sheaf of notes,
a notepad or a flower
whereupon dreams were inked in
in code or number,
word and pause.
There must be a handkerchief
reserved for unwept tears
neatly embroidered with motif of choice
or chance;
a square piece of cloth,
pale pink or white,
speaking of roads walked and unwalked,
thoughts embraced and shoved aside
suddenly in embarrassment.
But there's nothing to be shy about, darling.
no reason to shout or whisper.
At least that's what the road sign demands.
They want it to be all gone, dearest,
erased by the burgeoning dictates of our tomorrows,
the paraphernalia of the diurnal,
the return to the segmenting of life
into intersections, traffic lights and fears;
brushed aside by the next great explosive sweep
that is the marker of these times.
The gatherer of dream,
the translator of unwritten texts
and impossible poetry:
they've refused contract.
No one dares access the transcripts, love.

It wasn't your time, little girl,
sadder still, it wasn't ours either.

But there must be remnant,
we will believe, sweetness.
In stifled sob,
among intangibles that visit memory,
amidst the clamour of a city,
the call for punishment,
and even the call for surrender to tyranny;
in a garden and a fountain
a birdbath and a reservoir,
a heartbeat and thunder
love and its refusal,
you will arrive
as a mountain and a silken thread
a bowtie and a curtain,
a peal of laughter and a silent tear.

We will, we will, we will recognize you,
most beautiful of all our children.

Dream-following

There are flesh-blood dreams
warm and gettable
a ‘there’ not too far from ‘here’
an embrace
just a few heartbeats away,
a breath that will be shared
a covenant that will be kept;
but there are others less licit
where eye and mind
must walk and walk
and feet must wait and wait
and imagination expand
from wingtip to wingtip
glide on blueness
in unrippling tenderness
seek in in elemental residencies
in the ways that were lost
and in the losing ways
the worlds that are
but may not be,
by and by.

[Inspired by the photography of Dr. Harin Dias, to be exhibited at the Lionel Wendt on March 2 and 3, 2013]

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Ode to Judgment

In the high table they sat
pondering fact and fiction
law and order
right and wrong
crime and punishment
and down below
the judged waited
for word and execution;
from up above
the truth-sun beamed
in cloudless moments
of brevity and insanity,
and down below
the worms were patient:
death comes, now and then,
sooner or later. 

An A-Z of love

The mountains look blue
and trees green
distance robs blemish
paints a pastorality
that immediacy will not concede;
she is lovely to hold
and lovelier beyond reach;
and that too
is an A-Z
of love and loving.

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Independence Unlimited

Pic by Hiranya Malwatta

Freedom is a name
of many syllables 
places and people,
a leap of faith that defies
constitutional edict 
executive directive
judicial verdict,
it takes restrictive arm
as dancer takes partner
takes rule and bends with smile
takes book and scrambles
chapter and verse
reconfigures flag-color
re-mixes anthem
without proclamation 
without anger or regret;
freedom is another name
left out
of the Dictionary of Being
to stop definer
to stump purchaser
to trip destroyer.

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A prisoner’s love song

There are walled cities
I am told,
marshalled by regimen
where minds open
and doors close
at appointed hour;
where life ebbs
as in other cities
as splendid and poor
as structured and free,
moment to moment
task to task,
where custom rules
and custom-break
subverts unyielding earth
for root to seek
and leaf to upturn 
decree’s hard unsanctioned soil,
but here
the apparitions of the forgotten
recovered corporeal form
flattened barbed wire,
rose above wall
to ask
‘who among you is free
and who among us is not?’

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This other ocean

Not king-made
but king-envisioned,
speaks of eyes 
that drew from contour
drew for lay-of-land
and lay-of-life
that saw land that would grain
people who would sow 
and reap
from century to century
and today we stand
on history’s shores
and are stilled by the blues
and so standing draw
from the tap root 
of heritage
resolution and magnitude
humility and pride
as we cross the hour-to-hour
in the vessels of choice
and fashion a next moment
as wholesome, as tender.

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