microcosom

Buttala, South Sri Lanka
Me, american pancakes, blue jeans.
Appuhami, rotis. sarongs.
British, Sri-Lankan children
wait

To eat breakfast.
Daub and Wattle, Illuk Roof
wood fire
I whisk the batter

I-pod on Leonard Cohen
Croons; “Love gone wrong’
Appropriate.
For the moment.

I am lost
earphones in music
carries me away
to another place
congruence and context
(at home anywhere)

It’s all in the making of it.

LoVE

Did we love each other
to end up
so mad, hurt and shy

that

work overtakes love
children overtake love
phone rings overtake love
is our love not deep
enough
for our souls
crying

for pol sambol

Instead we shun
the longing
to be real,
to manifest

the gentleness
kind thoughtful
tenderness

erotic
urges
relieve
us

I guess
that’s enough
to distract our

LOVE.

For Anne Scowcroft. (sapphic ode)

Beautiful friend, perfect one of a kind
Speak to me on skype! Inspiration wanes fast!
Where are you? Are you there? Log on Now. So I
See your honest face.

Poetry, Prose, manuscripts done: we wait.
Excited by the launch date. Invites on way?
Do send me copy, fed-ex fast. Wings fly.
I want to read now.

When will you visit again? Board an airplane?
Leave your humanitarian work behind.
Come back to Ceylon. It needs you now, As I!
To write once again.

8.1

Dusk – magical time
bedtime.
I look at you
marveling at how
large you have grown
how beautiful you are.
you had a rough day
teased
at school.

You chase them around
the playground.
you are fast
an athlete
this is when you score
points
your athleticism
is something they look up to
you are faster than all of them
Run.
8.1 seconds in the 50-yard dash

You stand aloof
choosing friends carefully
older friends do not call you ‘Bombai’
they chat instead –
ask questions about
Ceylon
Tea and Cricket.

Here we have:
McGovern and Nixon
Republican /Democrat
Badges worn. shining.
It’s all so new to you
this proud individuality
extraordinary sense of self

your older friends possess
individuality is paramount
You, your brownness
come from a place
where most are shades of colour
a strong sense of community
and you wonder, do you have to be white
to be an individual?

I open the door, walk in
Sit on the bed, purple coverlet from home
and say:
“George Bernard Shaw thought
Ceylon was the cradle of the human race
as everyone looked an original.”

This pleases you
You fling your arms
Give me a big hug.
Say “night daddy”
School tomorrow
I am sleepy.
I have another race to run
I hope to beat yesterday’s time
8.1

NS. June 2009

shake a leg, loose the past

when i drove up the steep
climb to your house
you never mentioned
the garbage.
that i had to walk by
to get to your door.
when are you going to
drop it?
the baggage a burden
lighten up the load
so we can dance;
clean on the floor
into the night
approach first light.
garbage out
step in.

For Mo.

Music and song were at the fore
Watching, waiting for the right time
to score. As was escape, mainly to
explore. The mind transcends
but, always Here. Listening, right
to the end. Now, no more.

Paintings hung. Lighting fixed. Mo: No more.
Yet, he left a legacy and taught
generously. We will continue to uphold
the privy lessons – So obviously
zen like in the manifestation – Beautiful
and precise. Behold! A delight.

Art transformed in the Gallery delight.
Jaytissa and Chandrasekera bathed in
glorious light. Mohan dictates, A bow
he takes. The end results in a gasp
of wonder. Applause. Sometimes, rain and thunder
Opening night: guests mingle, drinks sprinkle, music jazz jingles.

Many teachers had he, the three M’s danced a jingle
Mike, Mahen, and Manik. Finally, Druvi.
(Quite the shaman guiding from Minali)
Ships sailed to distant shores, adventures.
Experienced Hendrix and then some
Traversed the world mindfully done

Home south to manage a hotel well done!
With wife and a child to be.
Successfully run, all had fun
Then came the JVP
Problems arose, the hotel closed
Back to Colombo, five aunts and he.

Met at Dom’s in 1991. A gentleman was he
Gave me a pipe. Then Topy died
and Jerome sang, praise be!
And (a fool on the hill)
706 emerged, behind Barefoot, luckily.
Space to see, with music and art and hilarity.

Mo was instrumental in running the gallery
A giver, a lover, a rarity
A giver, a lover, a rarity.

a noble guest

I know you know
where love lies
not in hearts that are heavy
with depression
or some malaise
but in the soul underneath
the heavy trappings of emotion
waiting
to be released
if only for a moment
to kiss your face

*a longer version of this poem was written as”for Dom 24.07. 2009′ and posted on another blog.

loss

Every morning
when I wake
my first thought
is of civilians
dying
In the vanni
Women children
Babies
No chance
At life
Because
She might?
Is a terrorist?
For god’s sake
She could have
been a scientist
Our loss
Our unimaginable loss