Werewolf in Nuwara Eliya

That night in Nuwara Eliya
When Dom and I stumbled
Into the Grand, we had just re-met
And every moment was precious.
It took us ten minutes to find the bar
It was cold for Nuwara eliya and we
Needed a drink, desperately.
A single malt for Dom and a Port
For me. This was in 1993,

I turned towards the barman to place our order
And stopped, shocked. Next to us was the most
Extraordinary man I had ever seen, he was approx.
7ft tall. His ears were pointy, nearly as large as his head
A beard that tapered to a degree
His sideburns, thick, wide, designed
Angled to his mouth
A sweet smile. It was disconcerting.
Basically, your friendly neighborhood werewolf.
He bought us a round of drinks and
Seemed very glad to meet us.
We drank with him up to a point.

Said our goodbyes
And staggered outside into a sea
Of mist. It must have been midnight
the moon was full.
Shining bright with light
To show us the way
To the car-
we drunkenly
Drove the windy
Road back to the club.

Quietly distressed by the
Meeting of the man
Who looked like a wolf.

 

N.S.

June 2017

 

Sweater Weather

 

 

Short days in Michigan

When the leaves turn to

colours of the earth.

 

The old man mowing his lawn

Wearing his slate cashmere v-neck with

holes under the arms, has never bothered

to get the thing darned.

 

Billy used the season to shoot

He would walk out into the woods with his Colt 45

Looked for Rabbit, Deer, if lucky, a Bear.

He wore a brown, round, wool neck sweater

that kept him warm.

It also camouflaged him really well.

 

No-one mentioned the time he was down by

The creek – – a body floated up, face down–

bloated and gross from being in the river for over

A week.

The sheriff hushed It up,

Billy was his son, you see.

 

The Sheriff wore a red lambswool sweater

to suggest authority, or perhaps, danger? and to keep visible.

He was beautiful to look at – A Cary Grant—with manners.

How us County people respected him.

The sole reason we never pursued the body story.

His word was Final.

 

Me, Autumn in Michigan, meant road trips—a six pack of

Molson in the car;  Ruben sandwiches and my best girlfriend.

We’d sing to Joni Mitchell and Carol King—perfect tunes for a fall sunset

that seemed to last forever. At night, Deborah Harry

blasted from the CD deck the stars shining brightly.

 

We did not need the moon or headlights to show us the way.

My girlfriend wore her purple sweater, made of Angora.

It smelled of Opium. I wore a cashmere jersey

in lime green.

 

We drove for days hitting the west coast

Got down at Full Moon Beach.

Threw our sweaters off,

and with it, our angst spinning emotions

Jumped nude into the Pacific Ocean

 

The water was cold.

We could very well had been swimming in

Lake Michigan—but,

It was worth it.

For the Road Trip.

2261 miles of it.

NS May 7th 2017.

Machine I loved

A low slung Volks

turbo charged, fast

(naturally)

did 130 miles on

the Arugumbay

Moneragala road

‘A poor man’s porsche’

my friend said.

Leonard Cohen crooning

as we looked

at the mountains

whizzing by

light poured in

the driver seat

comfortable enough to

race in.

I down shifted to third

then, back to fourth, fifth

as we turned the corner

on two wheels

the car did a one eighty

and smashed against

the hillside

we poured out

stunned, bruised, bleeding

we were ok

the car ok, too

German engineering

I thought

I loved this car

I was biased

Thank god we weren’t

driving the Prius.

NS FEB 13, 2017

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.

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.

Integrity

I have an ‘uncle’ who has lived in Sri Lanka all his life. Contributed to society in a right and dutiful manner, paid his taxes, and has many happy memories. Recently, he has started to identify himself as a British citizen. Why? Because he can in no way relate to the way things work in this country at present. He does not feel that the Sri lankan government represent his or his country’s best interests. Fair enough I guess. He was born in 1930, and at that time we were a British colony. Ceylonese were British subjects and had rights to the UK just like all British nationals. It was standard practice to sail to the UK and work there for awhile. I know my mother did, as did most of her peers. Granted, the British were snobs, that would have been one of the reasons why all Ceylonese welcomed independence-and from what I gather, had tremendous faith in F.R. Senanyake and then D F Senanayake, because they were thought of as honorable men and there was an inherent confidence in them and the future of our island nation. So what’s missing now? and why is that period looked on as the golden age? I think the answer is Integrity. Not just speaking about it, but actually living the word. Wonder if the living of, will ever materialise in our society again?