Get down to the heart of my heart, you will see smoke, white-pills, alcohol and other forbidden things, walls and walls and walls, built from scratch, with so many holes at the bottom, melange of distant memories and light and dark shades of people vanishing into the air like vapour, some books, untouched, unread, with lessons unlearnt, and eyes looking ...
A dream whose silver-lining is made of particles of love stands out in the morning against the blackness of the night. A dream whose remainder is smiles, unending, resembles the perennial battle of hearts against all watery things – raindrops, ripples, tears and other such things. A dream whose eyes don’t store faces in memory only captures frozen ...
Every long-winded sentence that you and I write should come to an end at the behest of blankness every evening that rains – like this - should run out of time wittingly or otherwise, every sleepless eye should sleep and every sleeping dream must walk; in the end I should see only one end in every ending. You. ...
For my heart is made of stone and my words have now become graffiti, You are free to throw it, coyly, deep into the horizon, over the ocean and its pale-blue colouration. You can toss it around in whichever way you prefer, between love and loss: affection and anxiety for it is movable and tractable, and does not fear ...
If mountains of sorrow can be moved with the soft dance of wisps of hair, If juxtapositions of old texts get dismantled with the voice of her nightlong silence, if life looses its way in its own trajectory making solitude the norm, if the gentlest touch of fingertips can become a hooded thief in the night robbing ...
“Write a Poem, TODAY!” “Okay!” I say, because I know that some poems begin without knowing of tomorrow, Just as the ephemerality of smiles and tears, on strange faces passing by “Okay!” I say, again, as i know that i will only write until your life gets around mine, with or without an apology that comes and goes ...
In no poetry times you catch me without a face. blind and deaf, I turn heart into eye silence into ears, weep memory-tears and save transitory smiles. I meet strangers whose faces forbid identification and hearts covet incarceration, and I fall for blurred dimensions of love, in blissful ignorance. In no poetry times, you see me walking ...
Familiarity is another name for you, so I will let your eyes by-pass mine. The grass pf remembrance - like the passage of time- will grow over the residue of life, and darkness – like a pair of wings - will stretch out , dozily, in the moonlight. The edge of your memory will then hold the words of ...
Irked by your obscurity, I throw a question at you like a stone, heartless, that flies over the Pacific Ocean and hits the corner of your right eye. “WHO AM I TO YOU?” You say nothing but slowly wipe your face with calm fingers, as if you are unhurt, and show them to the glaring screen. “This.” ...
When you choose to sleep in the arms of realization love becomes a wall that is built brick by brick by brick, between one dream and another. When you choose to sleep in the warmth of imprisonment night descends drop by drop by drop over the alleys of life, between one wall and another. Either way you can choose to keep my eyelids awake. * * * RJ ( 09.07.2013 )
Drop by drop you bequeath me the entire spectrum of colours which you hide in your pregnant eyes as you move, slowly, from sky to sky. Drop by drop you accumulate all the music of the night, with your soft hands and long fingers, and your hair falls over the fairy dance of a thousand fireflies. Drop by drop ...
Just before the midnight of a long-winded day when the residue of my words laying over your memory is still when your eyelids flutter, softly, for the very last time when the infinity’s dream-scape opens its warm arms wide When a strange smile adorns your lips, stealthily in connivance, let the untimely snowflake fall over your hair tenderly and ...
Movable and dispensable, “Strangers” are creatures of love who sometimes travel a thousand miles in a split second, clothed in a tiny green drop, tossing a smile into the middle of the heart every other night. They never wait for time’s smooth arrivals. They just leap from orbit to orbit moment to moment and palm to palm with intermittent stays. ...
You’ve to draw parallels between different lands different people and different colours to see how rainbows and flowers lose their shades leaving you only with the nudity of truth, nude as poetry sans words. I have two questions to ask: How bright is sanhinda when an unknown villager with a familiar face lights a lamp in the ...
He was never the first to shoot first to kill first to flee first to return first to con first to perform miracles first to molest democracy first to squeeze the breast of rule of law and smile innocuously. He will not be the last too. He was always somewhere in the middle, in the middle of a shady ...
When I am with you I remember the fairy tale of the frog-prince; and every particle of dust layered on the pathways of my heart becomes exuberant, every grain of sand, as brown as dead leaves, lying asleep on the road, adds fresh colours to rainbows puts lip-gloss over raindrops, every little flower, known and unknown, falling from the ...
Remembrance is dew-laden grass. Hence I didn’t want to remember the blind moment when I first saw you and picked you up. I didn’t want to think whether you were an arc or a rainbow when you first smiled. I didn’t want to kiss your petals and see whether you smelled araliya or sepalika. I didn’t want to count days, ...
When clouds of doubt linger over the city of my heart, when the shadows of fear of losing grow by the hour, when plaintiffs and defendants clad in black and white people the courtyards of love, when judges decree and crows fight over the possession of leftovers, I wish I could see the innocence of ...
You splash poetry every now and then over the faces I wear and show me bits and pieces of rainbows whose lines demarcate raindrop and raindrop memory and memory lover and lover. You take all my tears touch them with the gentlest smile and turn them into dew over the green grass of my love, freshly cut in the night. And you ask me to stop weeping… * * * ( Rasika Jayakody 21.03.2013 )
When the dust of love is settled, the lust of my pulses is gone, the crux of all my arguments shatters and dissolves into air, turning me into the scent of a pale flower, nondescript, I want you to cross the road again and return to the veranda of my memory, made of little things, inferior, like song-lines, poetry and ...
