Like ritual we assemble symbols before us. Giving meaning to image, giving reason to sight. Like flight to a baby bird, heights inspire wings to grow. Blue skies venerate reflecting waters, As ebb turns to flow in silent prayer.

You came with silence, In the quiet dark of night. You  created distance, Absence made none fonder. Like a figment of the imagination, Unknown, unborn.

For someone who is hoping to make a living out of words, with you sometimes I find myself at a loss. And it feels like I am losing you, losing grip, losing sight. Slowly, but surely, losing my mind. It is in the words you do not speak, the hesitant murmuring, the tears that break and fall invisible to me. ...

With this breath I let go of all negativity. With this breath I rid myself of animosity. Inhale, Exhale. The smoke enters and leaves.

Strawberry moon Waxing and waning Pick it out of the sky On a poya night.

I’ve got a chance to perform live at the CoCA Invasion! art festival going on this week at the Warehouse Project. Do come check it out, I’ll be performing between 6 and 8pm from the 15th to 19th.  FB event page: https://www.facebook.com/events/165054856931375/

Listen: http://www.thesixtyone.com/s/6YNwAJCyR0G/ Been around a couple of times I feel like I’ve been here before And it seems to me our worst mistakes Were made before we learnt to show it Oh, how I feel the world pulled from beneath my feet Oh, I suppose I could have learnt from your mistakes Been around a couple of days For you ...

The following is an excerpt from a short story I’m writing. It’s nowhere near complete, but the inspiration came in a dream. The dream was one of those long 3 hour epics, going through different scenes. I’ve only managed to describe the first scene, taking liberties with the story as I can’t quite recall the entirety of the dream. But ...

Ahinsaka “Home for Special Needs Children” is a short film written, filmed and produced for a good cause by Subhash Pinnapola.

A mound of sticks, stones and earthly matter, Surrounding you, a breath of hubris, so pungent – inflammable. Down to earth you have never been, you never willed. You were no sanyasi. You were thrown in to the sea.

This month we will be having yet another poetry jam, the same open-mic sort of thing. Anyone is welcome to bring their own words, their voices, guitars, harmonicas or even a book to read from. My work has opened up a lot of opportunities for me, and one of them has resulted in this event receiving its own venue and ...

I have not eaten a proper meal in the past three days. Well that’s a lie. I have not cooked a proper meal in the past few days, and a day without food was all it took to get me back in the kitchen. All that is left in the freezer is fish and beef. Naturally, I went for the ...

There once was a boy, lying down on the shore, sand in his hair and sand on his feet. Across from the shore was a house painted white, and on the horizon rose a wave, climbing to the heavens. It was as though gravity decided to take a day off, at least over the ocean, as the wave climbed never ...

I was introduced to this band over a year ago in Hikkaduwa. Either I stumbled onto it, or it was a friend who had me listen to them. And from the first listen, I was hooked. Singata Mystic Queen was the first sting, and then came Double Freedom. Fuck. One amazing album that is Long Distance Trip, their debut. Since ...

I am my mother tongue before I am Muslim.Does the mother tongue precede the father of belief? I may not be well-versed in Tamil, but it means more to me than my religion. It is simply about what connects deeply enough. Prostrating in unison, I feel connected, yes. I feel submitted. Conversing in union, however, is submersion to the very depths.

Now that you’ve digested my face, let’s talk about the food. Last week I had two old friends for lunch, they were delicious. I mean the food, obviously. Lunch was quite spontaneous. There were no noodles at home so I had to actually touch the rice, which I’ve avoided for a good month! Looked in the fridge and found ...

Watching the lines move across the monitor with baited breath, as his lungs were giving way to the ether. The breath of the soul that is breathed with every man’s last. His sons and daughter gathered around the hospital bed. Nasser was returning from Colombo. They held his hands, pinching his skin, hoping for a response. “Appa!”, they called ...

Man is not kind. Human is not kind. What then is kind?

You are the artiste, I – the magician. You play with colour and shape, as you trace the lines along my face. Yet I may choose to disappear, bend the rules that keep my here. I tread the wire that suspends belief. You find me here, yet lose yourself, as colours give way to shapes that melt lines between ...