Sometimes you slip through my fingers and sometimes you just fall on my head sometimes you touch my hand, accidentally, like a flower bent down to the byroad. Sometimes on dry days I look at the sky and think, into some eyes, some rain must fall. Tombstones, when tired, lie down and you always, always look down. The law of gravity, I am told. * * * ( Rasika Jayakody 22.09.2012)
Every blue-eyed night has a red-eyed sunrise that wakes up in the early hours of a yawning morning in the mid September.. Every sunrise has a time of reflection, to open the windows of locked hearts, to read the language of two-way footprints, to comprehend presence and absence and to draw lines between you and me.. Every sunrise has a ...
In the face of your eyes I am insecure like a fish taken out of water. trembling.. I am insecure about my dark skin, pot belly, big nose and long face, I feel you may never look at me I feel you may never like me.. My poetry too, brings me insecurity, I am too scared to juxtapose words and ...
Luminescence of morning’s raiment and whiteness of midnight prayers… Incarceration of knitted fingers and warmth of fingertip kisses Entanglement of a soft embrace and transience of time and space. Reluctance of the footsteps of a snail and signature of distance and pain. Transcendence of a momentary smile and love’s faith in ‘sanda kinduru’ eyes
Uthpaada, Thithi, Bhanga the three words that console me after each and every conversation with you. I can’t remember the day you were born in my heart; was it the day I recited a poem over the phone at midnight? and you listened, half asleep, “when the first love dies, it is like a sea-bird plunging from the wheeling heights ...
As I walked passing the rain yesterday I saw many watery eyes, unnamed, unknown.. Gazing at the rain through the raindrops on a window of a moving bus, seeking refuge with a heavy heart under the small shelter of a bus stop, hiding behind the face of a wet umbrella that carries smiles and flowers in every rain, there were ...
The moon was everywhere, like you… In fairytales it was mythic, too far but yearned-for. I knew it belonged to a starlit heaven - the sky, and beyond the reach of my arms.. on roads, it was an onlooker who kept company at dusk, scared away the phantoms of solitude and passed by. In people the moon blossomed as in ...
Dear E, It’s been a long time, and the brick wall of silence almost..almost reaches the sky. You are ageing, so am I, and the possibilities we talked about, recede. day by day. So… why don’t you go away now? My days don’t begin with blank texts anymore and I don’t wait for ‘last minute calls,’ life is easy though, ...
This elfin city did not have frescoes ramparts and mirror-walls to scribble graffiti. But it had a history, a singsong history wherein the blueprint was poetry. Some days I sang ‘mea nagaraya maa oba muna gasunu nagarayayi’ some days, ‘muthu kuda ihalana mal warusaawe…’ songs of reminiscence and remembrance. This was the city of large eyes with long eyelashes that ...
When I looked at your eyes today piercing the distance of twelve months, pretty little lady, I saw nothing but the same old turning points. The roundabout near the Liberty Cinema the flyover in the heart of the Nugegoda junction the pier at Galle Face zebra crossings on Galle Road and the other places where you turned and ran back ...
True, I wandered from woman to woman like a vagabond. I’ve seen women of dunes who stand naked in the face of the dazzle of the sun without embarrassment and recount images of every passing shadow eternally, on whose laps my head was rested and hibernated. I’ve seen women of oceans who keep leaving and returning, bringing music and breeze ...
There was a time when I had no beautiful similes, no enthralling metaphors, no poetic license. I was lazy to knit words and make sentences. That was the time when I called love a coconut estate and you, a monkey. who kept sneaking in. There were days when you were the last bus which took me home when I needed ...
I speak of love, with the eagerness of a bird that flies back to its own little nest, with the pride of a far-off ship that sails on all alone, with the fondness of a raindrop that drops from the soft cheek of a dancing leaf, with the love that waits beneath the white petals of an off-season flower. I ...
Life is entanglement and devotion is refuge, hard to enter - hard to leave, but mind, always, is a cave where people and shadows turn into each other time to time. They hardly exist - hardly vanish, but roam the cave everyday with unoffered flowers of innocence blooming fading and blooming again. * ...
You too passed away today. Like every man and woman, every magical dawn, every rain and rainbow, you too passed away. There will be no floral tributes, no tokens of appreciation, no retrospection, but, a silent apology and a whisper in your ears, “go.” You will remain, in a long string of names, and your smile ...
What do I remember now? soft words of April rain, intense glare of the sun, in June, and three dozens of poems I wrote for you, on flowers, grass, waiting and walking, “rubbish,” as you said. Days passed and you transmuted into a friend, and I, to a passenger who leaves nothing, “a passing ship,” as you claimed. And ...
Even grasshoppers have symphonies, slow ones, where they aptly melodize silence, with unceasing patience of a forsaken heart that waits and waits for no one. And glossy eyes too, have laughing moments, once in a while, that pass away quickly, like reasons, seasons and lifetimes, but never return. And then lovelorn poets, what do they have? they have ...
There is a dark islet in a silent corner of the sea, which does not have a name or age, an islet that you see and pass, every now and then, but do not utter a word. It is an islet that does not ask questions and seek answers, but waits in silence for years and years, till you pass ...
You come as ripples and fall in drops. I am, as always, a rust-covered gate through which people walk in and out. We had nothing in common and nothing uncommon. To me, you were a memory-scape, and to you I was a landscape, both hidden beneath a cloak of fog called ‘love’. But, we all find ...
She is a mother,and a daughter too,carved from a drop of happy smilesand the everlasting gloss of tears.She’s the togetherness that residesa thousand miles away,and the empty space and the constant tappingbetween the chambers of my heart. She’s the unending music in my veinsthat I hearwhen I am alone at a round table discussionin a small office room in Colombo, ...
