In this hour of departure you knit all my scattered thoughts into a carefully worded text - which I will promptly save in my messy heart-folder with many other drafts… In this hour of departure you inadvertently become all the soft things on earth - like, the breeze of Marine Drive the flowers of Peradeniya and raindrops on Galle Fort ...
It was the night of sitting and waiting, looking into eyes and searching, stepping in and out, and reaching. It was the night of pictures and poetry, textured by smiling and smiling, contoured by love, territoried by ambiguity; the night of embracing with eyes, healing with silence and kissing with fragrant words. There were moments, yes, moments of knowing, ...
Flirting is taxonomy where classification is needed for definition. Flirting is the age old game where seeker seeks seeking and hider hides hiding.. Flirting is heart’s assertion that rules are made to be broken… Flirting is imprisonment that is soft and freedom that is hard… Flirting is the only signature to every conversation that never ...
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. * ...
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 ...
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 )
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, ...
There is grammar in love and syntax too, hidden in lines like a phantom, hard to find hard to follow There are clauses main and subordinate, conjunctions conjuring up spatial relationships between subjects and objects of love. And then there are tenses past, present and future damp with the moisture of nostalgia and flow with ease along the veranda way ...
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 ...
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)
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 ...
Life has changed since the day it first rained. You’ve poured yourself into all my words like milk into early morning coffee. I’ve become the ‘player’ who’s hurt, but not yet retired who keeps playing on and playing out. I see the world in fragments for my imagination has run out of colours and dreams have ...
Absence has a way of falling when the tiny green drop of your presence is missing; it has a way of raining. way of embracing; softly, like early morning flowers, nondescript, on damp roads, waiting to be kissed by passing feet, now and then Absence then is a forbidden way of falling in love lent and borrowed by blue ...
When love is the traveller man and woman turn into road, memory-leaves grow into trees decorating the wayside, and hearts, often, stumble over rocks. When love is the traveller words toil and moil without a minute’s rest while meanings stand frozen, flowers are reborn with sanctity and blind faith becomes the soil… When love is the traveller you and I ...
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
We always had different corners, and different locations, to look into each other, like Raahu and Kethu, on a squared horoscope. From the very beginning, remember, there was an elemental distance. ‘Topography of love’, I called it those days. The sunrise I saw became the sunset in your eyes, and there was a conflict, always, between the moving sun and moon and ...
Today you asked too many questions, on ailment of love and unguent,on lingering and moving away, on promises, broken and to be made. for whichI did not have many answers. I forgot, the pragmatism of leaving,the knavish art of moving,the forgetful lessons of passing. But I tried to weave a smilewith an open bracket and ...
There is a blue patch of sky above my heart under which I walk beside you, clad in dirty white, holding your little finger, smiling. There are moments when I count countless stars in the galaxy of your eyes seeing the universe in tiny bits and pieces of your smiles, picking up pebbles hugging the wind as the child with ...
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 ...
Let names be abbreviations and memories cascade. May wounds of not-keeping-in-touch persist and tiny bits and pieces of intimacy stand in the middle. Let there be contours conjunctions and intersections- cross words and cross roads, love – silence – and love. I may let you go. true. I am the sunset. But you have to return, Sunrise! Reunion is a ...
