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 ...
There will be another day and another time for us to deceive ourselves with love and fear to prefer dream over reality to differentiate smile and tear with the closest approximation of words to rediscover solitude and vanish between soft melodies and interludes into silence and to return with heart’s long lost signatures at inconvenient times. Not now, ...
“Let our time be filled with a merry song” for there is always a fingertip to press the No button and end my search for you, to halt poetry and the mad rush of words, to stop the traffic of timelines and roll back years, freely, to the point where you and I were unknown particles of dust at different ...
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 ...
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 ...
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 ...
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, ...
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 ...
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 ...
There are pristine flowerswith mysteries,orange – hearted, yet robed in white,kissed and kissedby the early morning rain. there are stony lands too, softened by mossover the years, on which flowers lie, fingers and hearts slip. and then, you!you will pick meon the same wet morningand confine me in your no-rule zone. you will hold me, with the murmur of music,with the caress ...
“I don’t drive, So.. You will have to,” I laid out my first condition on that small coffee table and you responded with a willing smile. Then it was your turn. “I can cook very well, you know.. that is what I enjoy most. But you’ll have to get used to my untidiness, indecisiveness and madness, generally. I may not ...
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 ...
Eye is a language, not of words, nor of thoughts, but of endless magic that makes my fingers stray on the streets of your cheeks and stops my heart wickedly at the tender blockade of eyelids: Eye is a language not of beauty nor of pain but of beautiful pain of love that pinches mind-cells subtly with soft little fingers ...
You readthe book of silence. Surrounded by people,words and knowing eyes,moonlightand laughter,youplaythe violin of silence Youflickerlike a candlelightlike an unkept promiselike the last lineof a love song.The song of silence. On this rainy night,you,the girl of small handsand long thick hair,recitethe poetry of silence. * * * ( Rasika Jayakody 03.06.2012 ) ...
The child in me still believes that every moon is something to cry for. The child in me still thinks every wall that has rough edges is a sign of protection. The child in me wants to say every padlocked moment is safe and unbreakable. The child in me likes to paint every heart-shaped object in ...
There is a moment of visibility when you see the unseen bonds of twines and fingers against the green heart of the paddy and the blue eye of the sky. There is a moment of inevitability when the spectrum of colours and the silhouette of silvery grey dissolves into the bliss of the breeze. There is an evening when every ...
