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 ...
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 ...
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 ...
True, I have strange eyeswhere you often seethe reflections of lost wordsand stray kiteson lazy evenings.Eyes that never crybut camouflagetime to timewhen you are presentand absent;eyes that you can pokein wonderment,like a child,and find no tears. I have eyes, yes,dense,indifferent,and maybe smudged,which you never see,I never see. * * * ( Rasika Jayakody 24-06-2012 ...
Some transcendental pulses have colours and voiceswhich linger overbarren hearts like the twilightand offer melodic embracesagain and again and again; ‘sasara serisarana thek’you might say, Victor. I’ve often seen you,in the winds that come from afarto caress the green mountain-hearts of my country,and also in the rhythmical trembling of lovethat tell me of oceans, rivers and rain,and sepulchral silence. any song is a journey Victor,a ...
It was our last day, probably the last day of solidarity,integrityand ‘non-partisan reportage.’ It was the last dayof the first monsoon rain too,that rained and rained every morning,since March,the last day of moving shadowsand half-hearted windows. It was the last dayof justice and fairplay,the last day of the battle – dignity Vs tyranny,and editorial independence. ...
You have soft fingers,like the moonlight sonnetof a poya night,that can pinch the flower buds of my heart,gently,for hours,and squeeze out tiny drops oflove and dew, little by little,I will stay silent thoughlike a drowsy midnight dream,listening-listening to the wind’s embargoed whispers,and counting my slipped footsteps of the brick coloured road,which takes you home. * * ...
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 ...
There are no-rule zones, where you don’t see inhibitions or un-inhibitions instructions or restrictions or jurisdictions. Crossable, they are, like fingers words and hearts. There are no-rule zones where safe passage is ensured, crossings that no one crosses, blank, they are, like blank papers, white walls and certain eyes. * * * ( Dickmens Road, Colombo, 20.12.2012 )
Mist must have a language, wordless, impalpable and soft, as soft as the face of a lost friend who smiled smiled and smiled in passing. Mist must have a colour as white as the whiteness that slips out of a poya night, untouched like a prayer that gets lost in the sky’s infinity, and uninviting like death. Mist must be ...
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 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 ...
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.” ...
How many raindrops do you see in the line - “in a relationship”? How many waves that rise and brawl how many leaves that dance and fall? How many words do you see in the line - “in a relationship”? Words that are yet to be written and deciphered.. How many people do you see in the line - “in ...
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 ...
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 ...
This December is like me. Cold, as usual, runny nose, cough and headache every other night, late night disappearances and put-a-shots, raindrops here and there on the long roads of loneliness, occasional texts and strangers like swirls of smoke, This December is like me, nothing very special, like the melancholy of a violin playing Christmas carols and the monotony of ...
I saw you, on a yawning Thursday morning in early July, when I was walking on a mist-clad road in Kotmale. you flew to me, randomly, like a little bird, with the same smile, with the same soft-spokenness, that ‘she’ kept for me, for years, and I, oblivious to the world, lent you my palm, little girl, for a ...
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 )
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 ...
