Three poems of mine in the Peacock Journal.
Three poems of mine in the Peacock Journal.
How after 4 years, together,
we see two indentations,
on a mattress, the beauty sleeps,
that become discolored impressions,
You see, as a measure of time.
I can’t help smile,
seeing my wife, keeps her legs hoisted
in the air, to allow for the tadpoles
to swim through by gravity, while
a Sunday Times newspaper
lies beneath her, on the bed.
Silly me, to think, that for
two people who are ambivalent,
about children, we possess the right
to create one. We laugh afterwards,
looking at the wet newspapers,
the humble pie, that is served,
to clean up, and perhaps
even replace, a wet sheet.
The same newspapers, we will, one day,
fold, to make paper boats or floating jets.
The conquistadors and the aviators,
paper hoists, inside a child’s heart.
While, before throwing away the newspaper,
I look at a little stain, rich in life,
directly on a newspaper article, that to
my delight, – and anguish – reads,
Quadruplets born at
Lady Ridgeway Hospital.
How we loved, the exhales,
To the exfoliants, the chemistry,
Of what was so tender, and if not,
The little bit of daylight, between me
And you. How we let our blindfolds,
Strip our pupils, our peep holes.
While we begin the seduction,
Juxtaposition-ed fragrances, ever-closing gazes,
The mouth in extenuating circumstances,
With the sail raised, “Ahoy Sailor”!
Holding her, in sheer brevity, in ephemerality,
Ethereal lips too esurient, to miss out,
Inching towards an inclined state,
To become conscious, of a paltry breath,
A short burst of hot air, combing fuzz.
The coincidences, that we coalesce to,
How détente is beautiful, and prone to,
Empower, a euphemism, as four letters.
The oasis is lush, the springs are pristine,
The date palms are tall. The dire sense
Of water, on a tongue’s terminus,
To be quenched,
Just as much, by defeat…….
As by surrender.
The difference, between “my father”,
And “our father”, is that, one gave me life,
In the form of a tiny, swimming tadpole,
And stood as my canopy,
On my darkest night; while the other,
Gave me heavenly incandescence,
To evaporate my tears, and to mirror my face
With the saffron sun.
While I thank my father, on his day,
Knowing, that my mother’s breasts once forgotten,
I could only stand under your canopy, your arms open,
So unlike prayer, and those interfacing palms.
How in a world of, decoys and serendipity,
Judases and Midases, you showed me, the difference
Between faith and fate.
One is the reverence, of a heavenly occupant,
Who sculpts the Invictus in you,
And the other gives me, Cartesian coordinates,
To my eternal duel, with dyscalculia,
Metamorphosing into my GIS, every time I’m
Inside a labyrinth. Life is just about,
How I fit into my dad’s shoes, those Size 14s,
Which I wear with three thick socks.
How I could never measure up to my dad,
The lighthouse with a hundred step
Spiral staircase, a thick window
On top, from where a light shone far,
And a stentorian voice, that I could
Hear, from a distance, like the siren,
Of a lone fog horn.
Here in Sri Lanka,
We call our lakes, oceans, like Parakrama Samudraya,
Built by human endeavor. The depths
That are muddy, laden with freshwater weeds,
Floating salvinia plants,
And little fish, absconding from
Fishermen’s hooks, while children bathe
With a sense of freedom, as women
Balance pots on their heads
Taking water home.
We let trickles grow into
A gushing force, calling it a river,
Mahaweli to the Wak Oya, the giant
And the Lilliputian, the strong force
And the fragile tiptoeing. How there too
You have the same ingredients,
Women, children and fish.
While streams are everywhere, where
Children float little paper boats, and
Walk ankle-deep in water. The kingfishers
Look menacing in blue overalls,
Keeping an eye on the few miserly
Fish that swim, nowhere near
The banquets, of lakes and rivers.
Lakes, River and Streams,
Some, God’s vision and others, man’s innovation
Back in a time, where men built dams to
Preserve agriculture. The men, in tiny, stringed,
Smaller than a thong, fig leaf-size, loin coverings,
Sowing seed, a few at a time, knowing
Some will germinate, while others
Will become a treat for the sparrows.
How man, took on God, here,
To make lakes, and call them oceans.
Oceans, where little rafts paddle,
Collecting fish. A way of life, that still
Lives on even today.
Oceans, that gifts,
Irrigation to a place and time,
Where winds cool open buttock cheeks
And pedals a way of life. How farmers
Are servants of the water ways,
The little channels that flood a rice
field, to raise a peduncle, that in
Time will hold golden grains, as harvests,
While tourists look at the farmers in
Amazement, not just at their tiny
Garments, but also how they work
Long days, and sing at night, to
Keep the elephants away.
The beauty of a paddy field.
Green turning a beautiful gold,
Short growing into tall windfalls,
Scarecrows scaring the sparrows,
Mud climbing to the knees;
The craftsmanship of knowing, that
When the weather gods wallop,
They take with them, dirt off butt cheeks
But sweat off a physiognomy.
The tanned marks around alabaster teeth,
A farmer and weather, the strategies,
That get passed through oral traditions,
Just like lyrics of Pal Kavi.
Little poems, that rhyme away,
Like sonnets in the breezing wind,
The sarong knots, that are just as tight,
As their hold on destiny.
A way of life, that is threatened
By urbanization and growth. Lyrics, that
Keep eyes awake at nightfall,
The vigils of being a watcher,
While elephants loiter, and weather gods
Wallop. Two ferocious beasts of nature,
The elephantine and Huracan’s fury,
That tend to surprise sometimes,
Like lanes of traffic on heaven’s way,
Cumulus battling nimbus,
In a game of chess in the sky.