Hi All, Just sharing a friend’s poetry website. You can follow his poems here. He is an award winning poet from Sri Lanka. He is studying for his Ph.D. in English Literature, at ANU, Canberra. https://vihangapererapoems20152017.wordpress.com/
Tag: Poet
Everybody is a somebody….. The body suit zipper stood waiting to unzip, Like a hatched shell, polka dot complexion, Where a baby ostrich lay. Some call that baby, a baby Some call it a house or home, Some call it a business, Some want it, to be like an owl, to be Inside a parliament.
Back in 2009, I stood inside my home, no longer Holding a brilliant job, Humbled by the sheer mastery Of how fate can work magic against you. And from inside my well, I drew a bucketful Of an ingredient, not found in my bucket list. It was just an arrangement of words That loomed
There have been more winners, of Miss World and Miss Universe, From South America, than anywhere else in the world. The beauty of the mixed-breed women, How genes painted over indigenous skin, And a man, who now lives inside a grave, Transforming paint into words. How inner beauty pollutes the poetic sense, Of how radiant
The dreamy moment of Worlds and Worldsworth The daffodils, the narcissists, a mirror’s birth How proud the child who drills a poem’s nail How the earliest dawn, is a wishing well pail How the tallest sky, the eagle’s lair How the bluest ocean, the jellyfish’s prayer, How the child, the poetic eye, the third periscope,
You ponder what is life? The American poets have it easy, Being the ones who get to shove Their poems down so many journals. While in this part of the world There is very little we can do But postbox a poem down the shaft Of an editor, at a reputed journal far away, Who
When a leaf falls, it leaves behind a legacy A node, a nook bared of a garment And I wonder what my legacy would be. Would I change the shape of a Pizza? Or just one degree of the tower of Pisa? In that gulf, I’m engulfed by my own frailty. Of how the moon
We are flawed, beyond repair We hold a goddess and complain how She has a little bump of flesh on her thighs And how the water is shallow in her heart-well. Still we look at her virtues, the insensibilities As mind canvases become masterpiece realities. When the wretched heart becomes a prince. Yet we say
I look at myself in the mirror, clad in loin cloth What we call underwear, and I see a large bronze man Who wants a little less fat and a little more bat in a perfect world. I’m not perfect. For once, I don’t wear my undies on the outside I’m not a super hero
