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Strider and other poems

Strider and other poems
      

Nine poems by the Sri Lankan-American poet-diplomat, essayist and translator, who has published 19 poetry collections, including The Migrant States, Coconuts on Mars and The Elephants of Reckoning, as part of World Poetry/Prose Portfolio, curated by Sudeep Sen   

Strider


Keenness of feeling, desire to speak overwhelming
as I search for the right form to express overflowing
need to banish sleep, wake up running, dancing
to Graceland, Aqualung, Lola, Yellow Submarine,
and to you on the trail — sauntering in my sleep then 
trilling in morning bird song, sporting rabbit ears 
keen for the almost silent step of the photographer 
before dashing off into the brush, fawning deer 
surprised by the spring, drinking, woodpecker 
even stopping its relentless eating just for 
a minute as you run by, as you run this poem 
into a state of atonement, of salvation, of bliss
at the miracle of life popping out from the dark,
tangled interstices of melancholy, where my heart
had foundered, until you whistled by, striding.  


Love Unmasked


I want to hold and calm you, say 
this deep-gashed silence — fish eye 
plucked out, leaving a body throbbing 
blind — will pass and let you harvest 
morning light again, blood stains 
washed away, letters held 
in the drawer... I am comforted 

they exist, that you can go back 
through thousand sheets of prose 
to find meaning, to share love 
with strangers who become friends 
visiting you on bookstore shelves 
once we move again into the physical 
world, taking our masks off at the door.



Up to a Thousand Words


The picture emits hope, 
faces beaming light 
and grace, affirming 
bonds shaped in verse, 
in the interstices 
between and within 
lines, caesuras, dots. 
The picture cannot 
deny, speaks beyond 
time, into souls 
of lovers who 
recognize 
above the masks 
the shimmering eyes. 


Second Childhood


Mother needs care and I have played the role for more than three years 
and counting, exhausting the good will of the audience (other family
members, friends, parishioners)  It is time for my understudy to take over 
and for me to sleep without dreams of failing to shave before the matinee, 
of staying a bit too long in bed with my girlfriend, getting caught 
in traffic, running to the staff entrance, doorman glowering, then right 
on stage, lipstick on cheek, not in character, dutiful son not ready 
to wrap his mother in swaddling clothes after her bath, bar 
the bathroom door with his body scream when she tries to go back 
to the shower where she fell asleep the other day causing panic 
in the house, Thank God, I had not drunk or written too much 
that early morning, and with help of rubbing alcohol and the kind 
of heft adrenaline wakes up, I dragged her body out and across 
the hall to bed.  Is this the stuff of poetry? Written on the wall 
of your screen? Will you contact the understudy? I am shy to admit 
my limits, grappling with reality, reversal of roles, bloody tragic unity. 


The Runner Speaks


Sometimes I run a mile round
the neighborhood. Sometimes
I go for three, including a foray
on Rock Creek Trail. Sometimes
I storm out of the house to clear
my head of the thousand racing
thoughts. I have to study,yes,
do my day job even remotely,
cases piling up, and then poetry,
the rare fruit. Oh, to have
time to write. You are a lucky
man regarding time, inspiration.
but you have born your share
of hurt. You would have married
by now if plans had worked.
God had another bend 
in the curve I am running round, 
for you to interpret, your verse.


Lift-Off


I don’t want to sleep. Not yet. 
Our last meeting germinated 
a seed, and wide-eyed I marvel 
at the speed of growing, already 
a stem, bud sprouting, two days 
later, in the post-midnight hothouse 
I note the flowering with a heart 
in my farmer’s almanac. 



A Thought, A Tortoise


With you I am a tortoise: 
patient, slow, like a late 
summer lick of wind 
tousling your hair. 
I deliver your post on foot, 
each step measured, 
without haste, smiling. 

Without you I count 
starlings passing over 
the field. Strip 
the scarecrow and wait 
for a new set of clothes.
Lay on the grave 
a bunch of fresh roses.



Midnight Runner


The runner is my friend. 
She lives in the city 
and runs every day.

She runs in my mind 
as well, along 
Rock Creek Trail 

into the country 
where I stride 
beside gravestones 

on my morning 
stroll in the cemetery 
beyond the path. 

One day I expect 
to kiss the angel on 
my favorite headstone 

and march into 
the woods instead 
of going directly 

home. That day 
will shine like 
midnight 1999.


God Walking


You think God does not exist,
or if he does that he has gone 
missing? I tell you. 

you are wrong. I tell you 
God  is walking towards 
me now. This morning 

I saw him wearing white, 
my son arriving at National 
airport, my mother dressed 

to the nines, in green 
batik blouse, green pantsuit
walking out of the house 

with a cane. No more 
walker. Not today.
And my son said

she looked good. 
She is on the mend.
Imagine that.

after finding her,
just two weeks back,
slouched on a chair

hot water lashing her
from the shower.
And her helper thought 

she had died. We used 
smelling salts
and we dragged her

out of that sleep.
We are not sleeping 
now. Soon we will 

let the cane go flying. 
Soon, we will say
to the woman running

out of the city along 
the Rock Creek Trail 
and on the path 

in front of our house. 
Good afternoon.
Welcome home. 

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