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.
More from The Byword
THUMB.jpg)
Comments
*Comments will be moderated