Friday, March 29, 2013


White is peace
It is surrender
It is the giving up of hope
White is the cloth
That wraps the corpse
Burning to ashes
White is the thira
That lights the oil lamp
An offering to the Buddha
White is her saree
She wears to the temple
Praying for safety
White are the clouds
That float against the blue
Of a sky that has seen no hate

Replaced Noises

Replaced Noises
She once heard the pew pew pew of a gun
Now the songs of a bird
She once heard the boom boom of a bomb
Now the crashing waves of the ocean
She once heard the wailings of a child
Now the wind flying through the leaves
She once heard the hushed whispers of the day
Now the un-fearing voices of the night
She once heard “war, war, war!”
Now the stories of defeat of her friends


For her tomatoes meant few things.
The bright red of ketchup
Zigzagging on French Fries
The fine slices between buttered bread
Chopped cubes with cheese in a still hot Submarine

For him tomatoes meant other things.
Peppered for a salad, onions too
Preserved for future use, the jam bottles lined neatly
Tossed in with some salt, to the bubbling curry

For another her tomatoes were nothing
Only a dead memory
The small plots, plants so small
Bearing fruits of greens, yellows and reds.
The juice had splattered with her blood
A painting on a wall
Fruits that once found her some coins
Now paying not even for her life

Dust Covered Peace

Dust Covered Peace
In a dusty corner of her Achchi’s house
She found something she hadn’t seen before
It was in the dusty handkerchief that Seeya once used
Lying forgotten on a dusty dressing table, the mirror a cracked web
“What is this, Achchi?” she asked,
“I’ve never seen it before!”
Achchi held the handkerchief to her nose, breathing in the faint scent
Seeya’s once favorite perfume still there, unbeaten by age
She gave it to the little on, a gift to be treasured
“I haven’t seen it in many years
But I think its called peace!”

The President Speaks

The President Speaks
Can you end the war? Yes
Will you end the war? Yes
Will you punish the wicked? Yes
Will the roads be built? Yes
Are you going to give hope to others? Yes
Make sure their dreams come true? Yes
Will they love you as a leader, president and father?

Tears are for the Undead

Tears are for the Undead
With a shaking hand he tore the
Envelope open. Slowly, his hand
Reached out for the letter. He knew
What the words would say. Not news
To him was his son’s death. The
Young soldier too young to be
Holding a gun instead
Of a pen and paper. But the
Gun was chosen and
The gun had killed him. Now
A body that would never reach
His home. His father didn’t shed a single
Tear. What’s the use? His boy was
Already dead.

Victim of Suicide

Victim of Suicide
The little girl didn’t see what hit her
She never heard the boom
When people screamed
Telling her to move
She stood shock still
She felt the lady behind her
The rustling of a skirt
She felt, didn’t hear
The push to run away
Too late though she was
Because before she could turn
Or even run away
Her body was nothing but charred bits
Staining the buildings and shops

The Royal Corpse

The Royal Corpse
Jamma had a reason to be proud
Or at least she once did
Of her royal blood she used to talk
As if royalty still ran in her veins
Jaffna was a palace for her
A paradise built on earth
Then the earth shattered,
The thunder boomed,
The sun scorched the earth
She now looks at the
Newly built houses
Faces she doesn’t know
Janani Selvachchandi,
Once a queen
Now a corpse in a camp.