Because

You are within reach

And my arm aches

My body yearns for you

But I have to tell myself

Not to

Because

You are no longer

Mine to touch

Statue of Buddha

 

A post about concrete poems was put up on the Facebook group, A Poet's Toolbox. I wanted to give it a shot, despite not being good with drawing on a book or a computer. The poems aren't good either, but this was just to see how a poem can be given a shape to further emphasize it's content.
The poems are based on a Buddha statue that someone has left on a street light near my home. I noticed its headlessness and commented about it to Amma.

Puppet

There was a puppeteer

Who had her collection

She made the wooden toys

Dance to her tune

And even though she wasn't skilled

Didn't understand the music

The puppets had no choice

But to dance to her tune

Then one puppet said he'd had enough

And cut off all his strings

He lost all life and couldn't dance and sing

All he could do was sit down and watch

"They think they can defeat me"

The puppeteer laughed, "but as you can see, I always win"

And the puppet smile a dry smile and said

"I mayn't be able to dance or even move

But whose hands are untied and whose are full?"

Drafts

I wish I could write to the people I love
To tell them what it is like
Inside this head of mine
When it is grey, below, around and above

I struggle with words
I stammer and freeze
I see the herds
And I wonder why I can't be
More like them
Less like me
Liked by them
Liked by me

But words aren't so kind
Nor is this world
They can't read my mind
And I can't write word
So they don't know
And I can't say
What I need to, so
The effort is a waste

And even in this space of mine
A blog to say what I want
I erase all that I type
The very things that I can't
Say freely like the thoughts
That have no barriers when
They are brought
To the people by whom they are read
And so I'm lost in
Saved drafts
Never published
Saved to later delete

Complaining

All politicians are corrupt
  And what are you doing to
  Change this?
  Are you hoping to be a
  Politicians someday?

Journalism has gone to the dogs
  So tell me
  When will you take up
  War of pen and paper
  And join the media forces?

This country has no respect for women
  What about the time
  Your catcalls made a female walk away in fear
  Or the time you called
  Your friend a son of a bitch?

We have no freedom
  When was the protest you held
  To inform the relevant parties
  Of your breached
  Human rights?

We shouldn't be celebrating the end of war
  Mothers, teachers, the elderly, lovers, friends
  They all have days dedicated to them
  Why is it that victims of war
  Don't deserve a single day a year, at least?

Everything is so dirty here
  So it wasn't you who
  Threw that chewing gum wrapper
  On to the road instead of a
  Dustbin?

The traffic is terrible
  Have you forgotten that
  Your family goes to Colombo
  At the same time in
  Four separate vehicles?

That girl is dressed like a slut. Totally asking for it
  So anyone can rape you
  Simply because
  Your shorts reveal just as much as
  That girl's skirt does?

Covered from head to toe. So oppressed
  Didn't you just complain
  Of a girl's short skirt?
  What exactly is the right length of clothing
  In your book of rules?

You are a poem

You are a poem.

Read
Reread
Read yet again
Squinted at
Torn apart
Jumbled
Put together
Read once more

Then
Tossed aside
Called nonsense
Utter rubbish
Waste of time
And
Who would even call you
Poetry?

But you,

You just smile
Let yourself be poem again
Words put in right order
Creases ironed out
Like Christ reborn
-Of course, without the disciples-

For
All you have are
The paper your existence relies on
The ink your life swims in
And the poet
The one who decided
On word
Pause
Rhythm

And even if
You don't receive
A second look
Even by your Creator,

You are a poem.

Sometimes I read the poems on this blog
And ask myself who this sad girl is

The answer, 'it's the person you hide from the world'
Always makes me wonder what I've become

When I smile and laugh and look so happy
I'm not hiding this deep unhappiness

But when I do write, when I'm alone with pen and paper
I become that sullen girl not many know

All that I have
  of you
  is a blog that has been
  abandoned.

All that I have
  of you
  is the past of a life
  I don't belong to
  anymore.

Single mother

It wasn’t silence that was her guest

Quiet, accompanied by peace

Sat on the sofa

Smoothing the creases of her home

As she threw away a pin dot piece

Of the fried egg

For any lurking perethayas

She thought of her boys

Sure she could hear them breathing

If not for the whirring

Of the ceiling fans

She breaks open the egg

Allows the moon like yolk

To mingle with the yellow

Kiri hodi

While orange desiccated coconut

Dances a slow dance

And she remembers her boys

Having dinner just an hour ago

While she tried to ignore the

Pain in her joints

From having worked all day

And now

Cooking for three

A more tiresome job

That when she cooked for four

The younger one

So innocent at seven

Laughed at the smiley face he drew

On the white of the bread

With the kiri hodi

And his brother

Wiser at ten

Gives the small one a tired look

But then

Breaks into a smile

As he gives the face

An orange pol sambol smile

Then

At a moment of confusion

Or maybe forgetfulness

The younger one,

The artist,

Says

“This is Thaththa”

And while the older one suddenly finds

The shapes, colors, textures of his food

Interesting

And the younger one

Battles tears

That are a result of knowing

He has hurt his Amma

She,

Tired

Hungry

Alone

Smiles and says,

“Stop playing with your food

Darling

And eat”

Podda fears a slap

Or maybe a caning

Like his father used to give him

Every once in a while

But no

Amma is too kind

Too loving

So she pretends the words didn’t stab her

Although they did

Just like when the boys’ father told her

“I’m leaving”

And later

When Lokka said

“Thaththee introduced me to a nice Aunty”

Red

What she would remember of that day

is the red mixed with the white of the

Frangipani flowers that were the bed

she lay on

and the fluid that painted her thighs

as he gave her pain mixed pleasure

The rice they had later

red mixed with white, the way she liked it

And how could she forget the red of her mother's eyes

as she realized what had been done and cried for lost innocence.

ඔයාට එපා නම් මටත් එපා

ආ මෙන්න

කියලා

යාලු වෙන්න කලින්

යාලුවෝ ලෙස සිටි කල

මම

ඔයාට දීපු

තෑගි ටික

ඔයාට දැන් එපා කියලා

මට දීල ගියේ

ආදරයක් නැති බව

දැනගත් පසු

මිතුරු කමටත්

අප අතරේ සිදුවෙච්ච සියල්ලටම

ඕන කමක් නැති නිසාද?

Let us love

Love
Beings
Regardless of their
Sex
Ethnicity
Complexion
Social class

Love
A person
Because you love that person
And not because
They are of a particular
Sex
Ethnicity
Complexion
Social class

Love people
Don't just have sex
Don't just fuck
Make love
Instead

And yet
People are picky
Ethnicity is considered
Conversion is encouraged
Sometimes demanded
The lower class
Try to fit in with the rich
The upper class
Convince themselves their
Pauper lovers are still love-worthy

One pretends to not notice
When the other talks about lau

And so
Love is for the rich
Love is for the poor
Love is for
The Buddhist
The Christian
The Hindu
The Muslim
The athiest
The agnostic
 (etc.)
Love is for the rich
Love is for the poor
Love is for anyone
Love is for everyone

Yet
Love is assumed to be heterosexual
Relationships are assumed to be heterosexual

We are told to love and not (just) have sex
Then why does it matter if
Woman loves man or woman?
Or
Man loves woman or man?

Attraction of oppositesIs deemed normal
Anything but the
Attraction of opposites
Is deemed
Abnormal
Sinful
Unlawful
Disgusting


Love doesn't discriminate based on sex
But society does

Let us love
The people we love
Let us love
Regardless of
Sex
Ethnicity
Complexion
Social class
Let us love
Because
We have no choice
We don't choose
Whom to love
We can choose
Whom to be loved by
But even that decision
Is none of society's business

So
Let us love

Christmas present

You wanted to know
How I feel about you

Picture this
To understand
A big box beautifully wrapped
Red ribbon
Bright paper
Under a Christmas tree
That looks pale in
Comparison
A child
His heart beating wildly
Wondering which of the items
On his list to Santa
Could be in this box
Runs to the gift
Ignores the other treasures
Napping under the tree
After a night of waiting
He carefully removes the ribbon
Tears away the wrapping paper
Wrestles with the tape
That keeps the box closed
Opens the box
Fights the crushing disappointment
He feels
When he finds
The box contains nothing

Do you know how I feel, now?
Have I painted a clear enough picture
For you?

Time to find a good boy...

"Ahh all grown up now
Was this high when I used to carry you
Remember?
Must be having a boyfriend and all also
Now"
An uncle says at family gathering

"High time you found a nice husband
Have a nice simple wedding
I was just telling my own one last week
Find someone now
Before you get any older
Otherwise no man will want you"
An aunty says when we happen to
Run into each other at a supermarket

"Another tattoo?
You are mad!
Will look like a real rasthiyaadukaarayaa!
After you get married,
Anything.
Not one,
Get a hundred and
I won't care"
Amma tells me

"That was a boy...
...friend?"
Thathee asks

"So so how men?
Working?
Sha! How's the place?
So...
Have a boyfriend now?"
A friend asks.

"Ha! Fine thing
If you can't find one
Who else can?
But really,
Surprising that you are single
Went to LC and all, right?
Don't you girls meet a lot of boys?
My cousin
Went to the same school
You must be knowing
Real one
Had so many boys
The other girls
Couldn't find a single one"

"Here
You were at Vijitha Yapa yesterday?
I saw you
But you were with a boy
*grins*
So didn't want to disturb
Nice fellow
Good match
So...
Where did you meet him?
Didn't tell us also"

Umbrellas

Get a room

Their friends joke

But he knew

They meant it

Rooms were expensive

He couldn't afford it

She was worth it

But he couldn't turn

Criminal for love

So he had to

Be content with

Shrubs hiding them from

Prying eyes

At beaches

And of course,

The best friend of

Lovers

Rich with lust

Poor of penny

Umbrellas