Note of Thanks

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Note of Thanks

Tell me
from whom I ought
to begin
to thank all that
that helped to bloom this little
flower of verses
and to share its fragrance of love – leading
to dust through lust, the climax
of all our wanton desires –
with you?
I’ll begin with you, Ven. Ananda,
with folded hands against my forehead,
a
salute of gratitude,
for poetry being my only treasure
and I have no other means to thank you,
and thank you, Shafna and my WordPress fellow bloggers,
for your kind
contribution to bloom this flower.
Now my sons: thank you, Mahesh,
for
the cover design and
sponsorship and you,
Sachith & Sachin,
for personalizing my gross concepts
with concrete images, and
finally, take this garland of love
Prema (mother of my sons) for igniting my
creativity with your love.
Note of Thanks for my second poetry collection: Love, Lust & Dust

 
Copyright © October 9, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

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Not Me!

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This me you drew
is not me;
your me wears my face,
but your heart;
so, this me you drew
is not me.

Let me
draw me
as I see me,
for only ‘me’
may draw me
as me.

Copyright © September 4, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

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Rising from dust

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Yes, from dust I rise to clouds.

The rosy clouds I fancy around
may not be true but an illusion
I see out of my hallucination
for I rise from the depth of dust,
where I often slept with dusty cats,
on an empty mat in a rickety hut.

But I feel, I see I’m in clouds,
a temporary pleasure of floating
among rosy clouds, a fantasy,
which but I love ever to be in.

 
Copyright © September 23, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Love is above dust

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O, brother, immature,
don’t sling dust and mud,
for you can never pick
those flowers, sky-bound,
by slinging mud and dust.

They stand above mud,
and dust will fling down
and dirt your own face.

They are true lovers,
whose hearts, flooded with love,
wash the dirt of their feet.
Pick those flowers with a stick
and place them at their feet.

But never sling mud
for dust will fling back
and dirt your own face.

Flowers kept at an altar
spread pleasant fragrance,
but bees that roam around,
never rock them
seeking dark honey.

So, never sling mud
for dust will fling back
and dirt your own face.

Image source: Pixabay

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Stop, Sun!!

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Is that because you know meeting ends
With lovers’ parting
That you don’t farewell with tears of dew
Your lover’s parting.

We loved to see dew drops every morning
Not knowing then
You were weeping for your lover’s parting
By Sun’s summoning.

Stop him, that ‘unruly’ Sun,
And love him to your tummy’s content
As Zeus, a night roaming lover, did once
To be with one.

 

Copyright © September 4, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Life’s Play

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This play’s title: Love, Lust & Dust,
Aptly implies a bitter tragedy life is.
With love it begins, an ecstatic start,
And onrushes through complexities
To climax: crazy satiation with illusive lust,
When we dance ‘as crabs in a boiling pot’,
Being with all the earthly pleasures drunk,
Not knowing what dread fate is to come next,
And then ends this play curiously heroic
In misery when everything: love – lust,
Turns to ashes, and at last, to odorless – dust.

Copyright © September 2, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Poetry’s treasure!

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Poetry they say is only a replica: a copy
Three times far from ‘truth,’ but I see
Not one, but haunting truths so many.

Many forever munch the taste of truth,
The bitter truth of suffering and loss, and
A few dull men swallow all the pleasures,
For they have heaps of plundered treasure.

A man, who lived not in a faraway land,
Pledged to drive poets from the school land,
For the men drunk with the wine of rhymes
Rioted to topple the house of his idling band.

Now I know why rhyming is such a crime.
When men are drunk with soothing rhymes,
They know where to trace the hiding hounds.

 

Copyright © August 26, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Inquirers

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We were
the teachers then;
teachers sure we were then,
and our territory was the classroom.

But
they were not our rats,
the victims of our experiments;
they were the co-inquirers, and
we inquired into, and sought hints
to solve this complex riddle of life:
how we come on to this stage
crawling and wriggling in fours,
and then
dance in twos swinging our wings,
and leave the floor relying all our weight,
(maybe lightened weight by dancing,)
on three
fleshless, lifeless, crooked
sticks.

 

Copyright © August 26, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

You’re their mother

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Father though I’m, who set their bread,
Their mother you’re; you care them all.

When night and day harder you work
While giving that love, I used to own,
To the children of mine, love fills in my heart
Greater than the day I met you first
And gets me closer and closer to your heart.

When you sit beside and kiss my head,
Fragrance of yours that’s often smelt
On my infant son’s face, makes me a devotee
Of the temple of yours, and then I feel
Not you as my lover, but a great, great mother.

Translation to Maestro Amaradeva’s ‘Though I’m their father’  (I published this , first, on November 11, 2016. I thought of publishing it again with new edits.)

Copyright © August 6, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image Source: Pixabay

Small Love?

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Does my love, this deep love,
My love of gratitude to this land,
The land that bore me, look sooo small?

Should I throw my love, this deep love,
Onto that space, empty and boundless,
And say so high with arms wide open,
“Fly high, and you’ll feel so cool my love;

Come, with all your men, rape this land,
Rape her, for she bore glorious sons;
Bulldoze all her ancestral roots, and
My boundless love shall keep me calm”.

You live now in, and love her if you can,
But you prove you don’t love this land;
You rape and bulldoze her honour and all
And say all around my love is sooo small.

 

Copyright © August 3, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

That’s tragic!

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Tragedy – tear-flooding and head-drowning –
When it happens to them,
Yes, only when it happens to them;
But if it happens to you or me,
One among hundreds of incidents it can be;
Meaningless, pitiless and fearless,
For some say we’re helpless and worthless?

“A tragic hero, never, ever you will be,”
A varsity expert for ‘tragedy’ said to me,
“Even if you wear high heeled boots,”
But a brutal killer she highly hailed
For being an ideal tragic hero, or villain,
with greed for power as his tragic flaw,
“but without boots, a comic hero you can be”.

It’s not that, to be a hero, I’m not tall enough,
But because I’m not one of them,
NOT one of them,
And I don’t stumble from mountain height
Because I always live in this social gutter,
Into which they stumble;
They stumble right from mountain top.

 

Copyright © August 2, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

When your history is a desert,

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Can you love a history;
Love those trees and its animals
When your history is a desert?

When your history is a long stretch of sand,
Nothing but burning, red, hot sand,
Rolling, circling cloud of sand;
I know, as you know, you can love sand.

How can you love the hell of these trees;
Rolling, crawling, sweeping creepers,
Sky-wedded stupas, palaces on rocks,
Acres of tanks or women with bare breasts

When your history is a long stretch of sand,
Nothing but burning, red, hot sand,
Rolling, circling cloud of sand?

 

Copyright © July 29, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay