The Wise

The Wise 2

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Poem

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A
teardrop
awaiting
in my heart’s
deserted corner
sighs, grieves
and appeals to me
to
grow her
with flesh, blood
and breath
and send
her
to you
to
see
you
smile.

 

Copyright © September 10, 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

Beauty!

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Beauty! What’s your shape,
your height, size or colour?
I don’t see beauty in white,
in a sky-bound tower
or an idly swimming hippo.

White reminds me death;
I see people coming to see me
in a dead white winter day,
wearing pale dead white.
Some say light comes with day,
and light is white, so white is beauty.
But lovers love not light or white;
they love moon yet not noon.
I hear when night rains black
lovers say they get their clothes
all wet.
I looked at a girl with full of love
in my eyes, but she tossed her head
and raised her nostrils with nausea.
I felt I was a cow dung at her feet.

And then I wrote a three-word letter,
“I like you,”
rolled it and boldly dropped it
when my girl came behind,
and a letter soon flew onto my hands,
“Short Sweetie,
dark brown you may be,
but I love you.”

Copyright © July 19, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

A Slippery Fish

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I look into the stream
of my own thoughts
that glides with breaking,
wrinkles of waves,
with a hook in hand
to fish that fish of craving
that breeds reddish fish
of envy, greed and anger
and smothers the stream
of my thoughts,
but with a twist of mockery
in its witch-like jaw
that slippery fish of craving
bites a bit from the bait,
plays around the hook,
breeds more fish of envy
and thus withers
the stream of my thoughts.

 

Copyright © June 27, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay