(Final Part: Poetic Choice)
The greener, flowery path with a long line,
and a dreamy, fairy castle in its far end
will lead me to be a clownish beautician,
who may cover any spoiled city of stench
with a magical carpet with full of soft fur
and being at a distance, adore its grandeur;
who may, being enchanted by big ransoms
of money or comfort for body and emotions,
create a dreamy, fairy and fancy paradise;
who may hide elimination of an entire nation,
highly hailing how it controls over population,
‘nd spoon feeding listeners with honey-dipped lies.
Hence, the choice for me is plain and simple
I’ll never be a satirist to rot my own soul,
or an escapist beautician, a fancy, cushy liar.
However challenging and difficult it may be,
a brave and bold tragedian, I will choose to be;
the nobler the purpose, the bolder my pen will be.
(2nd Part: Poetic Choice)
The potholed road in the mid will lead me to be
a tragedian, who may ruthlessly be ridiculed,
or viciously be poisoned, if cannot be enticed,
for seeking or bravely revealing the agonizing truth;
who dare use their voice for those of Medusas,
whom his atrocious story has turned into worshipers,
with long-nosed and hairy-chinned, rude gossipers,
deceitful snake charmers and distorted spell-binders;
who may strip the blind veils of cultural fetters,
and compel men to see how T-Rexes are devouring
women, children and diverse other tiny creatures,
who need to exist to double the beauty of this globe;
who may ever be ready to shed warm tears of blood,
or fearlessly dare trouble any man-made trouble,
and when the whole world rapidly hurls down upon,
stand immobile considering it as an empty bubble.
(1st Part: Poetic Choice)
A crossroad I’ve reached,
where three roads meet,
which lead to three directions
with many different diversions.
Beauty, Tragedy and Satire,
name posts are hanging higher,
and I have to make a choice,
the right choice,
only one choice.
The first road will lead me to be
a satirist, a wordsmith very rude,
you met in Thesmophoriazusae
or in Shadwell’s perfect stupidity.
As part of a deliberate plan to hurt,
with an utterly rotten line of dirt,
a truly an innocent, honest heart
and get rot my own heart and art,
I can send to the history of dustbin
not for him committing a grave sin
or any pure, serious social offence
that he can’t seek any fair defence,
but, I don’t need any Greek to hide,
for refusing to stand in our own side.
They said –
we had sex
beside the brook –
atop the rocks
beneath the trees –
inside the caves
while sitting –
but mostly standing.
The irony is that – we never had sex
touch of any bumps – or at least a kiss
coz a fence and a brook – stood betwixt.
“Innocent,” said she with head low;
I with head high, then she with high,
with palms together – kneeling so low,
turned our green vegetable love
into a brutal slaughter house.
That’s how it is,
mountains are often made
out of mere mole hills.
(The following dramatic narrative is based on a Sri Lankan proverb.)
A fox really wanted to poo,
but it was not a national zoo.
He looked around for a washroom,
but he sat on something like a mushroom.
The sprout quickly shot him up
and he landed down like a frightened cop.
He crept slyly toward the brat
that shot him up like a sprat.
Yet, for his wonder,
there was no thunder.
A sprout stood with only two petals;
he hotly clattered his teeth like two metals.
Then high and low, he declared,
“a growing tree can promptly be said
simply by its two petals.
Photo: Mahesh Ranaweera (Our son)
I gazed at a man’s slow, weary walk,
clad in all white with a stick in hand,
bent double down like a neck of a stork,
with a knot of white hair tied with a band.
Holding white flowers next to his heart,
with down-cast eyes in meditating mood
murmuring some verses learnt so smart,
he looked forward to end evils for good.
The scene, for some time, flashed in my mind,
and it was soon, eclipsed with the time,
by some flirting scenes I saw in my prime,
yet it once again seems to haunt my mind.
I met a man with a look so gullible,
who’s said to come from a village called Global.
Among the families with a very few highcaste,
he lives in the periphery as an utter outcaste.
When asked to describe his present destiny,
he said it’s for some villainy and also for tyranny.
His well-dressed ancestors lived in a mansion,
when those thugs with Mars began their expansion.
Since buffoons have no fond of incidents of blood,
I’m sorry, I’ll drop, here, some tears of dots……
Thus, he has lost his wealth not for any thunder,
but for those ruffians’ out and out plunder.
Now they are rich, but he is so poor,
so they can sing songs, yet he mourns every hour.
If you’d get offended for revealing this history,
I’d drink a pot of toddy, and munch a lot of pastry.
Since the scene is very short, the buffoon reveals only one (a historical) reason for the man’s present plight. However, the poet feels that domestic conflicts, idling, lying, dependence and corruption at home, should also be the other reasons for this man’s present destiny.
Am I immune to beauty or half blind
that I see no beauty
but only change and loss in plenty?
Yet, if there’s any beauty,
why my beauty has lost her hair?
Does wearing fake teeth or fake hair
add anything to her beauty
or rubbing body lotion to her wrinkles in plenty?
If there’s any beauty,
where’re those who gently tapped me when met?
I have lost those people nearest and dearest
to me; they are the prettiest and fairest.
Where’s then any beauty?
Where’s any beauty,
when the innocent are killed in thousands,
and the Troy is aflame before us in reality,
and the Muses are adoring Trojan horses
for petty, not pretty, political reasons?
Beauty that you say is only illusion
that pops up its face to rouse your sensations,
and then drive you to further delusion.
Suffering, change and loss are in promotion
while illusory beauty is constantly in motion.
If you still insist that there’s any beauty,
I see only this beauty,
the beauty of change, and loss, in plenty.