Life

Life

Copyright © September 21, 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

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

Seeking love in lust

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Sire, have you felt love ever,
Ever, in your vast pool of lust,
Where you play love forever
With stolen mermaids of love?

When mermaids murmur love
To inflame your ceaseless lust,
Flames of lust must rise above,
Yet yearn for love turns to dust.

When will you cease this quest,
This quest for love in sheer lust
And willfully seek a lasting rest,
Turning lust into a cloud of dust?

Copyright © Feb. 07, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

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Give me thousand eyes

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Give me thousand eyes
To see you, the real you.
Oh, no, I don’t see you;
I see only a slice of you.

And that false slice of you,
Me, and all that I see now,
Just now, here, just now,
May be gone – just gone

When I blink my eyes
And see you – next.

Copyright © Feb. 20, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Come, join this symposium

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Come, join this symposium;
Let’s talk what means,
To you, me and all,
This life that tickles us up,
Early morning, wants us to eat,
Lie, love, fight and then sleep,
And again, and again,
tickles us up
To blindly indulge in this
Empty circle of life.

I’ve explored my own life,
For already five years now,
Fifty years of my life;
“Too long,” you may think,
But that’s too short for me;
I feel nothing in this life, now,
But void, an empty void,
Unfathomable, airy void,
Which alone I won’t explore,
So come join this symposium.

In this conscious exploration,
Often, I stop to divert
My line of empty thoughts
And to feel a sigh of relief,
At a luscious, beauteous place
Where I met my life-long love
All my fights to own that love,
But soon I come back
In that heroic line of thoughts
To see an old, tired woman.

Come, join this symposium;
Let’s talk what means, to you
Me and all, this cycle of life,
In which I see nothing, now,
But void, an empty void
Unfathomable, airy void,
Which alone I won’t explore,
So join me, in this symposium.

Copyright © Nov. 10, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Truth is suffering

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This pleasure is an illusion;
Now it’s with me,
But soon it will be gone;
Suffering may remain alone.

This pleasure is a mask
That I love to wear
In this life’s comedy
That I consciously live.

But I know; I hate though
Life is suffering;
Suffering is truth,
And truth is suffering.

Copyright © Oct. 15, Newton Ranaweera
Image Source: Pixabay

Entrance and Exit

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The child and the old
are not two but one.

One enters; the other exits,
so they lie on a parallel line:
the first at the entrance
and the latter at the exit,
viewing yet not knowing
they are just the same
though they wriggle
at two opposite axes of the line.

One crawls, then kneels,
then rises but only to fall;
the other just bends, and
bends, then crawls and
finally, creeps through the exit,
the tragic denouement,

which the child may choose,
but he avoids only to learn,
hiking through a crooked ascend
through trial and error,
the error of his wanton choice,
and then rolls stumbling
down a steep precipice,

but only to the opposite axis,
the exit that he should exit
in fours, which he avoided first.

Copyright © September 9, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Dreams

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“Do dream, do dream,”
ear drums resound,
but dreams – are dreams,
they just abound.

A man did dream
and harpooned a Marlin;
then brought with him,
but a monstrous fin.

A dame did dream
marrying a rich prince;
she cracked her pot
and broke her dream.

A man did dream
to find an assassin
but found in him
the greatest sin.

“Do dream, do dream,”
ear drums resound,
but dreams – are dreams,
they just abound.

Copyright © August 21, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Inspiration from Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea; Sophocles’ King Oedipus and a well-known tale.

A Static Character

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When
the village thugs
snatched
the tender young coconut
that he had picked for his lunch,
Lokka thought
(in fact, he challenged them)
the best form of punishment
for them
was to fall himself from the tree.

Four decades has passed
since that incident,
and that stupid little Lokka
(a child’s nick name: big shot)
has had numerous
experiences, in and out,
as a teacher, don, father and Boss,
and now is doing
a doctorate, though too late,
in a reputed
university.

However, when I feel
that I take similar decisions
I took
four decades ago,
I feel I should love me more.

 

Copyright © August 17, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Tour continues: Dilemma

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What is this life full of miseries;
aching wounds (psychic, physique),
parting, pains and deaths:
untimely, timely, accidental,
sudden and slow ― sometimes, so slow?

Is this life only a walking shadow?
Oh no! I’m not being cunning;
I’m not preaching or promoting,
yet I’m asking some aching questions,
for which I find no solutions.

I am looking for answers.
Oh no! Oh no! I’m not gone insane;
I’m a coward; I don’t want suicide;
I love to live; I live to love,
so don’t send me to a psychiatrist,

whom I don’t trust, for their
founding theory itself is a lie,
hastily said by a fancy, cushy liar,
by misinterpreting a miserable woman’s words,
“Many have slept with…in their dreams”.

We enter this stage in fours;
walk round and round in twos:
dancing, dreaming, and fighting
to own, to earn, for more and more,
and finally, leave the stage in threes!

So, tell me the meaning of all these,
where am I from; where am I to;
what am I doing;
why do we explore far above, but
why not we explore right within?

No, don’t quote texts mortals have written;
tell me from your own experiences;
heal my woes; I’m burning inside;
tell me; I’m asking seriously;
am I too late for a serious quest,

(as sixth century BC ones did)
right within, within me?

Copyright © August 14, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

The Virgin Tour

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Do you smell fishy here,
in this corner, or any other
empty, dusty smell?
It’s here mostly I’ve confronted
with fate: my friend and foe.

Listen to this record, but
don’t be a harsh judge
and tell the tale at the well,
for no other I’ll give a tour
inside this mossed cottage.

“Fate, did you raise me
from a stinking gutter
to a mountain height;
instead, from mountain height
to a stinking gutter, to fall me
again to that stinking gutter?

You should know
I’ve been
caught in a conflict;
I’m like an arecanut
caught,
with no chance for a miraculous escape,
between the blades
of an arecanut cutter;
I’ve been caught between my love
for my teacher, my life-long
friend, guiding star
and
my fellow students.

This
me versus others conflict
is doubled by my untamed
fingers in my right hand
that deny just copying
my thoughts: logical, rational thoughts,
that flow like a mad flood
that my weak finger-banks
have failed to push against,
or like an unleashed wild-buffalo
often taunts me.

See
my peer students have boycotted
classes
but since I, like
Dickensian Blackpool,
cannot take any sides
have been oft, bullied
by fellow rivals
by guarding their mouths
but showering my ears,
when I am afar,
with jackals’ welcome notes,
while my star does not see
how my untamed, weak fingers
waste the flood of thoughts.

I know you’ve your own plan for me,
but give me one chance
to resist you and find my own fate.
When Sun starts plodding back home
today,
I’ll follow him, leaving this dormitory,
and restarting my life again as a worm
in that stinking gutter”.

 

Copyright © August 12, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Your heart is a flower

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You are a flower,
often guarded by drones;
your heart is a flower,
yet tell me, my sister,
do you feel any love?
Do these drones,
fly fast from one to another,
show you any love?

Meet Ambapali,
a name for a great flower
in the Grove of Mangoes,
whose beauty attracted
princely drones.
You’re her great grand-daughter;
ask if they did shed
a single drop of tear,
a mirror that reflects love.

Did those princely drones
see her tears within;
did they take any care of them,
that were shielded
by her eyes; their sapphires?

Will these drones that sing
songs of love for your love
today,
be there tomorrow,
by your side
to sing such sweet songs
to you?

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