Sea, are you she?

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Sea, are you he or she?
Some say ‘she’;
others say ‘he’.
Tell me
how you become
both he and she!

For them you were he,
a ‘rival’ or a ‘contestant’.
He drowned her child
to appease Poseidon,
the god of sea,
who let them go
and send a city on fire
and then played with him,
and drowned him
in vast wilderness.

But for him, you’re she,
A giver – a benefactress;
you don’t doesn’t mean
you don’t’, but you can’t
as she, who only doesn’t’
since she can’t
when Moon smiles full.

Hence, for me, as for him,
you’re she, but not he.

Copyright © Jan. 4, 2019, Newton Ranaweera

Inspiration from Greek legends and Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea.
Image source: Pixabay

Blow ‘sigh-tempests’

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Your ‘sigh-tempests’ and ‘tear-floods’
Are precious treasures in this desert,
Where dinosaurs in human forms
Devour trees, the earth’s treasures.

They badly bleed but men don’t see,
Or how down their tears slowly flow;
They only see the coaxing dollar-bills,
The falling, floating, handsome bills.

Cry, my son, shed more ‘tear-floods’;
Sigh, so high and blow ‘sigh-tempests’
Till wild they grow and spread wide,
And melt the monsters’ cold hearts.

Copyright © Dec. 27, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Too late, darling!

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Crazy, you are with old men,
Crazy old men, like me,
Whose love is now numbed;
So is their body, so numbed.

Haughty you’re in my prime;
Haughty, like any other dame,
Yet you served an old man,
My master, a crazy old man.

Numbed, I don’t feel now love;
Numbed, I don’t want to love;
So, you may feel empty, darling;
Thalia, you are too late, darling.

(Thalia is the Greek Muse for comedy and pastoral poetry)

Copyright © Dec. 21, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Fancy, brown balloon

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I’m not; no, no, no – I’m not,
I’m not a fancy, brown balloon
Floating freely on a foreign sky,
Being lulled by fluffy clouds.

I’m still that proud, sturdy tree
Living in a land, a fertile land,
Whose soil, yet, is foreign to me,
Foreign to this proud, sturdy tree.

You watered me with your sweat,
And you fed me with your blood;
So, I know, I owe you all my fruits,
Fruits that I waste in a foreign land.

Copyright © Dec. 17, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Fly, butterfly, fly

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Fly, butterfly, fly, but slowly fly;
Being drunk with astral dreams,
If you try, and fly high, sky high,
Wings will break, and you’ll die.

Fly, butterfly, fly, but not so high,
But low and slow, so you may know,
The stars you see are not so nigh,
yet if you try and fly high, you’ll die.

 

Copyright © Dec. 12, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Wild Poetry Plant

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Once this plant was a discarded one,
Discarded by a road side,
Trampled by the passers-by.

So, delicate flowers may not bloom
In a beauty’s hair to sit with pride,
Or with wedded ones to merrily ride.

Thus, she will birth only withered ones,
With stripped petals poorly smile,
And often having a dry, wild smell.

Copyright © Dec. 9, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Non-Existence

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In this narrow stretch
of no-man’s land
in a colonized land,
I live as a victim
while opposites stand
with arms in hand
to fight their battle,
the battle of opposites.

Anger frowns at Peace;
Joy winks at Grief;
Pride mocks at Humility;
Hatred does hate Love;
Desire is hot with Disgust;
thus, an army of opposites
have colonized this land,
keeping me a victim
in this narrow stretch
of a no-man’s land.

None do I love;
None of these opposites,
for Love or Hatred,
they are opposites.
Colonizers!
That’s who they are,
competing
to possess this land,
and I am but a victim
in this no-man’s land.

Nor do I love you,
Detachment, but trust you.
Do possess this land
and help me
to evict them all,
you, me, and all,
and to make this land,
a no-man’s land.

Copyright © Dec. 5, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

A poem born in a kitchen

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I would love a poem that’s born in a kitchen
And slyly creeps as fumes through the chimney,
with a true tale of its creator, who softly sings,
Being aptly wrapped with her joys and mourns.

I would love a poem that’s duly born in a field
And mixes with breeze through sweat and mud,
With a true tale of him who sings while at work,
And dreams to live a better life with fellow folk.

I would love a poem humbly born in a cozy room,
But in dedication to them as a flower in full bloom.

Copyright © Dec. 2, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Tribute to her Titanic love

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(This is a tribute to a little birdie that died for her love.)

Too tiny is your heart
For your Titanic love,
So you are dying now
By drowning in love.

Oh, little, my little birdie,
Live! try hard to live;
Take my tattered heart,
And in it, you must live.

Your Love’s already dead;
I know, that hurts your heart,
But don’t drown in your love;
Let me die, so you may live,

For your love is truly divine,
And you must live your love.

Copyright © Nov. 25, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Just another sense!!

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If I had another sense,
A sense of foreseeing
My life, just after this one,
merrier would I be,
maybe, worrier I would be.

Were I again to be born here,
In this vast Ocean’s tiny pearl,
Among mortals,
Ah! among acrobatic mortals,
Who eat with one –
But sleep with another;
Who run with one –
But hound with another;
How happier would I be;
Ah! to live among such magic!!

Were I to be born not here,
But on another poor land
With no such divine magic,
Among monotonous immortals,
Who eat with one and sleep –
Ah! a poor sight! – with the same;
Who often run but never hound;
How dull that life would be?
Sure, too worrier I would be,
For having, then, such a sad sense!!

Copyright © Nov. 23, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Conscience for Sale

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Here, buy this conscience,
Useless nonsense;
I wish I had no sense,
So I could kill my innocence.

Come, water’s now troubled;
Innocence is just a bubble;
Exploit this troubled bubble,
And sell conscience for a ‘double’.

Copyright © Nov. 14, 2018; 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

Guilt: Just sit and eat

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I feel guilty
of being able to
just sit
and eat,
just sit
and eat.

They sweat
from morning till night,
yet can’t sit;
they don’t eat;
they only sweat
from morning till night.

Is this my fate
and their fate
where I just eat,
yet they don’t;
I just sit,
yet they can’t?

I feel guilty
of this fate
that lets me eat,
just sit and eat
whereas they sweat,
yet can’t sit,
and don’t eat.

Copyright © November 3, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

A fancy old fool

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A fancy old fool;
that’s who you are.

Borrow ears from an ass
and hang yours on his ass;
hide eyes in your ass,
and borrow ones from an owl,
for you don’t hear,
nor you can see
what’s happening here
(in this world).

Tell them others’ tales;
shout in their ears,
and repeat you are honest,
but tell nothing but lies,
sweet, honey-dripping lies,
for that’s what they love
that’s what they want.

Be as slippery as a fish
and as cunning as a fox;
but don’t bellow like a bull
or roar loud like a lion,
for you prove
you are a fool
just an old, fancy fool.

Copyright © October 26, 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.

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Regaining Our Territory

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Ecstatic we felt
when that culprit,
the enemy of poets,
enemy of emotions,
self-puffed-up,
Plato,
who had a head
but not a heart,
being drunk with gold,
tricked us by crowning
and garlanding us
with Olive wreaths,
for the services we did.

However,
he stole into our classes,
our long-held territory,
while we were in a trance,
and soon banished us,
claiming we had no lessons
to root out emotions,
(lower order thinking),
of the future rulers
of his stupid Republic.

Since then
we have been roaming
around classes,
populous L2 classes,
but we are not let in,
for they say we lack
higher order thinking.
Come, gather round;
let’s break the monstrous
clutches of Plato
(who couldn’t oust
his own emotions);
Let’s break into
our territory
and water those
withering plants
with deep emotions.

Copyright © Oct. 12, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Is this me?

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Am I looking at me,
or is it me that I see,
that’s staring at me
with wrinkled cheeks
and sunken eyes
in this corroded mirror
in front of me?

I saw me so young
just today morning,
but this me that I see,
in this corroded mirror
In front of me,
is not me, he’s not so young;
is this “me” then an illusion?

Why my eyes not see me
as I want them to see me?
Are my eyes too old
that they cannot read me
or is this “me” not true at all?
If this “me” is not true,
are my sons not true, too?

I know, now I know
he rightly said,
Atta hi attano natthi
kuto putta, kuto dhanam?”

Trans. Even self is not one’s own. Then how can he brag that he has sons or wealth?

Copyright © Sept. 29, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

English is my Muse

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My Muse you are; you I truly adore,
But I love you not, for I feel you not,
I feel only for her, for only her I love,
She’s my love; you’re just my Muse.

Sure, she’s poor, yet she’s a beauty,
A delicate flower brooks often wear,
Passers-by fear for her beauty is rare,
So she’s my love; you’re just my Muse.

A beauty in Baikal slopes I dropped;
A primrose next-door, sadly I missed,
For promises I had tempted me a lot,
Yet she’s my love; you’re just my Muse.

Though a Trojan horse you really are,
I’m faithful to you, as was Paris to her,
Ships are ready to be sailed for you,
Yet she’s my love; you’re just my Muse.

Copyright © Sept. 19, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Pluri-hive of love

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In my lovely hive of pluri-love,
Men shall be the worker bees,
Whereas women shall duly rule
All bees of this pluri-hive of love.

In every hive of this lovely hive,
Three worker bees shall love
Their lovely queen of pluri-love,
Who loves or withhold her love.

Hives can be made with clay;
Men shall only a loin freely wear,
Yet, their chest they keep bare;
Its queen can wear or stay bare.

She will live in her palace of clay,
Which each man can duly reach
with new moon to serve her love,
Yet she may love or deny her love.

When entering her manor of love,
His loin shall lie on latch of her door,
So the other two lovers may know
Pluri-Queen is in a moment of love.

Copyright © September 16, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

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Cannon seekers

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The one
with the cannon,
(the militarily stronger)
self-declared,
in his self-written ‘history’
(by hiring poets and painters)
to be the civilized, ideal,
superior and the perfect;
the one without a cannon
was considered as ‘lack’,
so inferior,
and was said to feel,
as Freud himself did,
from ‘castrated effect’.

He still says she is so jealous
as NNSs often do, of his tongue,
to own which they both
do need to complete
paramitas,’
which is as ideal as
Plato’s republic.

Tell me not what they lack,
tell me, yet, what they own;
tell me what you lack, instead,
for you are just a unicorn
(‘mono-‘, just ‘mono-‘
is an apt modification
for all you have)
whereas they have two
or sometimes more,

so in their history,
your possession
shall be only a
useless
bump.

Copyright © September 14, 2018, 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

Wilderness within

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I looked for the one so unclean
That often steals into my garden,
Which I want to keep ever clean,
And grows wildly growing weeds.

He’s grown wildly growing weeds:
Anger, greed, lust and boredom,
Which are now knee-high grown
In my garden I want to look clean.

I looked for all around my garden,
Friends, kins and next-door men
All I did smell looking for the man
who grows wildly growing weeds.

I have come to the turning point,
Where I trace a familiar footprint,
“Find within” tells this great hint,
“The one that grows wild weeds”.

Copyright © September 6, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

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