Regaining Our Territory


Ecstatic we felt
when that culprit,
the enemy of poets,
enemy of emotions,
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.

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

We’re poets


Are you a poet, too,

If not, you would not say
one cannot step into a river
he stepped once; it is not
the same river he steps next.

When stepping into it first,
He saw, but you didn’t see,
right under your right foot,
water was mocking at you?

I see, you are a philosopher:
a name for a poet, a lunatic
and a lover who are ‘compact
in imagination’, childlike.

Xanthippe rightly aimed at;
Socrates’ head smelled fishy;
Archimedes with no clothes
ran throughout his city.

Image by Pixabay

A dreary, fairy dream



I had an uncle,
a dirty, naughty uncle.

He was so dirty
that his teeth hated toothpicks;
he was so naughty
that his favorite topic was politics.

He had a dream,
a dreary, fairy dream
to write a new Republic,
and poets to be hooted by the public
because he said they are too rational,
national, pretty masculine and moral;
instead, he wanted them to be irrational,
emotional, too effeminate and immoral.

The majority hated his politics
because he pretended to be a lunatic.

Image source: Pixabay

Posted on Nov. 24, 2016 on Poet’s Corner.

     Forgetting the oldest teachers

While Marx’s chuckling through
Vygotskian concepts of ZPD and COP,
Krashen mourns and mumbles
in a corner of the classroom
with his i + 1 and the poetic metaphor
of comprehensible input tight in his grip
that Vigostkian propagandists might
throw them into the history of dustbin.

Having no chance to get into the class
for the sin of speaking in a foreign tongue,
Wordsworth wanders along the corridor,
recollecting the hosts of Daffodils
that danced beside the lake and
beneath the trees, while Keats’s
haunching with that busy body, the sun,
the close blossom friend of the  
season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
who together bent the apples trees with
fruits, and filled the bee hives with clammy cells.