Poetry’s treasure!

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

Truth is suffering

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.

Tour continues: Dilemma

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

Telling my tale amuses me

Let me tell my tale,
the tale that amuses me
when telling it to you.

I learned to love; to be loved,
so let me tell my love,
for telling my love
amuses me.

True, I suffered a lot,
yet through suffering, I learned a lot,
so let me tell my tale.

For long, I listened to your tale:
how you were dolled,
and how you fondled your dolls.
Sure, it amused me a lot. 

Then why all these attempts
to threaten me, warn me, belittle me
and urge me not to tell my tale?

Mind, this solipsism
does not amuse me at all.
It’s only telling my tale, or listening to your tale
that amuses me. 

So now let me tell my tale,
for telling my tale amuses me.

Image source: Pixabay

Transience

At the well, while washing my face,
I saw a little rose bud, anointed with
The scent of dew drops, so proudly
Smiling, being guarded by thorns.

Gently, the sturdy Sun was stroking
His beloved, the ever-reclining earth,
With his bright rays of curly hair
When the beauty slyly looked at me.

When walking, in eve, to the shrine
To pay my due salute to the Kind One,
My rose was lying with disheveled petals
Giving me the first lesson of suffering.

Image source: Pixabay