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

That’s tragic!

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Tragedy – tear-flooding and head-drowning –
When it happens to them,
Yes, only when it happens to them;
But if it happens to you or me,
One among hundreds of incidents it can be;
Meaningless, pitiless and fearless,
For some say we’re helpless and worthless?

“A tragic hero, never, ever you will be,”
A varsity expert for ‘tragedy’ said to me,
“Even if you wear high heeled boots,”
But a brutal killer she highly hailed
For being an ideal tragic hero, or villain,
with greed for power as his tragic flaw,
“but without boots, a comic hero you can be”.

It’s not that, to be a hero, I’m not tall enough,
But because I’m not one of them,
NOT one of them,
And I don’t stumble from mountain height
Because I always live in this social gutter,
Into which they stumble;
They stumble right from mountain top.

 

Copyright © August 2, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Love stumbled him down

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It’s tragic when,
From mountain height,
Pride stumbles men down,
Anger stumbles them down,
Lust stumbles men down,
Though stars they are bright,
From mountain height
Into gutters so rotten.

How tragic should
It be when love,
Love stumbles men down,
Love stumbles them down,
From mountain height
To stinking gutters?

From mountain height
Love stumbled one down,
Love stumbled him down,
A star though he was so bright,
Into a gutter deep down
Since a princess he found,
A princess worm so bright
In that gutter deep down.

Copyright © September 5, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
(Isurumuniya Lovers, Sri Lanka) Credit of image to the rightful owner

The innocent villain

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I met him, who you laughed at
———————threw pebbles at
————-shockingly mocked at
the utter fool, most intelligent
the blind who’d clear eye-sight
——–the villain, most innocent
the liar who never any lies told
at the mount Cithaeron’s foot.

My presence he’d have felt, but
Uphill he was blankly looking at;
“Had you not tried your own past
You would have kept your post
At least, your clearer eyesight,”
Yet he said his choice’s all right
For the two sins he’d committed
By suffering only he could repay it.

Had he not his life thus sacrificed,
We would’ve this tradition missed.

Continue reading

Should I be a tragedian?

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(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.

Photo: Pixabay