Wheatfield

To Liora and Shirly

A wheatfield blows on my wife's
head and on
my daughter's head.
How banal thus to describe blonde
but nonetheless, there grows
the bread of my life. TR: Vivian Eden Ronny Someck

This is a poem by Isreal poet Ronny Somack whom I met at Malaysian-Singapore Literary Festival. This poem among othe things shows how profound philosophy of life can be explained in a few lines. The celebrated poem evocatively expresses his love for his wife and daughter whom he considers as bread of his life. -Indeewara Thilakarathne

Transition

Oh that Christmas, just one year ago,
Away from home, in the country next door.
No snowflakes but it was so cold,
A memory in my heart like a treasure I hold.
Joyous Carols and Santa Claus,
Christmas party and gifts wrapped in gold.
Midnight mass in the freezing cold,
One after the other, surprises unfold.
'Twas a place where angels flew,
Joys were young and the nights were blue.
Blinking lights of friendship so true,
Decorated my world in a radiant hue.
Now, at home-where I belong,
Home for Christmas, after so long;
Yet oh Christ! What's so wrong?
Why do I feel like a stranger at home????? G. C. Priyangwada Perera

The poet revisits a memorable Christmas spent, perhaps, in India. Though there were no snowflakes, it was a cold Christmas. When the poet spends Christmas here at home, the poet feels strange. This is a common experience that most of the new migrants experience when they return to motherland. It is a kind of a loss of inheritance. Now they belong to neither the adapted country nor the country they left behind. Though this poem is not about typical diasporic experience, being 'stranger at home' is the way the poet experiences the change of affairs. -Indeewara Thilakarathne

Stopping by a paradise during a transient journey

On our way to Albany
we stopped by a wayside paradise.
And it makes everyone happy
though located in a land
amongst a few trees.

My small house; my shelter here
closer to the familiar Swan River
is far away.
Even the City of Perth is
a mere floating memory
purely due to the distant.

The vanished folk-tales
that emerged from an ancient culture
are buried here.
The scent of imported sandalwoods
have chased away the ancient tales.

The picturesque primordial art works
Are displayed around
with new interpretations;
several white signs.

I am helpless to change the history.
I too join a group of pilgrims
who have come to enjoy
and take momentary refuge
in a new paradise.

I cover my feelings
and my angry face
wearing a white mask.

Even the Mute Ocean
that is now pitiless
but acted as a compass
linking me to the Isle of Memory
is not close by.

In the vicinity,
a deep Southern Ocean
behaving as a stranger
like the rest of the pilgrims.

The images are captured,
by a pair of old eyes
that keep frozen tears
of a transient journey. Sunil Govinnage (December 27, Albany, Western Australia)

In this poem, a transient poet is stopping by a place near the Southern part of the vast Australian continent. Like the equestrian of Robert Frost's poem, Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening, the poet is aware of a fact; who owns the land. The real ownership of land is belongs to vanished indigenous people, but like them, their culture has also been buried. The poet laments, as he is unable to change the history. His familiar sense of places such as Swan River, the City Of Perth and the Mute (Indian) Ocean that links him to his Isle of memory (Sri Lanka) is far away. The poet succumbs in this transient journey, but he is aware of the ancient history of the place. However, on this occasion he accepts the current realities wearing a white mask! -Indeewara Thilakarathne