In celebration of life (In memory of Christine Spittel Wilson)

That you have lived and walked among us
is enough, you shared our world,
took us along our saga journeys
created epics from that traveller's life
So for you I write no dirges, no elegies,
no requiems but panegyrics I create
to celebrate your life.

I regret I never made my pilgrim way
to that shrine I now hold so sacred
in my mind embodying the creative spirit
of the writer, icons preserved and cherished,
guarded from vandals to make known revelations.

We must not leave until it is too late,
time for regret, blank empty spaces
for conversations half-begun, never completed,
where we seek glimpses of apocalyptic vision.

Sometimes I watched you from afar,
wondered about your life living on what
I thought ratified Parnassan heights
separate from the mundane lives lived by
ordinary mortals but in that sudden epiphanic
flash I glimpsed you for what you were,
your rare thought, your imagination revealed

in book after book, page after page of your
writings, the exploration of your life and thought,
your diverse experience, your recall, your recounting

We are bonded thus, women and their creative spirits
and at a given point of time encounter each other
as chance travellers would, recognise the power
and magic of both spoken and written word,
transformed by that subtle alchemy from dross to gold.

You returned home your migration over,
the home we kindred spirits inhabit in the
midst of diverse throngs even if we feel the
savage scourge fall on flesh or hear words
spat out in vituperation.

Balm too is there to soothe those wounds
and heal those bloodied weals with gentle words.

Rest you have now achieved,
that quiet sleep, undisturbed
until the spirit's new awakening.

For us who remain behind
sorrow and joy intermingle.

Yet in that loss
there is still grief in memory
and unforgetting thought. - Jean Arasanayagam.

The poet in these lines of tribute to Christine Spittel Wilson echoes her sentiments and memoirs associated with the departed literatus. The poet and Christine were bonded in many ways; both are women and shares the love of letters. It is the sheer magic of both written and spoken words that made the emotional and intellectual body of the writer. - Indeewara

My last visit...

The room was warm and quiet
Windows closed, curtains drawn
With only the ceiling fan turning
Although the sun has not yet set
Christine lies in a bed under a quilt
Outside the closed windows
Birds are singing their last song
Before close of day
Dr. R. L. Spittel's daughter
Who had once accompanied her surgeon father
Into the wilderness
Learning about Veddahs and their ways
Learning about nature and her ways
Who loved birds and flowers
Creating the books of same wonder and understanding
Now confesses she can write no more
Although her imagination is filled with stories yet untold
She lies motionless and asks: 'why is death delaying to release me from
this bondage?
I answered as gently as I can:
'It will come when it is time to'
She turns to me:
'You keep on writing, promise me?
I give her the promise, withholding tears... Punyakante Wijenaike

Here the poet describes her last visit to Christine Spittel Wilson, daughter of legendary Dr. R. L. Spittel. She was seriously ill and bed-ridden. A few days later, Christine breathed her last leaving her rich legacy of writings for posterity. Like her legendary father Christine was a highly gifted writer, painter and a passionate wildlife conservationist. Christine Spittel Wilson was 97 at the time of her demise. After a colourful life, Christine was 'wishing to release from the burden'. However, the last wish of Christine was a promise that the writer of this poem should keep on writing which the writer gives with a solemn vow of 'withholding tears'. Indeewara Thilakarathne