Mind and religion

A babe is born
And in deep slumber in cot;
Its mind not sullied but fresh
And in pristine purity, sans hatred and jealousy
Elders- defile his mind
And indoctrinate with ideals;
A Buddhist he becomes
When infused with the noble truth-
Metta, Mudita, Upeksha, Karuna.
Or a Christian he becomes
When tutored to read the Gospels-
Of Matthew, Mark, Luke , John
Or becomes an ardent Hindu
By imbibing the tenets of Polytheism-
Lord Brahma, Krishna, Vishnu, Shiva, Lakshmi.
Or embrace the doctrine of Islam,
the religion preached by Prophet Mohammed
Religion is but a moral guidance
And gives spiritual bliss to the adherents
But no religion is superior to any other,
Though the toddler's mind is wrongly brain washed;
Nor can religion provide man's bread,
Horn'' a shelter above his head,
Nor enhance his life's career.

All these are determined by Destiny -
The rule of life to decide man's fate*
For what a lot of religionists
Have succumbed to the dictates of Destiny-
Starvation has lingered in their lives;
Ailments have assailed them mercilessly,
And misfortune has crippled them for life
No religion can overcome these catastrophes;
Monotheist, Polytheist and atheist-
All are governed by the law of destiny
While being a moral guidance,
Religions have created a rift among human race by A.F. Dawood

Here the poet epitomizes a profound philosophy in delicately composed lines. Every child is born pure but is spoilt with ideas and biases. It is destiny which determines one's social status, caste, creed, nationality and the religion.

Religion is also determined by destiny. Unfortunately, contrary to the noble objectives of founders of religions, religions which serve as moral guidance have become bones of contention. - Indeewara Thilakarathne

The heartbeat of my country

The heartbeat of my country
crashes as wave against rock
bursts into spray and song,
it roars down monsoon-swollen rivers,
drips one reluctant drop at a time
from the leaves of a bo tree.

My country's heartbeat
resonates as drumbeat and dance step,
rolls off the udekki, the geta bera and thammatama,
turns somersaults along the Street of Pageantry and Veneration.

The heartbeat of my country
resides in every clod of earth turned at ploughing,
it rides the unwavering voice of the farmer coaxing his buffalo,
and dances in the harvest song,
traces the contour of tank bund,
rises with the rural dust of drought-heavy days,
slows with nightfall and awakes at first light.

The heartbeat of my country
has been captured in verse and prose,
etched on rock and manuscript,
carved on collective memory
residenced in lives and livelihoods.

My country's heartbeat is as much an epic
as that of any other land;
made of triumph and defeat,
theft and magnanimity,
intrigue and passion,
blood-letting and benevolence;
a chronicle of kings and queens and
people and events,
a gathering of stories
of invasion, defence and recovery.

My country's heartbeat is resilient.
it can be pushed against the wall,
crushed under the jackboot of invader or tyrant,
but it is far too tender for destruction.

My country's heartbeat is the resolve
to overcome tragedy
bury it with a smile and move on.
it is the fuel
that turns an island into a dansala
twice every year,
and conjures kiribath on the most humble table
come the Aluth Avurudda.

My country's heartbeat
arrives as laughter and tear,
the steaming cup of tea
and the red of a betal chew,
it is the dance of the toddy-tapper,
The patience of stilt-fishermen,
The shrewdness of the Southern businessman,
the suave of the trader,
the thrift of the gentle folk from the Peninsula,
the faith of the devotee that walks on coals
or is suspended on hooks from a Vel cart.

My country's heartbeat is white
on Poya days and funerals,
red on May Day,
multi-coloured on polling days;
it has seen black days
and has known sunsets bathed in tears,
death, destruction and dismemberment,
and yet it is an unguent that sutures
the most terrible cuts,
a song that persuades embrace,
and a constant call to meditation.

I have heard the heartbeat of my country
in the tolling of the bell on Samanala Kanda,
the healing drone of pirith weaving its way
through tree and conversation,
in the call for prayer,
'Allah O Akbar',
the church choir and the hymn
and the chanting of the Poosari.

My country's heartbeat
is, in fact, indescribable
and this gladdens me,
for I do not wish to see it traded
I do not wish to see it defined and bled,
contoured and decimated.

I live in a country whose heartbeat sings to me
and perhaps others.
It gives me heart
it gives me life
And lets me breathe.
I am content. Malinda Seneviratne

This self-explanatory poem codifies the patriotic sentiments on the part of the poet. The poet feels the heartbeat of the nation in every nook and corner of the motherland. Like in any other nation, history of the nation is full of heroic deeds, invasions of foreign forces, betrayers and the saga of survival.

The poet in eloquent terms portrays a profile of socio-cultural life of the nation. Like Pablo Neruda, he is contented with what the nation offers to him. The poet uses simple yet beautiful diction. The poem is marked for its use of appropriate metaphors to depict life in its abundance. - Indeewara Thilakarathne

Rain

Rain we used to get wet with no boots or coats
in our white tennis shoes soaked
and all the way up to skinny boned knees
The same rain: never gave us pneumonia
no matter what parents said
but an indescribable pleasure in those puddles
had that colour of a well brewed Ceylon tea
The same rain: we tried not to get wet from
Snuggling each other under the umbrella; kept like a treasure
we knew rain is not the only thing gets us wet
Remember sometime later,
rain was painting past on the window sill
Sigh, sigh, sit down and watch
Sipping cuppa crossing your legs then smile may be
Then there is this rain: in spring, on a sick day
Two weeks grocery and two kids on Easter break
My mother's words "Rain makes kids sick"
rhyme in the ear like a rap with a gun to the head
but I wonder what happens when they shower every day
Keep the kids dry, forget the garlic bread anyway
They snuggled under the Chinese umbrella
Walk in the car park, I pity no puddles for them
Soaked this time top to toe it's my turn again
Hell with the no-hooded jacket and thin fashion boots
Still funny how come I don't get that pneumonia mom said -Himali Liyanage

The poet uses the commonplace scenario of rain in memories which may be passing scenes. Yet they are mileposts of rich emotional life. For the poet, rain recalls a deluge of memories saturated with nostalgia. The poet uses simple diction to portray memories associated with rain- Indeewara Thilakarathne

Yesterday meets tomorrow

Latticed windows
Tailored lawns
Ancient trees
And long ago buildings
Flavoured with a cinnamon whiff
Ring still with placid memories
Of times past, Dutch and British.
Crows, caw atop dustbins beside the Beira Lake
Cars and trishaws run where rickshaws did
People hasten to offices and traffic congests
But; long after
The rumble of vehicles dies down,
The lone Cicada's trill
Reverberates on dim lit streets,
While yesterday meets tomorrow. Nillasi Liyanage

The poet brilliantly portrays the past in terms of monuments of past and vestiges that demarcate diverse periods from the Dutch to the British. In the haze of hustle and bustle of the busy streets of Colombo, the monuments of the past merge with the everyday realities of office workers hurrying to their duties and vehicles roaming the streets. However, at the dusk when the busy streets become calm 'Yesterday meets tomorrow'. The poem is marked for its apt use of metaphors and the economy of words. Language is straight forward. The poet is skilful in painting vivid scenes with apt phrases and short but effective lines. Indeewara