An elegy for Dayasena Gunasinghe

When sun invades my house in the morning
In an alien country and runs away with my
sleeping drunkenness
I search for a dying word.
Amongst the helpless lamenting
Sinhala poetry books in my room
I look for a poem
Recalling a friendly image
When I was running searching for words
Amongst the bunch of phrases
I recall your advice
Like letters in a stone inscription
When the whole world has forgotten
Your poetry today
A poem of yours is appearing
In the front page of Silumina poetry corner.
When my dying Sinhala stanzas
Lament in a distant country
Your memory appears providing me with
Fresh metaphors.

- Sunil GOVINNAGE

(This poem was penned after reading a poem by the departed friend Dayasena Gunasinghe in the poetry page of Punkalasa the Literary supplement of SILUMINA edited by Sumudu Chathurani Jayawardene. Sumudu should be commended for featuring Dayasena Gunasinghe, who was an outstanding litarary figure and gifted journalist, in Punkalasa.)

The poet expresses his deep feeling for his dear departed poet Dayasena Gunasinghe. For the poet, Gunasinghe's letters are like inscriptions on stone tablets. The words of the Sinhalese poet rekindle memories of the exiled poet and generates a host of metaphors. It also suggests the plight of Sinhala poems in his adopted country, Australia, and the poet's struggle to keep the Sinhala poems in country where there is no place for Sinhala poetry as implied in the poem. The poet uses a unique yet simple diction to convey his ideas: loss of Sinhala and harsh cultural shock that is part and parcel of an expatriate's life. Indeewara Thilakarathne

The poet speaks

Engage (Committed)

Is life all about making money or fighting wars?

I look at the arsenal of poems I've written' (Won't pay for the most miniscule space at the New Fortress although the older one, erected by those dubious martial ancestors still yield ghost-haunted battlements for this vagrant poet, a vagabond who seeks a niche to settle in)

What have I accumulated but a vast store Of antique weaponry in the warehouse of my mind Chockfull of discarded armaments, rusting flintlocks Corroded cannons, blunted sabres, arquebuses that Battered histories through centuries of alien rule.

Dated Artifacts, Archaic symbols of aggrandisement Subjugated Not material for epic any longer, But if the big bomb lurks there too , Will a Disposal Squad of histories be summoned To detonate it, risk their lives and limbs?

It rests concealed, an antiquated ostrich egg Brought in from the Kalahari desert Or perhaps a precious jewelled pearl, a Faberge Creation, once adoring the neck of Grande Duchesse before the Russian Revolution and The proletariat uprisings.

Think to myself, I 'll never set the world ablaze, No fanatic desire to efface the human race Although same may think I'm fit to be burned At the stake for unknown heresies or perish in New auto-da-fes set up by the Inquisition In the public marketplace.

The Billboard will never project a giant image Of myself for gawping crowds

Secret dossiers will not yield, even if discarded the meaning in the codes and ciphers of my stratagems.

Words are stored in mouldering achieves where Silverfish casume the painstaking labour of The scholars defacing centuries of concocted Philosophies and ideologies.

I camouflage myself with layers of accretions Scrawled with warning glyphs a paper Never to be deciphered but if same are perchance Cracks the code and reads between the lines In the poet's word's that's where conflagrations Will begin and end this crazed world Where we all go up in smoke in finale.

- Jean Arasanayagam

This self-explanatory narrative poem questions whether life is about making money or fighting a war. There are only words, phrases and age-old undecipherable metaphors that make up the poet's armoury. The poet's life is camouflaged with layers of words that may decipher perchance. Yet there won't be billboards for a poet. The poet has codified the philosophy of life in delicate lines lased with appropriate metaphors. - Indeewara Thilakarathne.

My love

I love you like the first gust of cool breeze of the autumn-
Following a dreadful sultry summer,
I love you like a starved wanderer-
Who's just found a rich oasis in the midst of a barren desert,
I love you like the clutch of a hand-
When there is nothing to hold on to,
I love you like a breath of fresh air-
A dying man strains to get through to;
I love you like a fierce lioness that's protecting her cub,
I love you like a snowfall that freezes and calms the earth,
I love you like a holy man who's found his deliverance,
I love you like a sunbeam that gives life to the world;
I love you like a fairytale-
With hard, yet not impossible promises,
I love you like a humming bird-
Who's drawn to nectar filled flowers,
I love you like a forest of cedar-
Refusing to give in to stormy weathers,
I love you like a pine needle-
Prickly, yet nimble.

Inoka Makalanda

Here the poet attempts to define the hardly definable concept of 'love' in a particular manner. At times, it is as refreshing as 'the gust of cool breeze in the autumn' and at other times, it is like 'a pine needle -prickly, yet nimble'. By and large the poem is self- explanatory in nature and reflects the idea of love in the mind of the poet. The poet uses a simple diction with a lot of similes which expresses diverse ways in which the poet loves. -Indeewara Thilakarathne

The sign of the bite

In the morning after the great chaos concert the faces emptied
like beer bottles.
Who turned to look saw that between the women's lips an apple shuddered
and in the apple- the sign of the bite.
And love? Love was threaded like elastic in underwear:
what holds it up is
what exerts the pressure.
 

-Ronny Someck Translated by Vivian Eden

In this poem, the poet eloquently explains the memory of love which is in the form of a bite. After a concert, the weary faces look like empty beer bottles and he sees saw a sign of bite in an apple which is also a sign of love. Love links like "elastics in underwear". It is the pressure which holds it up -Indeewara.

Fox's wedding

There is no light
or wetness to feel
sun shines
through sprinkling rain droplets
but no rainbows to see
yellow colour of the air
makes everything melancholy
scent of the dirt mixed with water
fills up the lungs craving to breathe heavy
wondering whether to leave vee padura
or to bring it inside
why,
suddenly a devil kisses his wife
at Foxe's wedding.

Himali Liyanage

In this poem, the poet depicts the passionate act of love making following a drizzle. The poet recreates an atmosphere of drizzle and sun light filter through it making a surreal effect. Such is the time for love making and the woman is not sure whether to leave Vee Padura (mat with paddy laid on it). The poet uses effective and short lines to arrive at the climax Indeewara

Kites that fly beyond the tree-line

At the end of the drought
there is raindrop and laughter,
At the end of bloodletting
a moment to mourn
a moment to remember
and a moment of embrace.
After the clash of arms,
a moment of silence
a choice of a hundred pathways
many that twist back
into hatred and suspicion,
a few that move to dreamscapes
beyond antipathy
and toward a meeting of gaze
and timeless commonalities
the will to live,
the fear of death
and the superior worth of solidarity.
Every end is a beginning
and we have arrived
in predictable and unpredictable ways
at a today that is different
a country bathed in different light.
Tomorrow awaits us
accompanied by all our children.
They will ask in shrill and expectant voices
"Will there be a rainbow and a song,
will there be winds to carry our kite beyond the tree-line,
will there be new roads and fragrance,
playgrounds and acrobats,
will we have an answer" ?

- Malinda Seneviratne

The poet expresses hope for a new dawn after turbulent times which is eloquently depicted in skilfully warded lines. For him, "every end is a beginning". Like the end of the drought is signified by rain drops and laughter, end of the war is signified by the dawn of peace, laughter and celebration of life in its abundance. As the poet identifies, "tomorrow" awaits us with hope and aspiration. That "Tomorrow" is for the children to breathe fresh air, to enjoy the rainbow and the winds that carry their beautiful kites beyond the tree-lines. The poem ends with a note of expectation questioning whether we can really answer it. The poet uses very effective lines to arrive at a dramatic end. - Indeewara