Poetry dealing with prosperty

Poetry does not often deal with property. In itself, I suppose, this does not seem a very poetic subject. And the three poems brought together here are really about feelings, not property. The juxtaposition may also seem facile, in that the feelings depicted are very different in character.

Still, it is interesting to explore the use made of houses and furniture to convey essential aspects of the Sri Lankan experience.

The title of the first poem, by R Sivanandan, encapsulates its subject, though the contribution to the problem of the anxiety to satisfy others should also be noticed. The technique of progressive exaggeration, whereby money has to be borrowed even to provide the lenders with a cup of tea, is unusual and effective.

Passion for furniture
by Tr. S. Rajasingam

I took a loan from a bank
sold the jewelry in the vault
my wife's necklace, bangles,
strands of chain, all
and built a house

Just two rooms to satisfy my desire
no more;
for lack of funds
abandoned the project midway
but the children moved freely
played on their own
in a spacious hall

Exhausted with play, the children
never needed to be lulled to sleep
there were no beds, no mattresses
even pillows were never needed
They had a wonderful time
and slept sprawled, on mats

I brought a bench
positioned it against a wall
to relax
Not satisfied,
for visitors to use
acquired two good cane chairs
and a teapoy
for tea things

To satisfy the wife
and children
I added a cushioned sofa
and a settee
though they somewhat crammed
this house of mine
It was truly beautiful

But unlike before
no room to move freely
to sprawl and sleep
or even relax
Today I stand
shrunk, diminished
the furniture closing in on me on all sides.

Polished and varnished
the furniture shines
though there is no rice
in this beautiful kitchen of mine
for the next meal

We stand wearied, wasted
without a clue
how to break free from this pretty pass

For want of space
I got into unnecessary scrapes
fell foul of friends
earned a dirty name

Since the house is full of furniture
the children often times trip, fall over

This is the month before the rains
oppressive the heat, night and day
the house is crammed
The children cannot lie down in comfort
furniture, furniture everywhere
we trip, we fall

Money lenders
who gave us credit
visited us to advance fresh loans
even to have a cup of tea
Now as if plagued
feel wretched, driven to frenzy

Though the following poem was written originally in English, Wickramasena Jayasekera is not from an urban English speaking background. His subject however is a common phenomenon, that of ageing and yielding to a new generation, which resonates beyond the simple images that encapsulate it here.

My son, his inheritance

In my double bed
Which is now old
I recollect,
Not in tranquility,
The lattice work of my life.

My son now
Wears my sarongs
Without folding them in half
To shorten their full length
As he used to a few years ago.

Last week I saw him
Searching for my razor blades.
I heard him sing and whistle
And the tune seems so familiar ............

I picture my wife
As she first came to me
In a bright red cotton frock
With white polka dats.

I muse ..................
Remember my son
This lattice work
May be a lattice fence
For you some day.

In our old double bed
My wife and I
(Her hair all grey now)
Crouch like two old animals in a cage
Peering through the lattice work
of our house.

While our son, his chest bare
And gleaming in the sun,
Reclines on an easy chair.

My wife takes
A long, sidelong glance at me.
I interpret
her message.

Yes, we will
Give this bed to him
And sleep
Elsewhere.

The third poem here is essentially a social critique, by Parakrama Kodituwakku for whom that was the very essence of poetry. The strength of his work lies however in the way he also creates a forceful sense of character, and piles on convincing details that convey a whole range of social problems.

The life of a schoolmaster who is subject to the vagaries of government service from which those who choose can exempt themselves; the hazards presented by animate and inanimate nature in rural areas; moral hypocrisy and prurience; all these combine with the compelling image of the cats that travel along with this endlessly mobile family.

On Moving into a Rented House
byTr. Ranjini Obeyesekere

Gnanawathi, Gnanasena
buried down beneath the baggage
loaded into the half-lorry
ears uplifted
eyes wide open
why do you keep looking out?

Cats, can you not keep count?
This will be the 17th rented residence
that we now head for.

The 16th rented house we have just left
To the 17th rented home we now proceed.

It struck me during the history lesson
our life was like
that ambling steam engine
that Watson once built.

In the giant tree of life
let us live like birds
flit from limb to limb
in search of ripening fruit.

But gentle sirs forgive us, listen to our tale
we move from one house to the next
not because we want to change.
We pay our rent
and would so like
to close our eyes in peace
safe in a single place.

But the government by telegram
from Her Majesty the Queen
transfers our father from school to school.
We've already moved from seven
because he does not care to creep
beneath the Parliamentarians' feet.
From house to house we slide
our goods and chattels packed
our bag and baggage clutched
sliding, slipping, shuffling, shoving
a vagrant life.

Why we moved out of one house
was when we couldn't take much more.
The moment we put out the light
countless roaches rained on us.
In the rafters lived a snake
His underbelly white and slithering
moving up there overhead;
little sister screaming, shrieking
as if nearly dead.

Then in a twin house once we lived
in perfect amity
passing dishes back and forth
in friendly harmony.
One from this house
one to that house
one from that to this
feeling there was no distinction
between this and that
until one day
Buddhadas, the boy next door
kissed little sister's breast.
To preserve her (golden) future
We hurriedly packed and left.

I swear it's true.

There was one house
on the banks of the broad Black-River,
so beautiful it looked almost
like something in a movie.

Then without any warning
not a letter or a note
the Black-River maiden
ripped her cloth apart
and crept into our house.
The three watches of that night we spent
awake
upon a beam.

'This world is an illusion
this life a drop of dew
all carrion and waste
a mere ball of spit.'
so said our next landlord
a saintly gentleman
who
because mother picked up a coconut
that fell from his tree
gave her notice, at once
with great equanimity
to quit the house
in twenty-four hours
Gnanasena, Gnanawathi,
Cats, I have some questions
which I will put to you.

Our 17th rented house
has just one room.
They say there is not space enough
for baby sister to crawl.
Do you think then when she grows up
she won't be able to walk?

Because I will not have a room
in which to read and write
Will I not have a chance
to become a famous poet
one day?

Living in a single room
will my young sister ever
find herself a lover?

Flitting thus from tree to tree
will my mother and my father
turn to birds?