Three poems

7 10 2010



Lies in the
Warmth of your embrace.
In the fullness of your lips
As you kiss,
In your eyes
Deep dark and honest,
In your curves
Your smooth skin
Long legs
And the sweet taste of heaven
That lies between.

Forever after

You tell me
While looking deep into my eyes
That I’m beautiful.
That you wish we’d met before
That you couldn’t imagine life without me.
That’s I am what you’ve been waiting for.
You tell me I’m enchanting.
And that you’ve never met anyone like me.
And that you will always love me
Forever and ever….

I smile and hold your head close to my chest.
I’ve heard those words before.
And in the eyes and hearts and minds of the people
Who spoke those words,
I ceased to be
All that.
I wonder,
How long,
Before you don’t want
Our forever after…


Myeeeee child…congratulations!”
So what are you now…
Mrs…Mrs. who?”…
“Weeraratne” I say.
“It’s a perfectly good name.
Didn’t see any point in changing it”.
She’s not amused.
“So, you cook?”
It’s the question I get asked most often.
“No” I reply,
“My husband does”.
She looks horrified.
“You clean then?…
And do the washing?…”
It’s inevitably the follow up question…
“Not really..
We’ve got people for that.”
She’s livid.
You’d think I killed someone.
“That’s not marriage.”
She snorts.
I’ve heard this too many times now to lose my temper.
So I smile politely and make an excuse to leave.
It annoys me,
Talking to women,
Who weigh and value a woman’s worth
On how many meals she can cook
Or how many dishes she can clean.
I hope she doesn’t have daughters of her own…

The floor of time

25 04 2010

Pick your place on the floor

Of time.

Any place.


Kiss an eye,

Fall apart

Pick up the pieces.

Twist, turn

Take another place,

Hold your hand.

Fall apart

Pick up the pieces.

Swing around

Arch your neck,

Touch your fingers.

Fall apart

Pick up the pieces.

Pick a new place,

Shimmy in

With your hip out,

Slide your fingers in,

Fling your head back.


Don’t pick up the pieces.

What’s the point?

Pick our places

On the floor of time

And get ready.

The long-stalked

23 11 2009

The long-stalked,

stiff and strong.

So beautifully soft,




So many memories.


holding hands,

throatful of


looking out the window,

the blue curtain,

love on the floor,

silent passions.

One for each petal,

these many memories.

Each time I see

these luscious flowers

vivid colours

of remembering.

So many memories

that no one else got


long-stalked flowers.

On a sleepy afternoon in bed would you read a poem?

21 11 2009

I have been looking for poems in blogs and found myself wondering: is poetry the pastime of elitists and lovers? It appears to me that poetry is not something people are really ‘into’ these days. When do we really read poetry? Other than in school as part of Sinhala or English literature. Did we ever read it as a leisure activity? As something to do on a rainy day in bed? Would you go looking for well-written poems in cyberspace or go to the well-known classics? Would you have sent this poem to a friend as good reading material, however beautiful you think it is? Would you think of sending this to your beloved as a gift? All these questions whirl around in my mind as I look for poems in blogs.

And now, I wonder why – as a generation – we are not ‘into’ poetry. Is it because good poems are hard to find, especially on blogs? Is it because poetry is considered the posh marginal in literature – people think it is sublime, but not many read it. It is not fiction, which lives on the preoccupations of lives. Is it because many people feel that writing – and reading – poems is a deeply personal thing, at a level that fiction isn’t? That it is something to do when in love and in pain?


my fingers.
my mouth.
my tongue
my mouth.






I know myself now

That I shall wait

As I have waited,

as I will always wait.

Patiently, patiently,

As the earth, as the sky.

Patient as water I will wait.

Patient as death.

It makes no difference

Where I go or what I do.

I know after all this time

That there is no time.

Still I wait and wait.

And whatever happens,

whatever I may look back upon

when its all over

I know that there is no end

no beginning.

Nothing but me and you

And the times I wait


time outside of Time

29 10 2009


outside of Time

I want.

Just a tiny bit,

Just enough.

To flow myself

molten lava into you,

explore the you,

not you,

but still you.

time outside of Time I need,

to breathe you in,

to burst my lungs with you,

exploding bubbles of air

in my blood.

time outside of Time

I crave

for us.


10 09 2009

Without blue

No sky to white clouds

Without blue

No fine line halving

Sea and sky

Without the blue

No scrawl on this blank page

No words

For my lonely spells

No murmurs and drowsy sighs.

Without you

No blue to my purple.

The Urge

23 08 2009

Belly up

Back curved

Body curled

Feet up

Deep into the night


Far into the morning


On too-warm sheets

In the afternoon

With round inky shapes

Long neverending stretches

In the middle of journeys

Waiting in bus-stops

Quickly quickly between classes

And again again and again

And then.

It’s over.

And now again.

The crisp pages

Of a

Many-leaved book.