'I will be there'- හුස්ම අහුරක

හුස්ම අහුරක් නිසා පරණ කවි වලටත් පණ එනවා.

ස්තූතියි මේ ඉඩට! 

Thank you Red Room Poetry!

I am honoured that my poem, Heaven - on a City Street -has been chosen to be featured in the project named 'The Disappearing' in the poetry site, Red Room Poetry! Red Room Poetry is dedicated to showcasing Australian poems by Australian poets. It also partners with poets, schools and communities to make a positive social impact and to ensure poetry is accessible by all.

Heaven-  on a City Street

The Disappearing is a poetry project created by Red Room Poetry, and it is an interactive map of poems about vanishing places.

//The site uses geo-location to pin poems to transforming locations. From fading milk bars to ghost towns, The Disappearing has been uncovering poetry’s invisible currents in the world since 2012. Charting fragmented histories, impressions and memories across Australia and beyond, The Disappearing has grown to be one of the largest poetic travel guides, preserving traces and sharing experiences of places that transform over time.//

Little Fires Everywhere | Celeste Ng

Author:   Celeste Ng

Genre:   Fiction

Publisher:   A Perigee Book/Penguin Group
Originally published:   12 September 2017

Little Fires Everywhere is the second book by American writer Celeste Ng and has won many awards in a short period of time.

This story delves in the lives of an affluent family living in a progressive suburb. Their lives are changed by the single mother and daughter who arrive in their suburb and become their tenants. Celeste paints a clear and intricate picture about each individual in the story, highlighting their character traits and weaknesses. The story questions our beliefs on right and wrong, and whether just love, in the end is enough. 

The many sub stories wound through the main plot are planned and laid out very well, describing the conflicting and contrasting human nature. I specially liked the author's description of the artist, Amy's work- though surely imaginary, were very vivid to the reader. Not a quick read- at 338 pages, but I felt it was worth the time spent. The fact that it is currently being made into a TV mini series must mean that its worth has been recognised widely. 

Awards won:

- Instant New York Times Bestseller

- Amazon's Best Novel Of 2017

- Winner of The Goodreads Readers' Choice Award 2017, Fiction

- Named A Best Book Of The Year By Npr • Amazon • Barnes & Noble • Entertainment Weekly • Guardian • Buzzfeed • Esquire • Washington Post 

ලියන්න උගෙනිමින්

Learning to Write | Gary Catalano


At sixty-five my grandfather
is learning to write his name
one hand flat
on the oilcloth covered table-
the other grappling


with a pen, guiding it
slowly over the paper.
He checks each
uncertain curve and stroke
against his master copy


The only fine work
his fingers know
is thinning young lettuces
with a bent flange
of tin or neatly


extricating ripe cues
from their imprisoning web
To this kind of work
he's a stranger. As I
monitor his progress


I run the blunt edge of a knife
over the cloth
and watch the marks
bite,
deepen


then vanish. His only hope
is that those painful signs
will be recognised as his
by all who can read.
When he's finished


he leans back
and admires the miracle,
pleased to see a new
late shoot
emerging from its seed


දිනමිණ වසත් සුළඟ 02.05.2018

මගේ යුද්ධය

My War | Amy Wolstenholme

My war can fit within the rotation of a minute hand.
Between 6:59 and 7:00pm, news bulletins in Times New Roman,
Another town with a name you cannot pronounce is known and lost
simultaneously. You have time to glance up from your dinner,
Look to your front door; check the outside is still locked out,
Say: Thank God.

My war is erased by pressing a button.

It exists on the other channel, or on dull Tuesday afternoons
where the bluebottles swarm their reflections in windows,
Get crushed by volumes of literary poetry and – thank God –
the bell rings.

My war is trapped in front covers and fly wings.
My war is on tour buses, in fields all scoured with red,
(we all know how well flowers bloom from the dead)

I pinned a poppy to my car bonnet, left it to bleed in the sun,
until all the blood had run, until all the colour had gone,
until it was white as vacant skin – the colour of peace.

My war is on pay slips, in five pounds a month to some charity

off building houses or commemorating bodies. Here:
have my illegible signature, my languid name. Stamped.
Approved.

My war comes out of the post office
and in through the letterbox, my sympathy fits 12 inches by 2,
(the rest of the door is locked tight thank god thank god)
Here are some more faces that travelled from doormat to bin.

My war stays on street corners, in bedraggled protest signs,
Small change occasionally gifted, dropped in my peripheral vision,
(we all know eye contact cannot, must not be given)

My war is dust that occasionally comes drifting through,
People dissolved into air, into beautiful nothing in locked rooms
(you did remember to turn the key – did you, did you?)

My war is in my pocket: Update–Hashtag–NEWS FLASH.
Somewhere inconceivable, people are turning to ash.
My war is when I take your hand and hold it on the bus.
(thankgodthankgodthankgod it wasn’t us)

දිනමිණ, වසත් සුළඟ- 24.04.2018

ගස් ගැන

Trees | Rudy Francisco

I always empathize
with the trees,

how they remain
still when the
flames arrive.

However, I envy
the smoke.

The way it gets
to leave when
the heat comes.

Every time I see
a forest fire,
it reminds me
of us.

Me, still here,
rooted in the
place you left


දිනමිණ වසත් සුළඟ 27. 03.2018

මා දකින හැමදේම

Seeing things | Sally Odgers

“There’s no such thing as unicorns,”

My teacher said in class

(She doesn’t know what’s in the park

Dancing in the grass)

“Fairies? Don’t be foolish,”

My brother gives a hoot

But I don’t care—I know they’re there

(I hear their silvered flute)

“Dragons are for stories,”

Gran told me gently once

I called her when I saw one

(But she was having lunch)

They think I’m being silly

And playing make-believe

I can tell fact from fiction

I know what I have seen

And when they dare to tell me

I haven’t any proof

I whistle and say, ‘atoms!’

And wander off aloof

My brother counters, ‘Microscopes!’

(As if I care for that

Has any scientist used one

To examine pixie hats?)

And have you seen the selkies?

Down on the beach today

Splashing in the wavelets

(They look like seals at play)

Maybe others like to think

There are no fairy rings

I wish they’d open up their minds

And join me seeing things

I’ll lead an expedition

And I’m inviting you

To join me in my journey

(I know you see things too.)

දිනමිණ වසත් සුළඟ- 20.03.2018

දැරියකගේ හිත

A Girl's Head |Katherine Gallagher

In it there is a dream
 that was started
before she was born
and there is a globe
with hemispheres
which shall be happy
there is her own spacecraft
a chosen dress
and pictures of her friends
there are shining rings
and a maze of mirrors
there is a diary
for surprise occasions
there is a horse springing hooves
across the sky
there is a sea that
tides and swells
and cannot be mapped
there is untold hope
in that no equation exactly
fits a head

දිනමිණ වසත් සුළඟ 13.03.2018

Distances

If I reach afar
into the darkening night
can I hold your hand
and murmur words of light?

In the heavy gloom
where thunderclouds abound
can I shield you heart
'till lost worlds are found?


picture drawn in Paint- natural pencil & crayon

සන්ධ්‍යාව එළඹෙද්දී

One Return | Nicolette Stasko

Needles of the casuarinas

are pale green hair

white cockatoos

in the trees

like sheets of paper

clean handkerchiefs

unfolding in the wind

all is silent

except the rumbling

of the train past

two old men on dry grass

basking in the sun

seagulls lost

in a grey parking lot

a half eaten melon—

rind of last night’s moon

leaves turn purple

in the falling dusk

the train

rumbles on

everything held together

by an eye

දිනමිණ වසත් සුළඟ 06.03.18

බෙහෙත් වට්ටෝරුව

Prescription | Nicolette Stasko

Take your pills

In the prescribed cycle of morning
The blue one when you first wake up
The white one with the coffee
To counteract the heart’s racing
And heavy pumping

Then the upstairs ones
The ones I am most afraid
Of keeping
Of missing
Those little palliative ovals
That claim to prevent the weeping
To stop the pictures running
Like a bus through the brain

The ones marked hope
And despair
the ones
Marked pain and rebirth
The ones that say
Nothing


දිනමිණ- වසත් සුළඟ 27.02.2018

හිතවත් කියවන්නාට

Dear Reader |  Rita Mae Reese

You have forgotten it all.

You have forgotten your name,

where you lived, who you

loved, why.

                      I am simply

your nurse, terse and unlovely

I point to things

and remind you what they are:

chair, book, daughter, soup.

And when we are alone

I tell you what lies

in each direction: This way

is death, and this way, after

a longer walk, is death,

and that way is death but you

won’t see it

until it is right

in front of you.

              Once after

your niece had been to visit you

and I said something about

how you must love her

or she must love you

or something useless like that,

you gripped my forearm

in your terrible swift hand

and said, she is

everything—you gave

me a shake—everything

to me.

               And then you fell

back into the well. Deep

in the well of everything. And I

stand at the edge and call:

                  chair, book, daughter, soup.

දිනමිණ වසත් සුළඟ-20. 02.2018 

'Measuring Time' in Ketapathpawura

කැටපත්පවුර අඩවියේ මගේ කවියක් පළ වී ඇති බව අහම්බෙන් දැනගන්නට ලැබිණි. ස්තූතියි කැටපත්පවුර!

ප්‍රේමයට පසු මිතුදම

Friendship After Love| Ella Wheeler Wilcox

After the fierce midsummer all ablaze

    Has burned itself to ashes, and expires

    In the intensity of its own fires,

There come the mellow, mild, St. Martin days

Crowned with the calm of peace, but sad with haze.

    So after Love has led us, till he tires

    Of his own throes, and torments, and desires,

Comes large-eyed friendship: with a restful gaze,

He beckons us to follow, and across

    Cool verdant vales we wander free from care.

    Is it a touch of frost lies in the air?

Why are we haunted with a sense of loss?

We do not wish the pain back, or the heat;

And yet, and yet, these days are incomplete.

දිනමිණ වසත් සුළඟ 13.02.2018 

'Dirt Music' by Tim Winton

“Dirt music, Fox tells Georgie, is "anything you can play on a verandah or porch, without electricity.” 

This book is a masterpiece by Tim Winton where the language is both lyrical and palpable. He describes the harsh and rugged landscape of Western Australia with great intensity. The reader too, sweats in the torpid midafternoons described in the book or hears the shriek of the straining trees in a cyclone. 

"On the island there are so many unexpected pleasures, like the hot warm boles of the young boab trees he brushes his fingertips in passing. The shapes of these trees delight him. Leaners, swooners, flashers, fat and thin. At the edge of them all is one huge ancient tree, festooned with vines and creepers, whose bark is elephantine. There's glorious asymmetrical spledour about it; it makes him smile just to catch a glimpse of it as he passes. When he climbs it he finds an ossuary on its outspread limbs where some hefty seabird has hauled mudcrabs aloft to feed on. The broken hulls are thick and white as china plates."

Fox's narrative-pg 353

This is a love story of sorts wreathed with loss, anger, loneliness and regret and at times raw with emotion. 

"How might he have told her that the way he lives is a project of forgetting? All the time he's set out wilfully to disremember. and some days it really is possible, in a life full of physical imperatives you can do it, but it's not the same as forgetting. Forgetting is a mercy, an accident"

Fox's narrative- pg 104

I did find the ending somewhat long drawn but this could be due to the fact that I finished the book in many sittings due to lack of time. It did manage to shake me, and that itself was enough in the end. 

Dirt Music was shortlisted for the Booker prize in 2002 and won the Miles Franklin Award in the same year. It has been translated into Russian, French and German.

Dirt Music- Tim Winton (2001)

ISBN: 9780143568797
Publisher: Penguin Books Australia

දිය මත ඉතිරි කර යන විසල් සලකුණ

The Print the Whales Make | Marge Saiser

You and I on the boat notice

the print the whales leave,

the  huge ring their diving draws

for a time on the surface.

Is it like that when we

lose one another? Don't

know, can't. But

I want to believe

when we can no longer

walk across a room

for a hug, can no longer

step into the arms of the other,

there will be this:

some trace that stays

while the great body

remains below out of sight,

dark mammoth shadow

flick of flipper

body of delight

diving deep.
දිනමිණ- වසත් සුළඟ 06.02.2018

ජීවිතය

Barter| Sara Teasdale

Life has loveliness to sell,
   All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
   Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up
Holding wonder in a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,
   Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
   Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,
   Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
   Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstacy
Give all you have been, or could be.

දිනමිණ වසත් සුළඟ- 30.01.2018 

Gladioli

when shadows knit together

in the waning moonlight

the vales breathe deep

shrouded in earthy sleep

but as upright as swords 
the gladioli stand

in brightly hued dresses

posed for a dance

seeing all the frilly splendour

and their waltz to silent tunes

the wind gently whispers

'adieu- for autumn looms!'


(the gladioli- also known as the sword lily-are tall colourful spires of blooms that flower only once a year, in the summer.)

Picture drawn in Paint- Oil brush & natural pencil