Words

once, I wrote a thousand words in poems

to say that I love you

but, my love, I have no words for poems now

to say that I miss you

හුදකලා හෝරාව පිටුවේ කවියක පරිවර්තනයක් 

photo- red flowering gum

'I will be there'- හුස්ම අහුරක

හුස්ම අහුරක් නිසා පරණ කවි වලටත් පණ එනවා.

ස්තූතියි මේ ඉඩට! 

ඩැෆඩිල්!

මේ දවස්වල මෙහේ ඉර එළිය වැඩියෙන් තියෙන, මල් පිපෙන කාලේ. වසන්තය එන බව අපිට මුලින්ම කියන්නේ ඩැෆඩිල් මල්. හීතල කාලේ හරියකට ඉවර වෙන්නත් කළින් ඒවා බොහොම එඩිතරව පිපිලා, ඉර එළියේ කහ පාට හැමතැනම තවරලා වටපිට එළිය කරනවා. 

අවුරුදු ගානකට එපිට ඉඳන් කහපාට ඩැෆඩිල් මල් යායක් තදටම මගේ මතකයට කාවැදිලා තියෙනවා- හැබැයි ඒ නම් පින්තූරයකින්. මම මුලින්ම ඉස්කෝලෙ තෑගි බෙදාදීමේ උත්සවයකදී තෑග්ගක් ලැබුවේ අට වසරේදී. ඒ කාලේ එක එක අංශ වලින් English Day තරඟ තිබුණා . ඒ අවුරුද්දේ Spelling Competition  එකේ පලවෙනි තැන  දිනලා මට තෑග්ග හැටියට ලැබුණේ Ladybird Favourite Poems කියලා පුංචි පොතක්. ඒ වෙද්දී මම පොත් කියවිල්ලට ඇබ්බැහි වුණු පොත් ගුල්ලියක් වෙලා හිටියේ. රහස් පරීක්ෂක පොත් කියවලා මත් වෙලා, කරන්න බැරි වැඩක් බව දැන දැනත් රහස් පරීකෂකයෙක් වෙන්න ඕන කියලා හිතෙමින් තිබුණු කාලේ. ඒත් මම ඒ වෙද්දී කවදාවත් ඉංග්‍රීසි කවි පොතක් කියවලා තිබුණේ නැහැ. මේ පොත අතට ලැබිලා ඒකෙ කවරේ දෙපැත්තේ තිබුණු ලස්සන පින්තූර දිහා මම සෑහෙන්න වෙලාවක් බලාගෙන හිටියා මට මතකයි. ඉස්සරහා තිබුණේ කහ මල් පිපුණු ඩැෆඩිල් යායක්. පිටිපස්සේ තිබුණේ උස ගස් තිබුණු වනාන්තරයක්. ඒ පින්තූර දෙකේම හිතෙන් ඇවිදගෙන ගිහින් අතරමං වෙන්න පුළුවන් ලස්සනක් තිබුණා. 

Ladybird Favourite Poetry book - front & back
photos from arranalexander.co.uk

මේ පොතේ කවි විස්සක් විතර තිබුණු බවක් මට මතකයි. ඒත් මේ වෙද්දී මගේ මතකයේ රැඳිලා තියෙන්නේ එයින් කීපයක් විතරයි. ඒ  Rudyard Kiplingගේ  If කවියත්, William Henry Davies ගේ Leisure කවියත්, Audenගේ  Night Mail කවියත්, William Wordsworth ගේ Daffodils කවියත්. මේ කවි ඔක්කොම අතරින් මම හරියටම වශී වුණේ Daffodils කවියට කිව්වොත් හරි. ඒ වචනවල නැගලා මාත් බොහොම ලේසියෙන් ඩැෆඩිල් මල් පිපුණු කඳු නිම්න දිගේ ගියා. මේ කවියට ආසා නිසාම මම මේ පොත කාලයක් යනකම් නිතරම ළඟම තියාගෙන හිටියා, යන යන තැන අරගෙනත් ගියා, කවියත් කටපාඩම් වුණා. ඒ තරම් ආදරය කළ පොත දැන් නම් ඉතින් කොහේදවත් දන්නේ නැහැ!

ඊළඟ අවුරුද්දේ English Day තරඟ වල Poetry Reciting අංශයට නියමිතව තිබුණේ මේ කවිය බව දැක්කාම මට දැනුණේ නොහිතුව තැනකදී හොඳ යාලුවෙක් මුණගැහුණාම දැනෙන සතුට! මමත් ඉතින් ඒ අවුරුද්දේ ඒ තරඟයටත් ඇතුල් වුණා. Spelling වගේ නෙමෙයි, කවියට කොයිතරම් ආදරේ උනත් මට Poetry Reciting නම් බැරි බව මම දැනගත්තේ ඒ අවුරුද්දේ තමයි! 

මේ දවස්වල අපේ වත්තෙත් තැන තැන ඩැෆඩිල් මල් පිපෙනවා. අඳුරු වැහි කාලයක් කෙළවර මේ මල් ගේන අලුත් බලාපොරොත්තු වලට මම කැමතියි. ඒ වගේම මේවා දකිද්දී හැබැහින් ඩැෆඩිල් මල් නොදැක ඒවාට ආදරය කළ අවුරුදු දහතුනේ වයසට එක මොහොතින් ඉගිලෙන්නත් පුළුවන්! 

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud |William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

Photo- Daffodils in my backyard

මගේ යුද්ධය

කලකට පෙර පුවත්පතකට පරිවර්තනය කරන්නට විදෙස් කවි සොයද්දී මට Amy Wolstenholme ගේ මේ කවිය හමුවූයේ අහම්බෙනි. එය වරක් කියවූ පසු, තව දෙතුන් වරක්ම කියවන්නට මා පෙළඹුනේ එහි ඇති හිත හිරිවට්ටන වදන් නිසා ය. Amy ලියන්නේ 'මගේ යුද්ධය' ගැන ය. එහෙත් ඒ අප හැම දෙනාගේම හර්ද සාක්ෂියේ යුද්ධය යි. ඈත නොහඳුනන රටක නොහඳුනන නගරයක යුද්ධයක් ගැන අසද්දී රූපවාහිනී නාලිකාව මාරු නොකළ, එවැනි පුවත් දකිද්දී පත්තර පිටුව පෙරළා වෙන කියවන්නට රසවත් යමක් නොසෙවූ අයෙක් නැත. ප්‍රශ්නය වෙන අයෙක්ගේ වෙන තාක් අපට එහි රිදුමක් දැනෙන්නේ නැත.

අසන්නට දකින්නට ලැබෙන හැම විනාශයක්ම 'අපේ යුද්ධයකි'. ලොව කොහේ සිදු වූවත් අප ත් ඒ ව්‍යසන වල කොටස් කරුවන් ය. තදින් දොරගුළු ලා සිටීමෙන් අප ආරක්‍ෂිත වන්නේ නැත. දෑස් අන්ධ කරවන වෛරය වහා ඇවිලෙන සුළු බවත්, අන් මත ඉවසීමත්, සහජීවනයත් අප වෙහෙස වී වගා කළ යුතු බවත් සිතට ගන්නට යුද්ධය 'මගේ' වනතෙක් සිටීමට සිදුවීම මහත්ම ඛේදවාචකයකි.

Amy Wolstenholme ගේ මෙම නිර්මාණයට 2016දී Timothy Corsellis නිර්මාණ තරඟයෙන් පළමු ස්ථානය හිමි විය. 

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)

 

About this poem

First published in 2016.
This poem is the 1st prize winner in the Timothy Corsellis Prize 2016 on Young Poets Network (YPN), judged by Wendy Cope, Fran Brearton, Nic Vanderpeet and Judith Palmer.
Judge Fran Brearton said of this poem:

"It addresses some complex subjects: what guilt or otherwise one might feel for ‘thankgod it wasn’t us’; some acknowledgement of how social media has changed the way in which the self is oriented in a global context. It is brutal in its exposé of a more privileged life: ‘faces that travelled from doormat to bin’. Without ever indicting directly the context in which ‘my war’ takes place, the poem nevertheless deals a blow as devastating in its different ways as some of those dealt by the war poets. In its insistence on ‘My War’, the reiterated ‘my’ both knows the difference from ‘their’ war, and acknowledges the paradox at the heart of war poetry too – that suffering is poetic capital – ‘stamped / approved’. It has, without self-consciousness, numerous intertextual allusions to the war poets; but these are lightly carried, and it has its own distinctive idiom too, rather than borrowing that of others, from a tight and arresting opening line, to the handling of ‘update – hashtag –newsflash’ and people ‘turning to ash’. It’s a poem that employs repetition, internal rhyme and monosyllables to powerful effect. In the end, ‘My war’ is everywhere as much as it is nowhere, the suffering of ‘elsewhere’ brought to powerful presence by its reiterated absence in the everydayness of my war as no war at all."

Amy Wolstenholme

Amy is the 1st prize winner in the Timothy Corsellis Prize 2016 on Young Poets Network and is commended in the Bletchley Park challenge. She is also the 3rd prize winner in the Who is Giselle? poetry challenge , and a winner in the Ways to be Wilder Poetry Challenge, in association with People Need Nature.

  

From - Young Poets Network

Photo by Eric Ward on Unsplash

Silence

silence is a glimmer, 

a moonbeam's wavering light

trout in darkened rivers

a dark and sullen night

silence is a shadow,  

huddling under trees

weaving in the tall grass

shuddering in the breeze

silence is a mystery, 

frost patterns on the panes

sudden streaks of lightning, 

cloud-bursts over the plains

silence is an echo 

heard in the haze of sleep

the lulls in the bird-call

etched in a dream, deep

[a painting done after a long break. my trusty old laptop's gone, so it will take some time to fine tune the colours and lines the way I want!]

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.//

සතියක්ම තනියම

Alone for a Week |By Jane Kenyon

I washed a load of clothes
and hung them out to dry.
Then I went up to town
and busied myself all day.
The sleeve of your best shirt
rose ceremonious
when I drove in; our night-
clothes twined and untwined in
a little gust of wind.

For me it was getting late;
for you, where you were, not.
The harvest moon was full
but sparse clouds made its light
not quite reliable.
The bed on your side seemed
as wide and flat as Kansas;
your pillow plump, cool,
and allegorical. . . .


දිනමිණ වසත් සුළඟ- 12.06.18

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

Wildflowers

sullen stormy skies
spoiling for rain

but far across the meadows-

and the vales beyond

whispering in the wind,

wildflowers bloom

a little glimpse of ochre,

a sea of misty pink

smiles strewn in secret...
for tired eyes to feast

picture drawn in Paint- calligraphy brush

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 

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

මගේ සිරුරට

දිනමිණ- වසත් සුළඟ 16/01/2018 

measuring time

fifty centimetres

no more and no less

that is what you were

the day you arrived

on a distant winter morn

fifty centimetres

of pure wriggling joy

just the right size 

to hold-to soothe

in the crook of an arm

to cuddle- to clasp

close to a heart

but look at you now!

almost my height

'bend a little Amma..

so that I look tall!'

you whisper as we pose

seems just yesterday

I was rocking you to sleep

seems just this morning

I watched your tottering steps

time flies in moments

that I know for sure

in a swift blurry motion

ten years are gone

but as we stand close

side by side like this

heads almost touching

I realise anew

time flies now

in centimetres too!

at Lysterfield Lake, Melbourne- Dec, 2017

Thank you Stageless Arts!

When Stageless Arts contacted me requesting permission to feature my poetry on their site, my first unvoiced question was 'who are you?' The second question, also unvoiced- when I found out a bit about them- was 'are you sure I am good enough?'

Thank you Stageless Arts for the feature...Not only my poems but also my paintings!! I am honoured💗

http://stagelessarts.com/blog/helmalie-gunathilaka-solitude