my teacher talks of a sri lankan english-poem ii
(a responsive thing)

by sumathy

ooo, how sad that
thing called a sri lankan-thing
who
thinging this thing of
of englees or inglisss
has no capacity, no?
for funny funny joking thing
in the morning,
day, evening or
night. only thing
he, boyfriend, can find is thing
that, thing this, and good old papa shakes
peare, no great shakes
but sitting on the fence of the globe, passing on
this or that thing frommm
eliza to james, accumulating
primitively othello’s thing? of course,
this is way above the ways of pearl,
bin dalen or the pumpkin lovers of the
fricative z, but
write i, nevertheless, of
the base indian, richer than all his tribe,
this thing, no caring no, meyler’s
injunction against poetry
in the sri lankan
that thing.

There is no rule written in an enormous ledger by an acolyte angel
that says a poet will write every day until death. The uncivil war will end

according to absence of such dictate when humours start to break down
cellular walls and cancer spreads overcoming defences of heart, lungs,

kidneys, gut, brain, in no particular order, as aforementioned parts
succumb to constant hammering of shells, fits of barking orders to kill,

and distant turning away from disaster, beating breasts, while asking
focus groups, how can we intervene in a sovereign nation, does this

particular wilful disregard for human life meet your standard, fellow
citizens and friends? Pure fantasy. Nobody consulted the man in Peoria

or the soothsayer shuffling along to the bead shop on Main …

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From 19 – 27 May 2010, Groundviews ran a special edition on the end of war in Sri Lanka. Over this week alone, the site received over forty thousand readers and exclusively featured over eighty thousand words of original content, one video premiere, over a dozen photos, generating over one hundred and fifty thousand words of commentary. Tens of thousands more have read …

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Murder cannot be hidden, bodies decompose but skeletons
remain; certainly they can be washed from beach into sea

and stripped clean by carnivorous fish yet the panel requires
just a few examples, sufficient to flesh out a theory of mass

slaughter; satellite shots will be investigated abroad and
conversations conducted with survivors of precarious boats

landing on Christmas Island or dragged into Jakarta. Scale
of killing poses a serious problem for management of disaster;

appointment of soft, suave diplomat to run damage control
at foreign ministry did not succeed. Murder will be revealed.

Macbeth is read also in Sri Lanka; it landed in the culture
before the current lot of customs inspectors; am sure

Saratchchandra contemplated translating …

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The Sun God disappeared from the scene in May, 2009
killed by advancing army units, not clear which brave soldier

pulled the trigger, for some reason government has kept quiet
about circumstances, but other magicians in splendid whites

are raising arms to salute on Galle Face Green’s reviewing stand
troubling peace-loving citizens. They stand before armoured carriers

while fighter jets fly over the head of Old Parliament at the annual
parade to celebrate the late rebirth of Dutugemunu into our democracy,

a spirit who appeared to have achieved beatitude centuries ago,
but has required one more round on his favourite hunting ground,

a touch of three kingdoms-in-one panache, obeisance of tens of
thousands marching past, and loyalty before judgment of the …

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What a large and dramatic idea occurred to the brigadier in charge
of rehabilitation , to organize a mass wedding to spur former Tiger

troops into formation under a different philosophy and yet appeal
to their strengths to cohere as a group not any longer in waging war

against the State but to reveal their common humanity to agree
to a public celebration of private bonds, to ensure their co-habiting

led to proper inheritance for children, access to social welfare
payments when necessary, all to the good for these members

of a herd, now in white vershtis and magenta sarees eating cake
and chatting with relatives witnessed by the Bollywood actor

Vivek Oberoi, no less, before returning to detention camps,
now two by two, respectable members of the new unitary ark,

where …

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I wish to crack
a bottle of arrack
and kick my legs
out on the verandah

before the sea
at twilight,
this mix of
liquor, even

kisses, pleasure
under whirring
fans, brought
by our soldiers

bludgeoning
villagers with bombs.
They chose war,
the Tamils,

must now face
the music,
hopping
on one foot

to a new master.
This is obvious,
why write poetry
anymore, or even

put on a suit
or read the classics?
The arrack is sweet
and limestone,

salt and gems,
if any , in the North
will be harvested
to enjoy our southern

evenings strolling
at Unawatuna
hand in hand
under the moon;

even that Tamil
boy who lost
his mother
and father

to a misplaced
projectile,
says he must
move on,

learn a trade.
There is a new
calculus, throw
away the abacus,

Boys, the dream
has been denied.
Bend your heads
and genuflect,

we may yet
be kind and
give you a bit
of land down

the street
from the newly
shooted Bo Tree
and the shrine.

…

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I would like to believe
we have been forgiven,
that the end justifies

means, that prejudice
has been copy-edited out
of the nursery reader,

that the black man
with roving eyes
and moneyed breath

is not after all Tamil,
a dirty devil come
to spook our children

at night who wish only
to dream of sweets
and cricket, and how

they pumped
the minority during
the tea-break in front

of the tuck shop
in a public hazing,
not approved

but allowed
by the benign authority,
the Principal

of laissez-faire–
oh let our boys
steam off,

better now
than grown up
and angry with wives

or trying to get a job
in the Tamil-run
Public Works Department,

or the Civil Service,
or even the thosai kaddai.
Of course that is history

now, the Thirty Year
War has been won,
and Tamil shopkeepers

must hide their newspapers
under lungis, and speak
Sinhala at checkpoints,

or while seeking
entry into government
buildings.

Their identity cards
will betray them
of …

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Colombo, Nov 2: A mentally challenged man, who jumped into the Indian ocean to escape arrest, drowned after being badly beaten up by Sri Lankan police in the water in front of a large crowd, police said. (news item)

wonder was horror-edged
and pity was guilt-edged
flotsam on our conscience
as we watched the boy
thrown into a senseless
sea swirling with violence
and as shocking anger
beat him to death
and forced him to drown
we who had watched worse
and said nothing
gazed in silence
and
a mobile phone video-recorded
footage of folly
that moment
of hideous history
prevailed
to bear witness
to a country whose
war was just over
to a people
now at peace.

the waters whirl and
the foam is still froth-white
the sun glistens still
on the golden sand
but the boy we call mad
is retreating into the ocean
still …

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killinochchi town getting ready…
may 2010

19th may. you have nothing
to say? i can only
falteringly
mouth, nothing of ….
nothing begets nothing, a king says, and
launches a war
against garrulous daughters and sulking ones;
and i think of an
other daughter, too too loud or too soft,
of other wars and other deaths, slipped between
a pillow and its case, a letter, a bomb, a whisper, slipped
between the familiar and the family, the nation and its engender.

on 19th may, 1991, sivaramani,
took her own positive life, her cry strangled
with that strenuous cord, blazing a trail of blood
of the nation and its many stories;
300, 000 slipped between
a miserable soul-dead wretch, who
would not take his life and the dark
of a …

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Intervening in the controversy over the teaching of English ‘our way’, retired Senior DIG Edward Gunawardena wrote a satirical letter to The Island of March 27, 2010, which concluded:

“So Sir, let us appreciate the fact that speaking or writing English “our way” can have entertainment value too. The Queen’s English can be, murdered. But “English our way” … cannot be murdered. There lies the only advantage of learning English that is recommended… ”We know they are who. They don’t know we are who!”

What follows is a comment in English-Our-Way, on Justice-Our-Way.

For you know who
A woman got jailed for she is who
By those who think we should stay we are who
So if you are not you are who
But …

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He asked me
how it was that I could be
Sinhalese
was it 50%?
if my mother was Sinhalese
and in that case
whether I was 50% burgher
or whether I had one quarter Belgian
blood in my veins

It was a bit tiresome
to explain
to say I think 1/8th means 12 and a half percent
Belgian
and then another 1/4th is Dutch
and two 25 percents on either side
probably
makes me 50% Sinhalese
(but I cannot be sure, I could be 25% Tamil with my Kandyan blood)

And I couldn’t do the
math in my head
because I was jet lagged
and sleep deprived
and I was tempted to say
last time I got sick
they did a FBC sir,
I think there were the normal
percentages
of plasma
and white cells
but I was a bit low on the red cells
you see I don’t eat …

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We turned out of bed
saddened and furious
when we heard
Taliban detonated
the Bamiyan Buddhas:

What savagery,
to destroy testaments
aged over centuries,
to a now effaced history;
but today let us rejoice,

Akon the singer
has been denied
a visa and a chance
to feed the unruly
and sexual minds

of a sold-out
Sri Lankan crowd,
Christians no doubt,
urbane Muslims
certainly, even some

fallen gautamas,
they can’t be trusted
pogo dancing,
and we don’t want
skin exposed

near Lord Buddha.
Yet, I wish to offer
a disclaimer
along with a refusal
to appear before

a court-martial
or an investigative judge
to testify about
the nature of We
to which I belong.

For residents and visitors

The giant leafy mango
tree in the back garden
has been cut down
screamed the poet,

Scar and the hyenas
are in charge, the stomach
queasy, revolted,
Il Duce megaphoned

War is Peace;
in the exhaust fumes
of a white van a soul
flits about then vanishes,

betrayal on 4 million
tongues, the State is Me
yet some of me is afraid
to return, to stay, paralysed

while State police black shirts
twirling clubs pulp Lasantha
to welcome in the year
that ends with Sarath abducted,

the State afraid will cover
all tracks, Defense is Offense,
Minister draws sap
at Duttu’s right hand,

while his boys play cricket
for the nation and liberals
cower before the impressive
exertion of force and law

to suppress dissent, under …

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there was a lovely tree in the yard at the back of our house. a lovely sinewy and tall mango tree.             
one day in the morning we were woken to the sound of a thousand parrots in uproar.
they were hawing the tree down. we watched the whatever you call it uproot the tree. the roots we’re pulled out.

the parrots displaced.

we wondered about why they cut the tree down. the parrots found another home.

this morning we woke up to the sound of a humming drill. a shed with an asbestos cover
stood in its place.

my old school had a bicycle shed like that.

When Weerasena (1) was interdicted
And the sun was on fire
Above the textile factory
Shouting slogans
Screaming hoarsely
Brother Nadesan(2)
At the flaming pickets
I was a Tamil

When Weere(3) got the job back
Riding on the shoulders
“Long live brother Nade(4)….!”
The victorious king
In the victory parade
I was a Tamil

When Siripala(1) was shot
By the squad breaking the strike
Took him in my own hands
And flew to the hospital
I was a Tamil

Both hands punctured
With saline tubes
“Nade, you are my saviour”
Sira(4), you embraced me sobbing
I was a Tamil.

When Kusum(1) was pregnant
And dying on a hospital bed
They never demanded
Sinhalese blood
But just “O” negative
Only I happened to have
I was a Tamil.

“Son, you belong to uncle Nade”
the newborn
Was put in my hands
With tears flowing
Yet, I was a Tamil.

Weere, I hear your slogan
Suppressing the shouting
At the picket line
“Slay the Tamils! …

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I hear the crack of a whip, you tell me it’s the sound of peace.

I don’t believe you.

Speak for yourself. Not for me.

I heard them coming. They have no choice.

I saw them cry. They have no choice.

Shame on you. They have no choice.

A picture speaks a thousand words, silence another-

Silence. We have given up. Silenced. We have accepted defeat.

If I only knew
you were all right
or even just okay
or less than all right
but alive
I could survive
in this -
this place
where there are shops
clinics
even makeshift toilets
and tampons distributed
by companies with
corporate responsibility

If only I could imagine we
found each other
down a de-mined
stretch of parched
road
on a thirsty day
I could swim endlessly in
this river of pity and
not drown in the monsoon shit

If I saw you
I would recognise you
I’m sure, I’d know that skin
those bones
if only I knew you were
alive somewhere
then I could wait forever
to be out of
here:
where kindness
is injected in small doses
and love is
a warm cup
of nestomalt
offered by bewildered hands.

But I don’t
and my love for you
is a bullet lodged
deep in the belly
and sometimes
when I sleep
I dream we are
making love
and waking up
is barbed wire
slicing the lips….

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Do not question
the numbers
when speaking of
your dead sons
in the field of war.
accept quietly
your death dues.
Hush! Don’t worry!
just in case
you trouble
Our Army Officers.

Gentlemen of the Black Robes,
you who were called traitors,
we know your Glory!
Hush! Shut your ears!
No Legal Action against
The Power Holders now
just in case
you distress
Their Leader.

A billion ends with nine zeros!
war is indeed costly
on what, pray, was it all spent?
Hush! No questions please!
Just in case
you embarrass
Our Rulers.

The liberated are free
in detention camps,
should another
Liberator descend to
free them.
Hush, Make no noise!
just is case
Our Sensitive Parliament
collapses
At such Heavy Questions.

Do not inquire
about the corpses
appearing here and there
of course, once in a way
Disappearances do Happen!
Hush! Don’t worry!
just in case
The Power and Glory
of our King
that rises by the day
Shatters.

Hungry? Just a little patience!
don’t you know?
this is …

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“These are Elephants, Those are Tamils”1
-words from a friend.

Baby Elephants- dearly beloved elders were killed before their tender eyes
Baby Elephants-arms, legs, teeth shriveled with the pain of the bullet
Baby Elephants- loose wrinkled skin hangs off starving, haunted frames
Baby Elephants-left over remnants of humanity scraped up from
The scorching earth of Vanni

Yes, they are Tamil.

Baby Elephants-no newspapers flare up for them in bold headlines
Baby Elephants-no person steps into the streets to demand their well-being
Baby Elephants-no believers in Ahimsa to speak for them, the intellectuals are mute
Baby Elephants-no one to beat their chest wailing “aney” “apoi”2 at their fate

Yes, they are Tamil.

you know
that your mothers
lie dead.
breasts heavy with
the swollen pain
of hardened milk.

you know
that your fathers
lie dead
who stomped the earth
trumpeting …

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