Howl for a new generation (with apologies to Allen Ginsberg)
losing a beloved on an ordinary day
in Colombo, in Mannar Town,
where pools of blood swell
on the steps of a bus,
in the market place,
on dusty shell shocked streets,
and the sentinels of the war
stand guard, holding back our grief;
only the palm thatched rooftops
bear witness to departing warriors.
our silence remains steadfast
as the minds of my generation,
give way to the rot of rabid thought tracks,
and all we are left with,
is denial and counter-denial,
a tunnel of silence,
a never ending drumbeat.
somebody, take this,
take my anger,
add it to yours.
take it simmering,
a ball of blue flame,
watch how it ignites when
we don’t handle it carefully
howl, howl to
Jesus, if you want
or to Allah, I don’t care
prostrate at Buddha’s altar
or in Kaliamma’s temple,
even though we may be …
