WORDS AFTER SEPTEMBER 11
We will not be quiet, Lord.
We will not hide in books,
Under our desks, Lord.
We will not whisper
In the rowdy street.
We will hop
On our “three-wheelers,”
On the Morning Express,
Wheel up the ramp
And fly beyond
The limits
Of our comforts.
We will explore again,
And find ourselves
Lost again. Yet,
We shall hold our hands.
Yet, we shall love
Our neighbor.
Yet, we shall stand
On our dad
And mum’s shoulders,
And we will play yet again.
Let us now honor our dead,
The Earth’s dead.
Let us not tremble.
Let us not be quiet.
Let us not stammer
Through a million
Emergency sessions.
Let us talk
To the bird in the tree,
The bird in the sky.
Let us sing as a flock,
In congregation.
We will
and shall
And can
and must not
Be overcome.
Let us walk out tonight,
Tomorrow, and sing
We will
and shall
And can
and must
Not be overcome.
Let us go to the films
On Saturday,
To worship any day
We wish.
Let not these burning towers
Be our metaphor.
Let us honor our dead, yes,
And let us build and rebuild
Our metaphors.
-- Indran Amirthanayagam c)2001 Chennai, India, September 27, 2001
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Saturday, September 10, 2011
El abolengo, un poema
El Abolengo
Borges nos mira,
soñador y joven,
desde la solapa
de su Obras completas,
Tagore
con cabello cano
está envuelto
en una bufanda,
Orwell,
su cara arrugada—
parece 1948,
varios grandes están
expuestos en fotos
y retratos. ˁCuántos
libros tienes, le pregunta
mi hijo a su abuelo?
“Elige uno,”
El reino al borde
del mar. Theroux escribió
el verso para bautizar
un viaje ingles.
Perteneció una vez
a Edgar Allen Poe
en ‘’Annabel Lee.”
Ahora, construiré
mi casa al borde
del mar con antiguous
y nuevos troncos,
madera flotante,
percebes enredados
en maleza, ancla,
proa y casco.
Neruda llenó
su hogar y su jardín
con el mar.
Ahora, me pertenece todo.
Indran Amirthanayagam, de El hombre que recoge nidos, Resistencia/CONARTE, 2005.
Borges nos mira,
soñador y joven,
desde la solapa
de su Obras completas,
Tagore
con cabello cano
está envuelto
en una bufanda,
Orwell,
su cara arrugada—
parece 1948,
varios grandes están
expuestos en fotos
y retratos. ˁCuántos
libros tienes, le pregunta
mi hijo a su abuelo?
“Elige uno,”
El reino al borde
del mar. Theroux escribió
el verso para bautizar
un viaje ingles.
Perteneció una vez
a Edgar Allen Poe
en ‘’Annabel Lee.”
Ahora, construiré
mi casa al borde
del mar con antiguous
y nuevos troncos,
madera flotante,
percebes enredados
en maleza, ancla,
proa y casco.
Neruda llenó
su hogar y su jardín
con el mar.
Ahora, me pertenece todo.
Indran Amirthanayagam, de El hombre que recoge nidos, Resistencia/CONARTE, 2005.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
El chontaduro: fruta festiva
Chontaduro
Amarilla, naranja fruta
con textura de camote,
cortada y servida con sal
en un plato por una negra
de la costa con faldas
amplias, amarill-rojas,
su cabeza envuelta
en una bandana,
a 2000 mil pesos,
un dólar por porción,
para soñar de nuevo,
más bien bailar
embriagado
con una mujercita
en espera o no
en algún vericueto
de esta ciudad
de hombres
gigantescos y
tristes en la Plaza
de Botero.
Indran Amirthanayagam, el 12 de julio, 2010
Amarilla, naranja fruta
con textura de camote,
cortada y servida con sal
en un plato por una negra
de la costa con faldas
amplias, amarill-rojas,
su cabeza envuelta
en una bandana,
a 2000 mil pesos,
un dólar por porción,
para soñar de nuevo,
más bien bailar
embriagado
con una mujercita
en espera o no
en algún vericueto
de esta ciudad
de hombres
gigantescos y
tristes en la Plaza
de Botero.
Indran Amirthanayagam, el 12 de julio, 2010
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
The Destroyed Temple, A Poem
The house at the end of the road,
the giant multiple-walled house
at the end of the road without
a telephone, or internet,
without a satellite dish,
without rubbish—the residents
burned what they consumed—
certainly smoke can be traced,
and the courier’s story leaked
out of somebody else’s mouth
held incommunicado
in an East-European dungeon,
on leased land in the island
of Cuba, but that is another story,
the war found its target, today,
in helicopter to hand combat,
four aircraft once again, this time
choppers, and special forces—
not from Afghan camps
into Florida flight schools--but
Navy Seals, and the target
legitimate, not three thousand
ordinary civilians living
their American lives
until robbed by death,
rules for the rest of us
alive modified, and now
another death, tying
of the circle, a full spin
around the planet, what
Peru’s president said
was John Paul’s first miracle,
coincidence, his beatification
and death in combat
of Osama Bin Laden,
a bullet in the temple
of Evil, no longer
a Mastermind.
Indran Amirthanayagam, May 2, 2011 c)2011. Reprinting only with author's permission.
the giant multiple-walled house
at the end of the road without
a telephone, or internet,
without a satellite dish,
without rubbish—the residents
burned what they consumed—
certainly smoke can be traced,
and the courier’s story leaked
out of somebody else’s mouth
held incommunicado
in an East-European dungeon,
on leased land in the island
of Cuba, but that is another story,
the war found its target, today,
in helicopter to hand combat,
four aircraft once again, this time
choppers, and special forces—
not from Afghan camps
into Florida flight schools--but
Navy Seals, and the target
legitimate, not three thousand
ordinary civilians living
their American lives
until robbed by death,
rules for the rest of us
alive modified, and now
another death, tying
of the circle, a full spin
around the planet, what
Peru’s president said
was John Paul’s first miracle,
coincidence, his beatification
and death in combat
of Osama Bin Laden,
a bullet in the temple
of Evil, no longer
a Mastermind.
Indran Amirthanayagam, May 2, 2011 c)2011. Reprinting only with author's permission.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Sobre el Susurro de Yoshi Sotomayor
El miércoles 27 de abril, en una tarde limeña fresca y clara, llegué al Centro Cultural CAFAE-SE. Fui invitado por la poeta Yoshi Sotomayor para presentar su primer poemario El susurro de la colibrí. Oriunda de Huari, en Ancash, Yoshi nos regaló un encuentro entre montaña y ciudad, selva y corazón, nostalgia por la tierra originaria y un delicado reconocimiento de haber hecho la migración, el traslado armonioso a la gran metrópoli, mas con el susurro de la colibrí de cerca, al oído.
No pretendo cumplir en este espacio con la tarea del cronista. Espero que algún otro escritor cuente de esa tarde de maravillas musicales, de los ritmos de los poemas hasta la voz de la cantante que nos acompañó, el violín de otro amigo, y con creces en la voz apasionada del poeta y director de la Casa del Poeta Peruano, José Guillermo Vargas Rodríguez.
Aquí reproduzco mi prólogo para el libro. Espero que acudan a leer este poemario tan delicado como el roce de la mano de un amor que no se quiere borrar de la piel. Está editado por “Ventana Andina”, Fondo Editorial de la Municipalidad Provincial de Huari.
Prólogo
La poesía de Yoshi Sotomayor me pica como el susurro del colibrí que alguna vez llevó al poeta a ese estado de memoria y añoranza que es fundamental para poder escribir poesía. Sotomayor es joven y muestra la temeridad del joven en este primer poemario. Ella no reniega de invocar a Vallejo y a las montañas de su tierra Huari, pero, aunque logrados, estos textos no reflejan las voces indelebles de esta colección. Para escuchar a ellas hay que leer y releer los poemas breves y misteriosos como Lumbre, Esa Rosa, Gris. Lumbre ofrece una excelente muestra de lo que el lector va a gozar. “Átame las manos”, dice la protagonista del poema, con un gesto que agarra al lector y le obliga a sentarse para ver el mundo del fuego, “si no quieres que dañe tus cabellos / aleja de mí este torrente”. Este es un poema caudal, una expresión franca de deseo, pero en fin seco, insatisfecho: “bebo del néctar que no moja siquiera / la punta de mi lengua”. El poema termina con una de las imágenes más tristes del libro: “y dejo escapar tu voz / como viento en mi oreja”.
El mismo viento nos trae el susurro del colibrí, y su ausencia nos deja “este humor a nada / narcótico hasta la idiotez”. Es un susurro protector, y la poeta y su lector van a sobrevivir los “rostros extraños / escupiendo sus vilezas / restregándomelas / en la cara”. ¿Por qué tengo tanta confianza en su supervivencia? Finalmente, la raíz del poema es el encuentro de la imaginación con la fe, lo irracional y lo vivencial. Hay que reconciliar a veces experiencias tremendamente difíciles: la muerte de los seres queridos, las decepciones políticas, amorosas, las discapacidades. Pero la misma vida que parece a veces perjudicarnos, nos da herramientas para renovarnos. El poema es un utensilio flexible y duradero y un alimento básico para la mesa, como lo es la papa, que forma la base de la alimentación peruana. Y si encontramos a Yoshi Sotomayor en nuestro camino, como el lector suertudo que abrirá este libro, nos sentaremos a comer bien y con buena compañía. Así que, no te preocupe Yoshi, si te vemos “caminando sola / en la noche / sobre el mar”, te hablaremos, fortalecidos por tus versos.
--Indran Amirthanayagam, Lima, 3 de mayo, 2011
No pretendo cumplir en este espacio con la tarea del cronista. Espero que algún otro escritor cuente de esa tarde de maravillas musicales, de los ritmos de los poemas hasta la voz de la cantante que nos acompañó, el violín de otro amigo, y con creces en la voz apasionada del poeta y director de la Casa del Poeta Peruano, José Guillermo Vargas Rodríguez.
Aquí reproduzco mi prólogo para el libro. Espero que acudan a leer este poemario tan delicado como el roce de la mano de un amor que no se quiere borrar de la piel. Está editado por “Ventana Andina”, Fondo Editorial de la Municipalidad Provincial de Huari.
Prólogo
La poesía de Yoshi Sotomayor me pica como el susurro del colibrí que alguna vez llevó al poeta a ese estado de memoria y añoranza que es fundamental para poder escribir poesía. Sotomayor es joven y muestra la temeridad del joven en este primer poemario. Ella no reniega de invocar a Vallejo y a las montañas de su tierra Huari, pero, aunque logrados, estos textos no reflejan las voces indelebles de esta colección. Para escuchar a ellas hay que leer y releer los poemas breves y misteriosos como Lumbre, Esa Rosa, Gris. Lumbre ofrece una excelente muestra de lo que el lector va a gozar. “Átame las manos”, dice la protagonista del poema, con un gesto que agarra al lector y le obliga a sentarse para ver el mundo del fuego, “si no quieres que dañe tus cabellos / aleja de mí este torrente”. Este es un poema caudal, una expresión franca de deseo, pero en fin seco, insatisfecho: “bebo del néctar que no moja siquiera / la punta de mi lengua”. El poema termina con una de las imágenes más tristes del libro: “y dejo escapar tu voz / como viento en mi oreja”.
El mismo viento nos trae el susurro del colibrí, y su ausencia nos deja “este humor a nada / narcótico hasta la idiotez”. Es un susurro protector, y la poeta y su lector van a sobrevivir los “rostros extraños / escupiendo sus vilezas / restregándomelas / en la cara”. ¿Por qué tengo tanta confianza en su supervivencia? Finalmente, la raíz del poema es el encuentro de la imaginación con la fe, lo irracional y lo vivencial. Hay que reconciliar a veces experiencias tremendamente difíciles: la muerte de los seres queridos, las decepciones políticas, amorosas, las discapacidades. Pero la misma vida que parece a veces perjudicarnos, nos da herramientas para renovarnos. El poema es un utensilio flexible y duradero y un alimento básico para la mesa, como lo es la papa, que forma la base de la alimentación peruana. Y si encontramos a Yoshi Sotomayor en nuestro camino, como el lector suertudo que abrirá este libro, nos sentaremos a comer bien y con buena compañía. Así que, no te preocupe Yoshi, si te vemos “caminando sola / en la noche / sobre el mar”, te hablaremos, fortalecidos por tus versos.
--Indran Amirthanayagam, Lima, 3 de mayo, 2011
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Criança, Um Poema
Criança
Estamos assistindo
o nascimento
de uma criança,
banhada do sangue
de sua mãe,
com seu cordão
umbilical para cortar.
Somos as
amas de leite,
lhe ajudando
com diversos
aspectos da
cerimônia,
principalmente
a gramática,
porque as idéias
originais
formam-se
só. Bem-vindo
o poeta e
o poema.
dr) Indran Amirthanayagam 4 de fevereiro, 2011
Estamos assistindo
o nascimento
de uma criança,
banhada do sangue
de sua mãe,
com seu cordão
umbilical para cortar.
Somos as
amas de leite,
lhe ajudando
com diversos
aspectos da
cerimônia,
principalmente
a gramática,
porque as idéias
originais
formam-se
só. Bem-vindo
o poeta e
o poema.
dr) Indran Amirthanayagam 4 de fevereiro, 2011
Sunday, March 13, 2011
A espera
A espera
Não sei o nome deste pássaro
que me canta agora e me
acompanhará ao crepúsculo
até a noite quando encontrarei
as horas apartadas para lhe
escrever seu testamento.
Toda criação insiste
que não se deve apurá-lo
sem cair na angústia
de viver na carreira
ao volante sem os freios,
sem tuas mãos
no meu rosto para
deter-me um pouco mais
do poema, em um ídilio
fora do tempo que
anunciava o pássaro, uma
intimação da eternidade.
Indran Amirthanayagam, 25 de fevereiro, 2011
Não sei o nome deste pássaro
que me canta agora e me
acompanhará ao crepúsculo
até a noite quando encontrarei
as horas apartadas para lhe
escrever seu testamento.
Toda criação insiste
que não se deve apurá-lo
sem cair na angústia
de viver na carreira
ao volante sem os freios,
sem tuas mãos
no meu rosto para
deter-me um pouco mais
do poema, em um ídilio
fora do tempo que
anunciava o pássaro, uma
intimação da eternidade.
Indran Amirthanayagam, 25 de fevereiro, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Letter to Galle, for the festival
Letter to Galle --for the festival
I sent a poem
but have not yet
had a reply.
I believe the editors
are travelling
or perhaps
they have landed
in the free state
of Galle
for the festival;
I don’t know
if to go or stay,
afternoon teas
with poetry seem
the right way to set
mood and wet palate
before celebratory
readings
by prose stars
in the evenings
and then a few
drinks and to bed,
waking up in morning
panel discussions
where the unpleasant
but necessary
subject of domestic
rights will be aired
with no restrictions,
even for the cameras;
how could I miss
the sea breeze
and hot prawns,
imbibe that rare air
blown by special
bellows during
the few days
when Galle
becomes Berlin
after the Wall
fell down, at least
for ticketed
customers
and scholarship
students. In the end,
even freedom of
expression must be
paid for by somebody.
Yet, I digress.
There are journalists
in hiding and
/or dead.
Indran Amirthanayagam, January 27, 2011
I sent a poem
but have not yet
had a reply.
I believe the editors
are travelling
or perhaps
they have landed
in the free state
of Galle
for the festival;
I don’t know
if to go or stay,
afternoon teas
with poetry seem
the right way to set
mood and wet palate
before celebratory
readings
by prose stars
in the evenings
and then a few
drinks and to bed,
waking up in morning
panel discussions
where the unpleasant
but necessary
subject of domestic
rights will be aired
with no restrictions,
even for the cameras;
how could I miss
the sea breeze
and hot prawns,
imbibe that rare air
blown by special
bellows during
the few days
when Galle
becomes Berlin
after the Wall
fell down, at least
for ticketed
customers
and scholarship
students. In the end,
even freedom of
expression must be
paid for by somebody.
Yet, I digress.
There are journalists
in hiding and
/or dead.
Indran Amirthanayagam, January 27, 2011
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
SIEGE, a Poem
Siege
I can't recall the links at the Golf Hotel
but I don't believe the government
of Alassane Ouattara is contemplating
a chip shot or a putt. I read there are only
800 Peacekeepers between his team
and Gbagbo's army. Betting men say
that ethnic ties are paramount and nobody
ever doubted a Bete man's will to fight,
and as for logistics, how long will
an African Union army take to arrive
in Cote d’ Ivoire? Needless to say they will
not be greeted with attieke and grilled fish.
But wedging Gbagbo, freezing World Bank
loans, his bank accounts in Europe, coco
exports have come to port but have not
been able to leave, how long can this last?
More will die including some principals.
Perhaps there will be a palace coup.
Perhaps the will of people written
in the urns will be respected
but only after unnecessary, uncivil
bloodshed, 200 dead thus far.
Indran Amirthanayagam, December 22, 2010
I can't recall the links at the Golf Hotel
but I don't believe the government
of Alassane Ouattara is contemplating
a chip shot or a putt. I read there are only
800 Peacekeepers between his team
and Gbagbo's army. Betting men say
that ethnic ties are paramount and nobody
ever doubted a Bete man's will to fight,
and as for logistics, how long will
an African Union army take to arrive
in Cote d’ Ivoire? Needless to say they will
not be greeted with attieke and grilled fish.
But wedging Gbagbo, freezing World Bank
loans, his bank accounts in Europe, coco
exports have come to port but have not
been able to leave, how long can this last?
More will die including some principals.
Perhaps there will be a palace coup.
Perhaps the will of people written
in the urns will be respected
but only after unnecessary, uncivil
bloodshed, 200 dead thus far.
Indran Amirthanayagam, December 22, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Ivory Contemporary, Poem
Ivory Contemporary
Named for ivory, later stripped clean,
the country began to sprout cocoa,
though in copses by a few rivers
the forest elephant drooped still its tiny
frame and trunk through the bulrushes.
I recall the fine tarmac and dirt
paths we drove to meet Headman
and Elders, to bring books and receive
a rooster, a hen. Agriculture, land
husbandry, how can I forget
the moutons with their Djula herders,
and Dozos, hunters with amulets
that can deflect bullets?
Yet what are these few memories
worth at market in Cocody
or Treichville, now that the Army
has blocked nearby streets
and prepares to lay siege
to the Golf Hotel where Ouattara
and his government have registered
guarded by Peackeepers
waiting for the current
occupant of the Presidential Palace
Laurent Gbagbo, to accept defeat,
go into exile, or continue
to order the Army and his gangs
to fight; what price shall we place
on power? His foreign homes
are under threat, the squeeze
has begun, when will the Man
come out of the palace
to face the people
who denied him at the polls?
What value suffrage?
Whose army is stronger?
Sad to recall that Gbagbo
was once a legend, a philosopher
and hero of the Left, the chief
opponent to the sometime
benign dictatorship of Houphouet-Boigny.
Go with dignity. Hold your head high.
Don’t forget the family, the assets,
the invitation to be an elder statesman
to the continent, not reviled in history
as Mobutu, Charles Taylor, Idi Amin Dada.
Indran Amirthanayagam, le 20 de Decembre 2010
Named for ivory, later stripped clean,
the country began to sprout cocoa,
though in copses by a few rivers
the forest elephant drooped still its tiny
frame and trunk through the bulrushes.
I recall the fine tarmac and dirt
paths we drove to meet Headman
and Elders, to bring books and receive
a rooster, a hen. Agriculture, land
husbandry, how can I forget
the moutons with their Djula herders,
and Dozos, hunters with amulets
that can deflect bullets?
Yet what are these few memories
worth at market in Cocody
or Treichville, now that the Army
has blocked nearby streets
and prepares to lay siege
to the Golf Hotel where Ouattara
and his government have registered
guarded by Peackeepers
waiting for the current
occupant of the Presidential Palace
Laurent Gbagbo, to accept defeat,
go into exile, or continue
to order the Army and his gangs
to fight; what price shall we place
on power? His foreign homes
are under threat, the squeeze
has begun, when will the Man
come out of the palace
to face the people
who denied him at the polls?
What value suffrage?
Whose army is stronger?
Sad to recall that Gbagbo
was once a legend, a philosopher
and hero of the Left, the chief
opponent to the sometime
benign dictatorship of Houphouet-Boigny.
Go with dignity. Hold your head high.
Don’t forget the family, the assets,
the invitation to be an elder statesman
to the continent, not reviled in history
as Mobutu, Charles Taylor, Idi Amin Dada.
Indran Amirthanayagam, le 20 de Decembre 2010
Monday, December 13, 2010
On Anthems and the State of the Union
I posted the following on www.groundviews.org
I have been stirred and moved even to tears by both the Tamil and Sinhala versions of the Ceylon, now Sri Lanka, anthem. I think I owe this emotional tie to birth on the island, to school on the island, to my first toffees and cricket matches on the island. I wonder now how a boy born today in this same, yet- not- the same, Sri Lanka will feel, denied the comfort of hearing his mother tongue at the award ceremony, the annual Shakespeare recital, the spelling bee. I find myself a bit blase contradicting the noted historical wisdom of the ministers who passed the recent decree. They said there are no countries which sing their anthems in more than one language. Of course, that is not true. Canada, Switzerland, New Zealand, South Africa, even the United Kingdom which brings together different nations with their particular anthems, come to mind.
But I wonder why a country that has celebrated its rich mixes-- that have produced outstanding talent in literature (Ondaatje), cricket (Murali), and that sprinter, Susanthika Jayasinghe, who won a silver at the Sydney Olympics in 2000, and Duncan White who started the trend at the White City Games in 1948-- has changed its law. I speak too much of sport. What about antropology, which has rewarded the world with Gnanath Obeysekere and Valentin Daniel, political analysis, with Jayadeva Uyangoda, diplomacy with Jayantha Dhanapala? We have many heroes in our country and we were all once, boys or girls, moved, choked-up, listening to our mother tongue on the loudspeakers.
I have been stirred and moved even to tears by both the Tamil and Sinhala versions of the Ceylon, now Sri Lanka, anthem. I think I owe this emotional tie to birth on the island, to school on the island, to my first toffees and cricket matches on the island. I wonder now how a boy born today in this same, yet- not- the same, Sri Lanka will feel, denied the comfort of hearing his mother tongue at the award ceremony, the annual Shakespeare recital, the spelling bee. I find myself a bit blase contradicting the noted historical wisdom of the ministers who passed the recent decree. They said there are no countries which sing their anthems in more than one language. Of course, that is not true. Canada, Switzerland, New Zealand, South Africa, even the United Kingdom which brings together different nations with their particular anthems, come to mind.
But I wonder why a country that has celebrated its rich mixes-- that have produced outstanding talent in literature (Ondaatje), cricket (Murali), and that sprinter, Susanthika Jayasinghe, who won a silver at the Sydney Olympics in 2000, and Duncan White who started the trend at the White City Games in 1948-- has changed its law. I speak too much of sport. What about antropology, which has rewarded the world with Gnanath Obeysekere and Valentin Daniel, political analysis, with Jayadeva Uyangoda, diplomacy with Jayantha Dhanapala? We have many heroes in our country and we were all once, boys or girls, moved, choked-up, listening to our mother tongue on the loudspeakers.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Liu Xiabo, Updated
Updated
Liu Xiabo sits in jail
for writing in favour
of free speech
and thus seeking
to “subvert”
the state, an old
crime against
the emperor
modernized
for our times.
Indran Amirthanayagam, December 8, 2010
Liu Xiabo sits in jail
for writing in favour
of free speech
and thus seeking
to “subvert”
the state, an old
crime against
the emperor
modernized
for our times.
Indran Amirthanayagam, December 8, 2010
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Injustice in Cote d'Ivoire
Alassane Ouattara just won the second round of the long delayed elections in Cote d'Ivoire by 54 percent to 46 percent for the losing candiate Laurent Gbagbo. Despite this loss Gbagbo has seized power in the country through his influence over the country's Constitutionsl Court. President Obama, UN Secretary General Ban Ki-Moon and other leaders from throughout the world have recognized Alassane Ouattara's victory. We cannot remain silent before another injustice committed against the democratic values we cherish and celebrate. Speak to your representatives. Write poems. Work with the African Union to isolate this usurper, this recalcitrant power boss and his government that will not accept the will of his people and the wishes of democrats everywhere.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
To My Autistic Son, Revantha: Poem by Guy Amirthanayagam
On this birthday I publish here one of my father's great poems written to my brother Revantha. The imaage of the undetow of sadness has grounded and consoled me ever since I first read the poem. With love, Indran
To My Autistic Son, Revantha
Old soul in a young body, they said.
‘Twere better he was born dead!”
Sins of the fathers, the Christians said.
Ill conjunction of planets, the palmist read;
Fetters of the flesh, cycles of suffering
The Buddhists complacently proposed,
Allah be praised, Kismet in swing,
The fierce Moslems savagely disposed.
Slow motor reactions, my neurologist reckoned.
Early childhood autism, my psychologist beckoned.
Heredity’s the problem, the maid-servant proclaimed:
The servant was vile, his mother declaimed.
I reck not his ruin in his toothsome smile
His speechless grimace, so free from guile;
His dour determination to opt out of life
When all around him are mired in strife.
Lucky and prescient, my miraculous boy,
You will spend your life with spendthrift joy.
I am proud that you have so early seen
That there is in life an undertow of sadness
Which rocks what fleeting gladness
There is today, or may once have been.
I will love you steadfastly as long as I dare
But is there nothing that you can share?
Will you leave me with this nagging regret
That even to me you will never bare
Your awesome secret?
--Guy Amirthanayagam
To My Autistic Son, Revantha
Old soul in a young body, they said.
‘Twere better he was born dead!”
Sins of the fathers, the Christians said.
Ill conjunction of planets, the palmist read;
Fetters of the flesh, cycles of suffering
The Buddhists complacently proposed,
Allah be praised, Kismet in swing,
The fierce Moslems savagely disposed.
Slow motor reactions, my neurologist reckoned.
Early childhood autism, my psychologist beckoned.
Heredity’s the problem, the maid-servant proclaimed:
The servant was vile, his mother declaimed.
I reck not his ruin in his toothsome smile
His speechless grimace, so free from guile;
His dour determination to opt out of life
When all around him are mired in strife.
Lucky and prescient, my miraculous boy,
You will spend your life with spendthrift joy.
I am proud that you have so early seen
That there is in life an undertow of sadness
Which rocks what fleeting gladness
There is today, or may once have been.
I will love you steadfastly as long as I dare
But is there nothing that you can share?
Will you leave me with this nagging regret
That even to me you will never bare
Your awesome secret?
--Guy Amirthanayagam
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Nazreen Sansoni Poems
These poems by Nazreen Sansoni break the heart and evoke bittersweet humours in this reader. I have known Nazreen for years but only in moments during short visits I have made back to the mother island. Her work goes beyond poetry, making of Barefoot, the principal free space for art, dance, theater and music in the capital city of that bittersweet and heartbroken country of Sri Lanka slowly healing now from the cruelties of the thirty year civil war.
These poems will be registered in the hearts of readers who believe that honesty in lyric expression, the image delineated clearly and stated boldly, is the ingredient of fine poetry.
A noble guest
I know you know
where love lies
not in hearts that are heavy
with depression
or some malaise
but in the soul underneath
waiting
to be released
if only for a moment
to kiss your face.
NS July 2009
A Lie
Jealousy, fear and insecurity
Manifest at the most unlikely time
As I am about to step into my bath
Smell a perfume
That I know does not belong to me
So – I smoke a cigarette
Enjoy the deep satisfaction
Of the inhalation
When my husband comes home
The smell of smoke still lingers
‘Honey, have you been smoking?’
‘I don’t smoke.’ I reply, quietly.
Unplug the bath, watch the water drain
After all, one lie deserves another
NS
Loss
Thursday, April 2, 2009 at 11:21pm
Every morning
when I wake
my first thought
is of civilians
dying
In the vanni
Women children
Babies
no chance
at life
Because
She might?
Is a terrorist?
For god’s sake
She could have
been a scientist
Our loss
Our unimaginable loss
NS
These poems will be registered in the hearts of readers who believe that honesty in lyric expression, the image delineated clearly and stated boldly, is the ingredient of fine poetry.
A noble guest
I know you know
where love lies
not in hearts that are heavy
with depression
or some malaise
but in the soul underneath
waiting
to be released
if only for a moment
to kiss your face.
NS July 2009
A Lie
Jealousy, fear and insecurity
Manifest at the most unlikely time
As I am about to step into my bath
Smell a perfume
That I know does not belong to me
So – I smoke a cigarette
Enjoy the deep satisfaction
Of the inhalation
When my husband comes home
The smell of smoke still lingers
‘Honey, have you been smoking?’
‘I don’t smoke.’ I reply, quietly.
Unplug the bath, watch the water drain
After all, one lie deserves another
NS
Loss
Thursday, April 2, 2009 at 11:21pm
Every morning
when I wake
my first thought
is of civilians
dying
In the vanni
Women children
Babies
no chance
at life
Because
She might?
Is a terrorist?
For god’s sake
She could have
been a scientist
Our loss
Our unimaginable loss
NS
Monday, July 12, 2010
Lectura en Medellin, el 13 de Julio, con Bob Holman
Este martes presentare mis poemas sobre el Mundial en el Centro Cultural Colombo Americano junto con mi amigo y colega Bob Holman. La direccion en Medellin es Carrera 45 # 53-24, La cita es a las 18.30 y forma parte del Festival Internacional de Poesia de Medellin.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Morning: Before the Semi-Finals
Morning: Before the Semi-finals
Waves rise and fall near the footpath by the sea
on a misty grey Lima morning in our dreams
as we build scenarios. Now what if Suarez were
allowed to return for the final, can Uruguay gobber
up the Mechanical Orange during its semi-final
with some defensive glue, clamp down all movement
then pounce on a breakout, a counter attack?
Can it keep its legs fresh for 90 minutes, but Holland
will have other ideas and which team is younger, fitter?
I don't have all the necessary info. to move to judgment.
Must turn to the sea birds, the para-gliders, perhaps
some living survivor of the last Peruvian side to play
in the World Cup, a local expert--I wonder how I would
manage if my walk took me by Galle Face or along
that extremely long beach in Chennai. The Indian
subcontinent has never competed in a World Cup
although India could have travelled to Rio in 1950,
gaining a place by default, but it demurred claiming
that playing with bare feet would not be allowed,
a lie exposed quickly, but base politics can infect
any federation--and there are solid reasons
for subcontinental absence: temperament, pace of life,
what cricket has taught us although even that great
master of fair play and honour has speeded up proceedings,
but let me not be distracted by parochial debates among
sports about which will better equip us for the trials of life
like the upcoming battle between good luck, cheating,
skill and heroism in the semi finals of the World Cup.
Indran Amirthanayagam, July 4, 2010
Waves rise and fall near the footpath by the sea
on a misty grey Lima morning in our dreams
as we build scenarios. Now what if Suarez were
allowed to return for the final, can Uruguay gobber
up the Mechanical Orange during its semi-final
with some defensive glue, clamp down all movement
then pounce on a breakout, a counter attack?
Can it keep its legs fresh for 90 minutes, but Holland
will have other ideas and which team is younger, fitter?
I don't have all the necessary info. to move to judgment.
Must turn to the sea birds, the para-gliders, perhaps
some living survivor of the last Peruvian side to play
in the World Cup, a local expert--I wonder how I would
manage if my walk took me by Galle Face or along
that extremely long beach in Chennai. The Indian
subcontinent has never competed in a World Cup
although India could have travelled to Rio in 1950,
gaining a place by default, but it demurred claiming
that playing with bare feet would not be allowed,
a lie exposed quickly, but base politics can infect
any federation--and there are solid reasons
for subcontinental absence: temperament, pace of life,
what cricket has taught us although even that great
master of fair play and honour has speeded up proceedings,
but let me not be distracted by parochial debates among
sports about which will better equip us for the trials of life
like the upcoming battle between good luck, cheating,
skill and heroism in the semi finals of the World Cup.
Indran Amirthanayagam, July 4, 2010
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Intervention, Quarter Finals
Intervention, Quarter Finals
Hand of God, hand of Luis
Suarez, hand of fate, destiny,
desperation, immorality, hand
that gave Uruguay one more
roll in the last minute
of the last extra time, hands
and feet, the idea of keeping
hands away in foot not hand
ball, in the moment of defeat
what rules apply? Hero or
villain, Ghana’s Gyan hitting
the cross bar on the penalty,
bitter pill, even in foot the ball
does not drop, even in foot
a Brazilian turns to frozen jelly
while the Dutchman flies; order
of bets turns upside down, or
is Brazil just another beautiful
play become four act tragedy,
specialists of the quarter final
exit, or am I just fussing about
football when gross
international production
dips during World Cup games
except in broadcast, soft drinks,
tee shirts, vuvuzelas, plane
tickets and all sorts
of paraphernalia, including
pictures of players’
significant others? This
is business for some and
yet in Cape Coast, in Accra,
what are gentlemen saying
in high life bars? If we
had the chance to stop
the wrecking ball with
our hands and save goal
and country we too like that
bad cat from Uruguay would
break Good Lord FIFA’s rules?
Indran Amirthanayagam, July 2, 2010
Hand of God, hand of Luis
Suarez, hand of fate, destiny,
desperation, immorality, hand
that gave Uruguay one more
roll in the last minute
of the last extra time, hands
and feet, the idea of keeping
hands away in foot not hand
ball, in the moment of defeat
what rules apply? Hero or
villain, Ghana’s Gyan hitting
the cross bar on the penalty,
bitter pill, even in foot the ball
does not drop, even in foot
a Brazilian turns to frozen jelly
while the Dutchman flies; order
of bets turns upside down, or
is Brazil just another beautiful
play become four act tragedy,
specialists of the quarter final
exit, or am I just fussing about
football when gross
international production
dips during World Cup games
except in broadcast, soft drinks,
tee shirts, vuvuzelas, plane
tickets and all sorts
of paraphernalia, including
pictures of players’
significant others? This
is business for some and
yet in Cape Coast, in Accra,
what are gentlemen saying
in high life bars? If we
had the chance to stop
the wrecking ball with
our hands and save goal
and country we too like that
bad cat from Uruguay would
break Good Lord FIFA’s rules?
Indran Amirthanayagam, July 2, 2010
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Before the Quarter Finals (World Cup Series)
Before the Quarter Finals
Bereft is the word, lost, niggling absence,
this break in daily unveiling of the World Cup
before quarter finals kick off, forty eight hours
of writhing and reliving the unfortunate business,
ball bouncing beyond German line by 32
centimeters to break England’s lion-heart, shot
from offside that jump-started Argentina’s ride
over Mexico, foot fault by a finger leading
still to Spain’s illegitimate goal that sent
Portugal home. Hard to digest that three matches
of the round of 16s were marred by goals allowed
in error, that the world is tuning still into football
despite football’s rejection of its good sense.
Breaking News: the head of FIFA apologizes
to English and Mexican federations. A small
step for FIFA, yes, to be celebrated, certainly;
but if Germany’s goalie, or an Argentine
player, preferably the scorer, had stepped up
in the moment of scandal to say no, no, no,
we do not deserve this point, that would
have been a story of saving grace in a world
gathering worth talking of to the grandchildren.
Indran Amirthanayagam, June 30, 2010
Bereft is the word, lost, niggling absence,
this break in daily unveiling of the World Cup
before quarter finals kick off, forty eight hours
of writhing and reliving the unfortunate business,
ball bouncing beyond German line by 32
centimeters to break England’s lion-heart, shot
from offside that jump-started Argentina’s ride
over Mexico, foot fault by a finger leading
still to Spain’s illegitimate goal that sent
Portugal home. Hard to digest that three matches
of the round of 16s were marred by goals allowed
in error, that the world is tuning still into football
despite football’s rejection of its good sense.
Breaking News: the head of FIFA apologizes
to English and Mexican federations. A small
step for FIFA, yes, to be celebrated, certainly;
but if Germany’s goalie, or an Argentine
player, preferably the scorer, had stepped up
in the moment of scandal to say no, no, no,
we do not deserve this point, that would
have been a story of saving grace in a world
gathering worth talking of to the grandchildren.
Indran Amirthanayagam, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Mexico, Assassination
Mexico, Assassination
Political murder hurts not only surviving members of the family
but all supporters, the dead politician’s community. Remember
how many dreams and spirits fell with Colosio? Now this
recent Mexico has disposed of Cantu in Tamaulipas, candidate
for governor, kidnapped a former head of the PAN, Diego
Fernandez Cevallos. When will the crap shoot, breakdown of state,
impossible living under threat of traffickers with automatics, almost
daily mowing of ordinary Mexicans into bits in Ciudad Juarez,
escapism into narco ballads, easy circulation of weapons, fear,
when shall all this end--and not in statistics about untimely death ?
Indran Amirthanayagam, June 28, 2010
Political murder hurts not only surviving members of the family
but all supporters, the dead politician’s community. Remember
how many dreams and spirits fell with Colosio? Now this
recent Mexico has disposed of Cantu in Tamaulipas, candidate
for governor, kidnapped a former head of the PAN, Diego
Fernandez Cevallos. When will the crap shoot, breakdown of state,
impossible living under threat of traffickers with automatics, almost
daily mowing of ordinary Mexicans into bits in Ciudad Juarez,
escapism into narco ballads, easy circulation of weapons, fear,
when shall all this end--and not in statistics about untimely death ?
Indran Amirthanayagam, June 28, 2010
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