Archive for the ‘Poetry’

Liberation

You claimed to liberate hostages, to conduct the largest rescue operation in history. In other countries people robbed of freedoms, rescued, are treated by doctors, then sent home to be greeted usually by feisty and jubilant crowds. They are welcomed as heroes. Here, 100 Tamils share one latrine, women don´t eat so they will not defecate until night covers them squatting in bush by the perimeter fence conquering fear of snakes. Here boys and girls are picked up by goon squads who roam camps demanding bribes for teenagers they choose to leave alone for now. Part of the Writers Under Siege collection on Groundviews. For more information, click here. Repost This Article

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Belonging

The island belongs to centipede, rat, butterfly, lots of species each with their own habitats, and supervising all arable and fallow land the president king. Minorities may enjoy clean living in freshly cleared forest patches, welfare villages with amenities such as latrines and tents, gated communities. June 28, 2009 Part of the Writers Under Siege collection on Groundviews. For more information, click here. Repost This Article

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The heartbeat of my country

The heartbeat of my country Crashes as wave against rock Bursts into spray and song, It roars down monsoon-swollen rivers, Drips one reluctant drop at a time From the leaves of a bo tree. My country’s heartbeat Resonates as drumbeat and dance step, Rolls off the udekki, the geta bera and thammatama, Turns somersaults along the Street of Pageantry and Veneration. The heartbeat of my country Resides in every clod of earth turned at ploughing, It rides the unwavering voice of the farmer coaxing his buffalo, And dances in the harvest song, Traces the contour of tank bund, Rises with the rural dust of drought-heavy days, Slows with nightfall and awakes at first light. The heartbeat of my country Has been captured in verse and prose, Etched on rock and manuscript, Carved on collective memory Residenced in lives and livelihoods. My country’s heartbeat is as much an epic As that of any other land; Made of triumph and defeat, Theft…

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Satellite View

There will be lamentations and sadness, there are already, and recriminations. Why did we allow the unthinkable to fall down on those hapless families in tents and bunkers? Why did we agree only to informal meetings in the basement of U.N. headquarters before proposing an emergency session of the Human Rights Council for next week? After months of slaughter, next week? How long do we need to assemble diplomats of 47 countries who live in greater Geneva, some just a walk away from the roundtable? I imagine the table round like the large hearts of hapless bystander diplomats before the rain of terror, bombs and mortar, metallic lassos thrown about Tamils squared in 2.5 kilometers between lagoon and sea, 50,000 civilians left in that spit of Vanni, numbers reduced by tens and hundreds every day. You ask about other options, such as India, or stiffening terms of the IMF loan, an armed force to separate the parties? Yes, dear Romans,…

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Round-up

219 Tamils were rounded up in Gampaha town during dusk to dawn raids. They had no proper id cards and did not offer adequate reason to be living in the vicinity. Their Sri Lankan citizenship, rights to move about the multi-ethnic, multicultural country do not hold up to scrutiny under Prevention of Terrorism Act which allows for exceptions to such liberal silliness as equality under law. For more information, click here. Repost This Article

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Einstein was a Refugee

Refugees are sometimes active have agency they Leave, Flee, Sneak Flow over boundary lines unchecked like rivers they Escape, Hide Cross territories they Flood places like unnatural disasters are associated with Asylum and Sanctuary they are A Problem An Issue Sometimes they have a voice if only passive they become Internally displaced (slightly more dignified) ordered out forced out asked to quit resettled relocated They come in all shapes sizes colours types Afghan, Kosovo, Vietnamese. Kashmiri Palestinian Sri Lankan Tamil Muslim Sinhalese environmental political etc etc etc etc If they are lucky they metamorphose into Returnees If they are really lucky they find their relatives If they get really very lucky they become famous. For more information, click here. Repost This Article

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For Mr K with love

Mr K died today Not unusual, all things perish But he was very young And had just got two tiny teeth And was a little fighter He tried hard to live In difficult times. Mr K died quietly today And I don’t have a right to Cry, besides I am a tad too old for that. Death stalks me heroic, wearing a shiny cloak of war but death, nonetheless In the jungles booming with mortar fire In IDP camps In accident wards full of Young men hoping the pain would end Death immortalized in the news the moving image broadcasts and telecasts and podcasts So what right do I have To mourn a tiny chipmunk parted from its mother Caught in the crossfire During an ambush by birds And the chipmunks’ retaliation In their quest for food. I fed him and kept him warm Swaddled him and held him Formed an attachment So I thought he needed me. But the…

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Three poems by Sivamohan Sumathy

[Editors note: These poems respond to Indran Amirthanayagam's poems here, here and here. They are both part of the Writers Under Siege collection on Groundviews.] 1 i am not a writer i am not a writer nor am i under siege, i do not frequent the commons, nor the poetic corner. 2 i, savage why do i write when i had promised myself aching silence after kethesh’s fall and maheswary’s stunted end? why talk suddenly of the siege now, when i have stood at death’s door, refused its dare and now can finally slumber, in a snow stirring fantasy surrounding turkey’s trouble with its torture chambers, lulled by the bewitching tones of orhan’s magic? why the artist and the writer and colombo’s array of poets, rushing to versify, riding on guilt ridden stirrings of the heart, of us and them? it’s a tale told by an idiot, and yet, signifying so much, a tale told a countless times, to still…

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Dancing In Sympathy (Mullaitivu)

Six boys from Hindu College will enter the scene from Stage Left, an equal number of girls from Muslim Ladies Stage Right. They will shake their bodies, slide and writhe, and be still to rid bones of chains and memories, and invite guests, us, to sway in harmony even if we’re away from jungles which give shelter, or ash-filled homes whose roofs are open to whistling bombs and winds that sweep left-overs clean. That Boxing Day the Tsunami swept residents out; now the Army marches in four years later to find an abandoned town, and in nearby woods yakshas howling in Tamil calling for food and water, medicine, safe passage south… while in the capital, as I imagine the performance must end, on a stage a boy and girl will embrace. January 27, 2009 Part of the Writers Under Siege collection on Groundviews. For more information, click here. For a response to these poems by award winning poet Sivamohan Sumathy,…

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Equal Treatment

Citizens of Killinochchi and Mullaitivu fled before our liberators arrived. They live for the moment in nearby jungle under a canopy punctured by shells. Some moved to a safe zone demarcated by liberators where they have fallen since to errant fire. Others ran into liberators’ arms and live now protected in large barb-wired camps. January 27, 2009 Part of the Writers Under Siege collection on Groundviews. For more information, click here. For a response to these poems by award winning poet Sivamohan Sumathy, please click here. Repost This Article

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Forgetting, Mullaitivu

The town is full of stray dogs, cows, ghosts, buildings pockmarked, unhinged, open to wind and rain. Soldiers patrol on foot. Trucks and tanks rumble through the center. Rebels took all the fittings to jungle cellars, and we wait eagerly to discover how the Supreme Leader makes his bed. Look at Europe today, Germany lost 500 kilometers on its eastern flank. How many young people know this history? We will disappear. The tsunami swept a lot away. Our failing memory compensates for the rest. January 27, 2009 Part of the Writers Under Siege collection on Groundviews. For more information, click here. For a response to these poems by award winning poet Sivamohan Sumathy, please click here. Repost This Article

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Unsolicited Advice

While the bureaucrat fulminates about the cost of hotel rooms in Geneva and the great burden placed on the Sri Lankan government to have to pay exorbitant rates, he may wish to report back to Colombo, that the most efficient way to avoid such soaring costs is to conduct a human rights policy that shows some affection for the starving, shot up, and terrified civilians— all 70,000 or 200,000 of them— caught at the moment in their ancestral lands in the Vanni, burrowing into bunkers, dying when they come out. Repost This Article

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The Fear of Peace

He heard that peace will be here soon He lay in six inch deep muddy water watching the enemy in the horizon His eyes watered and mind wandered who was the real enemy anyway The barrel of his gun no longer felt cold there was comfort and strength Death was his constant companion blood and limbs of friends and foes the only scenery that he knew He knew not of dry socks and shoes but of them soggy in boots with holes He knew not of the warmth of a woman but of humid days and sweaty bodies He knew not of the cool breeze of a paddy field but of gun shots froman arid dessert He knew not what this peace was He dreaded the silence that would allow the demons within to shout louder He dreaded the loving arms that would embrace the man that he no longer was He dreaded the cold emptiness that would follow when…

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Ashes at the Stake – For Lasantha

I remember the day I heard Richard was killed Almost twenty years ago. Far away in the diaspora I sat all night My back bent and still. Regimes shifted, People still disappeared into the night Witches, burnt at the stake A sacrifice, An offering.. In the name of the nation, Today I heard Lasatha was killed. “One of us” who spoke for the “them”, Burnt at the stake.. Another offering.. In the name of the nation. Far away in the diapora I have sat still With a bent back. For much too long. Slowly The Ashes Gather momentum… Francesca USA Repost This Article

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One of Us

During civilized periods in the history of kingdoms courtiers, or the king’s person himself, in audience with the gadfly, would offer the fellow death or exile. These days assassins butcher their fly in daylight near security checkpoints in front of bewildered subjects. My Lord, Dutugemunu, slayer of wild beasts in northern jungles, why must we kill brother Lasantha, shed our own blood? Indran Amirthanayagam, January 11, 2009 Repost This Article

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Located at the Centre for Policy Alternatives in Colombo, Sri Lanka, Groundviews is a citizen journalism website that uses a range of genres and media to highlight critical perspectives on governance, reconciliation, human rights, the arts and literature, democracy and other issues. The site has won two international awards, including the prestigious Manthan Award South Asia in 2009. The grand jury's evaluation of the site noted, "What no media dares to report, Groundviews publicly exposes. It's a new age media for a new Sri Lanka... Free media at it's very best!"

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