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…
Poetry
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…
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…
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…
Blood wanted, urgent!
Blood wanted, urgent! Quick, all you friends Can you please help To find more blood To immerse this whole nation In the red, life-giving fluid? The mighty Tsunami With all its geo-force…
Death at Noon
Today dawned Like any other morning At the other end of the world My sister sits nursing a cup of coffee Her fingers numb From minus twenty Mind numb with shock. Here,…
For Lasantha and others
Murder is a moment to point fingers Murder is a moment to crawl into shells. But moments don’t forbid, there is no opportune time, nothing auspicious about standing up, speaking out. Speaking…
In conversation with Vivimarie Vanderpoorten
An interview with Vivimarie Vanderpoorten, the Winner of the Gratiaen Prize in 2007. Vivimarie is also a Senior Lecturer in English, Dept of Language Studies, Open University of Sri Lanka. The interview…
Tears
I have never felt the same about blue frothy waters and ebb and tide since learning how your mild self could turn and gush hiss and spit washing out her tomorrows, her…
Planes in the sky
My feet are tired pressed into asphalt climbing the campus hill, composing a sparer line: effervescence in mist, swirling about the stones, a girl, freckled, jeaned, auburn-haired like the leaves, walks past…
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,…
The day after tomorrow
The day after tomorrow you write to me of blowing snow and whiteouts. of snow goggles and skating rinks you tell me your cat may need clothing and you joke about living…
Blood is their medal
 Last weekend a friend gave me a CD of songs by Victor Jara, a Chilean teacher, theatre director, poet and political activist.  His album reflects his struggle against an American-backed coup…
AFTER THE PARTY – in Memoriam: Anura Bandaranaike
I remember an evening flavoured by my mother’s cooking, bringing two smart patriots together, to speak about devolution not yet realized, accommodate what makes sense seeing the island from afar, the only…
ON INDEPENDENCE DAY
The rollercoaster’s rolling full throttle, has a new booster rocket not subject yet to safety experiment, riders thrown every few minutes, smashed to ground, publicists about to stop digging hands into steaming…