Boondi Lexicon

KAVI BOONDIYA | At Last - [D. V. Gallage | දේ. වි. ගාල්ලගේ]

2011-11-16T08:03:00.001-08:00

Aha ! What a radiance of a dawn!
Tenderly awakening the body
Has it come to an end?
The long-stood cloudiness

What a marvel it is!
Foliage all over the garden
Crowned with blossoms
Bloomed in numerous colours
Unlike in all the gone days

For what delight felt by?
The birds unseen before
Reaching the pond laid in solitude
Amid the hushed compound
Enjoying a bath by
Fluttering their wings and heads

Oh ! How long I consumed
To realize the curious happenings
It is nothing else but -
Your wonderful entrance into my heart
At last, passing eons

D. V. Gallage | දේ. වි. ගාල්ලගේ

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KAVI BOONDIYA | Blue is My Blood - [Subadra Jayasundara | සුභද්‍රා ජයසුන්දර ]

2011-11-16T07:56:00.001-08:00

A black‐bear had to wake up from hibernating
A dandelion had to redefine the weeding

At my pointless hollowed loose end,
I grabbed my mind and left,
by leaving lifeless body in the hall
‘cause my blood was blue she said
as I hadn’t had a heart

I wonder, ever she wondered
Medusa had many hearts
Dreaded to count how many
stabbed‐ragged hearts she made
Though nobody had ever captured
her divine countless hearts

Snobbish arrogance, being loved
so was her dare demand
washing away from pouring tears
I spy, her sobbing,
Love could change the colour of blood
from rigid blue to bleeding red

If she were to see it’s red
were she to hold my breath,
I would grant her a cloud‐cuckoo‐land
If my dead heart pounds again,
as I soften her soft reddish palm
the most darling voice would say
"Your blood is blue ‐
You have no heart"

November 2011

Subadra Jayasundara | සුභද්‍රා ජයසුන්දර

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KAVI BOONDIYA | Under a Palmyra tree - [Vindya Vithana | වින්ධ්‍යා විතාන]

2011-10-18T22:35:00.001-07:00

(At Mulative, 08.10.2011)

I see a "human being",
Why should I specify
From the language he speaks,
When the sweat glistens on his soot dark skin,
Hidden tears in his blank eyes,
Blood that runs in his fragile veins
are just as warm and real as mine...
I see the naked kid playing at his feet,
I try to make eye contact
and give her a little smile,
For I love kids..., all of them....
The shy kid steals a few quick glances at me,
Is that a fear in her eyes?
I smile, she smiles back...
With that same innocent smile all little kids have...
What is this feeling that fills my heart?
Anger? Hatred? Those feelings you get near an enemy?
Why these tears come rushing into my eyes?
I feel a knot stuck in my throat...
How can I hate these pulsating human hearts...?
I get a vision in my mind,
The streams of blood that gushed on this soil...,
Heaps of dead bodies scattered around...,
At one glance,
I can't recognize two different kinds of them...
All are human beings...,
Same warm blood...
I wipe a tear off my eyes,
May they all rest in peace, I wish,
Let there be a world filled with only roses, no guns....!

Vindya Vithana | වින්ධ්‍යා විතාන

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KAVI BOONDIYA | I am star because of you so far - [Udaya R. Tennakoon | උදය ආර්. තෙන්නකෝන්]

2011-10-04T03:32:00.001-07:00

I am a star
Larger than the moon
Size cannot be seen
I’m because of so far

My brightness and light
More powerful than the sun
It doesn’t feel
As the moon is so close

I am an outsider
And also an exoplanet*
To the solar system
And far away from light years

I ‘m also a moon
But not a parasite
And but more sensitive
To the dark and to the moon
But a star to you
Because of so far

Though I bring the light
To the thick darkness
You have been cheated and mislead
As it is moon
Because of we both are so far
At two ends

*exoplanet is a planet that is not in the solar system

Udaya R. Tennakoon | උදය ආර්. තෙන්නකෝන්

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OTHTHUKARAYA | How I Wonder What You Are| 9th september - [ None]

2011-09-04T22:13:00.001-07:00

How I Wonder What You Are. film directed by Udaya Dharmawardhana, Chinthana Dharmadasa,will be screened on 9th september 3pm @ colombo University.

A discussion on film will start @ 4.30pm screening organized by University Art Council.

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OTHTHUKARAYA | ගමන හැඩයි- අපිට 3 යි! 3 වෙනි දා 3ට එන්න... | [බූන්දි තෙවස් පූර්ණ හැන්දෑව] - [ None]

2011-08-26T00:08:00.001-07:00

බූන්දි [Boondi.Lk] වෙබ් අඩවියේ තෙවර්ෂ පූර්ණය නිමිත්තෙන්, මාලතී කල්පනා ඇම්බ්‍රෝස්ගේ මේ නිහඬ වෙරළට එන්න කාව්‍ය ග්‍රන්ථය සහ හිනිදුම සුනිල් සෙනෙවි ගේ 'නූතන ම' සිංහල කවිය පිළිබඳ නිරීක්ෂණ කිහිපයක් විචාර ග්‍රන්ථය එළිදැක්වීම, 2011 සැප්තැම්බර් 03 සවස 3.00 ට ජාතික පුස්තකාල හා ප්‍රලේඛන සේවා මණ්ඩලයීය ශ්‍රවණාගාරයේ දී පැවැත්වේ.

දෙසුම්-
හිනිදුම සුනිල් සෙනෙවි - සිංහල කවියේ නූතන ම මොහොත
චූලානන්ද සමරනායක - කල්පනා ඇම්බ්‍රෝස්ගේ කාව්‍ය භාවිතය සහ අද්‍යතන කවි පරපුර

සමග

බූන්දි තෙවර්ෂාවලෝකනය - බූන්දියේ ගමන් මග පිළිබඳ ඇසි-දිසි ආවර්ජනයක්.

උළෙල සම්බන්ධයෙන් වැඩි විස්තර දැනගැනීම සඳහා 071 448 8498 දුරකතන අංකයෙන් අමිල අමතන්න.

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KAVI BOONDIYA | The Chilli Moon - [Subadra Jayasundara | සුභද්‍රා ජයසුන්දර ]

2011-08-17T20:11:00.001-07:00

In an unknown land,
Far from the native's hand,
Yours was the only hands I knew.
Your tight grasp, yet placid soft,
like petals that a cuckoo bird kissed.

Dangling on the clouds above
there was a moon for sure
Anyone could name it
a crescent, a sickle
or a curved parabola
Though Mama you called it
The Chilli Moon

Daddy’s typical diet..
Of veggies with sweet peas,
For us bear cubs
kirihodi, salmon, white cheese.
why did you have
green chillies Mama
around that fawn plate
Was it your only taste

I was almost a teen
You just ended forties
Over the funeral parlour
the same moon was peeking
I wouldn’t say its weeping,
Weeping Willows not weeping.
Cause you’d been invited
to see Almighty God

Now I'm with a beard,
Daddy doesn’t even care.
The Chilli moon so bare...
I can’t help but care,

The shine burns my throat
Just like a hot Meat Ball
where it’s stuck in deep
and demanding me to breathe.
There are strange hiccups
tell me Mama
am I going mute?

What could be the reason?
my own gravity was lost
in that fully void moment
Under the waning chilli moon.

June 2011

Subadra Jayasundara | සුභද්‍රා ජයසුන්දර

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KAVI BOONDIYA | An Encounter - [D. V. Gallage | දේ. වි. ගාල්ලගේ]

2011-06-13T03:39:00.001-07:00

Wondering how and when
You made such a fine touch
On my senses
I struggle to realize
The miraculous nature
Of loving feelings

May be the acquaintance
Grown in the journey of "sansara"
Brought you to my presence
Even at the eleventh hour
Of this life

You exist with me, making me feel
Your fragrance, your breath
And even the rhythm of your heart
Tell me, my love,
Shouldn’t I weep on your shoulder?
When civilization
Makes our distance immeasurable

I hail my destiny
For making this golden encounter
I blame my destiny
For utter delay and bitter-sweet form

D. V. Gallage | දේ. වි. ගාල්ලගේ

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RATHU BOONDIYA | Che - [Udaya R. Tennakoon | උදය ආර්. තෙන්නකෝන්]

2011-06-12T20:41:00.001-07:00

[On behalf 14th June of the birth day of Ernesto Che Guevara]

Instinct wind of injustice
Universal smell of humanity
Mixing colors of identity
Symbolic indelible revolutionary

Constant threat of breath death
Challenging forwarded minimizing the life
Death was defeated by soft of honesty
Left you forever name of majesty

Poetic character and cinematic story
Ended in Bolivia giving exemplary history
Shooting to so called nations of boundary
Fighting to topple the devil of capitalist

Blossomed the red flower spreading dignity
Lit up the candle of revolutionary humanity
Present and future for most of validity
Sacrificed the life for others of identity

Stylized visage waving over the globe
Become a ubiquitous shadow of symbol
Created universe insignia of our time
Start together with promise comrade Che

Udaya R. Tennakoon | උදය ආර්. තෙන්නකෝන්

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SOOKIRI | Young Marx as a Lyrical Poet - [Prof. Desmond Mallikarachchi | මහාචාර්ය ඩෙස්මන්ඩ් මල්ලිකාරච්චි]

2011-06-08T20:19:00.001-07:00

Karl Marx has been respected by his friends and foes alike as a great thinker and an enthusiastic and indefatigable explorer into the covert and overt oppressive mechanisms of the rising capitalism of the 19th century.

He wrote extensively and meticulously with a view to provide the mankind a beneficial atmosphere for a happy living without being exploited by capitalism. He was not vulgar but a consummated materialist, the fact to which he attested through all his writings since youth.He envisaged a transformation of the society not through an idealistic program but via a total revolution in the forces of economic production. Those who were unable to understand his humanist political project presented him as a barbarous materialist who never possessed a creative and aesthetic mind as his only intension had been to assault capitalism with malice and in satanic guise (e.g. Richard Wumbrandt Was Karl Marx a Satanist?.)

But, if one reads Marx’s personal and academic life closely, leaving prejudices aside, he or she would realize that right inside him there had always been a kind-hearted father, beloved husband, joyful friend, penetrative critic, uncompromising debater, humorous and lampoon drama producer, and a lyrical poet. A very few, most notably his fiancée Jenny, and his father, knew Marx’s potentiality for writing lyrical poetry, though it remained as a family affair of little interest to wider world outside, which fact cannot, however, devalue or minimize the exceptional ability he possessed for writing lyrical poetry.

Marx, as a university student at Bonn and Berlin, not only studied history, philosophy, and law but also literature and western classics and never lost his admiration for Greek mythology or Shakespeare Disclosing his fervent and unceasing thirst for knowledge, he wrote to his father as far back as 1837, that he had attended lectures of Schlegel (on Homer), Welcker (on Greek and Latin mythology), Bruno Bauer (on Isaiah) and translated extracts from Tacitus and Ovid, in addition to receiving inspiration from German poets such as Schilller and Heinrich Heine. The physical exhaustion Marx encountered as a result of his attempts to comprehend these abstruse disciplines, and the bewildering mental state he had been in due particularly to the fact of living away from home for the first time, he sought some solace in writing lyrical poetry. It is true that his early poetry had been contaminated, understandably of course, with German romanticism but his originality was that he had been sharp enough to perceive the (natural) affinity between the moments of change and the lyric mood, as Prof. S.S. Prawer observes in his work Karl Marx and the World Literature (1976). As young Marx disclosed his inner poetic –self to his father in the letter he wrote in 1837 ; “at such (painful) moments ...an individual becomes lyrical, for every metamorphosis is partly a swan song, partly the overture of a great new poem that is trying to find its right proportions amid brilliant colors that are not yet distinct.’.

Marx has compressed here the three significant art-fields, i.e. literature, music and the visual arts employing sensibly the words ‘lyrical‘‘overture’ and ‘brilliant colors’ respectively to yield metaphors that help him to convey his feelings. Karl Marx’s artistic inspirations were reflected in the dedicatory poems he wrote to his father entitled Dichtung (German), meaning poetry. The most inspirational verses of the poem run as;

Creator-like, flames streamed,
Purling, from your breast to mine,
High, wide they tongued together
And I nourished them in my breast.
Your image stood bright, like Aeolian sound;
Gently it covered the glow with pinions of love.

I heard murmuring sounds, I saw a gleam,
Faraway skies drifted along,
Emerged to sight, sank down again,
Sank only to rise higher still.
When the inner struggle came to rest
I saw pain and joy concentrated in song. (Marx-Engles Works)

Young Marx, the Romeo, wrote a number of poems expressing his Platonic love to his fiancée Jenny, who subsequently became his life partner.

Jenny, if I may boldly say
That we have lovingly exchanged hearts,
That our glowing hearts beat as one,
That one and the same stream agitates their waves, (Marx –Engles Works 1. (20 48-50)

But alas! all I want is tears
All I want is that you should listen to this song,
That you should transfigure and adorn it-
Then it may darkly die away into nothingness (Marx-Engles Works EB 1. 615)

Young Marx’s later poems have revealed his desire to combine poetry with the concept of action/praxis as attested by the following two poems among many.

Therefore let us dare all,
Never pause, never rest,
Let us never sink into dull silence,
Into willing nothing and doing nothing.

Let us not walk, in brooding anxiety,
Under the yoke that weighs us down:
For longing and desire
And action- these remain to us in spite of all. (Marx-Engles Collected Works. 1)

Young Marx demonstrated his talents not only in lyrical poetry but also in prose. He had almost completed a humorous novel entitled The Scorpion and Felix of which only a fragment now survives, but as professor Prawer rightly observes, it was an attempt to speak of political matters in a literary form. This is also evident from the poems he composed immediately before he switched over from composing lyrical love- poetry to formulating a political program based on materialist philosophy. One of his philosophical poems entitled Human Pride demonstrates his premonition of the concept of alienation, which played a central role in his later philosophical works. He lyrically exposes how the buildings of a city vitiate humanness of city-dwellers while ruthlessly destroying the human pride and ingenuity of the very (human) architects who brought the buildings into being.

Young Marx wrote a good deal of poetry among which the poems entitled , The Minstrel, Night Love, Song of the Sirens, Song of a Boatman on the Sea, The Despairing Man’s Prayer, and On Hegel and a few others stand out and survive to this date. While writing poems he developed a critical approach to the retrogressive and repressive ideologies and realized, in the process, that the time has come to put an end to composing lyrical poems and hence devoted rest of his life until his death in 1883 to formulate a political program with a view to redeem mankind from exploitation and oppression, the project, in my belief, is Karl Marx’s monumental epic.

Sep. 2008

Prof. Desmond Mallikarachchi
Department of Philosophy & Psychology
Univeristy of Peradeniya

[This article, written as a tribute to Karl Marx on his 125th death anniversary, briefly presents young Marx as a lyrical poet.]

Prof. Desmond Mallikarachchi | මහාචාර්ය ඩෙස්මන්ඩ් මල්ලිකාරච්චි

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KAVI BOONDIYA | From where the life has struck - [Ajith C Herath | අජිත් සී හේරත්]

2011-05-19T01:00:00.001-07:00

I opened a Window
to see the Earth of Google,
to fly over my Country
where you live,
where we all lived once,
so long and together.

I would land on Mathale Wiltshire
and walk along the roads and vales familiar,
avoiding the uninvited chasers,
recalling the blurring faces,
unfolding the map of past and traces.

I would walk upon an image
taken in the cloudless day light
by a sleepless eye of a satellite,
and I would see from the sky view,
the gloomy Nanayakkara garden
where the first love is buried
and where my soul is still tarried

I would listen from
an unreachable distance.
to a murmuring baby,
whispers with angels
in his infantile dreams .
I would hum a cradle song
To keep him in dreaming so long.

I would stay for a while,
at Balakaduwa defile,
where my friends were fallen
and where the corpses found swollen.

I would zoom the map, for a moment
to search the Bay of Nandikadal
where the people were massacred,
in the name of you,
my dearest motherland sacred!

Ah! My beloved country!
the darkness of the night
has already reached you
awhile before me,
and the life has been forgotten
where it was left behind
long time ago.

[October- 2009]

Ajith C Herath | අජිත් සී හේරත්

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PARIWARTHANA KAVI | December, A thing of beauty - [Puthuvai Rathnathurai | පුදුවෙයි රත්නතුරෙයි]

2011-01-13T01:20:00.001-08:00

The sheet slips
And the piercing cold
Prods me awake.
Dawn,
I step outside
To a quiet street,
Only a few like me,
A black sari
the asphalt road.
December, a thing of beauty.

I kid you not
If truth be told
December is splendid;
How would he
Who sleep till eight?
Who sleeps till eight senses this beauty?
The Nallur bells peal
At half past four;
Pervasive beauty;
from my door I watch;
December, a thing of beauty.
‘ No beginning or end’
Songs that wake you
As each song
Ends.
And ends,
The temple bells,
The sound of prayer,
And my wife’s beauty
As she wakes me,
Her hair and cloth
Wrapped together,
All converge,
December, a thing of beauty.

-Puthuvai Rathnathurai

පුදුවෙයි රත්නතුරෙයි

දෙමළ අරගලය වෙනුවෙන් තම නිර්මාණ හැකියාවන් මෙන්ම තම ජීවිතයද දායක කළ කවියෙකි. 1970 දී පළමු කවි එකතුව මුද්‍රණයට පත් කළ ඔහු විසින් ඉන්පසුව කවි එකතුන් පහක් පල කෙරිණි. ඔහු වඩා ප්‍රකට වන්නේ දේශපාලන දර්ශනයක් සහිත කවියෙකු වශයෙනි. තරුණ වියේදී මාඕවාදී කොමියුනිස්ට් පක්ෂයේ ක්‍රියාකාරිකයෙකු වූ පුදුවේ, පසුකලෙක දෙමළ විමුක්ති අරගලයේ සංස්කෘතික ක්‍රියාකාරික ක්රියාකාරිකයෙකු වශයෙන් කටයුතු කළේය.

වන්නි අවසන් සටන් බිමේදී තවත් බොහෝ දෙන සමගින් පුදුවේ ද රජයේ ආරක්ෂක හමුදාවන් වෙත බාරවීය. අද වනතුරුත් ඔහු පිළිබඳ කිසිදු තොරතුරක් නොමැත. "දෙසැම්බරය" පිළිබඳව ඔහු විසින් රචිත කවියක් උපුටා ගනු ලැබුවේ Wilting Laughter නම් දෙමළ කවි එකතුවෙනි.

Puthuvai Rathnathurai | පුදුවෙයි රත්නතුරෙයි

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Last Station | Ajith C Herath

2010-12-28T00:25:00.001-08:00

(A watch worn by a passenger who perished in the train wrecked by the Tsunami at Paraliya had stopped at 9.25am)

‘The train shall now recommence its journey.
Passengers are requested to return to their seats ... Calling at all stations!’

Does someone
turn back time from 9.25 am
bidding the enraged
dark waves to return to
some unseen abyss,
long away from the shore,
as a telephone rings ceaselessly,
unanswered at the last station
before death?

Time has stopped with a train,
between the waves and
a graveyard,
an indelible print of eternal regret .

Laughter and banter
still seem to echo
with the dying notes
of a blind beggar’s fiddle,

as a child is looking steadily
towards the far horizon.
After that moment no further chatter,
only the interminable search,

mine, for my dead ...
yours, for your dead ...

You must be careful, where you step,
as bodies are laid out.
One false move, even a diary
beneath your feet may weep in pain.

The mechanical arm of a JCB
digs deep through
the hearts of the undead
searching for their departed souls
with each breath.
Time starts moving once again
in some parallel universe
and a whistle is blown
for the journey to resume.

‘The train shall now recommence its journey.
Passengers are requested to return to their seats … Calling at all stations.’

Passengers, arise from your sodden graves,
take each other’s swollen hands
and board the train.
Your loved ones await you
at the last station.

Sinhalese original, Jan. 2005 by Ajith C Herath
[English version by Hiranjaya]

******

[සුනාමි රළ පහරින් පැරෑළියේදී අනතුරට පත් දුම්රිය අසල තිබූ මළ සිරුරක වූ අත් ඔරලෝසුවක කටු 9.25 දක්වමින් නතර වී තිබිණ.]

"දුම්රිය තව මෙහොතකින්
යළි ගමන් අරඹනු ඇත....
සියළු මගීන් නැවත
තමන්ට නියමිත මැදිරිවලට පැමිණෙන්න.
ගමනාන්තය දක්වා
සෑම දුම්රිය ස්ථානයකම නවත්වනු ඇත..."

9.25 සිට
කාලය කරකවයි
පසුපසට කිසිවෙකු
වියරු කළු රළ පෙළ
වෙරළ වෙත නෑවිදින්
ආපසු ඇදී ගොස්
නොපෙනෙනා ඈතක
නතර වන ලෙස

මරණාන්තයෙන් මෙපිට
අවසාන දුම්රියපළේ
දුරකතනයක් නාද වෙයි.
නොනැවතී
නාද වෙයි…
කිසිවෙකුත් නැත.

කාලය නතර වී ඇත.
රළ පෙළක්
හා
මිනී යායක් අතර
දුම්රියක් නතරව තිබේ.
සදාකාලික පසු තැවීමක
සදා නොමැකෙන
සිතුවමක් ලෙස....

මැදිරියෙන් මැදිරිය
පිය තෙපුල් සිනහ හඬ නැගෙයි.
අඳ වාදකයාගේ ළසෝ ගීයට මුසුව
සිතාරයේ අවසාන සත්සර බිඳී යයි.

කවුළුවෙන් පිටත
ඈත සිතිජය දෙස
සිඟිත්තෙකු නෙත් යොමයි.

ඒ නිමේෂයෙන් පසු
පිළිවදන් පසුවදන් ඇවැසි නැත.

මා මගේ මළවුන් සොයා යනු මිස…..
ඔබ ඔබේ මළවුන් සොයා යනු මිස….

මළමිනී ගොඩ දමන විට
සීරුවෙන් ඇවිද යා යුතුය.
පයට පෑගෙන දින පොතක් වුව
වේදනාවෙන් ඉකිබිඳිනු ඇත.

බැකෝ යන්ත‍්‍රය ඇවිත්
නොමළවුන්ගේ පපු කැනැති හාරයි.
ආත්මය හිස්ව ගොස්
නොමළවුන්
අවතාර ලෙස සැරිසරයි.

සමාන්තර විශ්වයක
කාලය යළි සෙමින් ගලා යයි.
දුම්රිය යළි පිටත් වීමේ
සංඥා නළා හඬ නාද වෙයි.

"දුම්රිය තව මෙහොතකින්
යළි ගමන් අරඹනු ඇත....
සියළු මගීන් නැවත
තමන්ට නියමිත මැදිරිවලට පැමිණෙන්න.
ගමනාන්තය දක්වා
සෑම දුම්රිය ස්ථානයකම නවත්වනු ඇත."

සියළු මළවුනි
තෙතැති පස් තට්ටු බිඳ
මිනී යායෙන් නැගිට
ඉදිමී ගිය අතින් අත අල්ලගෙන
ඇවිත් මෙහි ගොඩවන්න
මිළඟ නැවතුමට වී ඔබේ නෑසියන් බලා හිඳී.

[නිම්තෙර| හිරු| 2005 ජනවාරි 3]

Ajith C Herath | අජිත් සී හේරත්

&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;

PARIWARTHANA KAVI | නුදුරු ව්‍යසනය| Apocalypse soon - [Richard De Zoysa | රිචඩ් ද සොයිසා]

2010-12-22T20:41:00.001-08:00

දැල්වෙන වෛරයේ රළ මත
මං පෙත් එක්වරම ඉලිප්පෙයි.
ගිනි පුපුරු විසුරුවමින්
දරුවා ගින්න තුළ සෙල්ලම් කරයි

සුනු විසුනු කරමින් පැරණි මිතුදම්
පියාඹන වීදුරු පතුරු.
කැබැලිති වූ බැඳීම්වල
ව්‍යාජ බව තහවුරු කෙරිණි.
ගිනි රශ්මිය හමුවේ.

මුරුගසං වැස්සට පසුව
මඩ දියෙහි කෙලි දෙළෙන් පසුවන වීදි දරුවෝ
ලෙයටත් වඩා උකු වෛරයේ ගංවතුරක්
එක්වරම ගලා බස්නා විට
කාකි නිල ඇඳුමේ, තුවක්කු බට සහ යකඩවල
සජ්ජායනය අනුයමින්
අහුමුළු වෙත ඇදී ගොදුරු අහුලති.

උණුසුම් නිකිණි රැයේ ඉහළින්
වණයක් මෙන් කකියන
ඉදිමී සැරව ගලනා තාරකාවන්ය.
ආදරය හුදු ඩාදියකි.
සෙවණැලි තුළ රමණය විසින්
උපදවන කාමාශාව වූ කලී
වියරු ලිංගික බලාත්කාරයක් පිලිබඳ
වසන ලද බෝතලයක කර අසල බුබුලුලන
වසන ලද පටුමගක කෙළවර පොදිකන
ආවේශයක් පමණි.

බෝතල් කර පුපුරා
එහි තියුණු කෙළවර දැයක දිවි සිදුරු කරයි.
මාරක වදන් තෙප‍ළිණ.
පැරණි සගයන්
නිහඬ බව තුළ ගීලී පත්ලටම පසු බසී.
මං සන්ධිවල නැවතුම්
වැසි වැටෙනු පෙර කුහුඹුවන් විලස
කෝපාවිෂ්ට පාදඩයන්ගෙන් ඉක්මණින්ම පිරී යනු ඇත.
භීතියේ වෙළුන සුසුමන් වැරවෑයමින්
ඝාතනය වෙත දක්කනු ලබයි.
කොන්ක්‍රීට් වේදිකා මත නැගුන
බූට් සපත්තු හඬ විසින්
දුම්රියේ ගිගුම් නද යටපත් කෙරිණි

බෙදා පාලනය කිරීම!
ජම්බුද්වීපයේ එල්ලා ඇති
ඉදුණු දෙළුමක් මෙන් රතු පැහැ ගැන්වුණ
ගඩා ගෙඩියක් මෙන් තිත්ත වූ
සිය ලෙයින්ම නැහැව ලේ ගලන හදවත
උතුර වෙත දෝලනය වෙයි.
ඇය දරා සිටිනා
වෛරයේ සියලු පලතුරු සසල වෙයි
අපගේ විවර වූ මුව තුලට
ඇදවැටෙනු වස් බලා සිටින.

නගරයේ පදික වේදිකාවන්හි අඳුරු මුහුණු
ශුද්ධ වූ අළුවල ගුප්ත බව යට වියැකී යයි.
කුමක් සිදු වීද උතුරේ හුණුගල් තට්ටුව යටින්
ගැඹුරට විහිදී පැතිරුණු මුල්වලට?

සුළඟක් හමා එයි වෙළඳහල් අතරින්.
දීප්තිය සසල වෙයි
ගිනිදැල් අසල නාස්පුඩු වලින් විහිදුන.
අගනුවර නිවෙස්වල
පූජනීය පිත්තල පහන්වල දැල්ල නීවී යයි.

71 බෙහෙවින් විනෝදබර විය
ඇඳිරි නීතිය පැනවුණ කල
අපි නිවෙස් තුළ සාදයෙන් ගතකළෙමු

58 නම් එතරම් යහපත් නොවීය.

නමුත් දැන්........?
දැන් සිදුවෙමින් ඇත්තේ කුමක්ද?
අඳුරු මාවත් සහ සුන්බුන් අතරින්
තවලම පෙරට ඇදෙන්නේද ,
හුදෙකලා වෙඩික්කරුවන්ගේ රයිෆල
කොකා ගැස්සෙන හඬ මුසු වු තුනී මිදුම තුළ
මුහුදු රාජාලීන්ගේ පියාසැරිය වරින්වර යම්තමින් දිස්වන
උණුසුමින් පිරි අහස් ගැබ යට
ගිනිගෙන දැවෙන හුදෙකලාවේ කතර වෙත,

සිය දද නංවමින්
පළිගැනීමේ මහා සංහාරය දියත්කරනු වස්
පස්වන අසරුවා යළි පැමිණ ඇත්ද?

[අනුවාදය- අර්ජුන]

*බයිබල් සාහිත්‍යයේ ලෝක විනාශය (Apocalypse) පිලිබඳ දේව වාක්‍යයේ (Book of Revelation) හි අසරුවන් සිව් දෙනෙකු ගැන සඳහන් වේ. මෙම අසරුවන්ගෙන් සංකේතවත් වනුයේ වසංගත, යුද්ධය, සාගතය සහ මරණයයි. ලංකාවේ කීර්තිමත් ජනමාධ්‍යවේදියෙකුව සිටි ටාසි විට්ටච්චි 1958 දෙමළ විරෝධී ජාතිවාදී ප්‍රචණ්ඩ ගැන ලියන ලද "Emergency 58" කෘතියේ ජාතිවාදී ප්‍රචණ්ඩ ක්‍රියා විස්තර කරනුයේ පස්වන අසරුවා ලෙසිනි.

රිචඩ් මේ කවිය ලියා ඇත්තේ 1981 අගොස්තුවේදීය. 1981 වසර ශ්‍රි ලංකාවේ ජනවාර්ගික ගැටුමට තවත් බිහිසුණු ලේ පැල්ලම් රැසක් එක් කළ වසරකි. යාපනය සංවර්ධන සභා ඡන්දයේදී කොළඹින් එහි ගිය, පැවැති එජාප රජයේ මැරයෝ ඡන්ද කොල්ලයක නිරත වූ අතර යාපනය පුස්තකාලයද ගිනිබත් කළහ. මේ සිදුවීම් දාමය තුල රිචඩ් ලද කම්පනය මෙන්ම ජාතික ප්‍රශ්නය වර්ධනය විය හැකි විනාශකාරී දිශාවන් පිලිබඳ ඔහු තුළ වූ ඉසිවර දැක්මද මේ නිර්මාණයෙන් ප්‍රකාශ වෙයි.

Apocalypse soon

The Child Plays in the fire
Scattering sparks
When suddenly the street erupts
In waves of flowing hate
And splintered flying glass
Shattering old amities and sharing bonds
Forged (so we thought) proof
Against heat.

After sharp showers the street boys play in mud
When suddenly a flood of enmity
Thicker than blood Descends
And to the singing of the lead
Khaki and gun metal and iron tread
Advance and take their vantage at the corner.

Hot August night
With postulating stars burning like sores
Above.
Love is a sweat
And inter course in shadows will beget
Lust only for the frenzies of a rape
Of sluttish cul -de –sacs and bottlenecks.

The bottlenecks are broken: jagged ends
Pierce the vital of a nation.
Death words are spoken, old familiars
Fall silent and retreat to roots.
The junction stations soon will fill
With seething hordes like ants before the rains
Fear breathing herds hard ridden to the kill
And on the concrete platforms hob nailed boots
Drown out the thunder of the train.

Divide and rule. And pendulous to the North
Hangs Jumbu dvipa; stained with her own blood
Bleeding heart red as ripe pomegranate
And bitter as the damson. All the fruits of hate
Quivering she holds. Waiting to drop
Into our gaping mouths.
Dark faces on the city pavements pale
Beneath the mysteries of holy ash;

What of the roots spread wide and deep
And far beyond the limestones of north?
A wind blows through the holes of high commerce
The brilliant trembles at the flare of nostril
Flames falter in the sacred lamps of brass
In dwelling on the arcades of Colombo.

71
Was lots of fun
We had our curfew parties.

58
Was not so great
and now…..
will out of blackened streets and rubble ruins
caravans ride forth in to the blazing
deserts of isolation, where the crack
of lonely sniper`s rifles fills the air
and Brahmins hover, flickering in the haze
of heat filled sky?
Has the Fifth horseman come again to raise
His banner, and wreak havoc on the land?

Richard De Zoysa- August 1981

*Jumbudvipa- One of the names the ancient Sinhalease gave India.
Brahmins- Brahmins Kites, birds of prey commonly found in the coastal areas of sri lanka’s Dry zone.
Fifth Horseman- See Tarzie Vittachchi`s Emergency '58' The fifth Horseman of the apocalypse is racial strife.

Richard De Zoysa | රිචඩ් ද සොයිසා
පරිවර්තනය - Arjuna | අර්ජුන

>

Boo! [By- Mashenka Fernando]

2010-12-17T01:45:00.000-08:00

Boo!

    There was once a boy who always screamed, ‘Boo’!
    And when he was a baby the first word he said was, ‘Boo’!
    Yet when he was a five year old he still loved to say, ‘Boo’!
    The family got milk no more, for the by sacred the milkman by saying, ‘Boo’!
    The naughty boy hid behind the door and gave his aunt a stroke by saying, ‘Boo’!
    He chased kitty up the tree by saying that annoying word, ‘Boo’!
    He scared the hens so they would lay eggs no more by saying no more, ‘Boo’!
    His uncle’s horses scattered because the boy said that word, ‘Boo’!
    Now Ms. Tilly had been scared out of her life enough by that word, ‘Boo’!
    So she hid behind the class room door and when he came, she screamed, ‘Boo’!
    She scared him so much by saying, ‘Boo’!
    That he fell on the spot never to say, ‘Boo’ again!

By: Mashenka Fernando
Grade 5P

Little swallow; Still Wandering! -[By Thushari Priyangika]

2010-11-09T22:40:00.000-08:00

Little swallow; Still Wandering!

Gathering drop by drop with care
Longing to save the water spilled
Trying to fill the silver pitcher
Here she is…..
The little swallow with silky feathers!

Gone for the highest bidder
In a mansion enormous; yet worthless
This little girl, sweet and tender like a bud
Forced to be bloomed
Woken up from her innocent dreams…..

At a moment
She was struggling
Like soft petals of a spring flower
Pressing against, to open up forcibly…..
Appeared, a kindhearted person
A blessing! A goddess!
To save her; to show her the way…..

Running away from the mansion
Where she doesn’t belong
Like a helpless little doe
Looking for her mother …..

Without knowing where to go
This little swallow wandered
Until she ended up in a place
Which gave her self a shelter
Crumbs to please her hunger
Yet she was happy there
Because she was lucky
To find friendships too
Among the wicked …..

In the wee hours of morning
When she closes her eyes, resting her head
At once, she wakes up, startled
With aching, swollen fingers
Overworked; yet soft
Oh…..
The poor little blossom!

Still she is trying to fill the pitcher
Without knowing its’ holes
She is too young and naive
To understand the sinister world
How cruel and exploitive it is
Being at an age
Yearning for her mothers’ warmth…..

………………..

One day
The soft bud will bloom
Wilted, in the midst of thorns!

දැරිවිය

ඉහිරුණු දිය බිඳෙන් බිඳ
තුඩගින් ගෙන
පුරවන්නට රිදී බඳුන
පෙරුම් පුරයි
ඇය..
සේද වැහි ලිහිණිය.

අලුක් කාලක් නොවටින
මහා මැදුරක
ඉහළම මිළට විකිණුන
නොමේරූ කැකුළ
පූද්දන්නට වැරෙන්
කීද්දූ හීනයකි.

බලෙන් ඇහැරවන
පෙති එකිනෙක
තතනන විරාමෙක
දෙව්ලියක වැඩියාය!

නුහුරු මහ මැදුර හැර
බලය බිඳ දා දුවන
මුවැත්තිය මව් සොයන
නොදත් මග දිග
සරණක් නැතිය.

හසරක් නොදත්තිය
සේද වැහි ලිහිණිය
අසු වෙයි
අසුර ගුහාවට
තෙත් වූ ලය ඇති
මිතුදම් වෙයි සසර පුරුද්දට.

පහන් වන යාමයට
ඇස් පියවන
තිගැස්සෙන අවදි වන
සියුමැලි අතැඟිළි කරගැට බිඳින..
පිබිදෙන අරුණට
නොමේරූ කැකුළ.

ඉහිරුණ දිය බිඳෙන් බිඳ ගෙන
තුඩගින් පුරවයි
මැටි බඳුනම
සිදුරු වුණු..
එය නොදත්තිය
ළපටි මල් පොහොට්ටුව
මව් තුරුළෙ සුව සොයන.

කැකුළ පීදෙයි දිනෙක
කටු අකුළ මත මැළව.

By: Thushari Priyangika
[Translated in to English by: Manel Fernando]

From Harmony to Non Existence [Malathie Kalpana Ambrose]

2010-09-30T23:04:00.000-07:00

From Harmony to Non Existence

You are the sweetest melody soaring
Making ripples in the air
Filling the still auditorium
Yes…. you
The simple truth of pure existence!

Waves over waves over waves
Like a beautiful river flowing
And then becoming tranquil

Stirring amidst the vivid colours of a ceremonial marvel
You embrace my self, ever so gently
Moving over me

Reverberant clusters of musical notes
Giving birth to the most beautiful melody
Awakening every particle of my being
Defining my self
Mesmerizing me

Lying in the heavenly ambience
That is surrounding me
Slowly, I melt
Dissolving into that bliss

The enchanting river of beauty
Soaked me, and dissolved me
Transforming me into a totally different entity
Breaking into tiny particles
Again and again
I feel myself diffusing
All over the universe

Leaving the auditorium
I enter the blissful paradise
Melting away along the horizon
With you and within you

Mixed with the infinite harmony
That crystallizes in a breath
Yet; dispersed through the universe
I become tranquil
Feeling everything
Seeing everything

Endless feelings emerge
Penetrating myself

Who can say you don’t exist
Here you are!
Yes, I can feel you
Deeply and magically
Playing within the same melody
Carrying the same rhythm
Carrying the same beat

Dissolved in a sigh
The strings weep
Releasing the pain
With each and every stroke of the bow
Caressing my existence
Embracing my body

In between the cello stings
I am being born again
Unconsciously
My breathing stops
I start drifting into non existence

And at that moment
I am born again between the strings
From now on
I exist in a parallel blissful universe
Born from the most beautiful music

I am the dulcet tones
I feel the true beauty within
Seeing myself in that existence
And the existence is found within me

And, you …..
You are…taking me to the eternity
Lingering warm, in my breath

Then
In the next moment
In between the cello strings The non existing me
Come to life!

*Written at a theater in the middle of a cello symphony.

By : Malathie Kalpana Ambrose
[Translated by : Manel Fernando]

මාධුර්යයෙන් නොපැවැත්මට...

රඟහල සිසාරා
මේ රළ නගන
ස්වර මාධූර්යය ඔබය...
සුගාමය... සත්තාව මය

නදියක්ව රැළි ලමින්
යළිදු නිසසල වෙමින්
උත්සවාකාරී ආශ්චර්යයක
වර්ණයන් මැද කළතමින්
මා වෙළයි...
මා සිසාරා ගලයි...

නිම්නාද ස්වර පන්ති
සියොළඟෙහි ඉසියුම්ම
අණු පවා අවදි කොට
මුසපත් කර...
වර නගයි....

හාත්පස ඉපදෙන
සුයාමයෙහි වැතිරෙමි...
ඒ තුළ ට වැගිරෙමි...

සෞන්දර්ය නදී තෙම
මා තෙමා දිය කොට
වෙනස් ශක්ති ප්‍රභවයක් බවට හරවා ඇත...
මම බිඳී ,
යළි යළිදු ක්ෂුද්‍ර වී
විශ්වය පුරා විසිරෙමි...

රඟහලෙන් සුයාමයට පිවිසෙමි....
ඔබ සමග
ඔබ තුළ
දිය විය හැකි
දිගන්තය අස වැතිරෙමි....

හුස්මකට කැටි වන
සක්වල පුරා විසිරෙන
අනන්ත වූ මාධුර්යය හා මුසු ව
නිශ්චල වෙමි...
සියල්ල හඟිමි
සියල්ල දකිමි...
අපරිමිත හැඟුම් සෙන්
නොහිම් සර හා මුසුව
මා සිරුර විනිවිදියි...

ඔබ නොපවතීයයි කාට නම් කිව හැකිද...?
මෙන්න , ඔබ මෙතැන
ගැඹුරක්ව මිහිරක්ව
අණුවක්ව මුසු වෙමින්
එකම ලයකට
එකම රිද්මයකට
එකම තනුවක් තුළ වැයෙමින්

තත් මැදී
ඉන් රිදී
වේදනා ඉපදෙමින්...
මා පැවැත්ම ස්පර්ශ කොට
සිරුරත වෙළාගෙන
සුසුම් වල කැළතී

චෙලෝවෙහි තත් අතර පණ ලබා
මම ම වී ඉපදෙමින්

නොදැනීම
මා සුසුම් නැවතී
නොපවතින්නට පටන් ගනිමි...

එසැණින්,
චෙලෝ තත් අතර මා පණ ලබයි...
මෙතැන් සිට මා පවතින්නේ
ස්වර මාධුර්යයයෙන් සුනිශ්පන්න වූ
සමාන්තර සුගායනීය
සක්වලකය

ස්වර යනු මම ය
මා තුළ සොඳුරු සත්තාව ද
සත්තාව තුළ මා ද වෙයි...
ඔබ
විශ්වයෙහි අනන්තය අස
මා සතපවා
මා සුසුම් හා මුසුවෙයි...

එසැණින්,
චෙලෝ තත් අතර
නොපවතින මා පණ ලබයි...

_______________________________
*Cello සංධ්වනියක් මැද රඟහලක දී ලියැවූණි.

-මාලතී කල්පනා ඇම්බ්‍රෝස්-

This enormous City [By: Manjula Wediwardena]

2010-09-29T04:02:00.000-07:00

This enormous City

When I return to the den by nightfall
My only refuge is darkness
Being tired of cold winterMy wilted eyes are welled with tears

The city, enormous ; yet unfamiliar to me
Sends in sadness; just the sadness
When loneliness echoes
My heart still is longing for home

Petals, strewn all over the street
By the rain, which is still young
So magical; brings out the poet in me
An instinct, follows me through the sansara

Just a smoke to calm and soothe my mind
Not the smile of my sweet love, by my side
Even the poem becomes painful, now I realize
Oh… such a heart ache, is this life?

Next to my window, in the cemetery nearby
Wandering are the dreams of night
Slowly, I will release my weeps and sighs
To drift among the tombstones white

Trying so hard to hold tight
The last leaf of an aging tree, lost its fight
Blown away in the wind, gusting wild
Disappearing into the stormy night

Even when my pillow is sleepy
To stay awake through the night
My dream that couldn’t close its’ eyes
Looking for wings; ready to take a flight!

මේ විසල් නගරය

ගුහාවට රෑ වෙලා එනකොට
මුවාවට ගණ අඳුර පමණය
විඩාවට පත්වෙලා සිසිරය
මලානික නෙත් පුරා කඳුළු ය

නන්නාඳුනන විසල් නගරය
සන්තාපයම එවයි කුටියට
නින්නාද නැඟෙන විට තනිකම
මං තාම හදවතින් ගෙදර ය

මල්පාර පුරා මල් විසිරුව
වර්ෂාව ඔව් තවම තරුණය
සංසාර පුරුද්දට අවනත ව
කල් නෑර කවි ගෙතෙන අරුමය

දුමක් මිස හිත නිවා සනහන
පෙමක් නැත හිත ගාව හිනැහෙන
දුකක් බව දැනෙන විට කවියද
කෙතෙක් නම් රිදෙන්නෙද හදවත

සුසානෙකි කවුළුවට අත ළග
නිශාචර සිහිනයන් ඇවිදින
සුධාවල සොහොන් කොත් අතරට
මුදාළම් ඉකිබිඳින සරතැස

තලතුනා තුරෙක තුරු මුදුනක
හිස ඔබා සැඟවෙන්න නොහැකිව
ගිළිහුණා අවසාන කොළයද
තටු සළා ආ රුදුරු සුළඟට

රෑ පුරාවෙම සිටින අවදිව
මාවුලාවට පවා වෙහෙසය
ඇහැ පියා ගනු නොහෙන සිහිනය
ඇහැරිලා පියාපත් සොය සොය

By: Manjula Wediwardena
Translated By: Manel Fernando

Colombo Breezes.......... [By: Samodh Thaveesha]

2010-09-23T03:19:00.000-07:00

Colombo Breezes..........

Colombo breezes.....
Coming from everywhere
Blow haplessly about

Colombo breezes.....
Coming from overseas
Far-away distant countries

Colombo breezes.....
Coming so cool
And fresh,fade away

Colombo breezes.....
Rest in grand hotels
Blow the heat away

Colombo breezes.....
Stagger through the streets
Struggling to get away

Colombo breezes.....
Blow around the town
Slaking a thirst away

Those Colombo breezes..................
Oh...! they wither away!

By: Samodh Thaveesha

SOOKIRI | K Jayathilaka| The Living Icon of Sinhala literature - [Dr. Ruwan M. Jayathunga | වෛද්‍ය රුවන් එම්. ජයතුංග]

2010-09-08T02:07:00.001-07:00

Endowed Sri Lankan writer K Jayathilaka is one of the pioneers of Sinhalese realistic novel. As a creative writer, he exhibited his talents since early 1960 s. his novels and short stories represent the ironical social perspectives and had a profound impact on Sinhalese literature. K Jayathilaka demonstrated talents that could be compared to that of the greatest literary genius Martin Wickramasinghe.

He wrote a wide range of literature from novels to short stories as well as children’s literature. K Jayathilaka has authored nearly 12 children’s books and he added some of his childhood experiences to these books. His autobiography that narrates his childhood – Punchi Palle Gasavena reminds us the first book of an autobiographical trilogy by Maxim Gorky – Deistva (childhood).

In Punchi Palle Gasavena autobiography Jayathilaka expresses some of the social injustices that he experienced as a child.

The children’s books of K Jayathilaka vibrantly describe the relationship between the environment and the child. His children’s books enhance the stable concepts as well as mental reasoning and magical beliefs in children. His books especially Irunu Balla (Torn Cat), Oralosuwa (Timepiece) help the children to recognize logical relationships in elements and improve the ability to view things from the perspective of others. These books are truly facilitating children to use logic in the concrete operational stage. (As the Child Psychologist Jean Piaget stated, by the concrete operational stage, children are able to use logic and this ability can be improved by the external support.)

As a shot storyteller, K Jayathilaka proved his talents enormously. His short stories were influenced by Anton Chekhov, Edgar Allen Poe, and probably by Joseph Conrad. In his astonishing, work Punaruppattiya - a collection of short stories Jayathilaka recounts numerous characters that can be found in the contemporary society. However, some of the characters were no exception to the rule and have unique characteristics. One of the characters that was portrayed in Punaruppattiya was a desolate man in a rural village named Mudumaya.

Mudumaya was a cynical character who had voyeuristic impulses. He was excommunicated from the village and led a secluded life. Mudumaya had gifted artistic talents no one had ever known. His paintings were discovered many years after his death and revived by the experts. They found incomparable artistic attributes in his paintings. Posthumously Mudumaya was named as Pandit Mardamana.

Jayathilaka broadly wrote about the ethnic harmony. His short story "Mee Ambha" (Mango) describes the friendship between a Sinhalese boy and a Tamil boy who found a common ground not via the language but with the help of a mango tree. Through some of his writings, he conveyed the message of co existence. The metaphors that were used in Issaraha Ballano (those who look foreword) recounts similarities in the North and the South and emphasizes the fact that both Sinhalese and Tamil people could live without a conflict.

As a novelist, K. Jayathilaka exposed the social dynamics in the Western province. K Jayathilaka ’s famous novel -Charita Tunak analyses there brothers who bore three different characters. Born to a lethargic gambling farmer, three brothers and their sister struggled to survive. The eldest son Isa realized the family hardships and tried to find a way out by becoming a hardworking farmer. His efforts were ridiculed by his father who took no effort to work energetically. The parents and the neighbors demotivated Issa when he tried to cultivate a massive land named Kokilana. But he was determined in his plan and eventually cultivates the Kokilana. Then he was accepted as an effortful farmer and gained respect.

The main character - Isa ’s personality has some similarities with the Chinese farmer Wang Lung – the character that was created by Pearl S. Buck in her Pulitzer Prize wining novel - The Good Earth. Isa and Wang Lung were hard working farmers and both had ties with the land. K Jayathilaka had portrayed the character of Isa as an introverted self-punishing and egoless character. But Wang Lung was an extrovert who was energized by being around other people.

Isa was disappointed in his second brother Sana who was a drunken vagrant. Sana’s resentment towards Isa was destructive and a number of times Sana took revenge from Isa by harming his crops. Sana was an aggressive and a disrespectful person with a lot of negative characteristics. Sana could be described as the opposite pole of Isa.

Sana had a drastic impact following the negative parental style attributed by his father. Sana’s unhealthy life style (gambling, drinking and quarreling with the villagers) were the results of vicarious learning. Debra Umberson of the University of Michigan more scientifically explains this phenomenon thus.

The effects of marital and parental status on mortality are usually attributed to the positive effects of social integration or social support. The mechanisms by which social support or integration is linked to health outcomes, however, remain largely unexplored. One mechanism may involve health behaviors; the family relationships of marriage and parenting may provide external regulation and facilitate self-regulation of health behaviors, which can affect health. (Family status and health behaviors: Social control as a dimension of social integration D. Umberson - Journal of Health and Social Behavior, 1987 – JSTOR )

The third character Ranjith is more convoluted and profound. As a young child, he realized the consequences of poverty that was hounded by his family. The education was his escape route. His got his freeing through the free education system that was introduced by the education reformer C.W.W. Kannangara. After becoming a teacher Ranjith’s ambition grows and he buys land and consented to an arrange marriage that offered him a large dowry. At the end of the novel the readers come to a conclusion that Ranjith was a self-centered egoistic character powerful than Isa who had the strength to confront Sana.

K Jayathilaka s conflict-ridden novel Rajapaksa Valavva describes the inferiority complexes of an administrative officer who was oppressed by the village cast system. In Rajapaksa Valavva K Jayathilaka deals with a taboo subject that was not deeply touched by Martin Wicramasinghe , G.B Senanayaka or other great novelists.

Kamalsiri who was banished by the village cast system witnessed the harassments caused to his family. His primary education was disrupted following cast related violence. This incident gave him an opportunity to enter a Catholic school in Colombo. In the Colombo school, he does not face any cast problem but other social issues like poverty, intensely troubled him.

The youth who were suppressed by the village cast system during Kamalasir ’s era launched a revolution to change the society. But Kamlasiri had far more goals in his life and never became a part of it. However, in a way he became a rebel and supported the movement that dealt with the acquisition of the Catholic schools. After the acquisition, he became disappointed when he realized that the new system did not serve his educational purposes. When most of the fine teachers of the college joined private, education institutes, his education was partially disrupted. Kamalsiri had no money to pay for private tuition. Therefore, he could not peruse science subjects and compelled to do art subjects for his university entrance.

Kamalsiri’s cast issue emerged again when he entered the university. His first love ended unexpectedly when his girl friend came to know about his family background. After the university education, Kamalasiri becomes an administrative officer. Although he becomes a senior government officer, in his entire professional life, he struggles with this cast issue. His inferiority complexes affect his professional judgments and Kamlsiri narrates his unpleasant experiences in the following manner.

When someone visits our house, my father insists me to come out and talk to him. Often these visitors are Grama Niladaries or petty government officers who are insignificant elements in the administration. When I am at the office these characters are shivering and have extreme fear to reach me. But in the village everything has turned topsy-turvy. The cast becomes the key factor – the element of respect.

Kamalsiri hates the village life pattern and his native community. He decided not to visit his sister’s wedding in order to avoid the relatives and friends. More and more he becomes a remote character disconnected from the rest of the family and the village.

The real hero of this novel is unseen. Kamalasiri’s father -the laundry man who underwent immense humiliations, harassments and oppression, never became a slave to the system. He challenged the system as a silent protester. He raised his son to disintegrate the village cast system by giving him a high education and a higher social position. But Kamalsiri never lived up to the old man’s expectations. Kamalsiri who had no such a spirit as the old man, used numerous defense mechanisms when a cast related issue emerged.

Rajapaksa Valavva represents several episodes of the Sri Lankan social history. The end of the semi feudalism, rise of the new business class connected with the political power, and the children of the free education who became the administrative class of the country.

K. Jayathilaka reveals the plight of the children of the free education via Kamalasiri’s character. Most of these children came from the village schools. They were studious and hardworking. After finishing their higher education, most of them joined the government service and started living in big cities. They gradually adapted to the city life. But for people like Kamalasiri who were cast conscious, their origin and roots troubled immensely. Some took deliberate measures to hide their past social strata that drastically affected their personality. They could not function as their predecessors who had the command and control. The government officers like Kamalasiri made the public service dishonorable by licking the boots of politicians.

K Jayathilaka profoundly analyses the rural family dynamics in his two novels, Punchirala and Punchiralage Maranaya that illustrate the destiny of a hardworking farmer who had spent his entire life on children and eventually dies as a disappointed man. Punchirala who was an over protective father raised his children with utter financial difficulties. For Punchirala raising his children Nandana and Suvimalee was a some form of emotional investment for the future, but he does not receive the expected results. Punchirala suffered old aged depression and died as a disenchanted man.

In these two novels, Jayathilaka shows us the naked realities of the Sri Lankan villages that are filled with sarcasm and jealousy. Although many novelists portrayed the rural villages as unspoiled naïve and romantic places these two novels, reflect the actuality of the Sri Lankan village life.

K Jayathilaka discusses the inner psyche of an aged man in his novel "Mahallekuge Prema Katavak". This novel exemplifies the repressed sensual desires of an old man who was physically and emotionally touched by a young girl. The old man’s life instincts were active for a little period and then the death instinct becomes more prominent. The outlawed relationship ends with a fatal outcome.

The novel "Mahallekuge Prema Katavak" reminds us the relationship between Pablo Picasso and the beautiful young girl named Jacqueline Roque. K Jayathilaka vividly describes the psychological conflict of the old man when he was trapped in an unorthodox relationship with a young girl.

The age disparity in sexual relationships has been discussed in the Jathaka stories as well as in Vladimir Nabokove ’s famous novel Lolita. Jayathilaka ’s novel "Mahallekuge Prema Katavak" may have had certain degree of influence by Vladimir Nabokove ’s Lolita – a girl who was the object of desire of an old man.

K Jayathilaka is a gifted author who has contributed a vast amount of publications to the Sinhala literature. His creative writing represents an important hallmark in Sinhala novel and short stories.

Dr. Ruwan M. Jayathunga | වෛද්‍ය රුවන් එම්. ජයතුංග

PARIWARTHANA KAVI | Gurov’s Letter - [Rathna Sri Wijesinghe | රත්න ශ්‍රී විජේසිංහ]

2010-09-02T01:28:00.001-07:00

The night is covered
With the Moon water showers
As it owns,
Each and every petal of the flowers
Even the tiniest branchlet
Is ready for the Spring
Anna Sergeyevna,
Here we are with empty hands....

If you know…..,
Even if the things are so unknown
There should be a pathway
To sniff and proceed…

Someone might have bought
The next winter as well
If you know Anna Sergeyevna,
How precious you are
Under this splendid sky….

Even the smallest ant
When goes along with mother,
It belongs to her.
So, can you please tell me
How long is this night
that doesn’t give a birth
Even to a star ….
The breathless darkness
Will it die in its deep sleep?
When will you bring back
The kiss you kept with me
before you left in such a hurry
releasing my fingers….?

The first snow drop
That falls in to tomorrow morning
Will be reserved by you
for me……
Yet,
knowing that..
I will never get it…
Anna Sergeyevna!

-[Sal gaha yata- 1996]

ගුරොෆ්ගේ ලියුම

සඳ වතුර වසින රැය
හැම මල් පෙත්තක්ම
අයිති කරගෙන
පුංචි ම අතු රිකිල්ලත්
සූදානම් වසන්තයට
ඇනා සර්ගයෙව්නා,
අප කිසිවක් නැතිව

ඔබ දන්නවා නම්
මොකවත්ම නොදැන සිටියත්
ඉව කර කර යන්නටත්
පාරක් තියෙන්නට ඔනෑ

ඊළඟ ශීත ඍතුවත්
කවුරුන් හෝ මිළට ගෙන ඇති
දන්නවා නම් ඔබ
ඇනා සර්ගයෙව්නා,
කෙතරම් වටිනවා ද මට
ලස්සනම අහස යට ඔබ

කුඩාම කුහුඹුවාත්
අම්මා එක්ක යන විට
ඌ ඇයටයි අයිති.
ඉතිං මට කියන්න,
කෙතරම් දිගු ද මේ රැය
තරුවක් වත් නූපදින?
හුස්ම නොවැටෙන කළුවර
මිය යාවිද නින්දෙන් ම?

අතැඟිලි ලිහාගෙන
යන්ට සැරසි කඩිමුඩියේ ම
ඔබ මා ළඟ තබා ගිය
අවසාන හාදුව
ගෙන යන්නේ කවදා ද?

හෙට උදෑසන වැටෙන
පළමුවන හිම කැටය
වෙන් කර තබාවි ඔබ මට
දැන දැනම,
කවදාත්ම නොලැබෙනා බව
ඇනා සර්ගයෙව්නා.

[සල් ගහ යට- 1996]

Rathna Sri Wijesinghe | රත්න ශ්‍රී විජේසිංහ
පරිවර්තනය - Malathie Kalpana Ambrose | මාලතී කල්පනා ඇම්බ්‍රෝස්

POTH BOONDIYA | 'Bucolic Poems Written in the City' - [Upul Gamage | උපුල් ගමගේ]

2010-09-02T01:21:00.001-07:00

Chinthaka Ranasinghe as a bright one in the new generation of Sinhalese poets has won quite a name among them. He introduced himself as a literary critic first, but his ability as a poet has produced three books of poetry so far. The foremost line of his identity that can be recognized through his writings is extreme social consciousness, which disturbs in a way his work as a poet.

His arrival as a poet through “Katussakuge Malagama (Death of a lizard)” in collaboration with Tharanga Ranasinghe presented some memorable poetic thoughts, but the second collection of poems (Kalayak Thisse Liyu Kavi) that he wrote alone did not take us into that far in terms of poetic quality in them. Similarly, through the latest arrival also he has not been able to supersede his first work by himself.

Chinthaka’s poems hint at some sort of protest he would like to direct against social issues that he himself cannot tolerate. His poems have captured several significant thematic areas.

Some of his remarkable poetic thoughts are resonating in my mind and heart. For example, read these lines:

“Hela Basa Manaram
Hela Resa Manaram
Molaya Tibenam
Demalath Manaram”

“Sinhalese is winsome, the race of Sinhalese too winsome, even if you have brains, Tamil too winsome”

is the meaning of this Sinhala poem. These lines with a rhyming pattern alarms us toward social inequity by questioning the thinking pattern of majority people. Even in the new book he does not have limits in using the language and he is very free to present his experiences, but it creates a critical and bitter environment for the parties who are subject to his critique. Some of his most personalized thematic areas are immature and emotionally charged efforts.

One poem in his new collection (“Mevan Viyaulen Nithi Kal Gevanemi”- living with a confused state of mind) enchanted me with his mind's eye. Before starting this remarkable piece of thought, he quotes from one of Nandasena Rathnapla’s poems and this poem implies the maze that he came across with the birth of his daughter. In a way this is a very feudal thought, but it occurs in his mind as an inevitable stream of thought, often which we cannot keep away from. This is also a tragedy that is faced by Asian fathers every now and then.

In memory of Anna Andreevna Akhmatova he has written a poem but to a certain extent it has become a phony effort which cannot be expected from a poet like Chinthaka. To sum up, Chinthaka has associated Sinhala literature broadly and he has a vast language scope that has been acquired from classical Sinhala. Besides his social awareness could contribute a lot to shape up his poetic thoughts if they are driven towards commonest directions rather than individual pinpoints.

Upul Gamage | උපුල් ගමගේ

Siddhartha, Enlightenment and Us [Sajeewani Kasthuriarachchi]

2010-07-30T01:33:00.000-07:00

Siddhartha, Enlightenment and Us

"I have stopped, You stop."
-From Buddha to Angulimala-

Just as you ask
Siddhartha,
How can we stop?

Siddhartha,
We run…
Separately and lonely
Not to be enlightened
But looking for
A small contentment…
Here, we run…

“A contentment?”

Yes ,Siddhartha,
Any sort of contentment

A job with a small increment of wage
A land just to put up a hut to survive
A decent clothe to wear
at least when have to go out..

Yes , Siddhartha,
We run…
Seeking
And seeking

“Magha”* and his gang
Who were bundling
And clustering with us
Seeking for liberation…
Now are enjoying
The heavenly pleasures
And
Just passing through
Without even paying us a glance

No one can be trusted
Siddhartha…
No one who comes like “Magha”
Hence ,
We run…
Siddhartha…
Separately and lonely
Not to be enlightened
But looking for
A small contentment
Yes Siddhartha,
We have to run…

By : Sajeewani Kasthuriarachchi
[Translated by: Kalpana Ambrose]

“Magha”* - Magha /Magha manavaka is a character we meet in “Jathaka katha potha” which describes the several before lives of Gauthama Buddha. Magha and his friends used to work for social well being and, as a result of that he was born as “Shakraya” (a superior God who can feel the distresses of the worldly beings) , in the heaven.

Long Lost Inspiration [Samodh Thaveesha & Sachitra ]

2010-07-21T22:33:00.000-07:00

Long Lost Inspiration

That long-lost inspiration
It was dangling in a murky dungeon
Now seeps through inch by inch.

That was the pain of separation
Forgotten and left in an unknown junction-
Still a memory of the crunch.

Memory darts across the wall
And I, a happy being, walk up the hill.

Clouds veil the dazzling ball,
Why, the same-way going, never hanging still?

That inspiration
You lie sweetly solemn
Wildly wooden
Filling my gouged soul with elation.

The fascination
We never cursed 'damn'
Beautifully laden
Spares the moments of dejection.

By: Samodh Thaveesha together with Sachitra

Dream of Escape [Ajith C. Herath]

2010-07-20T21:53:00.000-07:00

Dream of Escape

As the night watch drags
to an end,
the August moon
over the watch tower
flees upon
the gray wings of a lone moth.

The southern sea
gives up her dead
unto the leaden shore,
while a solitary turtle
digs a shallow grave
beneath indifferent starlight.

Blood clots
under mist-cloaked skies
on the road to Galaha,
as leaches cower
from silent footfall.

The Mahawatte hills look down,
a cottage burning in silence.
A mimosa on the threshold
sheds its filaments
in a dream
from a long time ago.

Bride of the Night blooms
over rusted barbed wire
amongst smashed pot shards.

And the jasmine spreads its scent
on the shreds of a baby’s shirt.
A doll’s head guillotined
stares on with one unblinded eye,

as Mother, Brother and Sister emerge
from the silent waves
of a river flowing darkly
to the sound of laughter.

The sun pours down
on a boy seated on a threshold
from a long time ago,
his mother with a plate of food,
is laying her hand on his shoulder.

Moths wings burnt
in the incandescence of searchlights
blow over shafts of a metal-grey dawn,
as morning sirens drag in
the carcass of yet another bloodied dream
from a long time ago.

*In memory of a fellow comrade detained in Boossa Detention Camp, who suffered severe psychological trauma after his entire family was massacred in 1989 by the State armed forces in Mahawatte, a remote village in the central highlands of Sri Lanka.

By: Ajith C. Herath
Hiru /Nimthera/ August 1996
[Translated By- Hiranjaya]

Urgent secret I need share. [Prof. Chandima Wijebandara]

2010-07-14T02:23:00.000-07:00

Urgent secret I need share.

Tell me not that I play fool
Please help me play it cool

Neither New Year, Christmas not;
I know well that I admit
Not your birthday; neither mine
Day is not that o’ Valentine.

Cannot wait till New year day
You never tell me your birthday
Don’t care for Valentine
Today’s the day I think fine.

Don’t ask me how you dare
Secret I have I need share.
Roses ‘n’ chocolates tell you all
Let me play my Romeo roll.

By: Prof. Chandima Wijebandara

The Stranger Analysis- The Victory of Man When Faced With the Absurd

2010-07-04T23:59:00.000-07:00

The Victory of Man When Faced With the Absurd

“Maman died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don’t know.” This famous first line of The Stranger introduces the curious character Meursault. He appears to have no reaction, negative or positive, to his mother dying beyond wondering what day she died on. This strange detachment from any emotion continues throughout the novel, presenting the reader with a curious insight into the workings of Meursault’s mind. The worldview presented from Meursault’s point of view is pure nihilism, taken from its infancy of thought in the beginning of the book to its inevitable conclusion at the end of the book. To him, nothing really mattered because everyone dies in the end no matter what they do. To this attitude, society has no way to react because society is full of meaning and purpose, while Meursault sees everything as meaningless and purposeless, himself included. This kind of existence is remarkably similar to Sisyphus described in Camus’ “The Myth of Sisyphus”, in which Sisyphus is condemned to roll a large stone up a hill only to have it roll back down for all of eternity.

Both The Stranger and “The Myth of Sisyphus” deal directly with a nihilistic situation, a situation in which the entire existence of people and effort is meaningless. In the beginning of The Stranger, Meursault is oblivious to the deeper meaning of his worldview and drifts along with a detached ease. Only later in the novel, when he has had time to think and analyze his situation, does he come to the full realization that existence and life is absurd. It is at this point that Meursault’s life begins to resemble Sisyphus in “The Myth of Sisyphus” in a few different respects.

Both Meursault’s and Sisyphus’s existence are meaningless. Sisyphus’s meaningless existence is found in the same task that he is set to do over and over again with no result. Meursault realizes the purposeless of life when Raymond gives him the gun. As he holds the gun, he realizes that “you could either shoot or not shoot.”(Stranger, 56), making no distinction between the option of living or dying. To him either option could happen with equal chance; no preference is given to one or the other. A little while later, while in prison, Meursault realizes that the same sentiment could be applied to him as well, that “life isn’t worth living”(Stranger, 114), that it doesn’t matter whether he dies now at thirty or if he were to die at seventy. It is in this realization that Meursault brings the worldview of nihilism to its ultimate conclusion – a seeming depressing and despair-stricken existence.

This type of existence, Camus writes in “The Myth of Sisyphus”, is only tragic because of the complete self-knowledge the character possesses of his completely useless existence. This absurd existence is only absurd to those who know of its absurdity. In the beginning of The Stranger Meursault led a relatively blissful life of ignorance. He wasn’t happy, precisely – such emotion seemed beyond him at that point –, but he was content with his life. He was so content with his life, thinking that “one life [is] as good as another”(Stranger, 41), that his boss complained that his lack of ambition “was disastrous in business”(Stranger, 41). It isn’t until Meursault comes to realize this tragedy of self-knowledge when he concludes, “Nothing, nothing matters.”(Stranger, 121). Not his life, not his friends’ lives, not any life at all. Nothing matters.

From this ultimate conclusion there are only two possibilities – to sink into utter despair or to rise above that and to claim victory in the knowledge of the uselessness of life. When the nihilistic man contemplates his own absurd condition, a condition that is pure torment to any man, Camus writes in “They Myth of Sisyphus”, he “silences all idols”, with the “universe suddenly restored to its silence”. In this silencing of outwardly desires the man comes to find a peace within himself and the universe. Meursault chooses the latter of the two afore-mentioned possibilities, and contemplates his existence, opening himself up to “the gentle indifference of the world.”(Stranger, 122). He realizes that his life is meaningless, but that living life in itself is enough for satisfaction, even though it is not purposeful. With his execution on the way, all that is left for him to feel satisfaction for is for a “large crowd of spectators”(Stranger, 123) to “greet [him] with cries of hate.”(Stranger, 123). He finds satisfaction in the end of his life, Camus writes, the same way the “struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill [Sisyphus’] heart.” For the first time in a long time, Meursault “was happy again”(Stranger, 123).

Meursault came to realize, over the course of his life, the meaningless of life, and eventually found his fulfillment in the simple fact that it was his life he was living, and he was living it his way. He finds a final joy at the end of his life in the fact that he is living his own life, just as Camus remarks that Sisyphus must feel happy because he also is living his own life, living his own fate. This, Camus writes, is the ultimate realization of nihilism, a realization that is consummated at the end of Meursault’s life, a realization that is all of Sisyphus’s existence. It is ultimately a realization of peace.

[Published by ToughBasics, September 12, 2009]

Seven Dreams [Ajith C. Herath]

2010-06-23T00:39:00.000-07:00

Seven Dreams

First Dream -You never noticed

I was falling
From unimaginable points of infinity.
Mucky water surged
Through the streets of the city.
Moments before I fell
On to the water,
I woke up an infant
In a cradle floating among debris.
I passed men and women
Smiling and waving at me,
Wading through muddy water,
Gathering up their clothes.

When the cradle toppled
Into a sewer,
I leaned out,
Shivering and unbearably cold
I crawled out of the cradle
Eagerly following you,
But you never noticed!
Suddenly, someone grabbed me
And threw me back into the surge.
Once again I was falling and falling.
Just before hitting the ground,
I felt I was waking up.

Second Dream –Your kiss did not lift the curse I was suffering

The rain was endless.
You stared out of the window.
The mist from your breath
Blurred the Knuckles1 mountain range.

I was falling asleep,
Knocked out by chloroform,
When I woke up
From a tear slipping out of your eye.
Stretched out on the dissecting table
I stared at you.

Once, for the last time,
You held me gently and kissed me,
Opened the window and dumped me out,
Then left the science lab
Never to return to school.
And your kiss never lifted the curse I suffered,
Nor did I ever wake up, before falling.

Third Dream - The bridge that could not be conquered

Naked they made you kneel down on the bridge,
Tightened your hands on your back.
To save your life,
I screamed and scraped the earth
For the last rifle none of you ever revealed.
It had carved itself underground;
I could not find it!
Corpses were floating downstream.
Since,
Whenever I pass this bridge,
I fall into the waters with a wounded heart.
I am still falling.

Forth Dream - I saw the blue skies and the clouds

Sitting on a rotten plank bed
Under a passion fruit hedge in the detention camp
I was thinking of ways to escape.
Softly you whispered into my ear
That digging a tunnel
I might be able to see
Yet another blue sky with white clouds
Beyond a range of seven mountains and large forests.

When the public well was abandoned
And the water was calm at noon,
I sat on the rim of the well
And looking down
Found that tunnel.
The bottomless well revealed
Yet another blue sky and white clouds
From the other end of the earth,
And you stared at me through my own eyes.

Ere the images faded:
Blue sky, white clouds and your face,
I wanted to flee through the well
Before the waters were ruffled
By buckets of detainees by the dozen.
Again. through an endless hole
I was falling towards the blue sky.

Fifth Dream - Blue tarpaulin pyre

When the cradle was burning
Along with the camp hut of blue tarpaulin,
You came out crawling
Your tiny hands and legs burnt,
As I was helplessly watching
Your fearful struggle.
Once, for an instant, our eyes met.
I will never know, if you noticed.
Crawling
You passed fossilized me,
Fell into a ditch
And disappeared amongst
Dead bodies and smoke …
The ditch that protected you
Was leveled into a tomb by bulldozers.
As they faded into the distance
All I could see was that tiny hand
Above the sands.

Sixth Dream - As I was late, I missed you forever

I woke up in sorrowful vigilance.
Unaware, if it was early or late.
It was still dark.
All of a sudden, a feeling persisted
That someone somewhere was waiting for me.
Who and where was uncertain,
At times it might have been you.
The days ahead, the tasks and appointments,
Were torn off the calendar.
Only the months and days that had passed are remaining …

Walking along the A-9 road,
I cleared the last military checkpoint,
Yet nowhere could I see you.
As I was late,
I did not know, if you had left.
I was in the Vanni2, but you were not there.
So I was sitting on the doorstep
Of a house in ruins
Waiting with your half of the cigarette …

Seventh Dream - The past shattered and floated away

Once the search operation had been completed,
The soldiers left.
And in the demolished room I found
Our group’s last portrait
Torn into shreds.
Lingering on those time-faded scattered pieces
Was our smile
Of the last moments we spent together
Just before going our ways
Towards unknown destinies.
I placed the pieces on the window sill
Wanting to mend them.
A sudden mysterious wind
Stirred them up.
Piece by piece they scattered
With the last autumn leaves
Moving to sites far away.
We had become tiny pieces of paper
Tumbling away in the wind.

Reflections on the Metamorphoses

Lying on a bed early at dawn,
Listening to the song of a bird
Is a dream
Which may collapse from a fatal scream
In yet another dream.

Who are you?
Dream by dream …
You follow me, while I follow you
And before we can meet
You escape
Only to reappear in different form.
Who are you?

Who are we?
Following each other, escaping each other again
Through the mountains, valleys and meadows
That once we crossed.
Who are we?
Thousands of metamorphoses in a single soul,
Thousands of souls in a single shape.

Even now,
I can not distinguish myself from you,
As I cannot tell you apart from the others.
You are the prime universal matter,
While I am but the reflector.

With the second wave,
The corpses were flushed out to sea
And the swords were cleaned.
Everything but the difference
Between the quick and the dead
Was washed away…

The nights they want to erase from our memory
Knock on the doors
Of wrecked houses full of bullet holes.
The dreams that were dreamt
During sleepless nights
Now are but short notes in an old diary…
Paths never taken at the junction of indecision
Are blurring in the mist of time.

The cheap coffin which held your corpse
Was abandoned in the middle of marshland.
Yet I saw people in a procession holding up high
The golden baldachin of the killer.
The deception passed justly unnoticed,
As similar ones had recurred in cycles.

A frog nailed its soul to the dissecting table
Split its chest and took out its heart,
While, its tongue stretched out,
It enjoyed seeing its own blood flow.
“This is my blood which I had long determined
To shed for your liberation.”
From that time on, no-one would ever die of starvation.

The last prayer rising up from the sorrowful darkness
Of Gethsemane3 gardens
Did it not echo the holy truth
Revealed from Parileyiya4 jungle during the cold rains?

The harmonious calm of solitude
Experienced in a lonely school building in Bolivia
Or in the cremation chamber of Borella5 Cemetery
Or on the sands of blood-soaked Nandikadaal lagoon6,
Is the same silence remaining
At the far end of the universe
Which the human race will never reach
While lugging their bundles of sins.

Conclusion

Freedom can only be sensed
An eternal prisoner
Held in a dream of itself.

My dreams, while unacceptable now,
Remain my reality,
Though you have forgotten,
We dreamt those dreams
Together, a long time ago.

If this is a dream
I would love to live that moment
Just before falling on to the earth.
If this is life,
I would prefer to roam through my dreams.

Moving freely
Through time and space,
I would rather die forever unborn in my dream
Than surrender with raised arms
To a compromising dawn.

By: Ajith C Herath
January 2010

English version by Dawson Preethi , Kalpana Ambrose and Karin Clark

1.The Knuckles Mountain Range lies in central Sri Lanka, north-east of the city of Kandy. The range takes its name from a series of recumbent folds and peaks in the west of the massif which resemble the knuckles of clenched fist when viewed from certain locations in the Kandy and Matale Districts.
2. Vanni is the mainland area of Sri Lanka's Northern Province. It is considered as an integral part of the traditional homelands of the Tamil people. For over a decade, it remained under the control of the Tamil liberation fighters who ran a paralell administration. Eventually the Sri Lankan government troops who pursued a scorched earth policy gain control over entire Vanni mainland in 2009, after massacring tens of thousands of Tamil civilians and completely destroying entire villages.
3. Gethsemane is a garden at the foot of the Mount of Olives in Jerusalem most famous as the place where Jesus and his disciples prayed the night before Jesus' crucifixion
4. Parileiya Jungle-In Buddhist literature, Parlileiya jungle is described as a place Lord Boddha chose to live, in order to stay away from his own disciples who fell out with each other.
5. Borella Crematorium-The leader of the People Liberation Front, Rohana Wijeweera, who was captured by the Sri Lankan government troops for leading the second Sinhala youth uprising in Sri Lanka in 1989, was killed and cremated in Borella crematorium. The uprising was crushed by the government troops by massacring over 60,000 Sinhala youth.
6Nandikadal Lagoon-In May 2009, the final battle between the Sri Lankan government troops and the Tamil liberation fighters took place in the area surrounding Nandikadal lagoon in North of Sri Lanka. It is widely believed that at least 40,000 Tamil civilians were massacred during this massive military onslaught

A note from a pilgrimage [Malathie Kalpana Ambrose]

2010-06-14T21:10:00.000-07:00

A note from a pilgrimage

This note, a true experience of mine got written before the war ended.

The announcement that the war in the east has ended came out about a year before such an announcement, which resulted in jubilations completed with milk rice, was made about the war in north. A news item broadcasted on television just few weeks before fighting ended in east forced me to share this incident with you.

As usual the news was connected to war, which stopped my heart for a moment. My mind raced back one and a half years into the past. The year two thousand seven was a gruesome period of the civil war. It was the time government forces re-captured the sluice gates at Mavil Aru, which had been forcibly shut off by the LTTE. My memories drifted to Trincomalee district, of which Mavil Aru area is a part of. There was ferocious fighting going on in Muthur and Sampoor areas at the time. A group of us was sent from south to east upon a request to help out with the rehabilitation effort. It was an official assignment for me.

Seru Nuwara is a village fed with Mavil Aru waters, located below Muthur at the edge of Trincomalee district. It was a farming village. The life blood for them and their farming was the water from the river Mavil Aru. At that time their lives had been turned upside down by the closing of the sluice gates. By the time the water flowed, the fields that were planted on borrowed money have gone dry and young rice plants lay dead on the ground. We were provided accommodation in Trincomalee town and travelled daily to Seru Nuwara witnessing all this as well as the essentials of the war, multi barrel and artillery attacks. The whole area was consumed by the war, and the inhabitants had become refugees in refugee camps; at the same places they were born and called home. The main refugee camp was the village school. A decision to spend the night at home for them was a decision to choose between life and death. War had robbed everything from them. Even the school books, pencils and pens from kids. They were not interested in drawing or writing anymore, because they could not. The books and colors we handed over were received with such a glee by these children, like they were being handed stars from the sky.

It was the tragedy of a community that has been robbed of their pride and independence that I saw at Seru Nuwara. People who stood up with strong and straight back bones for centuries to earn their life from the earth were forced to hold up their hands begging for a kilo of rice from a stranger; to fight over a piece of cloth. Not only their livelihood was gone, but the temper and discipline of their lives horned by years of working with the earth was gone too. Together with the endless blue green fields, their togetherness was also gone. More than anything else, their children had lost their school and the rhythm of their lives. In its place was a gloomy uncertainty. The playground they played was taken over by canons and artillery guns. Every second, they shivered to the sounds of explosions.

During the few weeks we were on duty there, we were a part of these families. The love I experienced among them is indescribable. These people, who did not have a grain of rice to cook, for that matter who lost even their places of cooking, were sharing the only food they were able to made, ‘roti’, with us. We watched speechlessly the immense humanity that is being unfolded in front of us. Our feelings of gratitude were definitely not something that could be summed up in a simple expression like ‘Thank you’.

Each and everyday we got them engaged in activities, games. After about a month, all those children got together; even the ones who were so shocked and behaved like mute figures got over those feelings; to stage a drama. The theme was ‘Peace’. All they had was on fire because of the war and hate, but these kids were yearning for peace. Few of us joined with the camp inhabitants to watch their drama sitting on the uneven ground of a sun baked field, I still remember.

Even the dust that rose when those kids were acting brought life to the dying earth. At the end of the play, the main character gives his life in the name of peace. In fact many in the village have been killed in the war. The tears in the eyes of the people were for the dead as well as from the gladness they felt watching the abilities of their kids. From the happiness they felt, seeing the strength and hope displayed by their children.

Being close is dear to heart… where you feel the warmth of love. A hope, a wish to meet again is still a refreshing feeling. But… saying good byes are a heart wrenching experience. Especially when there is a thought looming in the back of your mind that you will not meet again forever. My words fail trying to describe my feelings that day, but clearly I became the most destitute refugee there when those little hands were extended instead of pieces of paper for us to write our phone numbers and addresses. There were countless feelings clouding my mind while I was holding those hands to write my address. There was love scratched across those palms. There was humanity as wide as to fill the vast gap between the sky and the earth. There were dreams of tomorrow. There was the difference between the lives of north and the lives of the south. There was the cruelty and the bitterness of the war, the war that was not theirs, mine or yours; a war of nobody’s and a war nobody wants. Then there was the unmistakable fragrance of the earth that belongs to all of us.

That was the picture etched in my heart from those days at Seru Nuwara.

Now to the news item on the television….
A number of people including a child have been killed by cannons and gunfire at Seru Nuwara….

The child who extended his hand towards me, full of love … had died again for peace…
This time around it is not just a drama….

For a second time I became a destitute refugee …. and just kept watching…

The way ….the PEACE was unfolding….!

By: Kalpana Ambrose
[Translated By: Ransirimal Fernando]

Tarkovsky [Lalindra Perera ]

2010-06-02T02:12:00.000-07:00

Tarkovsky

I found seeping water from fountains' depth
Flowing along celluloid reels and reels
Dripping my senses with humidity and moist
Human stains remained in cinema scope

Light and space; shadows and voids
Filled with water clinging drop by drop
Sounds of aqueous turbulence
Made incarnation of memories

Tarkovsky, you are the 'Stalker'
'Steamroller and violin' maker
Nostalgic shades of dying memories
'Sacrifice' of light for the human being

-Lalindra Perera

Life is such a complete dream.... [Malathie Kalpana Ambrose]

2010-05-11T03:00:00.000-07:00

Life is such a complete dream

Life is such a complete dream
Full of pain and splendor,
And death is its utmost summit
Where we realize its wonder

What we really are?
If you ask from the universe,
It will whisper,
“A combination of energies”
And those great energies
will never leave the earth
No matter if we are alive
No matter if we are dead

Ages and ages so eagerly seek
Argued so keenly, amongst the Greek
The secret of those who are dead and gone
That, they never leave but beautifully remain

But they are,
Blended with the rainbow as colors,
Waved in the rivers as waves,
Mixed up with winds as fragrance,
Bloomed with the wild flowers as gentle pollens,
Formed with the clouds as their miraculous shapes,
Quite with the meadows in the silence,
Tuned in songs as their soft notes,
Echoed in conversations as tender utterances,
Existed in the living men as their breath
Burnt in the revolts as the sparkling conscious

Whilst they divinely breathe and bloom

How can we say, they are dead and gone?
For what they have come, they’ll beautifully remain
For that they will live and live for long ….

05/10
Malathie Kalpana Ambrose

Taraki - [Manjula Wediwardena ]"තරාකි"

2010-05-06T22:34:00.000-07:00

Taraki

Darkness is waved in the sleepless night
Breaking the darkness, a star rises in the sky
As the singing fish spell out your name
Taraki, here, your passionate voice comes

It’s true
Those songs were bitter
not so melodious
………………
But they were real,
Yes, they were true

The blood that blows wrapped with the gentle breeze
Brings a memory of your singing voice; of a beloved friend
In that fearful night full of scary wild storms
Oh my, why fell in to the bottom of the creepy deep sleep?

Nudity of the sacred city was unveiled
Crocodile teeth were shined, at the crocodile canal banks
Mourned, so opened, the lids of the painful hearts
All the weeping hearts then, filled with your blessed voice

Manjula Wediwardena ["තරාකි" ]
[Translated by Kalpana Ambrose]

Importance of seeing through the wall - Dreaming for Jaffna from the eyes of South[Sanjeewa Senarathne]

2010-04-30T00:43:00.000-07:00

Importance of seeing through the wall - Dreaming for Jaffna from the eyes of South

Dream about a Jaffna similar to Colombo; or even a developed Jaffna than that. Dream about a Batticaloa competing with Matara or a Vavunia competing with Galle.. Dream about a beautiful country created through those competitions. To dream about such a country, we have to explore it… learn about it and know about it..

Sri Lanka as a ground for dilemmas

Sri Lanka was a collapsed country even before the arrival of the Western nations. Later on, the Island was ruled by them for many centuries. After ages, in 1948, it was given the freedom under worst conditions with a bunch of dilemmas so then, there was a devastated country left behind. In this destroyed land, there are abandoned subject zones and areas that have been wounded and entirely lost. If we need to study Sri Lanka deeply, we have to explore the most painful and deepest wounds of it. This conflict which is called as ethnic disharmony or by different names, is a pathetic situation created by the politicians for their own good and for the deadly destruction of the general public. If Colombo is a peak point of this, Jaffna is also a crest at the other end of the country. Hence, studying Jaffna should be considered as a great priority.

What the old generation tells about the country is a myth. Or it’s a trick of them to hide their lack of knowledge. We have to dig for the truth instead of depending on these lies. It is not an easy task, but a huge study consisted with many rounds, collection of several subjects, an intellectual exercise of hundreds of people, a long process that needs to be maintained by researchers. If we can create a sound basis for this work…….?

Do they need anything?

We have to rationally think in this regard. Do they really need anything? Is that a support they need? Or working in partnership? A rebuilding? An exchange of ideas? Or no intervening at all? We should scientifically observe this. This should be an effort starting from an individual level and should be bloomed as a team effort.

Recognize the Gap; and learn …learn and learn…
War is a creation of both North and South but has no way to be seen to find a solution. Yet, this is an area where we have to necessarily put our efforts with the intention to see a silver line in the long lasted dark cloud. Though we look at the things from our own points of views, we should accept and identify the gap between them and us.
North has its own identity that should not be damaged by any effort inspired by either good or bad will. On the other hand, there are common things to both North and South which we can use as means to create interrelationships and it is necessary to be capable enough to grasp these common things.
It is essential to pay our attention on the nature of relationship that the people in North want to build up between them and South.
It is also required to learn about children, their education, cultural behavior, youth, sports, universities, organizations and associations, agriculture, vocational training etc. Although it is a difficult task for a small group like us, it would be useful to keep these points in mind

What can we do?
(Things to concern if anyone wants to proceed ..)

A pre –preparedness and/or a standard discussion If we can work on literary part of this, such as referring books and other reading materials? Or else, if we can focus on the future rather than the past? If we can create such a deep dream, that would be a great landmark of our effort. We, as the people of South, may need to be well equipped with an assumption and a dream that focuses on our responsibilities and a means to accomplish them.

The old application and a way forward…
We have to have a clear picture about how the right and left political movements, organizations and individuals in South have dealt with the North. We have to carefully check whether we will be able to amend what we are planning to amend. On that basis, each of us needs to have a great dream of a large scale work for Jaffna and North.

Our Strength for Jaffna If we put any effort to make South a better place, it is essential to release our strengths in many times on the dead grounds of North. That should be with no expectations. As there is a high possibility of being blamed in return, only those who can bear that discredit should be involved in this process.

Without getting trapped by the existing political system There are many issues which the existing political system fails to answer and that is a situation they have created by themselves. We have to immunize ourselves not to be damaged by that system.

The Global Market trend
Jaffna and the North are rapidly influenced by the global market under precise conditions. We have to be conscious to this aspect as well. It would be helpful for us to realize our role in that context.

Coordinating with people
After a war existed for three decades, many people from South are eagerly visiting the North; do different things with different attitudes. Hence, basically, we have to explore what we can do for them, depending on our ability and capacity. Also, South may have to build up relationships with more groups in the North and parallel to that they should find a way to strengthen them.

We may have to give up showoffs and unrealistic thinking patterns. By now, the dreams that have covered South, (South is not really even a dream, but a set of digital waves that can only be seen and heard.) are rapidly approaching North. We have to be careful not to be the agents of those unrealistic dreams. Basically, what we have to do is, building a deep relationship with those humans. It is essential to keep in the minds that we are not going to cover any arrears. The world is not at its end. We have to meet and recognize the people. That is the most important component of this process.

Finally, it is important to mark that,
Jaffna, too is a city like any other towns in Sri Lanka. It is a zone where humans live; humans like us who can think and feel. It is definitely not a zoo but a society which has made rather advanced steps towards development. Jaffna is not a heritage of South. That “ownership” mentality is something just has created among the Southern citizens in the post-war context. Also, Jaffna is not like South, they have an inherited culture, religious set up and a social life. They are not under-developed and it is not a must to inject our entertaining trends in to that culture or trying to prove that our things are better than what they have. Jaffna is not even like West. It is not a separate or alienated country but a disconnected territory in a small island. Last but not least, there are things they are protecting. Those are their culture and the life style. These two things may be totally different from what we have been practicing. Yet, it is essential to respect those values for they are live and precious for a nation tensed for ages.

By: Sanjeewa Senarathne
[Translated/edited by: Kalpana Ambrose]

The Heart's Eternal Vow - A Review of Gabriel García Márquez's Love in the Time of Cholera

2010-04-19T03:30:00.000-07:00

The Heart's Eternal Vow

[The New York Times, 10 April 1988]

Love, as Mickey and Sylvia, in their 1956 hit single, remind us, love is strange. As we grow older it gets stranger, until at some point mortality has come well within the frame of our attention, and there we are, suddenly caught between terminal dates while still talking a game of eternity. It's about then that we may begin to regard love songs, romance novels, soap operas and any live teen-age pronouncements at all on the subject of love with an increasingly impatient, not to mention intolerant, ear.

At the same time, where would any of us be without all that romantic infrastructure, without, in fact, just that degree of adolescent, premortal hope? Pretty far out on life's limb, at least. Suppose, then, it were possible, not only to swear love "forever," but actually to follow through on it -- to live a long, full and authentic life based on such a vow, to put one's alloted stake of precious time where one's heart is? This is the extraordinary premise of Gabriel García Márquez's new novel Love in the Time of Cholera, one on which he delivers, and triumphantly.

In the postromantic ebb of the 70's and 80's, with everybody now so wised up and even growing paranoid about love, once the magical buzzword of a generation, it is a daring step for any writer to decide to work in love's vernacular, to take it, with all its folly, imprecision and lapses in taste, at all seriously -- that is, as well worth those higher forms of play that we value in fiction. For García Márquez the step may also be revolutionary. "I think that a novel about love is as valid as any other," he once remarked in a conversation with his friend, the journalist Plinio Apuleyo Mendoza (published as "El Olor de la Guayaba," 1982). "In reality the duty of a writer -- the revolutionary duty, if you like -- is that of writing well."

And -- oh boy -- does he write well. He writes with impassioned control, out of a maniacal serenity: the Garcímárquesian voice we have come to recognize from the other fiction has matured, found and developed new resources, been brought to a level where it can at once be classical and familiar, opalescent and pure, able to praise and curse, laugh and cry, fabulate and sing and when called upon, take off and soar, as in this description of a turn-of-the-century balloon trip:
"From the sky they could see, just as God saw them, the ruins of the very old and heroic city of Cartagena de Indias, the most beautiful in the world, abandoned by its inhabitants because of the sieges of the English and the atrocities of the buccaneers. They saw the walls, still intact, the brambles in the streets, the fortifications devoured by heartsease, the marble palaces and the golden altars and the viceroys rotting with plague inside their armor.

"They flew over the lake dwellings of the Trojas in Cataca, painted in lunatic colors, with pens holding iguanas raised for food and balsam apples and crepe myrtle hanging in the lacustrian gardens. Excited by everyone's shouting, hundreds of naked children plunged into the water, jumping out of windows, jumping from the roofs of the houses and from the canoes that they handled with astonishing skill, and diving like shad to recover the bundles of clothing, the bottles of cough syrup, the beneficent food that the beautiful lady with the feathered hat threw to them from the basket of the balloon."

This novel is also revolutionary in daring to suggest that vows of love made under a presumption of immortality -- youthful idiocy, to some -- may yet be honored, much later in life when we ought to know better, in the face of the undeniable. This is, effectively, to assert the resurrection of the body, today as throughout history an unavoidably revolutionary idea. Through the ever-subversive medium of fiction, García Márquez shows us how it could all plausibly come about, even -- wild hope -- for somebody out here, outside a book, even as inevitably beaten at, bought and resold as we all must have become if only through years of simple residence in the injuring and corruptive world.

Here's what happens. The story takes place between about 1880 and 1930, in a Caribbean seaport city, unnamed but said to be a composite of Cartagena and Barranquilla -- as well, perhaps, as cities of the spirit less officially mapped. Three major characters form a triangle whose hypotenuse is Florentino Ariza, a poet dedicated to love both carnal and transcendent, though his secular fate is with the River Company of the Caribbean and its small fleet of paddle-wheel steamboats. As a young apprentice telegrapher he meets and falls forever in love with Fermina Daza, a "beautiful adolescent with . . . almondsshaped eyes," who walks with a "natural haughtiness . . . her doe's gait making her seem immune to gravity." Though they exchange hardly a hundred words face to face, they carry on a passionate and secret affair entirely by way of letters and telegrams, even after the girl's father has sound out and taken her away on an extended "journey of forgetting." But when she returns, Fermina rejects the lovesick young man after all, and eventually meets and marries instead Dr. Juvenal Urbino who, like the hero of a I9th-century novel, is well born, a sharp dresser, somewhat stuck on himself but a terrific catch nonetheless.

For Florentino, love's creature, this is an agonizing setback, though nothing fatal. Having sworn to love Fermina Daza forever, he settles in to wait for as long as he has to until she's free again. This turns out to be 51 years, 9 months and 4 days later, when suddenly, absurdly, on a Pentecost Sunday around 1930, Dr. Juvenal Urbino dies, chasing a parrot upon mango tree. After the funeral, when everyone else has left, Florentino steps forward with his hat over his heart "Fermina," he declares, "I have waited for this opportunity for more than half a century, to repeat to you once again my vow of eternal fidelity and everlasting love." Shocked and furious, Fermina orders him out of the house. "And don't show your face again for the years of life that are left to you . . . I hope there are very few of them."

The heart's eternal vow has run up against the world's finite terms. The confrontation occurs near the end of the first chapter, which recounts Dr. Urbino's last day on earth and Fermina's first night as a widow. We then flash back 50 years, into the time of cholera. The middle chapters follow the lives of the three characters through the years of the Urbinos' marriage and Florentino Ariza's rise at the River Company, as one century ticks over into the next. The last chapter takes up again where the first left off, with Florentine now, in the face of what many men would consider major rejection, resolutely setting about courting Fermina Daza all over again, doing what he must to win her love.

In their city, throughout a turbulent half-century, death has proliferated everywhere, both as el cólera, the fatal disease that sweeps through in terrible intermittent epidemics, and as la cólera, defined as choler or anger, which taken to its extreme becomes warfare. Victims of one, in this book, are more than once mistaken for victims of the other. War, "always the same war," is presented here not as the continuation by other means of any politics that can possibly matter, but as a negative force, a plague, whose only meaning is death on a massive scale. Against this dark ground, lives, so precarious, are often more and less conscious projects of resistance, even of sworn opposition, to death. Dr. Urbino, like his father before him, becomes a leader in the battle against the cholera, promoting public health measures obsessively, heroically. Fermina, more conventionally but with as much courage, soldiers on in her chosen role of wife, mother and household manager, maintaining a safe perimeter for her family. Florentino embraces Eros, death's well-known long-time enemy, setting off on a career of seductions that eventually add up to 622 "long term liaisons, apart from . . . countless fleeting adventures," while maintaining, impervious to time, his deeper fidelity, his unquenchable hope for a life with Fermina. At the end he can tell her truthfully -- though she doesn't believe it for a minute -- that he has remained a virgin for her.

So far as this is Florentino's story, in a way his Bildungsroman, we find ourselves, as he earns the suspension of our disbelief, cheering him on, wishing for the success of this stubborn warrior against age and death, and in the name of love. But like the best fictional characters, he insists on his autonomy, refusing to be anything less ambiguous than human. We must take him as he is, pursuing his tomcat destiny out among the streets and lovers' refuges of this city with which he lives on terms of such easy intimacy, carrying with him a potential for disasters from which he remains safe, immunized by a comical but dangerous indifference to consequences that often borders on criminal neglect. The widow Nazaret, one of many widows he is fated to make happy, seduces him during a nightlong bombardment from the cannons of an attacking army outside the city. Ausencia Santander's exquisitely furnished home is burgled of every movable item while she and Florentino are frolicking in bed. A girl he picks up at Carnival time turns out to be a homicidal machete-wielding escapee from the local asylum. Olimpia Zuleta's husband murders her when he sees a vulgar endearment Florentino has been thoughtless enough to write on her body in red paint. His lover's amorality causes not only individual misfortune but ecological destruction as well: as he learns by the end of the book, his River Company's insatiable appetite for firewood to fuel its steamers has wiped out the great forests that once bordered the Magdalena river system, leaving a wasteland where nothing can live. "With his mind clouded by his passion for Fermina Daza he never took the trouble to think about it, and by the time he realized the truth, there was nothing anyone could do except bring in a new river."

In fact, dumb luck has as much to do with getting Florentino through as the intensity or purity of his dream. The author's great affection for this character does not entirely overcome a sly concurrent subversion of the ethic of machismo, of which García Márquez is not especially fond, having described it elsewhere simply as usurpation of the rights of others. Indeed, as we've come to expect from his fiction, it's the women in this story who are stronger, more attuned to reality. When Florentino goes crazy with live, developing symptoms like those of cholera, it is his mother Transito Ariza, who pulls him out of it. His innumerable lecheries are rewarded not so much for any traditional masculine selling points as for his obvious and aching need to be loved. Women go for it. "He is ugly and sad," Fermina Daza's cousin Hildebranda tells her, "but he is all love."

And García Márquez, straight-faced teller of tall tales, is his biographer. At the age of 19, as he has reported, the young writer underwent a literary epiphany on reading the famous opening lines of Kafka's Metamorphosis, in which a man wakes to find himself transformed into a giant insect. "Gosh," exclaimed García Márquez, using in Spanish a word in English we may not, "that's just the way my grandmother used to talk!" And that, he adds is when novels began to interest him. Much of what come [sic] in his work to be called "magical realism" was, as he tells it, simply the presence of that grandmotherly voice.

Nevertheless, in this novel we have come a meaningful distance from Macondo, the magical village in One Hundred Years of Solitude where folks routinely sail through the air and the dead remain in everyday conversation with the living: we have descended, perhaps in some way down the same river, all the way downstream, into war and pestilence and urban confusions to the edge of a Caribbean haunted less by individual dead than by a history which has brought so appallingly many down, without ever having sopoken, or having spoken gone unheard, or having been heard, left unrecorded. As revolutionary as writing well is the duty to redeem these silences, a duty García Márquez has here fulfilled with honor and compassion. It would be presumptuous to speak of moving "beyond" One Hundred Years of Solitude but clearly García Márquez has moved somewhere else, not least into deeper awareness of the ways in which, as Florentino comes to learn, "nobody teaches life anything." There are still delightful and stunning moments contrary to fact, still told with the same unblinking humor -- presences at the foot of the bed, an anonymously delivered doll with a curse on it, the sinister parrot, almost a minor character, whose pursuit ends with the death of Dr. Juvenal Urbino. But the predominant claim on the author's attention and energies comes from what is not so contrary to fact, a human consensus about "reality" in which love and the possibility of love's extinction are the indispensable driving forces, and varieties of magic have become, if not quite peripheral, then at least more thoughtfully deployed in the service of an expanded vision, matured, darker than before but no less clement.

It could be argued that this is the only honest way to write about love, that without the darkness and the finitude there might be romance, erotica, social comedy, soap opera -- all genres, by the way, that are well represented in this novel -- but not the Big L. What that seems to require, along with a certain vantage point, a certain level of understanding, is an author's ability to control his own love for his characters, to withhold from the reader the full extent of his caring, in other words not to lapse into drivel.

In translating Love in the Time of Cholera, Edith Grossman has been attentive to this element of discipline, among many nuances of the author's voice to which she is sensitively, imaginatively attuned. My Spanish isn't perfect, but I can tell that she catches admirably and without apparent labor the swing and translucency of his writing, its slang and its classicism, the lyrical stretches and those end-of-sentence zingers he likes to hit us with. It is a faithful and beautiful piece of work.

There comes a moment, early in his career at the River Company of the Caribbean when Florentino Ariza, unable to write even a simple commercial letter without some kind of romantic poetry creeping in, is discussing the problem with his uncle Leo XII, who owns the company. It's no use, the young man protests -- "Love is the only thing that interests me."

"The trouble," his uncle replies," is that without river navigation, there is no love." For Florentino, this happens to be literally true: the shape of his life is defined by two momentous river voyages, half a century apart. On the first he made his decision to return and live forever in the city of Fermina Daza, to persevere in his love for as long as it might take. On the second, through a desolate landscape, he journeys into love and against time, with Fermina, at last by his side. There is nothing I have read quite like this astonishing final chapter, symphonic, sure in its dynamics and tempo, moving like a riverboat too, its author and pilot, with a lifetime's experience steering us unerringly among hazards of skepticism and mercy, on this river we all know, without whose navigation there is no love and against whose flow the effort to return is never worth a less honorable name than remembrance -- at the very best it results in works that can even return our worn souls to us, among which most certainly belongs Love in the Time of Cholera, this shining and heartbreaking novel.

By Thomas Pynchon*

* Thomas Ruggles Pynchon, Jr. (born May 8, 1937) is an American novelist based in New York City and noted for his dense and complex works of fiction. After publishing several short stories in the late 1950s and early 1960s, he began composing the novels for which he is best known: V. (1963), The Crying of Lot 49 (1966), Gravity's Rainbow (1973), and Mason & Dixon (1997).

Zorba the Greek – Life in a Nutshell - [Dileepa Karunarathna]

2010-04-06T03:40:00.000-07:00

Zorba the Greek – Life in a Nutshell

I recently watched this fabulous movie for the second time after about a year or so, which was a great revitalisation, amid examinations and left me with an impetus to write down few rudiment thoughts on the movie. The movie while discussing many auxiliary themes, basically depicts two different philosophies of life or lifestyles which can be adapted by oneself. This basic distinction is illustrated by Zorba who represents the practical man who has got tempered by life itself, and Basil–the boss, who represents theoretical serious man who tries to comprehend life using knowledge rather than experience. And the film highlights lapses of latter in a subtle way. This is not some completely new way of leading one’s life and we can find characters similar to Zorba in maxim Gorki’s stories which were written almost a century ago where we find protagonists who adore this-

-same free lifestyle. But this specifically compares that with the theoretical bookworm which has been treated as the logical counterpart of it. At the beginning of the movie where zorba and basil meets for the first time and have a drink in tavern, basil says that he writes “poetry essays....” where Zorba says “no you think too much that is your trouble.... clever people and grocers, they weigh everything”. Its true that sometimes people like basil tends to ponder a great deal to decide on something while it would be much easy for somebody like zorba to decide on the same thing based on his instincts and experience.

Consequently basil makes his decision and goes to the village with zorba where the remaining part of the story elapses. On the first few days they stay at a ‘hotel’ of a ‘French widow’ whose plight, resembles Katrina Ivanovna in crime and punishment. Her nostalgia of past which might be probably a blend of reality and imagination, and her perception of revolution as people running here and there etc. leave very little for our imagination to envisage what kind of ‘serious politics’ she and her 4 admirals had in bedroom. And yet at the same time we can notice that Zorba can empathize with her rather than basil who cannot stop laughing at her whimsical nature and thoughts, which again shows us a subtle distinction between the practical man and bookworm who relatively lacks experience.

The way men treat the widow (the younger one) in village tavern is horrendous and depicts the callousness of male chauvinism which was rampant in rural communities sometime ago. Zorba: “look at the faces of all these... they all want her... and they hate her because they cannot have her.” Being a lonely widow amid such crowd is not something simple and easy. In that context she needs a man rather than a boy like the student who goes after herself, which again depicts a sensitive and yet important aspect of life that is love alone doesn’t come first because of its purity and sincerity. Social factors have to be taken into the account when making a decision concerning a relationship in such situation not because it’s right, but because of constrains and theoretical limitations of the world and the society in which we live. Even though the student might really love the widow, in a profound way which is different from what naive childish teenage love, she cannot have a life with himself and neither can he have a life with herself, because of those other social factors which come to play. Such ideal situations can only exist in pure communist (collective) societies like Pandora tribe we see in ‘avatar’. But contrary to that in almost all contemporary societies, many other artificial social factors come to play when it comes to relationships. But here it seems like she is disgusting himself or trying to repel himself by using her bitchy shield and despite disgrace, he is still after her which is quite complicated situation which one might interpret as masochism. And at the same time this is not depressive or pessimistic movie since basil and zorba who can be idealised as a practical man who has been tempered by experiences he has gained, takes reasonable stance if not correct one, in most of the cases like this.

We can see that basil fails to do any labour work in the mine and the director pokes fun at him in the scene where he attempts to carry a log to the mine, in a funny way, and Zorba asks him to go back to his papers for god’s sake. We can also see there that Zorba is more fluent and able to deal with petite bourgeois villagers than basil. When Zorba shouts at villagers for being cowards and leaving their axes inside the mine which costs a lot of money, basil is glad that nobody was hurt and ask zorba to give workmen a day off, where Zorba says, "boss you better makeup your mind, are you or are you not a gosh-darn capitalist?”

The director brings out Zorba's attitude about war or more precisely, the futility of war in subsequent dialogue between him and basil where Zorba articulates his opinion about fights and wars based on race or nationality and also the nature of war and horrendous things which take place in a war. The director compares and contrasts Zorba's matured experienced worldview which realised the futility of war, with Basils’ simplistic attitude where he asks "what is so stupid about fighting for your country?"

"i have done things for my country, i have killed, burned villages, raped women... and why?... because they were turks of bulgarians. thats the rotten damn fool i was. now i look at a man, any man... and say he is good or bad. what do i care if he is greek or turk? as i get older i wouls stopp asking that. good or bad whats the difference? they endup in the same way... food for worms...."

But we can see that Zorba’s stance regarding women is quite outdated. Here women are depicted as helpless creatures who usually have to take refuge of men and therefore it’s a sin to betray them. The essence of idea is that women are feeble set of people which is proven to be wrong in subsequent years. This idea on women is brought out using the French widow with whom Zorba falls in love. She is presented as a very delicate woman who lives in her past glamorous days and laments about the grace she has lost in the natural aging process, where we know that women cannot be simplified to such model and is capable of getting involved in social movements, and making a productive contribution to social evolution, rather than being victims of despotic men and pleading them not to forget them, and lament telling that men are leaving them which implies that without men they cannot live or it make them helpless. And at the same time she can be considered as a general example of a woman who has not saturated of love in a real way and therefore, lives in dreams trying to experience it. Her delicate feelings are nicely brought out everywhere in this movie. Especially when she comes running to Basil’s place after getting to know that Zorba has sent a letter, where basil shams reading something else rather than the real letter of Zorba.

And we can see a very good example of the dignity of a man and the way he behaves or is supposed to behave as a layman, in zorba's visit to the city and getting insulted by a young harlot waitress as grandpa, telling that she is only doing her job and later getting attracted to zorba's money. and here we cannot with mathematical certainty or exactness, say what is the correct or incorrect way of behaving and judge zorba, but just can say that its purely realistic and natural and therefore can be justified as an attempt to show a certain aspect of reality to the reader, rather than judging and giving interpretations about deeds of character whether those are right or wrong, which is the essence of any form of artistic expression.

Basil’s inner conflict is quite nicely shown in that night when he finally decides to go to the young widow who is living in the village. He tries to dance like Zorba to get relaxed and decide on what he is going to do next. And there also we can see how women have been shown in conventional delicate and emotionally vulnerable way. Her behaviour in that night implies all this in a subtle way. We can see the callousness of raw primitive conservative ideology about women which prevailed there, and the scale of oppression and discrimination they have undergone, in subsequent scenes. All the villagers who failed to conquer her as a woman, taunt the student who is in love with her when they got a glimpse of Basil entering to widow’s house, which finally provokes the student to get drowned himself in sea. And the same people who espoused this calamity by provoking the student, ridicule and insult her by throwing stones at her house on their way to village from sea carrying the corpse of student.

The ruthless disgusting way they kill the widow for no reason at all, is hard to explain using words. The murder taking place while the funeral mass is going on in the church, the killer marking cross before assassination, all show how religion has been shrewdly associated with atrocious discriminations and horrendous customs. And we can see that Zorba again questions the use of books and knowledge which cannot provide answers (give solutions in more profound sense since its those so called educated and knowledgeable elite clique is supposed to find solutions for all kinds of social issues discriminations in a scholarly way which is repeatedly proven to be unsuccessful) for these questions and explain things happen in the society with reasons.

Zorba is the protagonist and idol around whom the story evolves and basil depicts the imperfect ordinary man who has books but yet constrained by social conditioning and various other things and therefore is different from the free-spirited Zorba who learnt things and has comprehended realities by his own experience.

The way villagers rob everything of the French widow when she is in deathbed, is quiet lousy. And we are further informed that there will be no funeral for the foreigner and the priests won’t bury her like anybody else.

The last misfortune which happens in the movie where their plan to ferry logs down the hill using cables fails displacing entire mechanism, again brings the main theme back to the play. Throughout the whole movie, we can see that zorba and basil has been compared and contrasted with each other, by pointing out traits of each of them throughout various scenes all where Zorba's free-spirited nature has been contrasted with basil who is disciplined, well ordered and tamed by social norms etc... , though he is a good man of justice and moral values with pure heart. Zorba correctly state all these in the end as, “boss you have got everything except, madness... a man need a little madness or else he never dares cut the rope and be free..." which is true to a great extent. The culmination of whole story is when basil realise zorba's point and acknowledge it which might had been a gradual process which was happening since they met each other and it has ultimately made him able to laugh at the crash (destruction of their apparatus) which he might have considered as a personal catastrophe which ruined all his plans, from practical man's point of view. Yet the moral of the theme is that those incidents and catastrophes are unavoidable, which is also a core tenet in Buddhism and other similar philosophies, and therefore what we can do is to laugh and live the life without enduring it by artificial agony created by mind, with the help of the idea of possession, ownership, and unrealised expectations. It is indeed a very high status any layman can achieve that is being able to dance in the rain despite circumstances which are more than enough to lead him to misery, despair and depression.

Martin Wickramasinghe also presented similar ideas which idolises practical man in village rather than educated man. But he was not clear about, if he wasn’t unaware of, the petite bourgeois nature of the villagers and things like hypocrisy associated in such society. Contrary to the villagers, Zorba is a bohemian worker who has travelled all over the world, been to America, has participated in battles in war, same as characters we find in Gorki’s stories.

The movie as a whole, questions the established paradigm of success where relentless pursuit of ‘success’ is adored and considered a must to survive in this rat race of life and adherence to the established criteria against which we measure success. We can see that a free-sprited person like Zorba can be happier and therefore can be considered more successful than conventional (or established) model of success. But again the personal objectives and obligations bestowed on a person from a social background like that of basil, all results in him being this kind of prudent sensible person contrary to free sprited Zorba. In other hand Zorba enjoys simple pleasures like dolphins, dancing etc... he cannot understand why Basil doesn’t like dolphins(at the beginning of the movie) which implies that Basil has become a person who is not capable of enjoying such simple things in life because of books and his conventional practical lifestyle.

The movie as a whole carries a simple yet profound insight on life while discussing a variety of themes and provides a novel way of looking at life for those who are lost in the mayhem of contemporary society and is searching for harmony and happiness.

Dileepa Karunarathna
13.02.2010
Torrents

Because We Were Not There [Ajith C. Herath]

2010-03-25T05:55:00.000-07:00

Because We Were Not There

Once I dreamt,
of drawing you, only you,
but I woke up,
before I was done.
By then, I had become a matchstick man
in a scribbling of your childhood’s morn.

Everyone in your house
with its front door barred
was looking through windows,
all except you.
Flowers were blooming in your garden,
your ragdoll lying among them,
but you were not to be seen.

Traces you left
along the deep blue river,
where shoals of goldfish swam,
took me to distant green hills,
but not to you.

Blackbirds flying
over a yellow sun
in a blue and white sky
never led me to you.

But a prisoner of your
childhood’s landscape,
among the hills and valleys,
its rivers and dales
I looked for you, never finding.

When one night
I dreamt again
of my picture of you,
as you looked on,
tongues of fire
devoured the canvas
leaving the frame.

When they finally came
and looked through,
all were alive, except you and I.

Ajith C. Herath 2002
Translated by HirJa

We are the time. We are the famous [Jorge Luis Borges]

2010-03-16T01:23:00.000-07:00

We are the time. We are the famous

We are the time.
We are the famous metaphor from Heraclitus* the Obscure.

We are the water, not the hard diamond,
the one that is lost, not the one that stands still.

We are the river and we are that greek
that looks himself into the river.
His reflection changes into the waters of the changing mirror,
into the crystal that changes like the fire.

We are the vain predetermined river,
in his travel to his sea.

The shadows have surrounded him.
Everything said goodbye to us, everything goes away.

Memory does not stamp his own coin.

However, there is something that stays
however, there is something that bemoan.

-Jorge Luis Borges-

*Heraclitus of Ephesus (535–c. 475 BCE) was a pre-Socratic Greek philosopher, who was called "The Obscure," and the "Weeping Philosopher." Heraclitus is famous for his doctrine of change being central to the universe, as stated in his famous saying, "You cannot step twice into the same river."

Companion [Sriya Kumarasinghe]

2010-02-26T08:21:00.000-08:00

Companion

I lived in a desert
Alone and tired
It was an oasis
To the rest of the world

I cried to be moist
With the drops on my lips
It was only you
Who served me the most

Though it moves
My little caravan
From desert to desert
In days and night

You are the shadow
I want all the way
To make me cool
And to heat my soul

-Sriya Kumarasinghe-

The Poet -[Richard de Zoysa]

2010-02-21T05:18:00.000-08:00

I am the eye of the camera
Can only reflect, never reject
Never deflect.

I am the eye of the Camera
Silent recorder of life and death
Eye that can only reflect
Never conjure up images
Probe the reality
Never reject.

I am the eye of the Camera
I reflect nothing, but the truth
The external reality
Can not deflect
The mind of the viewer
From the picture to passion.

I let them all fashion
Their truths through my magic
I can not reject, the external reality
That passes for truth

And what is rejected
By natural selection
Has nothing to do with me
When I am impotent
Robbed of my power
My eyes in the dark at the moment of crisis
See nothing, but well favoured men of the hour.

I am the storm’s eye
Ceaselessly turning around me
The burning the death the destruction
The clichés that govern the world of the words
Of the prophets and preachers, and may be the savior
Are lost to my peering
Blind eye in the dark.

Richard de Zoysa (1989)

Lost Land [Kalpana Ambrose]

2010-02-17T09:19:00.000-08:00

Lost Land

The Frozen breeze,displaced, so squeezed

Voiceless birds which lost their beaks

Trees that were left without shades and leaves

Born, but not bloomed, the flowers that weep

Just one teardrop that feels afraid to fall

Just one deep sigh that fights to break the wall

The great nobel song, no one to sing at all

The heavenly land, lost its spirit and soul

Mythology of tribal Asia

2010-02-15T03:29:00.000-08:00

Pre – historic tribal stories began with legends. The antiquities and legends assist reliable evidence to study of our ancestors. The origin of Chinese, Greeks and Romans are based on epics and legends. Therefore, the evaluated civilization on Sindu River banks rich in Hindu epics and folk stories. The word yakkha is first found in Veda called jayaminiya brahmana, written between 2000 – 1500 BC. Kubera, the leader of yakkha, was a black skinned native. He wasn’t included in the order of Brahman gods. Harithi, female deity was his wife, settled in alakapura at kailasa kuta. According to the Hindu epics, god shiva also lived there as well as other tribes such as kinnara, gandharwa and muni etc……..

Anthropologists found remnants of early humans at sivalic near Himalayas in 1915 – 34 AD. Future remnants have been found in Java Island, china, Rhodesia and Germany. The evidence of humans dwelt in India was supported by the early stone instruments of the stone culture, which belonged to the 2nd glacier age around 200,000 – 40,000 BC. The stone instruments spread from England to Africa and china is of stone culture too……

The early humans who used the blunt Paleolithic instruments came out of the forests only in Neolithic era. They developed their skills of pottery, weapons, animal husbandry and cultivation. They found fire at the end of the early Stone Age. The greatest discovery of this era is the usage of iron. The entire world, tribes begun based on maternal tradition. Every man of the tribe was a husband to all women and every woman was a wife to all men. Anthropologists clearly mentioned the maternal grand mother decided the rights of children, because the mother of the child is a definite identification. The soul of the grandmother became the protector of the tribe, after her death. Thus, the concept of rakshini, a female deity was born from this cult, rakshini was known as vasundara near Sindu River at mohenjodaro and jaganmatha, near pancanadie basin at Harappa. The goddesses of maternal rights were called erani in Greece. In Greek mythology, eranis bore serpents instead of hair. The female deities of Hindu mythology, very pretty as shown by the images of the dancing girl in Harappa, yakshanis in didarganji, sculpture of sanchi, mature and barhut. The santal, indigenous people in west Bengali believe in yakkhani durga. Further two other female yakkhanis, namely bhadra and subahadra were mentioned in associate with Wasundara. The Romany nomad gypsy people in Europe, who believe in black – skinned goddess, it could be a yakkhani. Further there are believes of yskkhsnis curing diseases, such as sibala for measles, balabibi for cholera.

The belief of seven grand mothers (sat pattni) in Sri Lanka is based on pattini cult. According to Hindu mythology, pattini was a yakkhini appearing in the male from of prajapathi. Hariti, the female protector of rajgir belongs to Magadha territory. The Chinese pilgrim, hieun tsang recorded hariti as the mother goddess. Most of the female protectors of south India are from yakkha tribe. Manibadhra, manicara, manimat nagas were frequently mentioned with rakshas and nagas.

According to Chinese pilgrim hieun tsang (629 – 645 AD) pataliputra (Patna) was built by yakshas. Emperor Asoka (269 – 232 BC) built budhgaya receiving help of yakshas and nagas, as recorded in Tibetan Buddhist texts. Thus, we can conclude that yakshas and nagas dwelt in Magadha, rajgir, budhgaya and Patna. Inscription have been found mentioning that Patna belonged to nandi and vardana yaksha brothers; also evidence of existence of yaksha and nagas, namely nandi, nandivardana, manibadra and poornabhadra in sanchi. Bharhut scriptures mentioned the name of yakshas such as susiloma yakko, supavasa yakko, virudhaka yakko, gangitha yakko, kupiro yakko, sudarsana yakki and gandha yakki.

The concept of gopalu yaksha, the protector of herds of cattle, entered the tribal society. The tribal leader was born to protect the number of cattle, crops, lands other properties. Man left the nomad life and started near water resources where he could get water for cultivation. They created a common language, cremation ground and symbol of tribe. These tribes which based on blood relationships were named after the species of animal such as lions, tigers, bears, eagles and bulls. For example, the saka tribe adopted the symbols cart wheel and bull. Murunda tribe dwelling at sindu nadie basin and kalabara tribe at panca nadie basin were adopting the symbols of lion and bear respectively. Crows and eagles symbolize even the modern aborigine’s tribes, wurundjery willam in Melbourne at Australia.

Under the paternal dominancy, marriage between the blood relatives was prohibited. Thought monogamy replaced polygamy, the tradition of polygamy and polyandry did not ceased completely. The fading of intra marriages of blood relatives lead to inter tribal marriages, spreading believes of yakkshas and nagas of one tribe to the other. Tribes widen to from villages, the tribal leader becoming the gramini / gamini village headman)
During 1400 – 2000 BC The Aryan migrated from middle Asia to sindu nadie and panca nadie basins in northern India, Crossing Persia. (Iran) they brought more advanced beliefs of ancestors as devas (gods) in Latin deva means bright) this white – skinned devas attracted more respect than black – skinned yaksha of indigenous people at the region, through the customs hardly changed. After formation of Yakshas, nagas and Devas, their duties of the society were determined; Yakshas protecting the earth, nagas water resources and devas protecting plants and seeds. With the corporation of all three parties, the agricultural civilization flourished, which separate into sub tribes at a later stage.

The new political policy of Aryan lead to relationships with yakshas in both friendly and forceful ways, Aryans took responsibility of maintaining the leadership of rakshas and rakshinis, while introducing their own gods and goddesses such as indra, varuna and soma etc……..as in the past times, where the female dominancy transferred to male dominancy, marriages between the yakshas and devas happened in the present. The daughter of kubera, minakshi married god shiva; kubera enhanced to the state of god vaishravana. The above mentioned yakshas are mentioned as deities in Hindu, Buddhist and Jain manuscripts; further vaishravana. Dhartrashtha, virudhaka are considered as the sataravaram devas / lkapalak devas. (Deities protecting the world) protecting the north, east south and west sides of the universe. Some of the other yakshas who got promoted to divine state are katikeya, shanker, vibhishana, suprabuddha, kamadeva and some mentioned in jain bhagvat sutta such as punnabhadra, manibhadra, salibhadra and atanatiya sutta, the yakshas and devas are equally invited, but yakshas are considered as mityadrushtika. In the epic Mahabharata, the yakshas panca pandava (including arjun and duryoja) and pancali / droupadhi have sent to heaven for divine states lately. Parallel to Greek goddesses, ataitis – goddess, preiya – goddess of prosperity; lakshmi – goddess of wealth and saraswati – goddess of art born at this era….

Contrary to the tradition of consideration of grand parents as deities, the new deities were not blood relatives. They appeared to be higher than the human and stepped to heavens via the skies above Kailasha Mountain in Himalaya. As Gods dwelt much higher than the human, Brahmin was born to act as an agent between the human and the gods, breaking the tradition of the tribal society. Brahmin spread the idea that only he can pray and offer the deities on behalf of the society.

The tribal leader, now known as Gamini, the village leader upgraded himself as Jeshta Gamini, the leader of many villages following the concept of kingdom; according to the Buddhist legends, Bimbisara was a Jeshta gamini for eighty thousand villages. Thus, the combination of many villages built a kingdom, with the development of herds of cattle and cultivation lands, privatization of property begun. Having extra wealth and food strengthen the concept of kingdoms, thus loosing the power of Brahmins, the king became higher position of the society, the loved one of god giving rise to kshatriya clan, the cast of kings; but according to Aeiteriya Brahmana, the gods would not accept the offerings unless done via a Brahmin, thought in Upanishad, kashtriya are stated as higher than Brahmin. Kashtriya has predominates all the other cast including Brahmins in the Buddhist literature as shown in Ambatta sutta in Diga nikaya.

In the tribal society, this was based on privatization of the property, kashtriya / king ruled the lands and cattle; vaishya acted as merchants and shudra fulfilled the other duties of the society. Pancamas were excluded from the society as they refused to follow this hierarchy. The great service of kashtriyas such as Gautama and vardamana, supported Kashtriya to be the ruling party over Brahmins, most prominent examples been King Chandragupta and Asoka establishing their empire throughout India.

Sunil Ranasinghe
Sunil.ranasinghe@sociologist.com

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings [Maya Angelou]

2010-02-07T23:33:00.000-08:00

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

The free bird leaps

on the back of the win

and floats downstream

till the current ends

and dips his wings

in the orange sun rays

and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks

down his narrow cage

can seldom see through

his bars of rage

his wings are clipped and

his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings

with fearful trill

of the things unknown

but longed for still

and is tune is heard

on the distant hillfor the caged bird

sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze

an the trade winds soft through the sighing trees

and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn

and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams

his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream

his wings are clipped and his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings

with a fearful trill

of things unknown

but longed for still

and his tune is heard

on the distant hill

for the caged bird

sings of freedom.

-//-

*Maya Angelou is an American autobiographer and poet who has been called "America's most visible black female autobiographer. Her books, centered on themes such as identity, family, and racism, are often used as set texts in schools and universities internationally. Some of her more controversial work has been challenged or banned in US schools and libraries.

no one left to speak out. - Martin Niemöller (1892–1984)

2010-02-02T00:17:00.000-08:00

When the Nazis came for the communists,

I remained silent;

I was not a communist.

When they locked up the social democrats,
I remained silent;
I was not a social democrat.

When they came for the trade unionists,
I did not speak out;
I was not a trade unionist.

When they came for the Jews,
I remained silent;
I was not a Jew.

When they came for me,
there was no one left to speak out.

A poem of Martin Niemöller (1892–1984) [1]
(1976 version)

Yes, I am Tamil! [Mahesh Munasinghe: “මම දෙමළ”]

2010-01-28T23:43:00.000-08:00

Yes, I am Tamil!

When Weerasena was interdicted

And the sun was on fire

Above the textile factory

Shouting slogans

Screaming hoarsely

Brother Nadesan

At the flaming pickets

I was a Tamil

When Weere got the job back

Riding on the shoulders

“Long live brother Nade….!”

The victorious king

In the victory parade

I was a Tamil

When Siripala 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 savior”

Sira, you embraced me sobbing

I was a Tamil.

When Kusum 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! Give us the peace!”

“Give us the peace! Slay the Tamils!”

Sira, there’s no hospital here

Only a collapsed heap of bricks

Crushed into pieces

With heartless shelling

Kusum,

Oh! dear Kusum,

If you can see the flow of 'O' negative today

How I am being drenched myself in it

Too much to get absorbed

in to this parched earth...

In the graveyard of my race

Where, all our sons

And grandsons were slaughtered

Here I’m struggling all alone

to gasp at my last breath

Yes,

I AM Tamil!

-------//------

*Weerasena, Siripala and Kusum are Sinhalese names.

**Weere is the short form of Weerasena and Sira is the short form of Siripala.

***Nade is a short form of a Tamil name(Nadesan).

-Mahesh Munasinghe: “මම දෙමළ”
[Translated By: Ransirimal Fernando/Malathie Kalpana Ambrose]

Till, January 26th [Malathie Kalpana Ambrose]

2010-01-24T23:40:00.000-08:00

Till, January 26th

Flags, hoisted

Victory, revived

Epics, chanted
History re-written

Wild roars, screamed

Tears, renowned

Yet,

Those heart beats,

Whose voices were robbed?

Suppressed, buried

Concealed, denied.

Malathie Kalpana Ambrose
Jan,2010

What is life....? [The Ruba’iyat of Omar Khayyam]

2010-01-24T05:52:00.000-08:00

What is life?

[The Ruba’iyat of Omar Khayyam]

There was a water-drop, it joined the sea,

A speck of dust, it was fused with earth;

What of your entering and leaving this world?

A fly appeared, and disappeared.

Of all who went on this long road,

Where is the one who has returned to tell us the secret?

Take care of leave nothing for your needs on the two-ended way,

You will not be coming back.

I saw an old man in the wine-shop,

I said, “Have you any news of those who have gone”?

He replied, “Take some wine, because like us many

Have gone, none has come back.”

A religious man said to a whore, “You are drunk,

Caught every moment in a different snare.”

She replied, “Oh Shaikh, I am what you say,

Are you what you seem?”

I need a jug of wine and a book of poetry,

Half a loaf for a bite to eat,

Then you and I, seated in a deserted spot,

Will have more wealth than a Sultan’s realm.

You have seen the world and all you have seen was nothing,

All you have said and heard, that too is nothing:

Running from pole to pole, there was nothing,

And when you lurked at home, there was also nothing.

Suppose the world went as you wanted, then what?

And suppose this book of life were read through, then what?

Let me suppose a century of self-gratification left,

Even supposing we had a century more, then what?

See what I’ve got from the world nothing;

The fruit of my life’s work? Nothing:

I am the light of the party, but when sit down, I am nothing;

I am a wine-pot, but when I’m broken, nothing.

Every now and then someone comes saying, “It is I.”

He arrives with favors, silver and Gold saying, “It is I.”

When his little affair is sorted out for a day,

Death suddenly jump out of ambush saying, “It is I.”

-//-

[Selected Poems of The Ruba’iyat of Omar Khayyam

-From the Translated version by Peter Avery and John Health Stubbs]

In Their Own Worlds – A. Santhan

2010-01-19T21:03:00.000-08:00

He caught sight of it as he was closing the compound gate. An earth worm. Well-fed during the last month’s rain and fat, it had managed to come to the surface somehow or other. Now wriggling… If it had encountered any ants or birds…? Ravi shuddered and felt sorry for the worm.

As he bent to toss it away with a stick to a safer place, the idea struck him suddenly. It would make a wonderful plaything for his nephew.

Ravi went again in to the house and returned with a sheet of paper. He took the worm, carefully placed it on the paper, folded it gently and put it in to the bicycle basket.

When he reached his sister’s place, he called out his nephew.

“Come and see what I have for you…”

Kunchu came running on his small feet and couldn’t control his amusement when he looked in to the parcel.

“Amma, uncle has brought a small snake.. .” he shouted excitedly to his mother and repeated it to his grandmother, too.

“No, dear, it is not a small snake.. it is and earth worm..” said Ravi.

Granny came there and looked in to the parcel. “Your uncle is such a care-free man that he has time to play with worms”.. she told Kunchu, blaming her son. Sunchu’s mother came there and told her brother:

“Thambi your brother-in-law, who left for Vavuniya last Monday, promised to return yesterday and hasn’t come yet…Could you please go to his mother’s house and find out if there is any news?” her eyes brimmed with tears.

“He will be back today, don’t worry…”he tried to console her.

“…Yesterday paper spoke of some trouble in Vavuniya, the day before………..”

“Uncle, uncle, the earthworm is going to fall….”

“Wait here and have a look…” Ravi told his nephew and went to the store room. Fetching an empty jam jar, he washed and filled it with earth from the backyard.
“What is it for, uncle?”… Kunchu asked when he returned with the bottle.

“For the earth worm to live…”

“Where does it live?”

“In the earth…..”

“Then how did you catch this?”

“When it came out…”

“Why did it come out?”

“May be because of the rains…..” Ravi said and put the worm in to the bottle.

“Look, it will bore its way in…”

“How? Has it got any legs or hands?”

“It will bore with its head…”

“Wouldn’t the earth get in to its eyes, then?”

“It doesn’t have any eyes…”

Kunchu, unable to believe the things his uncle told him, kept the bottle and squatted by its side. Sister came again.

“In case you are going, better start before the sun is up…. ” she said.

“Yes….”

“If he hasn’t returned yet, ask if they had received any message from him…”

“Uncle, it is boring….”

“Wait, have a cup of tea and go…”

“Hurrah, it is going uncle…”

“Don’t disturb the bottle….”

While drinking the tea, Kunchu asked him:

“Uncle how does it cry?”

“It doesn’t cry…..”

“What does it eat?”

“The earth…”

“Look, how deep it has gone…more than half its length.”

Ravi told them he was off and started towards his brother-in-laws mother’s place. When pushing the bicycle out, the thud-thud of a motor bicycle was heard at the gate.

It was the brother-in-law himself,

Sister too much have heard the noise and came out running.

“Why? Was there any trouble? Why were you late?...” she poured out the questions, her face gleaming.

“Appa…” Kunchu, too shouted at his father who was getting down from his motor bike:

“….the earthworm has got in completely.”

- A. Santhan -

Living City

2010-01-17T23:21:00.000-08:00

The city is dancing

A devil’s dance
Its flickering lights
Shake you
Throw you up

Blocks are transparent
With methane
Air is heavy, smelly as nudity
Every obsolete brand is
Beaming on signboards

Talking boxes
Govern the city
Marketing hypos
Inject needs
Into people in comatose

Sriya Kumarasinghe
18/01/2010

"I Have a Dream" - Martin Luther King, Jr.

2010-01-16T20:50:00.000-08:00

"I Have a Dream"

Martin Luther King, Jr.

[Delivered 28 August 1963, at the Lincoln Memorial, Washington D.C.]

I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.

But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languished in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. And so we've come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.

In a sense we've come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the "unalienable Rights" of "Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note, insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked "insufficient funds."

But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. And so, we've come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice.

We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children.

It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. And those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. And there will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.

But there is something that I must say to my people, who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice: In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.

The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. And they have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom.

We cannot walk alone.

And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead.

We cannot turn back.

There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their self-hood and robbed of their dignity by signs stating: "For Whites Only." We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until "justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream."¹

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. And some of you have come from areas where your quest -- quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive. Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed.

Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends.

And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of "interposition" and "nullification" -- one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; "and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together."

This is our hope, and this is the faith that I go back to the South with.

With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

And this will be the day -- this will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with new meaning:

My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing.

Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim's pride,

From every mountainside, let freedom ring!

And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true.

And so let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire.

Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York.

Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania.

Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado.

Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California.

But not only that:

Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.

Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee.

Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi.

From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

And when this happens, when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:

Free at last! Free at last!

Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!

[Listen to the speech]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PbUtL_0vAJk

The Anonymous People

2010-01-16T18:43:00.000-08:00

Are the anonymous people
No photographs
No paintings
To record our past
Our fore fathers
Collected no stamps

No public wall
Bears our Name
No awards to us
In public games

We
Are the anonymous people
Our fathers were the same

Ages of suffering
Connect us to the past
No memories of us
But our world is vast

We
Are the anonymous people
Silence in our mask.

- Basil Fernando -
Sri Lankan Literature in English (1948 -1998) published by the Department of Cultural Affairs

Boris Pasternak -the Man who saw the other side of the Bolshevik Revolution

2010-01-14T20:41:00.000-08:00

Boris Pasternak -the Man who saw the other side of the Bolshevik Revolution

Dr Ruwan M Jayatunge

In every generation there has to be some fool who will speak the truth as he sees it.
-Boris Pasternak

The Nobel Prize-winning Russian poet and writer Boris Pasternak became world famous for his controversial novel Doctor Zhivago which underscores the plight of the Russian upper middle class during the Bolshevik Revolution. Pasternak was a great composer of images. His grand novel is full of humanism and Pasternak presents the character formation in a poetic vision. He saw the gigantic social changes of 1917 in a human kaleidoscope.

Although the novel was written during the years surrounding the revolution (1910-1920), it was published several decades later. Pasternak’s vision of cosmology, and passion for the individual as well as for life splendidly written in this great novel. It is a snapshot into Russian life Russian Revolution and the early Soviet era of life.

Pasternak highlights the problem of modern sociopolitical existence through his masterpiece Dr Zivago. It is a panoramic social and political chronicle, which describes the social turmoil during and after the Russian Revolution and how the Russian upper middle class was despondently affected by it. Pasternak’s revelation highlights a dramatic question. Is it fare to sacrifice personal freedom and personal life for a social ideology?

The concept of ideology is most generally associated with power relations and often has no regard to human feelings. The ideology can be interpreted as the way in which people think about the world and their ideal concept of how to live in the world. It is a shared belief of a group of people, groups deliberately planning to oppress people or alter their 'consciousness. In this process violence, torture and terror are used and people are judged by their ideological views.

The Bolshevik Revolution had brought about a fundamental change in the organization of Russian society. The Bolshevik idea of "building a new man via social construction was an indigestible paragon for people like Uri Zhivago. Such people should adopt, perish or leave the system. When there is a dynamic social, change it, gives no place for personal feelings and everybody should get used to a collective life. Ideology and slogans become the center of life. People are judged politically. In such an environment, individuals are given less choices. Dr Yury Zhivago was one of the countless victims of such a system.

The romance between Yuri Zhivago and Larissa Antipova was a personnel issue and it had no place in the Bolshevik concepts although Lenin enjoyed his private married life with Krupskaya and Stalin with Nadia Alliluyeva. Even though the Red hardliner Strelnikove states that, the personal life is dead in Russia it was not applicable for everyone.

Uri Zhivago a doctor and a sensitive man dramatically torn apart by forces beyond his control. Dr Zhivago became a victim of a personal tragedy as well as a collective tragedy. Yuri's mother died when he was a child, leaving him only a balalaika. Young Uri was adopted by his uncle. While living in Moscow he had a passionate interest in poetry. Doctor Uri Zhivago was recognized as a professional as well as a poet in the Russian society. But his life was torn between his two loves Tonia Gromyko his wife and Lara Antipova the beautiful nurse.

When the Civil War erupted, Doctor Zhivago was forcibly removed from his wife and family by the Red Partisans and eventually his wife Tonia escapes to Paris with the children. When Strelnikove was arrested, Lara’s life was in danger and she was compelled to go with Victor
Komarovsky -the immoral man and an opportunist. Thus, Dr Uri Zhivago lost Lara as well and becomes a fragile man. Lara disappeared off the street during Stalin's Great Purge. "Perhaps in a labor camp," narrated General Yevgraf, "A nameless number, on a nameless list which was later mislaid." Love and innocence lost he was aimless. Dr Zhivago dies of a heart attack while pursuing a woman he believes to be Lara down a Moscow street.

The collective tragedy fell upon on him with the Revolution. The bourgeois Moscovites grand lifestyle of enjoying champagne, caviar and vodka came to a hold with the Revolution. Their lives became topsy-turvy. Doctor Zhivago’s family wealth was confiscated and their house had been divided into tenements by the new Soviet Government. Zhivago’s family was confined to a small room. Dr Uri Zhivago was hated by the Bolsheviks because of his middle class bourgeois roots. His poetry was considered as lines of petty indulging verses.

The revolution brought them misery and disappointments. Thousands were shot dead. The Revolutionary Committee could arrest or execute anyone labeling a counter revolutionary. Wealthy landowners were exterminated classifying them as Kulaks. There was no clear definition or a demarcation of a Kulak. A person owned thousand hectares of land was considered a Kulak. At the height of the state terror under Joseph Stalin, a farmer owned two pounds of grain also labeled as a Kulak and executed.

Bolsheviks believed that they had found the pathway to Utopia. They rationalized the devastation followed by the Revolution stating that if you want to make an omelet, you've got to break some eggs.' Boris Pasternak indirectly puts the question to Bolsheviks through his book Dr Zhivago. Pasternak is questioning -`I see the broken eggs, but Where's the omelet?'

Pasternak passionately renounced the Bolshevik idea of "building a new man" according to the Revolutionary measurements. Pasternak knew it was against nature. He argued that you could cut the tumors of injustice, which is a painful operation, provided that the patient should be kept alive.

The novel Dr Zhivago is a saga, spanning Zhivago's life depicting several authentic characters. Boris Pasternak adored the poet Alexander Block Dr. Zhivago may have been based in part on the real life Russian poet Alexander Blok who was the most famous and influential in Russia. Alexander Block was a symbolist poet who sought to convey individual emotional experience through the subtle, suggestive use of highly metaphorical language. In the years after the revolution, Blok was very involved in social and political journalism and in criticism. Blok's disillusionment with the Soviet bureaucracy and censorship is suggested in his fierce and eloquent essay in 1921 "On the Poet's Calling" Blok died in Petrograd on Aug. 7, 1921 at the age of thirty-seven. Like the fictitious character, Dr Uri Zhivago Block died under physical and emotional exhaustion and with a great disillusionment.

The second character Pavel Antipov or Strelnikov’s personality is much similar to Leon Trotsky (Lev Davidovich Bronshtein). Pavel Antipov was a son of a railway worker. He marred Lara and moved to the Urals. He joined the army as a volunteer during the World War One and fought in the German lines. Wounded in the battle Pavel Antipov was presumed dead but later returns, using the pseudonym Strelnikov with a total personality change. He was not a warm caring man anymore, turned in to a bloodthirsty military commissar.

Like Pavel Antipov, Trotsky was against the Bolsheviks in the early stages but later deeply embraced the Bolshevism. Leon Trotsky formed the Red Army that fought with the White Guard in the Civil War. Leon Trotsky spent his time during the civil war in a train traveling widely across the young Soviet Union. According to the novel Pavel Antipov alias Strelnikov was a ruthless character who travels by a special guarded train destroying villages and eliminating people who help the Whites.

When Dr Zhivago accidentally encountered Strelnikov’s well-protected locomotive he was arrested and taken before Strelnikov. When Strelnikov sees Dr Zhivago he immediately recognizes the famous Russian Poet. These were the words of Strelnikov when he denounced
Zhivago ’s poetry.

I used to admire your poems. I shouldn't admire it now. I should find it absurdly personal. Don't you agree? Feelings, insights, affections... it's suddenly trivial now. You don't agree; you're wrong. The personal life is dead in Russia. History has killed it. I can see why you might hate me.

Leon Trotsky and Strelnikov shred a common fate. Both of them fell from grace. The Bolsheviks relinquished both. Strelnikov committed suicide while he was taken to a firing squad and Trotsky was murdered in Mexico.

Yevgraf Zhivago is another Character Pasternak introduced in this novel. According to the book Yevgraf was Dr Uri Zhivago 's younger illegitimate half-brother who was working for the Cheka. Cheka was a secret police force that was founded soon after the Revolution. Cheka had power to arrest people. No judicial process was involved in assessing the guilt or innocence of any of its prisoners. Punishments, including the death penalty, were arbitrarily applied. The Cheka was granted the power of summary trials and execution of death sentence.
There are much resemblance between Yevgraf Zhivago and Felix Dzerzhinsky – the founder of Bolshevik secret police the Cheka. Dzerzhinsky was not a Russian, he was a Polish. In Pasternak’s book Yevgraf Zhivago was illegitimate (non Russian ?). Like Dzerzhinsky, Yevgraf Zhivago combats internal political threats executing suspects.

Dzerzhinsky once publicly stated that "We represent in ourselves organized terror -- this must be said very clearly and the terrorization, arrests and extermination of enemies of the revolution on the basis of their class affiliation or of their pre-revolutionary roles.”

Yevgraf Zhivago 's words correspond to the power that Cheka members had. Indeed as a policeman I would say, get hold of a man's brother and you're halfway home. Nor was it admiration for a better man than me. I did admire him, but I didn't think he was the better man. Besides, I've executed better men than me with a small pistol.

Cheka became ill famous for large-scale human rights abuses, including torture and mass summary executions, carried out especially during the Russian Civil War.

Another relatively small but rousing character was introduced in the novel whose name is Lieutenant Razin. He was categorically against demobilizing Dr Zhivago from the Red Army Partisan unit. In a public debate, he expresses his opinion thus …

As the military struggle draws to a close, the political struggle intensifies. In the hour of victory, the military will have served its purpose - and all men will be judged politically regardless of their military record. (Please compare this with the present power struggle in Sri Lanka between President Rajapaksha and General Sarath Fonseka. Was Pasternak a genius?)

Lieutenant Razin could be Kliment Voroshilov who was the commissar of the 1st Cavalry Army and later became the People’s Commissioner for Military and Navy Affairs and Chairman of the Revolutionary Military Council of the USSR. Voroshilov gave his full support to Joseph Stalin’s 1930 Great Purge, denouncing a large number of his colleagues who served in the Army.

John Locke and Jeremy Bentham described society as comprising individuals interacting through market relations. However, Bolsheviks went further and wanted to create a socialist Utopia through revolution and subsequently via Stalinism. Nonetheless, Pasternak viewed it as a colossal social upheaval caused millions of human lives in Gulags or slave labor concentration camps that became a symbol of tyranny and oppression.

Pasternak’s novel Dr Zhivago was banned in Russia for 30 years when he attempted to publish in 1957. As the protagonist of the novel, Uri Zhivago Pasternak was once considered by the system as a misfit. He was persecuted by the Soviet authorities as a traitor. Pasternak won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1958, but he was compelled to deny it following the pressure put by the Soviet regime. In 1987, the Union of Soviet Writers posthumously reinstated Pasternak. Doctor Zhivago was finally published in Russia in 1988 after the collapse of the
Soviet Union. Pasternak left us with moral questions that are convoluted to find answers. But words of Alexander Berkman coincide Pasternak’s inner thought about the revolution.

"No revolution has yet tried the true way of liberty. None has had sufficient faith in it. Force and suppression, persecution, revenge, and terror have characterized all revolutions in the past and have thereby defeated their original aims. The time has come to try new methods, new ways. The social revolution is to achieve the emancipation of man through liberty, but if we have no faith in the latter, revolution becomes a denial and betrayal of itself."

The Lunatic in Town

2010-01-13T17:52:00.000-08:00

I am the champion
Who narrates in public
All the nasty dreams
You see
During the night
But, do not disclose

I am the companion
Of dogs and crows
Who prowl about
And feed on
The left –overs of the city

I am the poet
Who views the rainbows
Painted in the sky
And count the lightnings
Flashing in the sky

I am the hermit
Who barges in to your midst
Throwing the empty hand about
In fun and frolic
When you tread
With heavy steps
And heavier heads

I am the lunatic
Who combs the city
With sleepless eyes
When you all are
Cuddle at home
In deep slumber

Impedes (1999) – By Ariyawansa Ranaweera
Extracted from “Echoing Ethos” by E.M.G. Edirisinghe

Struggle with a Serpent - [K.K. Saman Kumara]

2010-01-13T01:05:00.000-08:00

Struggle with a Serpent

The serpent slithered away, frightened by the sound of the trembling earth. But from that day onwards, it would come on and off pester me. When it arrived, I distracted myself by picturing how, like any affectionate farther, I would one day, pet her little ones. The poison coursing through my body was neutralized by these thoughts. But I couldn’t control its recurrence for good.

-By. K.K. Saman Kumara

From the labour room came the strident cry of a newcomer stepping out onto the threshold of this world. Suddenly the door burst open, a loud wail coming from within.

The body of my dead wife lay inside a coffin. An oil lamp burned silently at the head of the casket. Lumps of earth falling continuously down into the pit, covered the coffin. I hugged the newborn infant to my bosom and sobbed in total anguish, unable to control my self. There appeared a few wreaths on top of the fresh earth. In no time, the mound of earth began sinking down and grass grew around it. Before long, it was covered in wild plants and shrubs, unrecognizable.

It was not long before my baby daughter began to roll over, crawl and to get up. One by one, her teeth appeared almost overnight. She started uttering baby talk, world by world. I showered her with overflowing affection and commenced marking a crown for her working day and night, with great effort.

One day she went to the School for the very first time, with a bag flung over her shoulder.

When shadows lengthened towards the eastern mountains of the sun, a fully blossomed young maiden came into the house, uttering something in her own cute childish way, I did not know her. Neither did I understand anything she said.

Her thighs were white solidified moonbeams. The pointed nipples of her breasts pressed against the dress, the attractive eyes were restless, like those of a nymph.

Instantly that serpent burst out of the earth, reaching up to the surface. I crushed it with my feet so that she would not see.

“I am so hungry, farther.”

At once, the earth began to tremble. “Farther.” Those were the same six letters she always uttered when stepping into the house. Is this my daughter?

Eyes, nose, mouth, the talk, the walk, all these are the same. The birth mark on the chin is there too. Truly, is this my cute little daughter, born out of my own flesh and blood?
The serpent slithered away, frightened by the sound of the trembling earth. But from that day onwards, it would come on and off pester me. When it arrived, I distracted myself by picturing how, like any affectionate farther, I would one day, pet her little ones. The poison coursing through my body was neutralized by these thoughts. But I couldn’t control its recurrence for good.

Finally, one day, she took someone’s hand and went away. I cried unbearably. The serpent never appeared then.

But that night, just before dawn, it lifted its head looking around, slithering if from somewhere towards me.

It called out to me, trying to show how my own cute little daughter, my own flesh and blood, was lying in sexual embrace with another. It was the devil incarnate. I took club and beat it down mercilessly. It crawled away with difficulty, blood flowing from its mouth and nose, as if never to come back again.

All traces of the serpent’s arrival were gradually erased under the sands of time.

One day, my daughter came home, howling and crying like a demented she-bear. He had thrown her out. I kissed her on the forehead and gently consoled her, stroking her head, pacifying her.

She did not go back. I gradually became like a colossus, a giant, protecting her. Embracing her with paternal love overflowing. But one day the serpent reared its ugly head once again, telling me how she had gone with several men, my own sweet little daughter. Everyday, I would pelt it with the club, hoping and praying it was dead and would come back no more. Inspite of this, it would rear its ugly head, suddenly wriggling up from the dead. It the end, I was exhausted and discourage, trying to keep it at bay.

Suddenly, the serpent came alive and slithered towards me. It jumped up, stinging me with its venom.

I felt the poison coursing throughout my body. And, taking her in my arms, I gazed longingly at her well shaped buxom torso.

She fell on the ground, slipping from my grasp, I. who was her protective giant awhile ago, slowly began to shrink. She noticed the strange metamorphosis in me and burst out howling in fear.

I gently embraced her. She implored helplessly and in the end, blamed and cursed me vehemently.

By midnight, the poison had gradually left me; I fell down weeping, my head repeatedly pounding the floor. I simply could not look up into her face anymore.

She was holding a bowl of poison in her hands. I took it away from her and threw it. Falling at her feet, I begged for her forgiveness, crying my heart out. We help each other, crying together in deep emotion.

In absolute fury, I attacked the serpent, smashing it with the club, crushing it and throwing the limp body into a fire. Watching its twisting form turning to embers in the flames, a triumphant laugh finally escaped me.

From that day onwards, even a leaf falling from a tree started us. The tiniest sound felt as it a rock was hitting the roof. The trail made by the serpent on the sand, was gradually obliterated and vanished with time.

But one night, feeling a cold dampness on my foot, I looked down. It was there, head posed in victory, creeping up slowly along the sole of my foot.

It began to pester mo over and over again, then, it bit her too.

Though it came again and again, we made no conscious effort to get rid of it. When at arrived, we gave into everything it wanted and when it finally departed, we ended up sighing and weeping.

Never did we ever look at one another in face, except when it visited us.

Yesterday, we heard a loud noise outside. Looking through the window, we saw piles of rocks all around the house, walling us in. She cried non-stop, cursing me and blaming me for all this misfortune. I too cried along with her.

Together, we tried to crush the serpent and destroyed it once and for all. But it didn’t even our blows. It had grown. A huge monstrous creature coiled around us.

Couldn’t we kill it; destroy it? We trashed it with all our collective might, with clubs in both hands. It must die today or maybe tomorrow. Or else, it must die alongside us, all together, in a hail of stones.

About Writer: K.K. Saman Kumara is well known as a short story writer and a novelist. Saman Kumar’s first collection “Sarpayaku Ha Satanveda” (Struggle with a Serpent) was published in 1984. He has written two novels, three collections of short stories and several stories for youth. The short story in this volume titled “Struggle with a Serpent” is from his collection of the same name.

[In Sinhala-
සර්පයකු හා සටන් වැද... කේ කේ සමන් කුමාර]

Text extracted from- S rilankaGuardian.org

Psychological Reflections of Vincent Van Gogh’s Art

2010-01-04T00:01:00.000-08:00

Psychological Reflections of Vincent Van Gogh’s Art

I know for sure that I have an instinct for colour, and that it will come to me more and more, that painting is in the very marrow of my bones."
- Vincent Van Gogh

Vincent William van Gough a famous Dutch artist whose work often associated with Post-Impressionism and later transformed in to Expressionism. Vincent Van Gogh, was one of the most important predecessors of modern painting. He was an outstanding mostly self taught artist who used color for its “symbolic and expressive values” rather than to reproduce light and literal surroundings. Vincent van Gogh’s artistic work deeply analyses his unconscious mind. The psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud viewed art as a privileged form of neurosis where the analyst-critic explores the artwork in order to understand and unearth the vicissitudes of the creator's psychological motivations. In this context van Gough’s art represent a profound psychological sketch.

Vincent van Gogh was born on March 30, 1853 in Netherlands. Since his childhood Van Gogh had an immense passion for art. Van Gogh’s emotional state highly affected his artistic work. Van Gogh’s most famous works include: Starry Night, Cafe Terrace at Night, Terrasse, Houses At Auvers, Restaurant De La Sirene At Asnieres, Sunflowers, Irises, and several self-portraits, amongst others. Most of his best-known work was created in the last two years of his life.

Though Van Gogh had little financial success as an artist during his lifetime and often lived in poverty, his fame grew dramatically after his death. Today van Gough’s name is considered to be one of the world’s most renowned, respected, and influential artists. But he could not live long enough to see his fame. His life was filled with misery and desolation and this suffering was painted in an artistic way.

Van Gogh suffered from complex psychiatric ailments. Apart from the illness excessive use of tobacco and alcohol made a negative impact on his mental health. The mental illness that plagued him affected his art immensely. Van Gough painted his anguish and despair on canvas. His brushwork became increasingly agitated. The striking colors, crude brush strokes, and distorted shapes and contours, express his disturbed mind. He suffered two distinct episodes of reactive depression, and there are clearly bipolar aspects to his history. Both episodes of depression were followed by sustained periods of increasingly high energy and enthusiasm.

Van Gogh's inimitable art was defined by its powerful, dramatic and emotional style. The artist’s concern for human suffering is in somber, melancholy study of art. Maybe he tried to explain the struggle between the man and the human nature, the reality and his unconscious mental conflicts. Van Gogh once said: "We spend our whole lives in unconscious exercise of the art of expressing our thoughts with the help of words." His life was full of mental conflicts. He fought with his inner mind. This dual nature was observable. He had attacks of melancholy and of atrocious remorse. His colors lost the intensity His lines became restless. He applied the paint more violently with thicker layers. Van Gogh was drawn to objects in nature under stress: whirling suns, twisted cypress trees, and surging mountains. Although van Gogh’s illness emerged more violently he produced brilliant works as The Reaper, Cypresses ,The Red Vineyard, and his famed Starry Night.

In Starry Night (1889) the whole world seems engulfed by circular movements. The Starry Night is undoubtedly van Gogh’s most mysterious picture. The Starry Night which resides as his most popular work and one of the most influence pieces in history. The swirling lines of the sky are a possible representation of his mental state. The Starry Night embodies an inner, subjective expression of van Gogh's response to nature. Vincent van Gogh once said "Looking at the stars always makes me dream. We take death to reach a star."

From the beginning of Van Gogh's artistic career he had the ambition to draw and paint figures. For Vincent van Gogh color was the chief symbol of expression. Contemporary artists admired van Gogh’s passionate approach to art. But he viewed his life as horribly wasted, personally failed and impossible. On the contrary he was able to produce deeply moving images while living a life of ultimate desperation in an increasing state of mental imbalance.

Suicidal gestures by Vincent depicted in his last paintings. He painted immense fields of wheat under dark and stormy skies, commenting, "It is not difficult to express here my entire sadness and extreme loneliness" . In one of his last paintings, Wheat Field With Crows, the black birds fly in a starless sky, and three paths lead nowhere.

In 1888 Vincent’s mental health was very unstable. His state of mind was very weak and during a breakdown, he mutilated his ear. After a few weeks he was able to paint Self-Portrait With Bandaged Ear and Pipe, which shows him in serene composure. Vincent van Gogh had an unconventional personality and unstable moods, suffered from recurrent psychotic episodes during the last 2 years of his life, and committed suicide in 1890 at the age of 37. Despite the mental illness he suffered Vincent remained marvelously creative until his death. Although he lived a relatively short period he left behind an astonishing body of work which included several hundred paintings.

The lyrics of Don McLean’s hit song Vincent (Starry, Starry Night) describes a comparison to Van Gogh's Actual Life and references to Van Gogh’s paintings.

Starry, starry night.

Paint your palette blue and grey,

Look out on a summer's day,

With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.

Shadows on the hills,

Sketch the trees and the daffodils,

Catch the breeze and the winter chills,

In colors on the snowy linen land.

Don McLean articulates Vincent van Gogh's tragic death and points out that even though he loved painting, his paintings could never love him back.

For they could not love you,

But still your love was true.

And when no hope was left in sight

On that starry, starry night,

You took your life, as lovers often do.

But I could have told you, Vincent,

This world was never meant for one

As beautiful as you.

-Dr Ruwan M Jayatunge

Albert Camus-The Nobel Prize in Literature 1957 –The Stranger

2009-12-29T06:53:00.000-08:00

Albert Camus

Albert Camus' speech at the Nobel Banquet at the City Hall in Stockholm, December 10, 1957

In receiving the distinction with which your free Academy has so generously honoured me, my gratitude has been profound, particularly when I consider the extent to which this recompense has surpassed my personal merits. Every man, and for stronger reasons, every artist, wants to be recognized. So do I. But I have not been able to learn of your decision without comparing its repercussions to what I really am. A man almost young, rich only in his doubts and with his work still in progress, accustomed to living in the solitude of work or in the retreats of friendship: how would he not feel a kind of panic at hearing the decree that transports him all of a sudden, alone and reduced to himself, to the centre of a glaring light? And with what feelings could he accept this honour at a time when other writers in Europe, among them the very greatest, are condemned to silence, and even at a time when the country of his birth is going through unending misery?

I felt that shock and inner turmoil. In order to regain peace I have had, in short, to come to terms with a too generous fortune. And since I cannot live up to it by merely resting on my achievement, I have found nothing to support me but what has supported me through all my life, even in the most contrary circumstances: the idea that I have of my art and of the role of the writer. Let me only tell you, in a spirit of gratitude and friendship, as simply as I can, what this idea is.

For myself, I cannot live without my art. But I have never placed it above everything. If, on the other hand, I need it, it is because it cannot be separated from my fellow men, and it allows me to live, such as I am, on one level with them. It is a means of stirring the greatest number of people by offering them a privileged picture of common joys and sufferings. It obliges the artist not to keep himself apart; it subjects him to the most humble and the most universal truth. And often he who has chosen the fate of the artist because he felt himself to be different soon realizes that he can maintain neither his art nor his difference unless he admits that he is like the others. The artist forges himself to the others, midway between the beauty he cannot do without and the community he cannot tear himself away from. That is why true artists scorn nothing: they are obliged to understand rather than to judge. And if they have to take sides in this world, they can perhaps side only with that society in which, according to Nietzsche's great words, not the judge but the creator will rule, whether he be a worker or an intellectual.

By the same token, the writer's role is not free from difficult duties. By definition he cannot put himself today in the service of those who make history; he is at the service of those who suffer it. Otherwise, he will be alone and deprived of his art. Not all the armies of tyranny with their millions of men will free him from his isolation, even and particularly if he falls into step with them. But the silence of an unknown prisoner, abandoned to humiliations at the other end of the world, is enough to draw the writer out of his exile, at least whenever, in the midst of the privileges of freedom, he manages not to forget that silence, and to transmit it in order to make it resound by means of his art.

None of us is great enough for such a task. But in all circumstances of life, in obscurity or temporary fame, cast in the irons of tyranny or for a time free to express himself, the writer can win the heart of a living community that will justify him, on the one condition that he will accept to the limit of his abilities the two tasks that constitute the greatness of his craft: the service of truth and the service of liberty. Because his task is to unite the greatest possible number of people, his art must not compromise with lies and servitude which, wherever they rule, breed solitude. Whatever our personal weaknesses may be, the nobility of our craft will always be rooted in two commitments, difficult to maintain: the refusal to lie about what one knows and the resistance to oppression.

For more than twenty years of an insane history, hopelessly lost like all the men of my generation in the convulsions of time, I have been supported by one thing: by the hidden feeling that to write today was an honour because this activity was a commitment - and a commitment not only to write. Specifically, in view of my powers and my state of being, it was a commitment to bear, together with all those who were living through the same history, the misery and the hope we shared. These men, who were born at the beginning of the First World War, who were twenty when Hitler came to power and the first revolutionary trials were beginning, who were then confronted as a completion of their education with the Spanish Civil War, the Second World War, the world of concentration camps, a Europe of torture and prisons - these men must today rear their sons and create their works in a world threatened by nuclear destruction. Nobody, I think, can ask them to be optimists. And I even think that we should understand - without ceasing to fight it - the error of those who in an excess of despair have asserted their right to dishonour and have rushed into the nihilism of the era. But the fact remains that most of us, in my country and in Europe, have refused this nihilism and have engaged upon a quest for legitimacy. They have had to forge for themselves an art of living in times of catastrophe in order to be born a second time and to fight openly against the instinct of death at work in our history.

Each generation doubtless feels called upon to reform the world. Mine knows that it will not reform it, but its task is perhaps even greater. It consists in preventing the world from destroying itself. Heir to a corrupt history, in which are mingled fallen revolutions, technology gone mad, dead gods, and worn-out ideologies, where mediocre powers can destroy all yet no longer know how to convince, where intelligence has debased itself to become the servant of hatred and oppression, this generation starting from its own negations has had to re-establish, both within and without, a little of that which constitutes the dignity of life and death. In a world threatened by disintegration, in which our grand inquisitors run the risk of establishing forever the kingdom of death, it knows that it should, in an insane race against the clock, restore among the nations a peace that is not servitude, reconcile anew labour and culture, and remake with all men the Ark of the Covenant. It is not certain that this generation will ever be able to accomplish this immense task, but already it is rising everywhere in the world to the double challenge of truth and liberty and, if necessary, knows how to die for it without hate. Wherever it is found, it deserves to be saluted and encouraged, particularly where it is sacrificing itself. In any event, certain of your complete approval, it is to this generation that I should like to pass on the honour that you have just given me.

At the same time, after having outlined the nobility of the writer's craft, I should have put him in his proper place. He has no other claims but those which he shares with his comrades in arms: vulnerable but obstinate, unjust but impassioned for justice, doing his work without shame or pride in view of everybody, not ceasing to be divided between sorrow and beauty, and devoted finally to drawing from his double existence the creations that he obstinately tries to erect in the destructive movement of history. Who after all this can expect from him complete solutions and high morals? Truth is mysterious, elusive, always to be conquered. Liberty is dangerous, as hard to live with as it is elating. We must march toward these two goals, painfully but resolutely, certain in advance of our failings on so long a road. What writer would from now on in good conscience dare set himself up as a preacher of virture? For myself, I must state once more that I am not of this kind. I have never been able to renounce the light, the pleasure of being, and the freedom in which I grew up. But although this nostalgia explains many of my errors and my faults, it has doubtless helped me toward a better understanding of my craft. It is helping me still to support unquestioningly all those silent men who sustain the life made for them in the world only through memory of the return of brief and free happiness.

Thus reduced to what I really am, to my limits and debts as well as to my difficult creed, I feel freer, in concluding, to comment upon the extent and the generosity of the honour you have just bestowed upon me, freer also to tell you that I would receive it as an homage rendered to all those who, sharing in the same fight, have not received any privilege, but have on the contrary known misery and persecution. It remains for me to thank you from the bottom of my heart and to make before you publicly, as a personal sign of my gratitude, the same and ancient promise of faithfulness which every true artist repeats to himself in silence every day.

-Albert Camus-

The Voice of Solitude [Manjula Wediwardena]

2009-12-18T19:55:00.000-08:00

The Voice of Solitude

Even a gun can

make a dream smile

Even a dream can

Stop a furious bullet

Who can stop?

If the sun rises

In the middle of the darkest night

Who’s going to stop?

If it heavily rains

In a full moon night

Yet, there’ll be no moon

Only the darkness…

Rain, rain and rain

Only the finger

That presses the trigger

Points back at the conscious

Only the fist

that hardly twisted

Knows the dreadful

Pain of the death

Ask a man

who walks with his head down,

what he eagerly searches
on the ground

“Life”

He may answer…..

At times….

Solitude can be enchanting

for a poem

Yet,

A poem may be reminiscence

at the end….

Then there is death….

But one thing is certain

Death is immortal

to a weapon…

Manjula Wediwardena- (හුදෙකලාවේ කටහඬ )
[Translated by: Malathie Kalpana Ambrose]

Viragaya the Inimitable Psychological Novel

2009-12-15T00:49:00.000-08:00

Viragaya the Inimitable Psychological Novel

-Dr Ruwan M Jayatunge MD

Viragaya novel is a turning point in Sinhala literature. Literary genius Martin Wicramasinghe vibrantly portrays Aravinda s character in Viragaya digging in to the inner psyche. Therefore Viragaya can be considered as one of the first and best psychological novels in Sinhala literature. Aravinda was a virtuous character trapped in biological instincts and cultural pressure. The complexity of Aravinda s character reveals the inner world of a man who was brought up according to the Buddhist village traditions and how he struggles to fulfill his hidden desires leading to a dramatic transformation.

According to the mundane eye Aravinda was a failure. His ambition to become a doctor and apparent haematophobia and aversion to dissect dead bodies prevented him from pursuing his goal. The untimely death of his father and subsequent financial problems forced him to engage in a petty job and to lead an insignificant life. When his girlfriend Sara offered her love and gave her consent to live with him Aravinda faces a moral dilemma. His Indecisiveness jeopardized the relationship and he becomes lonely for the rest of his life.

Aravinda s loneliness makes him to get close to Bathie. His unusual love for the adopted girl Bathie makes him a jealous man. It was a fatherly love which gradually transformed in to a hidden desire without any physical intimacy. He becomes furious when Bathie finds a young lover. The sociobiological perspective agrees that men tend to react more strongly to sexual indiscretion while women tend to find emotional infidelity more distressing. Hence Aravinda s reaction concurs with this idea.

Aravinda was an outlandish character who repressed his sensual desires due to ethics and moral pressure from the society. Psychoanalytic notion of ethics serves philosophical, religious, and moral causes. In Moses and Monotheism Freud showed that ethics originates in "a sense of guilt felt on account of a suppressed hostility to God”. He further states thus.

Analyse any human emotion, no matter how far it may be removed from the sphere of sex, and you are sure to discover somewhere the primal impulse, to which life owes its perpetuation. ... The primitive stages can always be re-established; the primitive mind is, in the fullest meaning of the word, imperishable. ... Mans most disagreeable habits and idiosyncrasies, his deceit, his cowardice, his lack of reverence, are engendered by his incomplete adjustment to a complicated civilisation. It is the result of the conflict between our instincts and our culture.

Freud argued that people have always known that at one time they had a primitive father and that they put him to death. The resulting "nostalgia for the father" reflected an insatiable need to appease a sense of guilt by changing the father's prohibitions into ethical obligations. This idea was represented in Aravinda s character.

Aravinda struggles between morality and biological instincts which leads to a generalized melancholic condition in him. This could be a universal feeling. In the Republic; Plato undertakes the most famous integration of morality and mental health. Mike W Martin Professor of Philosophy at Chapman University argues that moral values are inevitably embedded in human conceptions of mental health. In the end, he shows how both morality and mental health are inextricably intertwined in pursuit of a meaningful life. Nevertheless Aravinda fails to fulfill his heart desire. No one can claim that he was a loser. Hence Aravinda had a meaningful life in the existential point of view.

He was alienated from the society and critical about the social traditions. He was personally free and able to criticize the social values of the world around him. This is more similar to Jean-Paul Sartre s Philosophy which offers an account of existence in general, including both the being-in-itself of objects that simply are and the being-for-itself by which humans engage in independent action. Throughout his life Aravinda wants to find self and the meaning of life through free will.

Departure of Prometheus [Prasad Nirosha Bandara ]

2009-12-13T02:54:00.000-08:00

Departure of Prometheus

Adamantine chains

shivering with cold chilly winds

As they miss you Prometheus

Why only the chains

feel this dreadful pain

Where are the mermaids

Cried at the foot of rocks

Jupiter plays
with arrows of thunders and light
Hermes the cohort with
The Power and the Terror
spreads all over
“The Fire” you stolen,
the precious treasure
for the sake of mankind
from above, the heaven

Eagles!!! Here, they come!

gobble the livers and hearts

Under the mounted sun

In the trembling dark nights

Alone at the end of the world

Down here at the foot of the rocks

Only the gloomy darkness

Wrapped with frightening fear

The heart aches and throbs

As it misses you Prometheus

Why only the chains

feel this dreadful pain

Where are the mermaids

Cried at your mournful gain

The entire body of society

It’s spirit and essence are sucked

Tasted by the gadflies

With such a greedy rush

Who will utter the good and bad?

Of the vicious forecast you told

To Io the beautiful

maiden from far-away Argos

Who captured by the greedy eyes

of His highness in the mountains

and made the Queen Hera

fumed with envy and spite

Oh! The great poet Aeschylus

Today, if he’s here

He will write this grand play again

Sure will forget the Prometheus bond

And it’ll be on something else

The concept of highest and great god

Why only the chains

feel this great difference

Where are the mermaids

Cried at your mournful gain

Did you see a hazard free tomorrow?

Before the dawn you departed

A dark skinned child coming

A prince with a bow

To put down the voracious eagles

To unchain the ties

To liberate the world

After thirteen generations

Did you see?

Prometheus you, the forethought?

Why only the chains

feel this great difference

Where are the mermaids

Cried at your mournful gain?

Prasad Nirosha Bandara -ප්‍රොමිතියස්ගේ නික්මයාම

[Translated By: Malathie Kalpana Ambrose]

So Long My Blind Friend....[Malathie Kalpana Ambrose]

2009-12-04T02:44:00.000-08:00

So Long My Blind Friend....

[Written for the World White Cane Day-(2009-10-15)]

Kneeling and worshipping

Seeking her blessings

You may have mouthed

“I will be back soon mom...”

On the day you left home

To wander up the path

Over whelmed with heartaches

Countless sicknesses

Feeding on nothing

But sorrows and tears

So many around you

Mending constantly

The fragile cloth of life

Friendly and not so friendly

May have guided you

The 'one who could not see'

But they sure did not know

That your world of darkness

Is brighter than the full moon

Even without a tiny spark

Of a wandering firefly

Because of all the roses

Void of any thorns

Wandering around

Feeling the surface

Failing to understand

The vast book of life

We may part in a moment

Your distinct murmur

Saying me good byes

No my friend

Since we have touched

And we saw each others hearts no...

I cannot say my good byes

Neither can I

Let you leave

Leaving empty...

my aching heart..!

ආයුබෝවන් අඳ සකි- මාලතී කල්පනා ඇම්බ්‍රෝස්

Translated by: Angelo Ransirimal Fenando

Freddie Mercury – The Dostoyevsky of Rock Music

2009-11-25T23:06:00.001-08:00

Freddie Mercury – The Dostoyevsky of Rock Music

When I'm dead, I want to be remembered as a musician of some worth and substance.
-Freddie Mercury

Freddie Mercury emerged as a popular singer when Elvis, Mick Jagger, Ian Gillan, John Lennon, Barry Gibb, Mike Love etc dominated the music world. When he entered the Rock Music Industry, it was not multicultural and the Anglo American media giants predominantly controlled it. During that era, a non-WASP (White Anglo-Saxon Protestants) had no chance to become a rock star. Although prolonged and laborious work of black American musicians like Chuck Barry, Little Richards, Ray Charles, and Quincy Jones had made some progress and opened some doors in early sixties and early seventies the rock music industry was highly secular.

Freddie Mercury was the first major rock star who had an Asian origin. Regardless of his origin, Freddie conquered the music world and became the best of the best. His vocal prowess and flamboyant performances were incomprehensible. Freddy will be remembered as a talented vocalist of any generation. He could sing anything from hard rock to opera, from blues to metal. He was an artist with many talents. Freddie Mercury was an accomplished pianist, lyricist, stage performer and a composer.

Freddie’s songs conveyed deep philosophical and psychological messages. He sang about his inner solitude and sometimes his dual individuality and the emotional divergences. He thought that his Indian, origin obstructed him to become a great star and he changed his real name Farookh Bulsara in to a numinous pseudonym. As Salman Rushdie once stated Freddie Mercury concealed his identity and became a nowhere man from nowhere land. Freddie Mercury had a lifetime struggle to establish his identity. He had a cast of thousands and a man with thousand faces. Describing himself in an interview Freddie stated "Deep down inside I am a very emotional person, a person of real extremes, and often that's destructive to myself and others."

His songs carried underlying meanings and Mercury’s allusions to his own controversial life. Freddie Mercury was a follower of a religion named Zoroastrianism that is one of the world's oldest and most exclusive religions founded by the prophet Zoroaster in 600 B.C. His songs touched the mysticism of religion to magic and some theological terms from Zoroastrianism.

Freddie Mercury was the lead singer of the rock band Queen and he was the driving force behind the group. With Freddy, the rock band Queen composed songs that drew inspiration from many different genres of music and they achieved a gigantic success. He gave the band a distinctive characteristic of music and the vocal harmonies. His singing was inimitable and exceptional. No one could sing like Freddy Mercury and to give a first-rate stage performance. Even today, Freddie is still regarded as the most excellent male vocalist who made a deep impact on his fans.

His songs had most diverse kind of lyrics and it was a mixture of music, ideas and philosophies of Rene Descartes Jean Jack Russo, Goethe, Friedrich Nietzsche, Jean Paul Sartre, Albert Camus, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Little Richard and Jimi Hendrix. Most of his songs were inspired by magic and fantasy. But he spoke of deep philosophy through his music.

In the song, My fairy King Freddie Mercury comes with a classic prose and poetry that narrates a fantasy land. Although the situation imagined and it does not correspond with reality, it expresses the desire and aims of the singer to detach from the realism.

In the land where horses born with eagle wings
And honey bees have lost their stings
There's singing forever to you
Lions den with fallow deer
And rivers made from wines so clear
Flow on and on forever
Dragons fly like sparrows thru' the air
And baby lambs where Samson dares
To go on

In 1984, Mercury made his music video ‘I Want To Break Free’ which is an outcry and emotional catharsis. In this video Mercury dresses as a woman but keeps his moustache, which symbolizes his identity predicament, isolation and ostracism despite the preservation of masculinity. Freddie Mercury kept a mystique about his image. Mercury once said of himself: "When I'm performing I'm an extrovert, yet inside I'm a completely different man. Freddie Mercury s elation could be notified in the hit song The Show Must Go On, where he recounts his inner feelings.

"My soul is painted like the wings of butterflies
Fairy tales of yesterday will grow but never die
I can fly, my friends"

Freddie’s dual personality was captured in the song Great Pretender. This is a form Jungian explanation of the persona -The Relations between the Ego and the Unconscious" (1928) Two Essays on Analytical Psychology by Carl Jung. Jung describes the persona as a complicated system of relations between individual consciousness and society, fittingly enough a kind of mask, designed on the one hand to make a definite impression upon others, and, on the other, to conceal the true nature of the individual. Freddie Mercury summarized the Jungian words thus.

Oh yes, I'm the great pretender
Just laughing and gay like a clown
I seem to be what I'm not you see
I'm wearing my heart like a crown
Pretending that you're still around

In the early days Freddy’s mother Jer Bulsara was not happy about her son’s interest towards music and she saw Freddy’s song writing as a waste of time. He was sent to a boarding school in Mumbai and Freddy was homesick. When Freddie was 16, the family moved to Britain and he pursued his life long career as a musician. In his song Mother love Freddy talked about maternal affection hence.

I don’t want to sleep with you
I don’t need the passion too
I don’t want a stormy affair
To make me feel my life is heading somewhere
All I want is the comfort and care
Just to know that my woman gives me sweet - Mother love

Freddie’s unrivaled song living on my own gives a picture of a desperado opposing the Victorian society. Freddy always became a controversial character who acted on his fantasies and instincts. In addition, he openly challenged the hypocrisy of the Victorian society. He was the modern day Oscar Wild. He described his passion and emotional soreness in graceful lyrics. His disheartening song Living on my own is a living testimony of Freddy’s emotional twinge.

Sometimes I feel I'm gonna break down and cry
Nowhere to go nothing to do with my time
I get lonely so lonely living on my own
Sometimes I feel I'm always walking too fast
And everything is coming down on me down on me
I go crazy oh so crazy living on my own

Freddie Mercury’s powerful ballad Who Wants to Live Forever was the soundtrack to the motion picture Highlander. In this song, Freddie’s voice reverberates in a high falsetto and creates a magnificent melody registering his phonetic abilities perpetually. Who Wants to Live Forever made Freddy as the best singer of all time. He was well known for his powerful vocal competency and was able to roar through a metal tune.

There's no chance for us
It's all decided for us
This world has only one sweet moment set aside for us

Who wants to live forever
Who wants to live forever
Who dares to love forever
When love must die

His musical hit Bohemian Rhapsody carried a numerous metaphors and symbolism that transformed the band into a global phenomenon. Bohemian Rhapsody" song was written by Freddy Mercury which had no chorus but consisted of six sections: introduction, ballad, guitar solo, opera, rock and outro. Bohemian Rhapsody could be considered as an enigmatic philosophical song that was not decoded completely. Up-to-date Bohemian Rhapsody remains a puzzle. This song has fatalistic lyrics. Some argue that Bohemian Rhapsody echoes Mercury’s personal traumas reveling the complexity of his inner mind. This song represents a self-explanatory portion of Freddy. Perhaps Bohemian Rhapsody could be the musical version of Albert Camus’s novel The Stranger.

Bohemian Rhapsody begins with the powerful vocals of Freddy, which describes the clashes between his inner fantasies and realities. He was born in Zanzibar to an Indian Parsi Family and raised in England. He was exposed to three different cultures and in each culture; his biopersona (biological component of his personality) was suppressed creating a colossal guilt in him. The society that he lived expected him to live an artificial life less then his expectations. Mercury felt trapped and found no escape.

Is this the real life
Is this just fantasy
Caught in a landslide
No escape from reality
Open your eyes
Look up to the skies and see
I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy
Because I'm easy come, easy go,
Little high, little low
Anyway the wind blows, doesn't really matter to me - to me

In the second part Freddy talks about a murder which could be treated as a metaphor. Metaphor and allegory were powerful literary and conceptual tools which often used by him to create melody, rhythm and philosophy.

Mama, just killed a man,
Put a gun against his head,
Pulled my trigger, now he's dead,
Mama, life had just begun,
But now I've gone and thrown it all away
Mama, ooo,
Didn't mean to make you cry
If I'm not back again this time tomorrow
Carry on, carry on, as if nothing really matters

In the third section, Freddy talks about his destitution and hidden death wish contrary to his insensible desire to live.

Too late, my time has come,
Sends shivers down my spine
Body's aching all the time,
Goodbye everybody - I've got to go -
Gotta leave you all behind and face the truth
Mama, ooo -
I don't want to die,
I sometimes wish I'd never been born at all -

The Opera Section begins with a powerful vocal presentation. Freddy Mercury uses the name of a fictional character - Scaramouch that was created by Rafael Sabatini.

I see a little silhouetto of a man,
Scaramouch, scaramouch will you do the Fandango
Thunderbolt and Lightning - very very frightening me-
Gallileo, Gallileo,
Gallileo, gallileo,
Gallileo Figaro - Magnifico -
I'm just a poor boy nobody loves me
He's just a poor boy froma poor family
Spare him his life from this monstrosity
Easy come, easy go - will you let me go

In the subsequent part, the singer utters a name Bismillah which means the God. It is a poetic phrase translated as in the name of the God, most gracious and most compassionate.

Bismillah! No, - we will not let you go - let him go -
Bismillah! We will not let you go - Let him go
Bismillah! We will not let you go - Let him go
Will not let you go - Let me go
Will not let you go - Let me go
No, no, no, no, no, no, no-
Mama mia, mama mia, mama mia let me go -
Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me, for me, for me.

The final part of the song is the rock section. In this branch Freddy’s emotional struggle and apathy is emphasized. However, he is ready to accept the consequences.

So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye
So you think you can love me and leave me to die
Oh Baby - Can't do this to me Baby
Just gotta get out- just gotta get right outta here -

Nothing really matters
Anyone can see
Nothing really matters, nothing really matters - to me

Freddie Mercury and the rock band Queen were revolutionary. In 1980, they preformed in South Africa ignoring the United Nations Cultural boycott. Although the members of Queen were widely criticized in the 1980s for, performing in South Africa during the time the apartheid regime was in power , perhaps they might have contributed something positive for the South Africans to change. Similarly, in 1986, they performed in Budapest. It was the period when the Communist block was about to break and the Eastern Europeans were embracing the Western type of Democracy.

Freddie Mercury could be regarded as the Fyodor Dostoyevsky of Rock Music who painted rock music with philosophy, fantasy and psychology. He sang about the inner human psyche and human freedom. The talented artist , accomplished musician and legendary showman Freddy Mercury died on 24 November 1991 at the age of 45. He lived a relatively a short life, but he made a profound impact on music and culture.

-Dr Ruwan M Jayatunge
ruwanmjayatunge@gmail.com

"Eka Adhipathi" by Dharmasiri Bandaranayake : [3rd, 4th Dece.]

2009-11-25T20:30:00.000-08:00

"Eka Adhipathi" by Dharmasiri Bandaranayake

Celebrating 33 years of vivacious achievements, from the hallowed annals of the Sinhala Theatre, ‘Eka Adhipathi’ returns to the stage on the 3rd and 4th of December at the Lionel Wendt Theatre.

Winner of 8 awards at the 1976 State Drama Festival including Best Original Play of the Year and Best Actor awards, ‘Eka Adhipathi’ is written and directed by Dharmasiri Bandaranayake.

Having amassed a mammoth 1400+ performances from 1976 to 1993, ‘Eka Adhipathi’ is a well received and critically acclaimed production which oozes political satire. The drama is based on the people’s rebellion against discrimination and dereliction by a corrupt fascist regime.

The original music score for the drama was designed by Premasiri Khemadasa and at present is directed by Deshaka Sampath.

The stellar cast which features prominent thespians includes Dharmasiri Bandaranayake, Rajiv Ponweera, Swethekei Munasinghe, Dayadeva Edirisinghe, Lal Peiris, Leonard Cooray, Upul Nishantha, Sampath Tennakoon, Chamila Peiris, Gamini Wijesinghe, Chulla Jayawardhana, Lalith Rajapakse, Wathsala Ranasinghe, Jagath Muthukumarana, Saman Pushpa Liyanage, Himasal Liyanage, Sudesh Wickramarathne, Sarath P. Alawwa, Thushari Chamila Gunarathne, Oshadhi Gunasekera, Rohan De Silva, Asiri Priyanga, Arunodh Wijesinghe, Niluka Dilrukshi Rajamanthri, Manoj Peiris, Tennis Miller and Amil Deepal Galanga.

Ranga Bandaranayake contributes in the capacity of assistant director and character makeup is handled by Wasantha Vittachchi. Stage management is carried out by Indika Wickramarachchi and Susanga Kahandawalarachchi assisted by Oshadhi Gunasekera, Rohan De Silva, Asiri Priyanga, Arunodh Wijesinghe and Amil Deepal Galanga. Set design is by Leonard Cooray while stage lighting will be tackled by Lakshman Perera. Production planning is handled by Deeptha Bandara, Shasthri Mallawarachchi and Ramesh Kuganeshan.

‘Eka Adhipathi’ is produced by the Trikone Cultural Foundation with a three-pronged intention of developing theatre performing arts, attracting new audiences and encouraging academic arts research projects in Sri Lanka.

Following the production of ‘Eka Adhipathi’, ‘Makarakshaya’ (1985), ‘Dhavala Bheeshana’ (1988), ‘Yakshagamanaya’ (1994) and ‘Trojan Kanthavo’ (1999) will also find the stage in 2010 under the meticulous direction of Dharmasiri Bandaranayake. All aforementioned plays were awarded prestigious state accolades which include Best Play of the Year and Best Direction at State Drama Festivals of yesteryear.

The Sinhala translation of Arthur Miller's 'The Crucible' is also in the pipeline to be directed by Dharmasiri Bandaranayake and staged in 2010. Gamini Viyangoda's Sinhala translation of the play is available in print under the title 'Maya Bandana'.

Source-
Facebook Event for "Eka Adhipathi"

Psychoanalytic symbols used by Simon Navagathegama

2009-11-25T00:51:00.001-08:00

Psychoanalytic symbols used by Simon Navagathegama

A gifted Sri Lankan novelist Simon Navagathegama presented a series of mystic symbols in his famous novel Dadayakarayage Kathawa or the Story of the Hunter which can be regarded as one of the best psychoanalytical novels of the contemporary era. Dadayakarayage Kathawa represents numerous psychoanalytic symbols which stem from the unconscious mind. It is a great recount of relations between social anthropology and psychology Simon Navagathegama used different metaphors to describe the cultural and social and anthropological icons. As the author illustrates the hunter is a person as well as a metaphor.

The hunter is not an alien but another member in a rural village. Even though the hunter lives among the people he is an outcast rejected by the society. The hunter kills animals and obviously he is branded as a sinner who breaks the first Buddhist precept. The villages are critical about his actions and they often judge him according to the traditional moral set of rules.

Why the hunter is being hated? Simon may have surmised our ancestral past. There is a human tendency to hate the shameful past. The truth is 20,000 years ago we all were hunters. There is a hunter in each one of us. Our collective unconscious carries some elements from our predatory days. These impulses are threatening and shameful. No wonder why the villagers have a repulsive attitude towards the hunter.

Simon used symbols in his novels hiding the conventional meanings. Deconstructive reading would reveal the actual meanings which he gives in his novels especially Dadayakarayage Kathawa. Simon gives broader interpretation of a carried meaning. According to the Psychoanalytic notion symbols are not the creations of mind, but rather are distinct capacities within the mind to hold a distinct piece of information. Simon’s novel is full of elements of unconscious and repressions that struggle in our minds beyond the cultural and religious barriers. Created by collective unconscious archetypes these symbols carry an important socio cultural meaning.

His symbols are from folklore, mythology and rituals and some have religious background. Dadayakaraya or the hunter is a realistic as well as a mystic character. Hunter is Simon’s utmost metaphor. The hunter is passionately attached to a deer which Simon calls Kathuri Muwa. He is eagerly seeking the deer in the jungle. Kathuri Muwa is a wider form of representation which refers to the father figure. Kathuri Muwa becomes hunter’s fantasy which is an imaginal representations of bodily instincts and urges. The hunter’s expedition in the jungle may be the best metaphor used to describe the journey through Sansara. Simon implies Kasthuri Muwa as the totem animal or the substitute father.

The hunter meets a goddess in the jungle and both enjoy sensual pleasure in which Simon talks about incest or a taboo relationship. In 1913 Freud wrote Totem and Taboo to make the resemblances between the mental lives of savages and neurotics.Freud discusses various ways in which the exogamy of the totem system prevents incest not only among the nuclear family, but among extended families as well. The hunter consciously knows that the physical relationship with the goddess was a taboo. Although he had repressed his incestuous wishes his basic instincts emerges like a volcano.

The villagers are cautious about the hunter’s actions. They call him a sinner though the villagers enjoy eating the meat brought by the hunter. On a significant religious day the villagers hear the gun shot sound and they criticize the hunter for committing sins on such a momentous day. But the true fact is that the hunter was compelled to kill the leopard which had killed two villages on the previous day and his only purpose was to protect the devotees from the beast.

Among the villages Podikandaya is a young man who hates his mother’s infidelities and father’s ineffectiveness to be the figure head of the family. When Podikandaya reveals that the hunter was having an affair with his wife Rankiri he becomes offended and go in search of the hunter to kill him. Simon presents the triangle story of Podikandaya, Rankiri and the hunter in a bizarre form. The village structural system is created to prevent incestuous sexual relations. The Monk is the spiritual leader who offers guidance to the villagers.

Eric Erikson once stated that an individual is pushed by his or her own biological urges and pulled by socio-cultural forces. Similarly the hunter’s actions are controlled for certain level by the moralistic village culture. Simon is critical about the dualistic nature of the village morality. He emphasizes the hypocrisy and double standards beneath the village culture. The narration of the hunter’s inner mind takes the reader in to a more spiritual world disregarding the hunter’s sinful acts.

When the hunter finds the elegant deer or the Kasthuri Muwa he sees the reality and the true nature of the craving. Now the hunter has no greed for Kasthuri Muwa. The hunter has become a super human uplifting his spirit much better than the fellow villagers. The hunter has seen the truth and liberated himself from craving.

-Dr Ruwan M Jayatunge

The Whispering North - [Ajith C. Herath]

2009-11-24T00:59:00.000-08:00

The Whispering North

The wind blows from north still whispers,
While the soft voices mourned, fade and disperse.
Corpses unburied, immerse in unknown oceans,
Curse upon thousands of Gods and hundreds of nations

Dead, wounded, scattered limbs and tents burning
Remained on that massacred village
Amidst Dreadful screamings, Waves of killing and raping
Stormed, and bandits start to pillage.

The formless shadows of Children, women and Elders
With bleeding wounds and worn old decaying tatters
Lie begirt with despair, barbwires and murders
No Miracle nor blessed, surviving from the barrages
Their Flesh and blood are still suck by the savages

The supremacist totem on female corpses
Decorates the ceremonial nights of demoniac soldiers.
And the Adrenalin overflows with heroic sperms,
While a sinister smoke ascending over dark Canopies.
But, the wind blows from north still whispers.

Ajith C. Herath
200909

The Eternal Poem [Rathna Sri Wijesinghe]

2009-11-23T21:30:00.000-08:00

The Eternal Poem

The tin drums were played
A drizzle slowly trickled
From the sky line dimmed
On the wild flower wreath
And the white paper canopies

The golden palanquin was made
And there, she was quietly laid
Brought then to the grave yard
Our dearest one
Our closest one
The dead doll
Was buried that day

A tear drop rolled down
on the cheeks of my sister

The bulldozer mammoths came
untamed with the hard-pressed bolts
The old tomb came up
as they wildly dig the earth

There was no golden palanquin
No white paper canopies
But she was there as ages ago
Awaken after a long sleep

The blinking dazzling eyelashes
The sparkling crystal eyes
The twisted golden hair
The lips, painted with smile
The one who never died
The eternal poem
Dear doll, it's only you…

සදාකාලික කවිය - රත්න ශ්‍රී විජේසිංහ
[Translated by: Kalpana Ambrose]

Massive [Mahinda Prasad Masimbula]

2009-11-23T01:10:00.000-08:00

Massive

In that glamorous twilight
as I came to see you
I sensed, I was convinced
It was only *Galaha road
The biggest road in the world….

It was the day
The biggest rain drop in the world
Ever fell on to the earth

Three storied, enormous
The biggest university in the world
Was floating in a massive misty flow
I sent you the biggest message
in the world ever sent
“I am here to see you”

With the fastest walk in the world
You drifted towards me
the sparkling face and painted with
The most gorgeous smile in the world

Cleared the solitude together
We set up the biggest moment in the world
So then started to flow
The largest river in the world
Filled with love
Touching the bottom of our hearts

Then came the biggest obstacles
The walls of separation
built up in between
There were no doorways
On the top of those walls
There placed the biggest thorns in the world

Yet,
Amongst all the biggest
souvenirs and statues
I still sense and feel
I am the smallest in the world…

* Galaha road is the road driven to the University of Peradeniya

[Translated by : Kalpana Ambrose]

Tiny Grey flower - [By Ruwanmalee De Silva]

2009-11-20T00:06:00.000-08:00

Tiny Grey flower

There was a tiny Grey flower
on a mossy edge of the river
she was tossing her head alone
in the cool summer breeze
Warmth of the golden sun
coolness of the drops of dew
tinkling of the summer breeze
made her happy and happy
and then thought
"how wonderful my world is!"

But, there were no butterflies
and no bees
came to kiss her rosy cheeks
then she wept & wept
until her rosy cheeks
get soaked with tears

One sunny day
An angel whispered
"don't worry my dear,
your sweet fragrance can make other happier & happier
which the flowers with bright color
Are unable to offer!!"

-Ruwanmalee De Silva

"Machan" is a cinematic experience of its nature after Mille Soya

2009-11-19T02:44:00.000-08:00

"Machan" is a cinematic experience of its nature after Mille Soya

I got the opportunity of watching "Machan" at "5th Dubai International Film Fastival-December 11-18 , 2008" on its second day, 12th.

Its yesterday, of course i couldn't stop writing about this film since i came out from the 12th theater hall of "Mall of the Emirates- Cinestar".

such gravity of writing about this film is an accident, in fact totally unexpected. anyway i reached the theater 3 hours before knowing how the Dubai behaves in such fast phased environment , always surprises take place, so to avoid any miracle there at the MOE i prepared go there in advance. timings of screening could go up or down depending on the demands or some other reasons because Dubai is an miracle island floating on money, simply on cash flow! not funny at all...

Dubai is in the other hand the place where all the youth keeping full of hopes to uplift their lives in a instantaneous fraction of time as the opportunities are superfluous. here we daily experience young people from all around the world landing for better opportunity and they will enjoy the miraculous demand supply theories of main economic system based on entertainment creation. the affordability of fantasy in Dubai is so competitive and ranges from 50 dhs to infinitely large sums of currency. the price of the dreams are vary from such a range and everybody has his destiny here.

the economic grounds play such a role in the lives of a people bounded by a simple geographical region.

comparing the same relative truths on the land of the subjective sri lanka it is always the reality of youth to become a migrant into somewhere else on this planet other than to suffer the metaphysics on its grounds.

the reality is always lot far from its imagination. sri lankan youth has this illusive mind to capture the good air in some other region of this planet. their meta dream made them such a creative to solve the paradox of visa. it is the theme of this "machan" movie.

they worked out such a solution of getting out of it.

it is nothing far beyond that to discuss the miseries all made upon this dramatic representation of the saga.

i have my own fascinations on this art work. i think it is important to express those here in this lengthy writing just to make my sign here and on your mind , thank you for your patience on reading up to this point , please keep that to a little extent too...

in the movie i found many places where i can feel the language of cinema comes out with its glory, i really fallen in love , with camera angles+light+emotions and sound.

the screen shot starting with the look back of the past of his hotel cleaner job profile, suddenly he could realize the hand dryer on the wall how it become an imaginary enemy to his symbolic code. he reacts before leaving the hotel job, as he already got visa to say goodbye to all his pity , demolishing the hand dryer. this is a very strong psychological symbolization of his anger on the system which he suffered.

the other most beautiful cinematic+dramatic instance is the scene on the gathering of telling stories about German sluts and when the one who is telling the sadistic sexuality about his past experiences , he stops somewhere in the mid of the story telling about a whip and changes the story line to another scene. after few cine minutes the scene transfers to the location where all are gathering again in front of the German Embassy waiting for the visa. everyone was concentrating on the response of the officers and one who was at the previous story telling time still in his curiosity of knowing what happened after taking out that whip out of that German sluts bed underneath, he simply asks "whip taken out, then?" its a very dramatic scene showing the inner side of the human mind of course during the struggle of overcoming everything the sexual curiosity will find it fulfillment of lack.

this movie has its own sign on the cinematic language which i felt at the dark so technical.

i would appreciate Dharmapriya Dias and Gihan Chekera on their warmth welcome at the cinema lobby as we could share a moment of pleasant time together before going into the dome of celluloid's.

i went empty into theater. i came out with rich feelings on cine magics...

some likes enjoying the pity in dramatic form , for me it makes me to think different. this movie has big potential on making a real difference in youth aspects towards the myths of illegal migration.

-E.A. Dawson Preethi
12-2008

Unborn Poems - Sunil Govinnage

2009-11-19T02:38:00.001-08:00

Unborn Poems

They linger over

on new born rainbows,
hover around the windows
in the early morning hours.
They float on the river
when the moon smiles
on full moon days.
When the birds sing
outside my window
they bring a melody
of an unborn rhythm.
When the spring flowers are born
they paint images
of an unborn verse.
When I look at the darkness
in the middle of the night
they come one by one
as I breathe like a child
scared of the darkness.

Sunil Govinnage

The Berlin Wall - Dr Ruwan M Jayatunge

2009-11-18T23:01:00.000-08:00

The Berlin Wall

The world came together in Berlin last night to celebrate the 20th anniversary of fall of the Berlin Wall. On November 9, 1989 the East Germany's Communist rulers opened the Berlin Wall as the aftermath of Perestroika and Glasnost and also by the continuous pressure of the Easter German Public. The Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev who played a key role in this historic event got a hero's welcome yesterday.

I still recall some events relating to the Berlin Wall that took place when I was a medical student. When the time I crossed the Berlin Wall in 1988 to enter the West Berlin I had a gut feeling that this wall would not last forever. Being a non White and not look like a German I had no problems with the East German border guards. They allowed me to cross the Wall. But Vethalik who was from Riga had a little trouble and the East German Authorities triple checked his documents in order to make sure that he was not an East German in disguise. But eventually Vethalik was released.

Many East Germans whom I have met at that time were eager to cross the Berlin Wall and go to the West Germany. I specifically remember the words of a young East German whose name was Heinrich. He was so fascinated by the musical show conducted by David Bowie near the Berlin Wall West side. He said to me “my dream is to go to cross the Wall some day and start a new life in West Germany ” Although he had thought that there was a heaven in the Western part we knew the mental picture he had was not hundred percent accurate.

The Berlin Wall was erected in the night of August 13, 1961. This decision was made by the Communist parties of the German Democratic Republic (GDR ) and the Communist Party of the Soviet Union met in Moscow and they decided to close the open border between East and West Berlin. The wall separated many families. Dispute the restrictions many people fled the Eastern part and entered the West. Then the GDR took stern measures. They built a concrete wall which earned the name Berlin Wall. The Berlin Wall was officially referred to as the “Anti Fascist Protection Wall" by the GDR.

The total border length around West Berlin was 155 km . There were 302 watch towers and 20 bunkers. Nearly 192 persons were killed on the Berlin Wall when they tried to defect to the West side. In 1953 East Berliners rised up against the totalitarian system but the uprising was crushed with the help of Moscow. In 1955, the USSR declared that the GDR was fully sovereign. However the Red Army troops remained in East German territory, based on the four-power Potsdam Agreement .

The German Democratic Republic, which had been founded on 7 October 1949. Many Germans who opposed Hitler's NAZI policies supported the new regime. The were willing to develop GDR in an anti-fascist model. But strict censorship alienated the people and the regime. GDR became another totalitarian sate. The East German secret service also known as STASI controlled the people with an iron fist even interfering in their private lives. STASI recruited a large number of agents and some calculations have concluded that in East Germany there was one informer to every seven citizens.

One should not forget that there was a positive side of East Germany as well. In the GDR everyone had a legally guaranteed security of tenure and ownership to the properties where they lived. The unemployment rate was low and free education and health care was guaranteed. GDR achieved many victories in international sports. But East Germans may have valued freedom as an utmost valuable component in their lives. Therefore during the Wall's existence there were around 5,000 successful escapes to West Berlin.

In a speech at the Brandenburg Gate in 1987 Ronald Regan said to Mikhail Gorbachev to tear down the Berlin Wall that stood an obstacle to the human freedom. The disintegration of the wall brought with it the freedom to travel the world and, for some, more material wealth, but it also brought social breakdown, widespread unemployment and social insecurity. Berlin Wall taught us a lesson . Freedom is not cheep. Its expensive.

-Dr Ruwan M Jayatunge

To Meena with Love - By Sunil Ranasinghe

2009-11-12T00:55:00.000-08:00

To Meena with Love

By Sunil Ranasinghe

Meena, you are the swallow
Fighting against the huge storm
Stood up twisting sea surge.

Meena, you are the eagle
Clash on thunder and clouds
Falling water stream in monsoon.

Meena you are the phoenix
Rising on rivulets of blood
From ashes on my burnt children

Meena you are the weaver bird
Weaving a nest between borders
Brought staff from four directions

Meena, you are the sparrow
Embarrassing beloved on dawn
Maturing Sun among the spike

Meena you are the honey bird
Bringing sweet berry for grownup
Weeping in nest with empty bellies

Meena you are the pigeon
Flying free on Afghan soil
Takes olive leaves for peace

Meena you are the fire bird
Resists against the injustice
To bring freedom for people

-Sunil Ranasinghe