Nostalgia

Scoobee Doo

The long day, just got longer,
The chin too narrowed,
And claimed a little more of the curved edge.
This was after my trip into nostalgia,
Stopped somewhere in the mid afternoon.
There is nothing one can do
When nostalgia abruptly comes to a stand-still.
Nostalgia is not always
A tear-dropping handkerchief-wetting
Moment of careless pedigree,
No, sometimes, you are staring at the fog
Of light, we call the sun, taking notes of happenings
Around you. Still a foot, an eye or a rib
In the past is not always a bad thing.
Looking back, is solving those mysteries
Of the heart, which are just like,
Smarties or jellybeans, coming
Color-coded. The darkest being
The most ominous. And still we open
A pack, listening to Jon Secada
Singing “Just another day”,
But it rarely is. Its like unfolding
A pancake to find what the filler
Is – savory or sweet. And in that flat epiphany
You will start to believe that
All this bother, to recollect,
Is just an age-stamped edition
Of groping in retrospection.
And in that lesson of torment,
You haunt yourself with the past you,
And all you do at the end, is chase ghosts
Of the pasts, just to give you an
Extra zap, like a heart-quenching
Scooby snack.

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Hello

In Sri Lanka, many Husbands call their wives “Hello”

Diary 2

For some reason, the mobile phone
Is not the same as a ground line.
There is something exhilarating
About putting your finger to a little embossed hole
And rotating the dial and the receiver
Starting to give the ring tone. Your heart
Starts pumping, a little serial constriction and dilation,
In the motion of blood to the sensory ear
And the effector mandible and maxilla.

And you have memories of that old phone,
Your past taking you like a babe
Carried by the claws of an eagle. And a phone call
Stands between you and her – she the champagne
Among white wines. And it takes one word to make you
Tremble like Superman in the face of
A rock of kryptonite. You mumble hello
And you listen to the silken voice
At the other end. How one person’s dreams
Were yours to build.
.
And life is a peculiar sentence.
It has its mementos and omens. Like the old
Telephone with the dial that was butchered
By the mobile phone. We are all
Living for tomorrow, the element of fate
Surprising you, in that admixture
Of space and time.

How beautiful it was, to turn a dial
Anticipation tempests that stream to a motionless calmness
In one word you express – “hello”.
And another muted on the tip of your tongue.
When the word that mattered more
Was the one omitted.

And now I still have you at hello.
Where a little line called “subject” on top
Of a body of an e-mail. And the best part
About it was seeing your hello every Melbourne dawn.
Hello is a beautiful word. It breaks the ice.
It breaks the medium. It has a thousand different meanings
Each one different from the other,
And we go through them one by one.

And at that moment, all I wanted was the day,
Sitting on an armchair, looking at her pale brown eyes
While sipping a cup of orange pekoe tea. A story 40 years
In the making. Ruby anniversary with a goddess
By your side. And all I wished for
Was one word emptying my mouth ‘hello’
And you calling me back “I’m here honey”

It’s amazing how one word
Carried us and will carry us through every minor folly
Every madness, every dream, every hope.
Hello, her voice, Hello, the subject line
Hello, life-accomplice. Hello Love.

In Love With The Past (In Love with My Past Virginity)

wedding

NOTE

My parents just asked me today in the morning, after I read my latest poem to them, why I keep on writing about the same topic – virginity.

Well, it’s b’cos I was a pledged virgin, who never believed in pre-marital sex and I faced enough opposition and discrimination b’cos of my belief. For example, the woman (lawyer) who dumped me after finding out that pre-marital sex was off the table, or the Masters possessing Kandy girl who didn’t want to see me after learning from an e-mail/blog poem I was a virgin, or the school friends who wanted to learn whether I was a virgin or not at Whitehorse pub, at Nawam Mawatha (Don’t worry I’m not angry with you although I don’t know why you had to question me so intensely)…………….anyway, virginity is a choice, just as the many other choices on the table of any adult. Its an adult right.

———————————————————————-

Through the navel of an hourglass
I wish for the sand to defy gravity, to be the man,
– AND NOT THE WOMAN LIKE SOCIETY EXPECTS –
A pledged virgin amidst his 30s.
The past comes through like a rainbow
That ushers in so much color, a kaleidoscope,
Refraction in all its mesmerizing glory
And mirrors reminding me that my past
Is what held me together, shatter-proofing me
To the bludgeoning hailstorms of mislaid opinions.

Society expects man to be warm blooded
To be wild as his gender dictates, a fox among the sheets
Getting it all from the willing lass, a wild doe
Who will bathe you with her spots
And swallow you like a twig.
And all you remember are the castles;
Falling in love, falling to all the nonsensicality
The stupidity of buying life-sized stuffed animals,
Memorabilia with all the cheesy messages
Making a scrap book of cinema tickets
And bills paid at plush restaurants
Watching Pride and Prejudice a million times
Making Darcy’s awkwardness your own
Gift to a lass, who will promise to climb on you
On your wedding night, to make you a trampoline
To make love, a backyard game
Of percussion, pistons and gravity-defying stunts.

And virginity, is a pledge, of not wanting
To make love without a coupon
A chit that will read “an eternity to journey”
And you live with all the expectations; the times
You watch porn and you see your wife
In all the naughty baby dolls and in all the mis-anatomical
Positions bedroom gymnastics will usher
To the virgin heart and that pledge
Of looking through the periscope, perhaps even the telescope
And wanting one woman, to be your everything,
Your corkscrew, your trampoline
Your drum head; where your dream end
And the drawbridge closes to one lustful castle.

And I was a virgin for 38 years
A lifetime of being a seeker, the pearl hunter
The diver who looked through a million oysters
To find one so unlike others
A woman who was shier than a debutante
Loving more than a milking breast, as caring
As a mother singing a lullaby, as wild as
A magnitude 17 hurricane.
(A WOMAN WHO SAW WHAT A WHOLE GENDER COULD NOT)
That the boy in me, was a dreamer
Of all things that love could conquer
The wildflower in the forest
Who will wait for the straying soul
Lost in the wildnerness.

And through the myopia of loneliness
And the anxiety that boiled inside
I found a treasure inside a C-cup chest
A love that could carve even on rock
The calligraphy of her own hieroglyphs
That only I know. A love that the sky cannot
Sketch in all her boundlessness;
A love the ocean cannot manifest
In all her turbulence;
A love that closes my eyes
Every time I hold her close; Albino globes
That gives me all I ever dreamed of;
An incurable blindness magnifying a sense
That trembles when near
And pines when far.

Nostalgia Unearthed………….

The undercurrent of longing

To an eclipsed milestone

A steady stream of involuntary meditation

To a time-carved moment

That faded in time

But was not forgotten in the catacombs of memory

A place of beatitude, of endearment

Where grains of deed were cryopreserved

To be awakened in the retreat of time

For man is a parasite to his yesteryear

Suckling the vitality of his many-hued springs

The many ports of embarkation

Life is a painting that evolves with time

A journey that will never be washed off by soaked turpentine

And erased by a fresh coat of thinner and paint

For the journey of life rests on the masterstrokes of man

His one magnum opus

And each dream sediments as a memory

And each memory is fossilized

As the ore of nostalgia……