The Great Palace in Ruin in Polonnaruwa
“…He would attend the Constituent Congress, of course, and he would even accept the honour of presiding if it was offered to him. But nothing more. Fourteen years of wars had taught him there was no greater victory than being alive. The presidency of Bolivia, that vast, unexplored country which he had founded and governed with a wise hand, had taught him the capriciousness of the power. The wisdom of his heart taught him the vanity of glory…”
Gabriel Garcia Marquez – The General in His Labyrinth
In the scorching midday heat
I walk along the concrete road
Splitting the sprawling archaeological reserve in Polonnaruwa
Where sundry ruins sit between
Tall, leafy trees whose large overlapping shadows
Protrude out onto the road here and there
All the way to the farthest end of the citadel.
Ahead of me, in the bald park
Opposite the entrance to the site of ruins
A blue-striped white 52-seater Leyland bus
Pulls over and pours out a procession of pilgrims
Most of them clad in white and from all walks of life
Led by a middle-aged, bespectacled monk in a saffron robe.
Crossing the dusty, arid park peopled with tourists
Buses, cars, SUVs, motor cycles, bicycles
Ice-cream vendors and sellers with sundry offerings
I walk over to what’s now left of the palace
Of that great monarch who had united the whole nation
Under his rule with all the opposing forces having been vanquished.
The tall stone and brick walls dwarf me
As I behold it trying to paint it over
The vast canvas of my mind, of my imagination
With invisible but indelible paints
Impervious to the ravages of time.
In its heyday during the great monarch’s rule
It must have been a spectacular palace
Bespeaking of his immense power and glory
And bustling with his staff and loyal courtiers
Bowing down to his majesty, the king
Fawning on his feet, beseeching the royal favour
With obscene displays of servitude
Not quite unlike in these so-called modern times
Where people are given to radical thinking
(or so the common belief goes)
Now these blackish walls
Of the dilapidated palace
Constantly assaulted by the elements
Have another story to tell,
One that’s truer still
(which most visitors may prefer not to hear, though)
About that brittle lot of royalty and glory
About us, the mortals’ fruitless but incessant
Pursuit of immortality.
– Jayashantha Jayawardhana
Endurance
Such few words with ‘Steering -Power’ of him
Made ‘Cooling-Shower’ to her ‘Scorching-Heart’
He built up her endurance! To face to the situations
In addition, to listen! Any harsh and disdainful! Words
Evil spirit represented as human and createdcompetition
She got up and fought though her conscience was controlled
As her passion was created according to his guidance!
Competition was won! Her opponent accepted it before her
As he strengthened! Her; mind set was reinforced
And reawakened her ‘Fallen—heart’ gradually
Although she was evaluated, elevated, accepted among
The discriminations along with her talents and efficiency
Those who rebuked and adversaries were astonished!
Their’ Useless –Efforts’ and humiliations were perceived
His heart was delightful because her path was clear and tidy
But nobody knew the commitment was scattered by whom
– Merril A. Perera
The Art of Listening
I’m not talking about a half-hearted
following the words but not the meaning
type of listening, that uses only one ear
And the occasional Oh, I see.
That type of listening you come across
every day of the week.
No, what I’m singing my hymn of praise to
Is a higher form of communication altogether.
I’m talking about employing all the tools at our disposal:
two ears, two eyes, the heart, the gut,
that place inside where compassion and empathy lie.
I’m talking about a whole body receptor
tuning into what the speaker is saying,
not just to their voice but to the silence
when they pause to search for a word,
their eyes and body speaking
eloquently on their behalf.
Someone takes the risk of releasing the truth
of who they are into the care of another
and miracle of miracles, the other reaches out
with both hands, cradles that truth, blesses it
with acceptance, enfolds it in acknowledgement
and tenderly gives it back into the care of the one who gave it life.
Now, that type of listening is rare.
It’s an art form, a sculptured moment of connection inviting us to come inside and be astonished at what the heart can hold.
– Anne Tannam
Not a Fairy Tale
I’ve been climbing for years,
Lost many, while scrambling up,
I see the winning post,
Yet, the hell;
Where I came out from.
I met no confederates,
My mouth is latched,
Forgotten the mots,
I’m drained;
But need life.
Wanted to be the mama’s doll,
Not a captive under someone’s life
I climb or to omit,
I still straddle;
Not every story is a fairy tale.
– Chamasha
