****
Be Kind
We are always asked to understand
the other person’s viewpoint
no matter how outdated,
foolish or obnoxious.
One is asked to view
their total error their life-waste
with kindliness,
especially if they are aged.
But age is the total of our doing.
They have aged badly
because they have lived
out of focus,
they have refused to see.
Not their fault?
Whose fault? mine?
I am asked to hide my viewpoint
from them for fear of their fear.
Age is no crime but the shame
of a deliberately wasted life
among so many
deliberately wasted lives is.
– Charles Bukowski
****
Daughter of Your Disdain
You call me ugly not always with rage,
But with quiet cuts that fill every page.
“Black,” you say, like it’s something shameful,
“Oh no your skin,” you sigh. Like I should be grateful
That you even look at me at all
Your very own daughter, made to feel small.
You don’t yell – you don’t need to shout,
Each word you choose still shuts me out.
“Too dark,” you mutter under your breath,
As if my skin is something less.
“Yuck, your hair,” you add with a look of disgust,
And I wonder – is this what love is supposed to trust?
Amma, do you know what you make me feel?
Like I’m a wound that never gets to heal.
Like no matter what I wear or say,
I’m just something you’d rather look away.
I needed your love to hold me near,
But your words are the echo I learned to fear.
I needed your arms to say I’m enough,
But you gave me a mirror that made life tough.
I carry your voice like a scar I hide,
It whispers cruel things I hold inside.
But I’m not broken – I’ve learned to bend,
Your shame of me won’t be my end.
One day I’ll stand, proud in this skin,
In the face you judged I’ll finally win.
– Amritha Vijayararth
****
A Love Letter to Colombo
Behind our wide smiles and blurry faces,
Lies Our home. Our realm. Our nation’s helm.
A city that has lasted the test of time.
Clung onto life, invasion after invasion.
It’s streets marred by old scars of bombs
and ethnic strife.
Healing all year round through
festivals and smiles.
A city which is choking from
traffic congestion,
Yet we can’t be bothered to improve
public transportation.
It’s fountains distract us from
the urban wet lands facing destruction.
Our activism and advocacy confined, to
coffee shop revolutions.
All these neon lights and bright billboards
shimmering on the Beira,
Yet no light is bright enough to blind us,
To the fact that our city is being sliced up,
Like a cake, for anyone to take,
And most of the time it is not in our favour.
But to see you quaver,
Makes me feel a little bit braver.
OUR city! OUR home! OUR sanctuary!
Colombo, oh how dearly I love thee…
– Buwanaka Perera
