Launch reading with Pascale Petit, Vidyan Ravinthiran and Dis Poetry by Benjamin Zephaniah
Join Bloodaxe for this online launch for Pascale Petit's Beast, Vidyan Ravinthiran's Avidya, and Dis Poetry: Selected Poems & Lyrics by Benjamin Zephaniah. Live on...
is every country
where I feel, and don’t feel, at home
—a child,
leaving England
for Colombo’s eerily
warm evenings and the alien
language of crickets,
I too was fostered alike by beauty and by fear.
For many a year
through the doorway of dusk
I’d travel there.
‘What’s wrong?’ someone might say
or, ‘I love to see you smile’;
but I was far away.
*
In lockdown with my wife and baby
in green Acton’s
twilit warmth
I’m that lonely boy
listening for crickets
on a pink-tiled rooftop in Dehiwala.
*
What of this country
where I live now but should I leave
—if, say, the virus
touches my parents in England—
my visa may bar our return? Out
of caves in our garden’s stone
wall peeps the immortal
squirrel I saw run
through ancient Polonnaruwa,
three white lines
burned into its back:
the fingermarks of Rama.
[2020]
*
As a child
because my voice was not the right voice
and could not be understood I stood
before the mirror—a murky glassen word
this mouth can’t shape right to this day—and was made
to watch my teeth and lips being imprecise.
So this is why I come across a Southron
and not from Yorkshire, or Sri Lankan; but I’ll complain
no more about this clarified and potent tongue
for when the moustached gent at US Customs
asked me in his hapless twang are you a terrorist, my borrowed posh it sure
abashed that poor colonial; and it was of course
what my child-face perceived or could not in the glass
which made of me a scrutineer of sound,
a listener for and into every glitch
in the aathma, the script, the avid void of English.
*
Burnt palmyra
Felling the other charred and telltale boles
turned black from brown and missing their crown
of leaves used to make baskets and hats,
and as paper by the ancient poets
whose works burned, with the rest
of Jaffna library; those leaves that were
turned into umbrellas as well, which may be why
when the shells came down on these
now cratered, lunar badlands
poor people hid beneath my boughs,
as if bombs might bounce off like rain…
Why is it those who took an axe to all
the scorched lopped trees that would
remember their crimes to the world
left me and me alone standing,
the voiceless lingam you drive past down
the tank-ruined road to the war museum
with its spalled propeller and piffling,
home-made submarines—arranged
to paint the Tigers as a joke
—where a troop of monkeys with a crash of leaves
leap along rusted, bathetic bulkheads
drooping apart in slices like carved meat?
*
Eelam
If my parents were, are, nervy,
camouflaged—against carnivory;
if, at day’s end, their choice is
a belief in perpetual crisis;
if this autotomy and playing dead
(a jettisoned tail, ink squirted)
is the only language they
felt it safe to bequeath;
then, to smile today
with unclenched teeth,
to sleep well, not brood—an ingrate—
over trivially frictive grit
till the pearl of nightmare is fished;
to be at peace—wouldn’t this
betray my parents and my dead,
dismiss as nullity all they did?
Contents List
9 As a
10 Your demon’s basic
12 Next time
14 Trinco
16 Nanthikadal
17 Burnt palmyra
18 Leaving Jaffna
19 May 2021
20 The elephant
22 The elephant
23 Trinco
24 A fisherman
25 The last train
26 The Annupoorunyamal
27 My mother’s English
28 Every year
30 Pillaiyar
32 Lasantha Wickrematunge
38 Autumn
40 Mourning
42 Sri Lanka
44 Rama’s bridge
45 Karna
57 My face
59 Hillside temple
60 Orts
64 Travellers
65 Eelam
66 Research
68 Jaffna, January 15, 2023
70 The Star of India
71 As a child