art music poetry

In Search of the Light | Poems by Indunil Madhusankha

by

In Search of the Light

Extirpating the Darkness: In Search of the Light 

 

As the radiant sun

struggles to peep through

the fissures in

the fringe of the crests

that stand idyllically

like a pantheon of sentinels

guarding the distant mountain

Awakened by the canorous chirping

of the tiny birdies

I open my window

early in the morning

which gives me a perfect view

of the monastery

located in the vicinity

 

Every day at this time

I see her

immersed in a deep meditation

while strolling barefoot

in the sandy compound

The intense composure of her gestures

reminding me of the  Bhikkunis

depicted in Buddhist scriptures

 

I know well

It was the saffron robe

that once saved her

from her gloomy past

when she used to be

the wife of a man

A merciless drunkard

who battered her

every evening

I can still remember

how she fell on the ground

and wailed miserably

like a vixen

 

Nevertheless,

no longer is she drowned

in the dreadful darkness

Instead she is surrounded

with the gleaming sunlight

Having chosen the righteous path,

the ideal path that leads to the light

 

Glossary

 

Bhikkunis – Fully ordained female monastics or nuns in Buddhism

 

Previously published in the Vol. 7, Issue. I (February 2016) of the journal, The Criterion: An International Journal in English

http://www.the-criterion.com/V7/n1/Indunil.pdf

 

The Land of Serenity

 

There are moments in life

when my mind hurls me into a

whirlpool of frantic thoughts

Having lost control of my faculties

I would rush to the temple premises

 

The cooling sands at the end of

the gravel path

The perfect soothing balm

The yellowish bo leaves lay still

and calm on the yard

though fallen

 

The sizzling yet charming dance

of the leaves in the canopy

teaches me alesson

about the nature of the mind

thus breaking the tranquility

for a moment

 

Under the shade of the giant tree

I would lose myself

in a meditation

The cozy breeze

sweeping the dreaded contemplation

away from me

 

Then I would walk towards

the statue of the Buddha

that stands still

spreading myriads of compassion

towards mankind

Oh, the enlightened one

An innate grace

so enormous to illuminate

a whole world

While putting my hands together

I would go under the knees

and recite the Gathas

 

Finally I would leave

the land of serenity

And I would feel myself

as a newborn

with wings to fly hither and thither

Thus I would attain the relief,

the freedom of mind

 

Oh, may the pristine Dharma bless the entire world!

 

Glossary

Bo   A tree which is a species of fig and is considered sacred by the followers of Buddhism, Hinduism and Jainism

Gathas    Verses or hymns in Buddhism

 Previously published in the Vol. 6, Issue. V (October 2015) of the journal, The Criterion: An International Journal in English

http://www.the-criterion.com/V6/n5/Indunil.pdf

 

 

Build a Cozy Little Room of Mutuality

 

The flourishing of technological wonders

reaching the burning zenith,

at which

everything is  reduced to ashes

Bullets, shells, guns, cannons, bombs, missiles

The worst,

the nuclear and the atomic

Roasted flesh and ashes of bodies

Total annihilation

 

The creator being destroyed by the creation

The crime of self-deception

and that of shameless vanity

Making war is not what we are born for,

but making love is!

So why,

at this full summer and

the flowering season of his cultivation,

still lost in a wrench?

Let it not be true

that man’s greatest enemy is man

 

Use your sciences

to abate and avoid

all these battles

Let the cool of the moon

reign in magnificence,

not the piercing sunbeams

 

Easy, yes, it is to break a stick,

but not a stock of sticks,

for the latter is much stronger

Let it be a metaphor of human strength

 

Living in a small “global village”

why such a delay

to build a cozy little room of mutuality

with modern miracles, mushrooming

 

Previously published in the Vol. 6, Issue. VI (December 2015) of the journal, The Criterion: An International Journal in English

http://www.the-criterion.com/V6/n6/Indunil.pdf

 

 

Indunil Madhusankha is currently an Instructor in the Department of Mathematics of the University of Colombo, Sri Lanka. Even though he is academically involved with the subjects of Mathematics and Statistics, he also pursues a successful career in the field of English language and literature as a budding young researcher, reviewer, poet, editor, content writer and proofreader. His creative works have been featured in several international anthologies, magazines and journals. Moreover, Indunil was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2016 by the Scarlet Leaf Publishing House based in Toronto, Canada.

I’ll Be Thinking of You

by


The sun comes up into a quiet sky
and the birds seem to float on by
When the sunlight hits the morning dew
I’ll be thinking of you.

When the wind catches the trees just right
and they sway gently in the soft sunlight.
When the shadows fall grey and blue
I’ll be thinking of you.

When the sun hits the top of the sky
and the day seems to rush on by,
Whenever I see a sky of blue
I’ll be thinking of you.

When the day fades into a setting sun
and the twilight sky has just begun,
when the moonlight seems yellow and blue,
I’ll be thinking of you.

With the sunset comes the nightime sky
and the wispy clouds float on by,
when the stars shine bright and true
I’ll be dreaming of you.

2011 Music by David Michael Jackson and Andy Derryberry in Murfreesboro, Tennessee
Artvilla.com

Girl-with-Cat-and-Dog-Painting….David Michael Jackson

Destroyer Poem

by

Facebook
destroyer of creativity
maker of average
it is a grade school friend
saying
you can’t sing
a weeks work flows by in two seconds
into oblivion
life is dark enough
out here in
give up land
out here in try again city
we are all children coloring in our
books
enjoying the mud
it is not important if the dirt
on our hands is pure
it is only important that our hands are dirty
from work
fuck the likes
fuck the shares
good art can come from
not being
liked
It’s best to throw the rock
from outside the window
It’s better to scream alone in the forest
God cannot hear you in the
crowd.

Fukushima. 5 Poems by Mitch Grabois Featured at Artvilla.com

by

 
(i)
 
Fukushima
 
Radiation
browns the waters
like spilled cocoa
and creeps across the sea
 
Laying naked on Santa Monica Beach at 2 a.m.
I awake with a start
my tongue burning
the taste of marshmallows
twisting my stomach
 
I’ve taken so many mind-expanding drugs
I can sense what no one else can
 
Homeless, I have only my own life to save
I’ve got to run before my ears turn blue
before my dick falls off
and my descendants turn into
Elephant Men
 
I pull on my jeans and sweatshirt
and take off running
for Nova Scotia
 
(ii)
 
Worse
 
We’re getting worse, worse than the Goths
and Vandals who sacked Rome
and ate all the green and yellow parakeets in Egypt
worse than the Soviets
who ate the peach-faced love birds
 
There are benevolent Nazi women
on the dark side of the moon
with huge boobs
and faces frozen with Botox
preparing our annihilation
 
(iii)
 
Rooftop
 
She’s on a chaise lounge on her rooftop
in Brooklyn
in this Facebook post
 
She’s stretched out
her legs extended straight in front of her
Her body is very white
She’s wearing an awkward looking bathing suit top
or maybe it’s a kind of halter
It’s hard to tell from this angle
 
She’s taken a selfie of her body
There must have been some neck strain involved
Her body is like milk
I can’t see any tattoos
 
She’s lost all her mystery
I can no longer pretend that she’s satanic
I’ve heard she works for a woman’s magazine
something like Better Homes and Gardens
Do they still publish shit like that?
She’s on the roof with the Hispanic neighborhood
spread out below
She smells the good odor of the rotisserie chicken place
the glass all greasy
and all the Mexican beer and sodas
the Mexicans enjoying their swarthy selves
She thinks she’s getting tanned up there
on the roof
but she’s just getting burned
 
Her thighs are thick
I see that now
I don’t mind thick thighs
but I mind women who talk about
how thick theirs are
as if it would ameliorate some of the shame
if they talk about it
in a jocular way
But who the fuck cares if her thighs are a little chubby
after everything we’ve been through in this world?
Anyway, as Michael Ventura said, fat feels good in bed
 
(iv)
 
Cruel Mayan
 
The woman with the cruel face and large breasts
rests on the couch under the jaguar
her legs folded under her
 
and talks on a cell phone
the universal currency
of disengagement and contempt
 
The doors are ten feet tall
but she is only five
the same height as her ancestors
 
who died before they were forty
and whose foreheads were flat
and their eyes crossed
in beauty
 
This woman’s face is rich in cruelty
as if cruelty came in batches of
a million pixels
 
Her cell phone and blouse are lurid pink
her toenails are orange
She is a minor character in a detective novel
who hides a shiv in her ratted hair
 
She studies the screen of her cell phone
like a Sephardic rabbi studying the Torah
 
She studies it like a weatherman
studying swirls of radar
for deadly storms
 
like a mother staring
into her baby’s crib
for signs of polio
or sudden death syndrome
 
like the father of a juvenile delinquent
peering into his son’s face for proof of worth
or worthlessness
 
This woman’s face gets crueler
as I watch
until she forces me to orgasm
without touching me
 
then leaves me
to recover my sanity
and to clean myself
 
She goes back to the couch
back to uninterrupted staring
into her cell phone
 
like a Sicilian studying the face of a pizza
for signs of crime
or the dark, mottled face of his lover
for signs of betrayal
 
(v)
 
Ruler
 
The jaguar’s eyes burn red
His mouth is red and glows from within
I come and go
The world is full of phantasmas
and lost Americans
whose only salvation is death
 
but who pour agua purificado
from jug to jug
as if
their rituals of juggling clean water
will void damnation
 
The jaguar’s teeth are sharp as a shark’s
sharp as a moray eel’s
This peninsula was once a sea
 
The jaguar’s whiskers are bristly
as my uncle’s
who ran a clothing store in Queens
 
His face cut me
when he bent to kiss
I’d already learned that vampires
came from Rumania
and here he was
 
with his flat cap
and red eyes
 
Ruler of the ghetto
he cheated black men
who were afraid to buy their work clothes
from someone else
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over twelve-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad, including POETRY LIFE AND TIMES. He has been nominated for numerous prizes. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a Print Edition . To see more of his work, google Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois. He lives in Denver.
 
 
 
 
 
 

Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times his publications include All the Babble of the Souk and Cartoon Molecules collected poems and Key of Mist the recently published Tesserae translations from Spanish poets Guadalupe Grande and Carmen Crespo visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (Leeds University) .