Years ago I organized some Open Mics around Colombo and this young poet Imaad, AKA Saint Fallen, came onstage and held a burning match and read. I was quite impressed then, and he was really into the poetry scene. Now him and a very talented poet Krishantha are organizing a series of Poetry Pilaus at the Hansa Coffee House on Fife Road. I went this weekend and it was quite good.

I was thinking of someone that died today, and I thought: What if love is an imprint on your heart, A memory, a palimpsest, Something you can recall. I was just brushing my teeth. Those were the words I had in my head.

My friend Imaad has taken up the Open Mic mantle with Poetry Pilau. It’s a sorta, er, open mic where people can come and read poetry or prose or whatever. I’ve been a douche about publicizing (or attending), so I’ll try to do both now. There is a poetry pilau on March 10th, being next Saturday. Inshallah, I will be there, and I will try to write something. Check it out. This is from 2-6PM, at the Hansa Coffee on Fife Road.

My friend Imaad is hosting a poetry jam at Green Path tomorrow. To quote: “Poetry jam(/open mic) this Wednesday, 30th november, 5 pm onward at Green Path, Colpetty. spread the word.” It’ll feature musicians, some sketch artists and poetry. The Green Path house is past the checkpoint (before Liberty roundabout), first left. There’s a map here.

This is a poem. It may seem kinda long because poems cheat with the spacing, but it’s really not. I was reading Galileo on Dante’s Inferno, then bits of Dante’s inferno, then finally Wikipedia, which was a level I could finally stomach. I think that my scholarly sloth would place me in the first level of hell. I somehow got from there to reading about Sheol, the Old Testament concept of afterlife, which sounds eminently reasonable. It is, basically, nothing. I have also long wondered what could theoretically be reconstructed from information. If everything transmits information which is connected to a source, could that source be reconstructed. That is, could one raise the dead. This is a poem about those subjects, and reality TV, and Facebook, and Oprah.

I was lying on the floor, thinking of nothing, souveniers. Just that word, souveniers, which writing now, I can’t spell. It seemed terribly important. When I unpack my suitcases, all I have is a silly grin.

My friend has this magnificent book called the Ceylon Traveller, published by Studio Times. Written a lot by Nihal Fernando I think. It is a charming and deeply erudite guide to Sri Lanka, written by locals, going far beyond any Lonely Planet. It has all these back trails, short-cuts, inside knowledge, etc, written by guys who really know the country. One gem is this poem about hunting. This was before JVP era gun control. It’s a Sri Lanka I can barely imagine.

Ancient Lanka was a city, I think it only makes sense to live that way. You can slip down from the hills on black carpet, two hours to the sea. I’m chilly in the morning, swimming again by afternoon. Can lose oneself in the rolling hills, the rolling sea. Blessing and curse, for better or worse, even here the Blueberry still connect. There’s a new magazine on the table. My ex-girlfriend is on the cover. FML.

Sita, if you meet her,
Greet her, do beseech her
She’s unbridgeable, unmovable,
Serene

Sita, none is sweeter
Bird of paradise, Demeter
She’s slender like the ether
And tensile like the steel

Sita, be my preacher
Tell me when and how to meet a
Such a lovely doe-eyed creature
Swimming fish-eyed in the stream

But it’s a thousand miles to reach her
From her stomach to beneath her
It’s impossible to meet her,
In between

The storm drains of Colombo are full of love affairs, abortions, wedding rings, blood and tears. Beneath the veneer of civilization is the beating heart of lust. My heart, indeed, poor pilgrim, is taking a beating of its own. I wish for an arranged marriage. I wish for order in this world.