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.

Will have another Open Mic tomorrow in the warehouse behind Park Street Mews. It’s where they had Artwalk and the Colombo Art Biennale. This is after literally months because I’m lazy and terrified of real-world activity. St. Fallen, however, has gotten me off my ass and the Park Street people have been kind enough to proffer the space. Inshallah, we could continue it there. That is becoming a happening part of town (relatively, much to do of course). The warehouse is literally a warehouse with a plug point. I’ll have to sweep the cigarette butts out and everyone will have to sit on paduru but should be OK.

Bit of short notice, but this might be a good time for an Open Mic. We’ll have one tomorrow in Rajagiriya, down Obeysekerapura. That’s Thursday, May 21st, tomorrow at 8 PM. No notice, but things are going crazy and we might as well get together to digest what’s going on. I got a shitload of stories from IDP camps, hospitals and jail that I can’t publish so I can share those. If you have poetry or stories or music or just something to say, do come out. Jan’s house, Obeysekerapura, Rajagiriya. Near the McDo roundabout.

OK, God willing, we’ll have one more Open Mic before Avurudu shuts down all activity in this country. This Wednesday, at Green Path in Colpetty. It’s a lovely house with a stage even. Should be cool, though we do have backup. As always, please bring poetry, prose, etc. This time was thinking I’d try something different and will project some photos for a little show and tell. There are things I’ve never published or can’t publish which might be of some interest outside of the permanent record of the Internet. But, anyways, it’s been good and should be good again.