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dapt-poems

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and be silent,
open our lungs
and shout thanks
to our gods
thanks to our dogs.
Jesus did not ride that monstrous wave,
not Yahweh, Jah, Allah, none of the major
the order of every day, skip and jump rope,
whistle, talk to aid workers, even swim.
The elephants of reckoning
are bunches of scruff
men and women picking up
thrown out antennae
from the rubbish
bins of the city
to fix on their tubular
bells and horn about
by oil can fires
in the freezing midnight
of the old new year
We ride by their music
every hour in cabs on trains
hearing the pit pat
of our grown-wise pulse
shut in shut out
from the animals
of the dry season
the losers and boozers,
we must not admit our eyes
into the courtyard
the whimsy of chance
and our other excuses—
dollars in pocket—
to write beautiful songs
is all I ask, God
to do right with friends
and love a woman
and live to eighty
have people listen
to the story of my trip to America
The elephants of reckoning
are beaten and hungry
and walk their solitary horrors
out every sunrise slurping
coffee bought with change
while in some houses
freedom-bound lovers
embrace late and read Tagore
about the people working
underneath the falling of empires.
The King Cobra slides
through our jungles,
and tucked in bushes
by the riverbanks
the grand Kabaragoya
holds court among lizards—
but if you want to swim
at Mount Lavinia, or fly kites
on Galle Face Green, or ride
horse carts in the Jaffna peninsula
of your ancestors, or bear a child
in Colombo General Hospital,
or sleep in Cinnamon Gardens
under a mango tree,
or beg in the Borella Market,
or ride for historical reasons
on patrol boats in the Bay,
or stilt-fish off Matara down South,
in shallow graves
in deep graves
floating out of salt water
washing down the sands
Hoopoes, kingfishers,
cranes, have you got your messages