A plane flew into her face. It happened many years ago, but she still remembers like it was last week. The plane rose in the air and took a turn towards the building she was in. Then it dived in.
She was drinking her coffee and waiting for the computer to start, when she heard a noise of a bee buzzing at her window. Except there could be no bees near her window. It was too high for any bees to fly. But she looked up anyway. And it was then she saw the plane humming like a billion bees swarm towards her window. Then it thundered in people and all. Her coffee mug crashed to the ground and shattered into a thousand and one little pieces. And that’s all she recollects.
Shirani Rajapakse writes poetry and short stories. She’s the author of six books including Chant of a Million Women, winner 2018 Kindle Book Awards, USA as well as Gods, Nukes and a whole lot of Nonsense and I Exist. Therefore I Am, 2022 and 2019 State Literary Award winners, Sri Lanka. The latter was also shortlisted for the 2019 Rubery Book Awards, UK. Rajapakse’s work has won and been placed in other competitions including being highly commended for the 2022 erbacce-prize for poetry, UK. Her work appears in many journals and anthologies. shiranirajapakse.wordpress.com amazon.com/Shirani-Rajapakse/e/B00IZQRAOA/
Samsara has made it to the second round in AllAuthor’s Cover of the Month contest. The image was by me and the cover was designed by Hayley Faye. Thanks to everyone that voted for it. Check it out below and vote for it.
Sometimes a hot cup of coffee in the middle of the night does wonders for a restless mind wandering the corridors of time, fluttering here and there like a moth trapped in a room, knocking against doors locked up for the night, trying to wake up the sleeping snug in their dreams, yelling ‘let me out! let me out!’ A cup of coffee, strong, hot and sweet, just as I like it, can provide strength in a lonesome night, silent except for strange sounds like prehistoric creatures calling from the trees outside hidden from view, never showing faces.
The dog wakes up as she always does at the slightest sound from the kitchen. She will not lift a paw or give ear for noises anywhere else. A thief could walk in and take away the whole house for all she cared, but a discreet thud in the kitchen; opening a cupboard, picking up a cup, and she’d drag herself out of her dreams to rush in and flop down at her usual place against the cupboard. Pushing away the sleep from her eyes she’d stare up with a look that says, “give me something from what you are having, whatever it is.” But alas, coffee is taboo for her although she loves the taste, expects a sip in the mornings, waits until I finish let her sniff the cup try to stick her tongue in to taste the residue clinging to the sides. She looks up and sulks as I sip knowing she will not get her way here. Not tonight as I savor my coffee and listen to the silence of the dark outside. No rains, no leftover afternoon heat, the creatures in the trees now silent, gone to sleep. The only sound the soft breath of my dog as she sighs softly to herself dreaming of things she cannot have.
Shirani Rajapakse writes poetry and short stories. She’s the author of six books including Chant of a Million Women, winner 2018 Kindle Book Awards, USA as well as Gods, Nukes and a whole lot of Nonsense and I Exist. Therefore I Am, 2022 and 2019 State Literary Award winners, Sri Lanka. The latter was also shortlisted for the 2019 Rubery Book Awards, UK. Rajapakse’s work has won and been placed in other competitions including being highly commended for the 2022 erbacce-prize for poetry, UK. Her work appears in many journals and anthologies. shiranirajapakse.wordpress.com amazon.com/Shirani-Rajapakse/e/B00IZQRAOA/
There are journeys we make and paths we tread on in this cycle of birth and death, rebirth and death until that final moment when we reach nibbana. We meet and pass many beings on their own journeys. We gain much experience as we sojourn along the way sharing joy, sorrow, exhilaration and contemplation that all become part of wandering from one single moment to the next, step by little step, but always moving ahead. This poetry collection encapsulates a few tiny moments in time in that long and winding expedition of Samsara.
One might think that individuals from two cultures and religions as contrary as Christianity and Hinduism have nothing in common. It is a mindset of confrontation I do not share. We are all human, and in our human souls all long for the same things, even if we choose different paths to obtain them. This is why I gladly accepted Shirani’s humble request to read and review her new poetry collection Samsara. After having read her short story collection I exist, therefore I am, which greatly impressed me with its depth, I expected to be touched by the poems. I was not disappointed.
These poems are relatable, transforming everyday observances into philosophical depth, touching in a quiet way that is at once beautiful in its language and challenging in its meaning. Some poems made me laugh out loud, some brought me close to tears, others left me with a new thought or an echo of yearning. There were few I could not relate to at all.
Shirani has a gift of setting ordinary things into a new context that opens up a whole new perspective. I greatly enjoyed that. It is a book that should not be read in one sitting. Each poem needs room to reverberate in the mind, time to savor it like a glass of good wine.
From the description I had expected a lot more reference to religious teachings, but that is not the case. If I hadn’t known the author’s background, I would not have guessed it. Many of the thoughts expressed in the poems are familiar to me, and yet they carry a touch of the exotic to my European mind. It’s like traveling to a distant country (Sri Lanka, in this case), feeling the heat, smelling exotic flowers and being overwhelmed by the monsoon rains. It all comes alive in a few well placed words and that is truly magical. If you enjoy poetry, this book is a jem.
In Sanskrit the word ‘Samsara’ means ‘world’, it also represents the concept of the cycle of death and rebirth, a fundamental belief of Hinduism. In Buddhism, ‘Samsara’ means ‘suffering’. Like these meanings, Shirani Rajapakse’s poems also give us some insights about our life and suffering in this world.
Shirani seems to be interested in exploring the human experience, particularly in relation to the passage of time and the transience of life. Her poetry is introspective and sensory with a focus on evoking emotions and encouraging readers to question their own perceptions of reality. She might be grappling with personal issues related to mortality and the meaning of life, using poetry is her way to process and explore theses ideas.
Few of her poems reflect on the fleeting nature of life and the inevitability of death. She used several metaphor and powerful symbol to describe the impermanence of our existence. The poem ‘An Old Friend’ ends with a realization that, just like the shriveled Sepalika tree, our bodies will one day be thrown away and forgotten. Shirani’s poems also delves into the nature of consciousness, and that our sense of self is constantly changing and evolving. Her tone in the poems is introspective and contemplative.
Shirani’s poem not only tells about human suffering but also the pain and fear experienced by other creatures. The message here is a call for greater empathy and a reminder of the interconnectedness of all living beings. Some of the poems also touches the themes of karma and our karmic fate. I must say, ‘Samsara’ is a collection of reflective and thought provoking poems; it encourages us to think more deeply about the world around us. Her poetry portrays the deep sorrow of losing a loved one and the lingering hope of finding them again, even in the face of overwhelming odds. In ‘Samsara’ suffering and happiness lives together, nothing is permanent or forever.
These poems are relatable, transforming everyday observances into philosophical depth, touching in a quiet way that is at once beautiful in its language and challenging in its meaning. Some poems made me laugh out loud, some brought me close to tears, others left me with a new thought or an echo of yearning. There were few I could not relate to at all.
Shirani has a gift of setting ordinary things into a new context that opens up a whole new perspective. I greatly enjoyed that. It is a book that should not be read in one sitting. Each poem needs room to reverberate in the mind, time to savor it like a glass of good wine.
From the description I had expected a lot more reference to religious teachings, but that is not the case. If I hadn’t known the author’s background, I would not have guessed it. Many of the thoughts expressed in the poems are familiar to me, and yet they carry a touch of the exotic to my European mind. It’s like traveling to a distant country (Sri Lanka, in this case), feeling the heat, smelling exotic flowers and being overwhelmed by the monsoon rains. It all comes alive in a few well placed words and that is truly magical. If you enjoy poetry, this book is a jem.
In Samsara, her new volume of poetry, Shirani Rajapakse demonstrates intriguing new perspectives with a deft and heartfelt diction. The poet generally chooses to illustrate a finite set of themes, and this allows her to deal with them a number of times, in a stunning variety of ways. For instance, she brings us a much wider range of visual images than in prior work, and they’re a delight: rich, vivid, and sometimes quirky. Another tool this award-winning poet uses: she anthropomorphizes certain ordinary natural phenomena, like the waving branches of a tree, the dancing of its leaves, or the simple activities of animals.
But the salient feature in Rajapakse’s poetry remains her magisterial stance regarding her themes. She treats reincarnation, love, Buddhist and Hindu faith, human relationships and spirituality, and the nature of reality, with a sure hand, and delivers her usual unflinching judgments on all. This is a very accomplished work, mature in its perspectives and starkly clear in its verdicts.
Besides these attractions, this volume has what struck me as a thesis statement. This is quite unusual in her work. In “Musing,” she writes, “I lift my eyes to the goings on in the garden; / the noisy chatter, yet / my eyes see through this all to what hides / behind, inside spaces no one can see.” This deep peering into the known but unseen, into the hidden sense of things, recurs throughout the poems, and always illuminates a facet of a larger idea.
These pieces are a delight for those who trust contemplation and deep thinking, and in the efficacies of the written word. I liked these offerings quite a bit, as you can tell.
The title of the collection is a Sanskrit word meaning the suffering-laden cycle of birth, death, and rebirth, wherein the Earthly plane is seen as illusory, appealing overmuch to the senses, and encouraging the empty pursuit of things. The poems explore these facets a number of times; in some pieces she decries the emptiness of life, but sometimes she arrives at an elegant moment where the deeper truths are hinted at, or yearned for. And there is quite a bit here about loneliness, about humans who have become separated and now must adjust to life by themselves. Samsara indeed.
I honor Shirani—for her gift with felicitous phrases and her clear insight into the spiritual realm, among all the other features of her growing oeuvre. Among her poetical work, this is clearly her finest to date.
To read “Samsara” by Shirani Rajapakse is to embark on a spiritual journey of past and present life reflections on suffering, decay, and death in vivid and stirring metaphors.
Because this book is written in a strong feminine voice, I couldn’t help but relate to the poetess’ emotional states, which are explored with imagery from nature as well as congested modern times. The spirit is a house of familiar attachments and a stage for the drama of daily toil and abuse, illness, death, isolation, and loneliness that the poems reveal.
The spirit comes tapping on the window as “a little leaf” (“It Happened while You were Sleeping”), calling all of us to venture into the rain to seek life’s meaning. We feel the nostalgia for the innocent lives we once had before house upon house and road upon road, and technology clogged our existence and blinded us from insight, the “white lotus blooming in a lake” (“Mind over Matter”).
Along with the speaker, the reader feels at a loss of how to take on this journey and is overwhelmed with choices and mysteries (“Gazing at the Rain from My Window”),
“Who are these
words that want to be heard?
p
Are they remnants of past lives?”
The poems describe the human condition, the absurdity of safety in the houses (loves) we build. Despite the gecko’s warning, we find ourselves retreating from the one we think loves us (“Prophesy”)…
“………………in this dark room
back in your old home with the curtains
firmly drawn, a no entry sign to the world
pinned to the door and wonder why it turned
so wrong….”
Moreover, the plight of women comes through in many poems. Their roles as lovers, caregivers, and artists debased in the shadow of the patriarchy (“Prophesy”)…
“The astrologer predicted
your stars would outshine his.
You’d bring him fame,
he claimed, so what did it matter that you’d have
to put up with all the rest?
It wasn’t your place to complain,
a woman should know
her worth, keep quiet and bow down to
her man’s wishes, or so he said.”
This collection of poetry can be appreciated on many levels. Rajapakse depicts a woman who is overwhelmed by modern life while facing the loss of a loved one she is conversing with. The poems about the decline of her partner or lover are raw, revealing not just the decay of a life but the decay of love itself.
“Words trickle out of lips like
Birds flying across the setting sun
to get lost in the trees beyond.
Half sentences
is all you give me for now.
The mist descends behind us, cruel reminder
of cold nights, loneliness and things
that cannot be said.” (“When there is Nothing Left to Say”)
Love is “An Old Friend”, whose death is likened to the Sepalika tree that
“…succumbed many years ago.
The trunk caved in.
Devoured by termites it
couldn’t hold on….
….It resembled your
cancer ravaged body yearning
to live.”
As she scans her past, reflecting on the good days and finds herself overwhelmed by how things have turned out, she reflects on the karmic forces at play in the cycle of death and rebirth. Love becomes an angry man in the violent throes of death; he pleads to live…
“while consciousness
breaks free and scurries
out of his throat
to start the cycle all over again.”
In “The Karmic Trial”, the poetess sees us as mindless, forgetful of past lessons learned, “turning into/ puppets of Prophets” despite having “a brain/ and the powers to reason”.
“We turn around in circles
like wheels of a car or
the moving blades
of a fan as they spin
In the same place.”
We are caught in a cycle of “…blind faith that doesn’t/ allow for inquiring or reasoning” (‘Fundamentalists”). God abandons us as we are “no longer/ any use”. We are left without God when we need him the most.
Between the lines, the poetess offers remedies, such as sitting with the breath and meditating, watching “the world go by and / remain unaffected” by the ego, who makes the world go crazy with materialistic want and self-indulgence (“The I in Everything I Do”)
I highly recommend this collection of verses that invite the spirit into the mundane and explore the human condition, the samsara, or the continuous karmic cycle of life, death, and rebirth. Shirani Rajapakse explores our “suffering, decay, and death” and attachments to the material world that leave us hollow and bereaved. Although alienated, we can travel together through samsara. In “Samsara II”, the poetess says,
“I’m bored with this life.
Can I go home? But where is
home? How do I get there? Which bus
do I take? Do I fly instead, or can
the road take me there through
its twists and turns? And if I fall along
the way will you lift me
up? Give me new shoes and food
to eat and a place to stay. Will you come
with me, or do you stay behind?
Alone. I could do with some company
on my way there. To nowhere. To
where I don’t know. For I
cannot read a map and you can.
It’s as simple as that.”
Finally, many of these poems are “highly commended” (erbacce-prize for poetry, 2022), and I am not surprised. You will not regret joining Shirani Rajapakse on her “Samsura”.
Barbara Leonhard
Shirani Rajapakse writes poetry and short stories. She’s the author of five books including Gods, Nukes and a whole lot of Nonsense – winner of the 2022 State Literary Awards, Sri Lanka; I Exist. Therefore I Am – winner of the 2019State Literary Awards, Sri Lanka, shortlisted for the 2019Rubery Book Awards, UK; and Chant of a Million Women – winner of the 2018Kindle Book Awards, USA, Official Selection in the 2018New Apple Summer eBook Awards for Excellence in Independent Publishing, USA & Honorable Mention in the 2018Reader’s Favorite Awards, USA. Rajapakse’s work was highly commended for the 2022erbacce-prize for poetry, UK. She also won the 2013Cha “Betrayal” Poetry Contest, Hong Kong and was a finalist in the 2013 Anna Davidson Rosenberg Poetry Awards, USA. Rajapakse’s work appears in many journals and anthologies around the world. She read for a BA in English Literature from the University of Kelaniya, Sri Lanka and has a MA in International Relations from JNU, India. You can follow Shirani on her WordPress blog. You can order Samsara on Amazon.
Shirani Rajapakse writes poetry and short stories. She’s the author of five books including “Gods, Nukes and a whole lot of Nonsense” – winner of the 2022 State Literary Awards, Sri Lanka; “I Exist. Therefore I Am” – winner of the 2019 State Literary Awards, Sri Lanka, shortlisted for the 2019 Rubery Book Awards, UK; and “Chant of a Million Women” – winner of the 2018 Kindle Book Awards, USA, Official Selection in the 2018 New Apple Summer eBook Awards for Excellence in Independent Publishing, USA & Honorable Mention in the 2018 Reader’s Favorite Awards, USA. Rajapakse’s work was highly commended for the 2022 erbacce-prize for poetry, UK. She also won the 2013 Cha “Betrayal” Poetry Contest, Hong Kong and was a finalist in the 2013 Anna Davidson Rosenberg Poetry Awards, USA. Rajapakse’s work appears in many journals and anthologies including “Dove Tales”, “Buddhist Poetry”, “Litro”, “Berfrois”, “Flash Fiction International”, “Voices Israel”, “About Place”, “Mascara”, “Counterpunch”, “Silver Birch”, “International Times”, “New Verse News”, “Cultural Weekly”, “The Write-In”, “Harbinger Asylum” and more. Her work has been translated into Farsi, Spanish, French and Chinese.
Description
There are journeys we make and paths we tread on in this cycle of birth and death, rebirth and death until that final moment when we reach nibbana. We meet and pass many beings on their own journeys. We gain much experience as we sojourn along the way sharing joy, sorrow, exhilaration and contemplation that all become part of wandering from one single moment to the next, step by little step, but always moving ahead. This poetry collection encapsulates a few tiny moments in time in that long and winding expedition of Samsara.
Book excerpt
The Journey You tell me my sentences are too long with no stops for breath. But I tell you that it is so. The twists and turns of the road winding through open valleys that lead straight into the orange red sun beckoning from the horizon, lighting up the low shrubs on either side golden, or ascending hills stretching their necks to nuzzle against clouds, is long and far. I like traveling down the road with no stops, only a few pauses to define the way. So please let me enjoy the journey and my long sentences. I’ve a right to travel this road or any path I desire. Just as you have the right to stop along the way, check into a room, enjoy a leisurely swim. We are two beings with as much right to be here. I with my long sentences; you with your pit stops.
The first review for Samsara is out. Thanks to Swapna Peri from Book Reviews Cafe for the interesting review. I’m always surprised by the insight of readers and how they interpret my work. Swapna has also made an clever observation about the cover image.
Book Title: Samsara Author: Shirani Rajpakse Published by: Shirani Rajapakse Category: Poetry Genre: Non-fiction No. of pages: 128
The Hook: Life moments that speak up volumes are encapsulated in poems.
Review: A poem has few words, but it has a big heart. Poems are not only emotional in content but powerful in their tone. They speak those things that we humans tend not to even think about.
In this book by Shirani Rajapakse, through the poems, readers will bring their own experiences and find what they want or need in each one, situation and life. The Sacrifices a woman makes, the difficulties a citizen faces, the pressure a teenager gets subjected to, the emotional quotient one builds when travelling in nostalgia, and the social extremes. Many more things people face, endure and adapt in their day-to-day life are the muses of every poem.
The book has a poem for everyone, every gender and age, every situation and incident, every feeling and notion. The book is for those readers who are comfortable with the modern form of poetry where abstractness and imagination of more important things are explained in simple words. Readers who wish to explore a different style of depicting life and its course can pick up this book. The book may not please serious poet book lovers. Though many poems are interesting to read, some feel incomplete or difficult to interpret. Certain non-English words and their meaning will be helpful if fed in the footnote. In one of the poems, the following lines made me laugh out loud at the author’s wit and, at the same time, her word skills:
But the mosquitoes they can have. I’ve tried and tired of compassion for them hovering like drones around my head.
Not to forget about the cover image. It is simple but profound, with the jasmine flower garland tied with the string, and every pair of flowers maintained at a certain distance is quite impressive. I can infer from the image that two flowers are the two sides or feelings or things with opposite natures bound to the same knot in the thread. Likewise, pairs of such flowers in s distance talk about the balance one need in life.
In short, reading the Samsara by Shirani Rajapakse made my mind travel across many unsaid, forgotten and nostalgic moments of life.
Participated via video link at the inauguration ceremony. Thanks to poet Abdukakhor Kosim for the invite.
ПОЗДРАВЛЯЕМ!
CONGRATULATIONS!
LET FRIENDSHIP FILL ALL THE WORLD!
ПУСТЬ ДРУЖБОЙ БУДЕТ ПОЛОН МИР!
Congratulations to the Assembly of the Peoples of Eurasia on the upcoming New Year 2023, and letters of thanks “For the contribution to strengthening international cultural and humanitarian cooperation and support of the Panel session “People’s Diplomacy: experience and Prospects” within the Perm Open Friendship Forum”to cultural diplomats from around the world!
Dear friends and colleagues!
Please accept our sincere congratulations on the upcoming New Year 2023! May the coming year be full of new plans, inspiration, creative ideas and good news! May your cherished dreams come true, there will be prosperity and prosperity in the house, and you and your loved ones will always be healthy!
Assembly of the Peoples of Eurasia
SEPARATELY, ON MY OWN BEHALF, I CONGRATULATE ALL COLLEAGUES ON THE UPCOMING NEW YEAR 2023 TO ALL THE AWARDEES AND EXPRESS MY GREAT GRATITUDE FOR FRIENDSHIP AND COOPERATION!
Abdukakhor Kosim,
Co-Chairman of the Literary Council of the Assembly of Peoples of Eurasia, National Coordinator of the World Poetry Movement, Honorary Advisor to the Federation of the World Society of Culture and Art (Singapore), Honorary Ambassador of the World.
The paperback version of my poetry book Samsara was just released.
There are journeys we make and paths we tread on in this cycle of birth and death, rebirth and death until that final moment when we reach nibbana. We meet and pass many beings on their own journeys. We gain much experience as we sojourn along the way sharing joy, sorrow, exhilaration and contemplation that all become part of wandering from one single moment to the next, step by little step, but always moving ahead. This poetry collection encapsulates a few tiny moments in time in that long and winding expedition of Samsara.
Gods, Nukes and a whole lot of Nonsense won the State Literary Awards 2022 for the best collection of short stories published in 2021. The awards ceremony was held yesterday, October 28, 2022.
My poem, “Thoughts” was published in the Autumn Issue of Poetry Lab Shanghai along with the Chinese translation. Go here to read it in the journal, along with the other poems, or check it out below.
Autumn ’22 Issue | 2022 秋季刊
Thoughts
by Shirani Rajapakse
We have lost our way
hurrying
towards the future with no
consideration for the present
the past the glories we shared.
There is healing in knowledge
but no one wants
to acknowledge
debts to the past
the people
the ancestors all those
who came before.
We’ve done nothing but
take take take
without a thought to the damage to our selves,
our bodies.
Our beliefs turned
upside down.
Our lives torn out trees
wrenched out roots and all and we
perish like stale milk turning sour
curdling changing ugly yellow
then gone
forever.
Shirani Rajapakse is a Sri Lankan poet and short story writer. Her publications include the award-winning Chant of a Million Women and I Exist. Therefore I Am. Rajapakse’s work also appears in Buddhist Poetry, Silver Birch, Cyclamens & Swords, Asian Signature, New Verse News and more.
Seven poems were published in Outlook India on August 23, 2022. Check it out here or read below.
The Karmic Trail
We turn around in circles like wheels of a car or the moving blades of a fan as they spin in the same place. The car moves forwards or backwards as the driver desires on its turning wheels. The speed controlled, the journey mapped out.
Yet it is all the same. All turning, all moving, all going someplace; it’s never ending.
We are the same. We don’t care to question or think about the reason why we are here, lest it make us wonder why we do things the way we do, as it would lead to destruction as surely as night turns to day and day to night.
We prefer to wait, loitering on the fringes of ignorance. Awareness and knowledge makes us understand blind faiths that go wrong. All those paths winding in knots, shrouded in words invented to conform, rather than in a straight line for all to see.
This would not do as it makes us think of our stupidity and thinking is a madness we cannot endure.
We turn our heads away enjoying the fruits of existence forcing forgetfulness upon ourselves, turning into puppets of Prophets.
And to think we were born with a brain and the powers to reason.
The Relationship
Sometimes what you leave out is what makes the pulao taste better, but I’m not telling you what it is. That’s my secret.
You don’t let me in on moments in your life when I think I need to be there.
You’ve forgotten I exist like the kettle I once left on the fire. It sang away the water then cried out for the heat coursing through and would have been toast, except the gas ran out faster. The kettle lived to see another day.
Sometimes you wander through rooms like a ghost seeking answers left in spaces in a previous life. It’s those missing pieces that are so hauntingly beautiful, you once said. It gives you reason to wonder and imagine the thousand and one possibilities of what it must have been. Like my pulao you love so much, but I will not reveal and you are too proud to probe. You smile and return to that other place I’ve still not found the road to enter the pathway blocked by unseen fences pushing me back shutting me out.
Friendship
Don’t fail me now when I’m in need of company in this solitary state bound by invisible chains I can’t untangle. Unable to move out of this place that’s home, office, sanctuary, prison depending on how you see it. Don’t leave a note on the door hastily scribbled on torn note paper, or stuffed into the letterbox hoping I’d check. Words that feel as cold as the touch of a ghost creeping under the door even on a sunny day.
A hasty SMS sent out when you feel like it, “hw r u 2de?” not expecting an answer, just a question in politeness, and you’re away.
“b c, b c, b c” is all I get when I (thank you for reaching out and) ask how you’ve been. Then silence.
In This Moment
I pace the corridor in the night, there’s solace in the quiet dark. None to question no need for answers that don’t make sense, the endless chatter of teeth banging against each other like windows you forgot to shut they cried themselves almost to death as the wild winds guffawed thrashing them this way and that for hours.
Who answers to the gloom? Is there anyone out there?
If we write our stories and hide them in little bundles of paper will you find them someday? Or will you throw them away? Will I be just another forgotten face a word hastily erased from a piece of old notepaper? The night brings no answers merely questions, more questions and feet weary of going up and down, up
and down along the corridor wearing out the soles of slippers.
There is nothing to gain. Nothing. Only loss encompasses all.
Travelling Through Samsara
Our lives are filled with memories of yesterdays. Of old things and past dreams that weigh us to the earth. We stumble along like everyone else our feet advancing ahead, forever moving forward. Yet our minds are held back by the chains of time we forgot to tear asunder. We do not know the way to break free and won’t let ourselves be guided. We drift along like little drops of water that travel in one direction. All together. Never alone. We live like that.
Yet once in a while we meet those that choose to forge ahead. Alone. Happy. Content. Like the little raindrop that chose to sit on the branch and survey the world around. How perfectly delightful to watch the world go by and remain unaffected.
Mind Over Matter
There’s a picture in my mind of white lotus blooming in a lake turning its face to the orange sun sending fingers to caress.
But I can’t give it to you.
Photographs in my mind, crystal clear, clicked one after the other capture lotus as they are, bending with the breeze dashing through leaves sending shivers on the water.
They cannot be shared on Instagram or any social network. The power to transfer or print photographs of the mind yet to be invented.
The lotus rises out of the mud pristine, like thoughts I sometimes have yet find hard to hold onto. My mind’s in too much of a hurry these days, photographing the world around, saving images for a future that’s already come and gone. My mind moves places like a hummingbird fluttering this way and that in a garden full of blooms, unable to gain satisfaction amidst such abundance.
Gleaming white chaitya in the distance beckons through branches of a tree as ancient as the land, and further away storks take flight in formations copied jealously by pilots gliding below powder puff clouds meandering in a bright blue sky. White all around; people walking to temple dressed in shades of white.
My mind hovers high above trees, soaring with birds, clicking it all. There’s a library of photographs, but no one can see.
Dhamma
No one can destroy something beautiful or pure, like music and truth.
It can be lost and wait hidden inside old trunks in storehouses, covered under the sands of time, or buried deep within the folds of memory. But nothing can make it disappear.
Men may go to war to destroy that which is beautiful, or kill to prevent the truth from shining through. Yet none can deny it forever.
Not even the Gods or their appointed handymen crying out their wares, or their self-appointed Prophets with the urge to control at whatever cost, proclaiming decrees on all.
Truth emerges when people who seek it clear the way. Their collective yearnings bring out that which cannot be destroyed. And truth triumphs once again.
(Shirani Rajapakse is a Sri Lankan poet and short story writer. Her publications include the award-winning Chant of a Million Women and I Exist. Therefore I Am. Rajapakse’s work also appears in Dove Tales, Buddhist Poetry, Litro, Silver Birch, The Write-In, Linnet’s Wings, Deep Water, Mascara, Moving Worlds, Berfrois, Counterpunch, About Place, Cyclamens & Swords, Asian Signature, Earthen Lamp, New Verse News, Voices Israel, Flash Fiction International and more.)
Here’s the replay of the closing ceremony of the 32nd Medellin International Poetry Festival. It’s on youtube. I’m reading three poems. The timing are below. It starts after the introduction by Gabriel Jaime Franco. The Spanish version is read by Catalina Moreno.
A Place to Call Home (1.07.17)
Dilemma (1.12.11)
The Way It Is (1.18.38)
Thanks to Luis Eduardo Rendón and the amazing team for selecting my poems for the festival and for the closing ceremony. I’ll post the individual poems later.
My poem was included in the chain of poems against war by World Poetry Movement France on their FB page, Le Merle moqueur, today, July 22, 2022. My poem is at no 123 on the list. You can check it out below.
I’m honored to be among ten world poets reading at the closing ceremony of the 32nd Medellin International Poetry Festival. It will go live at 15.00 in Columbia on the 22nd and at 06.30 in Sri Lanka on the 23rd. You can catch the live stream on FB or on youtube.
The poetry reading at the Festival is on the 32nd Medellin International Poetry Festival FB page and on youtube. My session starts at 47.00 with an introduction by Valeria Barber followed by my introduction at 48.19. The timing for the individual poems are below. Each poem is followed by a reading in Spanish by Catalina Moreno.
The poetry festival is starting today. You can join in for the inauguration via Facebook or youtube. Also check out the website for the rest of the program.
This is the fourth poem featured on website of the 32nd International Medellin Poetry Festival. It was written for the 20th anniversary of the Asian tsunami and was first published in “Moving Worlds,” University of Leeds, Nov. 2014, UK.
“Hope” is the third poem published on the 32nd Medellin International Poetry Festival site. It was written for an anthology about the Sahel region in Africa and was published in “Song of Sahel” Plum Tree Books, Sep 15, 2012, UK, and republished in “About Place Journal” Vol II Issue III, Black Earth Institute, Nov 2013, USA.
.
Hope
.
Give me a sip of water
for my lips are parched, my throat too dry
to speak and I will sing you a song
of the Sahel as I remember it. A song soft
and gentle like the wind in the trees
as it whispers on its way.
A song so beautiful the clouds will snatch
it up and send it straight to you sitting
inside your room far away
in a distant corner of the world.
.
Give me a mouthful of water so sweet
so cool, that I may tell you stories of the Sahel
as it was before it came to this. Stories
about the Tuareg’s adventures across
lands or the Fulani’s search for grazing grounds
for their cattle, stories that will make your
eyes open wide in amazement
and leave you thirsting for more.
.
Give me a pail of water to wash
the dust off my body
turned red brown like the earth
around me. A little water that I may wash
away the flies that hover over me,
all the time,
calling, calling to others to come
join the feast that is me. I want to cleanse
myself once more, to remember,
the silken touch of the waters
as it caresses my skin.
.
Throw me a shower of water, nay
a deluge to stitch the cracks in the earth
below me as I lie here wondering
if it will open up and swallow me one day.
A shower so heavy
it will make the crops grow tall and strong
so we may have food to eat. Finally.
.
I look up in hope and wait for the rains
that forget to come. I wait for the people that left
I’m one of 90 poets with work published in “Whispering Willow: Tree Poems” an anthology about trees. My contributions are “Late Evening”, “Tall Majesty” and “The Road to Over There.”
Participated in National Flash Fiction Day after a really long time. This was the 11 word “story” published in The Write-in today. It’s what I’d call a tiny story.
Sunday, 19 June 2022
‘Eleven Word Story’ by Shirani Rajapakse
You always wore your smile at an angle. Nerves, they died.
Combustion is a flash story I wrote for National Flash Fiction Day at The Write-In. It is based on an image prompt.
Sunday, 19 June 2022
‘Combustion’ by Shirani Rajapakse
Anger swirled, turning her hair the exact shade of burning flames. They didn’t see fire shoot out of her scalp and cascade down her shoulders. They were so engrossed with their conversation and the guilt of what they’d done that they never noticed. Just like they never detected her slipping something in their drinks.
They began to disappear. Color drained from their skin and hair. It reached everything they touched.
Soon they became line drawings, scribbles in someone’s notebook.
Kayla changed with them. She didn’t want anyone to suspect anything. Not until she had them completely under her control.
Tall Majesty is the second poem posted on the website of the 32nd Medellin International Poetry Festival. It was published in About Place Journal and written for the theme on trees.
A few of the poems I will be reading at the 32nd Medellin International Poetry Festival are up on the website. They are in Spanish, translated by Arturo Fuentes. The funny thing is when translated back into English through the web translator, it works very differently from what I wrote. I’ll post a poem each, as I wrote and published them, in the original English.
“When Earth Locked Down” is published in International Times today. Read it below or at the site.
When Earth Locked Down
We mastered the art of smiling with eyes. It didn’t matter that a mask covered most of our face. We could still express compassion.
The sky looked a shade brighter like it was mighty glad to wipe away veils of dust and finally be at ease with its true visage. The sun stretched limbs wider, further and smiled in content. The moon beamed and stars sparkled like they had acquired a brand new wardrobe. Birds warbled louder, or so it seemed, a happier song, like they were glad they finally had an audience.
Sitting inside homes we became experts in the politics of vaccines and how they worked, or didn’t. Keyboard warriors we argued online about the best methods to beat the virus. Was it really necessary to get jabbed or should we wait to see how it reacted on others, our fellow human lab rats, before giving ourselves over to the herd mentality. We read extensively about new trends in medicine, about spike proteins, new variants and mutations in the virus creating problems in our bodies and watched the news unfolding about the greed of Big Pharma and Big Tech to rule our lives, our thoughts and our actions.
We became aware that we didn’t really need to go out to the shops every day. Our lives would still go on if we didn’t have another pair of shoes, another dress. We surprised ourselves by our hidden talents to cook up gourmet meals with just a few ingredients.
We also realized we weren’t the only ones that mattered. The world didn’t revolve around us. There were others on this ride around the sun. Many more than we had ever known, and we sure were surprised by the numbers.
Breezes wafted gently; cooler, softer. Rivers ran any way they wanted and the salmon moved upstream unafraid of being stopped, pulled out from their quest to spawn. Animals relaxed and oceans heaved in relief. Running into shores unoccupied by humankind waves played games with each other, trying to see who could swirl round trunks of coconut trees or peep onto abandoned roads.
For once it was like it had been at the beginning of time. No one, except for a few, roamed the streets aimlessly. Shops were boarded up for a long haul. We retrained ourselves to be more caring, to understand the less fortunate, to give to those that lost their jobs, help others.
But not all were concerned about the poor and disadvantaged. Pictures from resorts and exotic destinations, photographs of gluttony competed on social media on who had it better, while others went hungry in silence. Some slogged miles to get to homes far away unable to pay the rent, shut out from places of work their plight a good story for journalists ravenous for news to make a name. Gaunt faces, tired looks earned accolades
while they trudged on, on weary feet. Families tried hard to understand how they would feed themselves without money anymore. Didn’t have enough funds to hoard food in bulk, didn’t own plastic cash to order food online, feed children that didn’t know why.
We gained valuable knowledge about ourselves. About self-centeredness. Our uncaringness towards others, the utter insensitivity to their plight. We became aware of the wickedness within us, hidden for so long, but now emerging to the fore, not wanting to wear masks, wash hands because, well, for how long were we supposed to do it, and who cared, anyway? We learnt a lot these past few months, long months to sit and ponder about ourselves, who we really were, the inner us.
We also sensed that a mask could hide a sneer and a truckload of other ugliness.
Shirani Rajapakse Image Nick Victor
Author Bio
Shirani Rajapakse is a Sri Lankan poet and short story writer. She is the author of five books including the award-winning Chant of a Million Women and I Exist. Therefore I Am. Rajapakse’s work appears in Dove Tales, Buddhist Poetry, Litro, Linnet’s Wings, Berfrois, Flash Fiction International, Voices Israel, About Place, Mascara, Counterpunch, Deep Water, Silver Birch, International Times, New Verse News, Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine, Spark, Lakeview, The Write-In, Asian Signature, Moving Worlds, Harbinger Asylum and more.
Short Story Review: “Shattered” by Shirani Rajapakse
by Kulrisa Bocharat
Hi guys! Have you ever felt that you can see what’s going on in the story as you see it with your eyes by the narrator’s words while reading? I was curious because I had some kind of this feeling after reading “Shattered” by Shirani Rajapakse and I bet some of you might experience it at least once in your life. So, I want to share my story review and would like you to answer yourself after reading if you feel the same as me.
Shirani Rajapakse’s “Shattered” is one of 86 short stories by authors from six continents included in Flash Fiction International: Very Short Stories from Around the World, published in 2015. “Shattered” is a short story that taken place in Sri Lanka. This story is about an explosion that happened in Sri Lanka by terrorists and is exposed through a woman’s point of view, Nidisha, who is on her way to her work. She is going to do her normal life, but suddenly an explosion appears in front of her and its intensity knocks her body so far that she can’t move and lay still on the road in the midst of chaos. The subsequent narrative is then narrated through her dying point of view which is portrayed like a flash. Her remaining consciousness tries to figure out what is happening to her body and end up her last breath by questioning what’s wrong with her that she goes to work as usual and has to die in a blast incident?
After reading this short story which is just over 500 words long, my first impression was still hard to grasp at first. But when I read it again, my thoughts were dragged into the point of view of Nidisha that her vision is like a flash as she was dying. This way of narration is known as stream of consciousness which is my favorite point of this story. I could easily imagine how her body is so damaged and how much she struggles to live. I was drawn to her feelings and suddenly felt sad about her end. Moreover, I was overwhelmed by her last sentence that implicitly asks for her right to live her normal life safely.
I later found out that the explosion occurs because of the religious conflict that existed in Sri Lanka when I focused on the paradox in the story which is the word “Vesak”. It shows a contradiction because the explosion happens on the Buddhist holy day, Vesak, which should be filled with good things, but this tragic event occurs. This paradox made me later know that Sri Lanka has had a religious conflict between Buddhism and Muslims for a long time. Therefore, reading this story not only captivated me but also made me realize a major problem in Sri Lanka and felt related to the unrest in the three southern border provinces in Thailand where many people still have to become victims of religious conflict and have no right to be safe in their own lives like Nidisha.
After reading the story, I think you can answer my question of whether you will feel the same as me when reading this story. I hope you will enjoy and get new experiences!
This is my very first time reading a work written by Shirani Rajapakse.
This short story caught me off guard by reading just the first paragraph. I was sitting like a stone, unmoving and questioning myself what am I reading?
The author capitalizes the first three words to point out what is wrong with a normal life of a woman walking to her work and why she has to end up like this.
The interesting thing about this short story is using the point of view of a dying person to tell what is going on in the story.
After the death of Nidisha, the author widens the scene and move to other victims of this terrorism. This is horrible to continue to read because there are blood, corpses, and people lying down everywhere. I can smell puddles of blood by reading this. I feel I am being dragged through the dead body by every sentence. It is getting worse when I think that it may happen right now in some places in the world that I have no clue how to help them. Many people are fighting against the group of authoritarians to reclaim their rights or freedom. It should not trade with life or anything at all.
Moreover, the author describes the death of the character aesthetically and delicately as she is the main dancer performing on the stage but in reality, it is different.
To be honest, I have never been to an event like this but I once lived in Pattani where it was one of the calm places to visit and spend time during the vacation. The three southern border provinces are known as terrorists where acts of violence happen almost every day.
One day, I woke up because of the sound of something. I thought someone accidentally dropped an empty 200-liter fuel tank but it was a car bomb. I was shocked because it was close to my home and it was my first time experiencing a dangerous situation like this by myself. Even though it was not in my neighborhood, I still sensed the vibration through the ground under my feet.
We rarely see this kind of method in any kind of literary works because it will lead the readers to the end too fast. For a short story like this, I think it suits perfectly and plays an important role to give the new experience to the readers.
To everyone who is fighting against injustice, may the odds be in your favor.
“In Search of Democracy” is published in New Verse News today. You can check it out at the site or read below.
Monday, May 16, 2022
IN SEARCH OF DEMOCRACY
by Shirani Rajapakse
The Sri Lankan state is descending into a full blown political and economic crisis, as more people contend with starvation, death and severe disruptions. Now they are also facing the brutal violence of the state. The BBC reports at least nine people died and more than 200 were injured as vehicles and houses were set alight during fighting between government supporters and critics this week. The island is facing its worst economic crisis since independence, and the responses of the state indicate it is incapable of protecting its citizens. The deployment of military force, however, is unlikely to quell unrest. The anger and frustration displayed by the public, aggravated by pro-government protesters, is only likely to grow – fuelling further distrust in the ruling government. —The Conversation, May 12, 2022
Watch the blazing
snarls of flames
spitting disgust.
Bodies stand outside arms raised
fists wrapped round
poles ready to beat up dissent
silence with one stroke
anyone, anyone who protests
opposes the wrong
howling jackals laughing condoning
acts of violence.
Wrong is the new right.
No one understands where
we stand.
Who are we? How did we
come to this?
Thirty-five years ago
I cowered in fear
of red guerillas stalking streets
vengeance running in veins
bloodthirsty hyenas
looting
pilfering
destroying
torturing.
Murdering.
A new generation that
doesn’t remember
the knock on doors dragging
life out pleading screaming begging,
never saw
bloated corpses floating in waterways
or have to step over
roasting moaning bodies unrecognizable
piled up on the side of roads,
never
lived
through fear
wondering if they will be next.
Only
heard about those days
through history’s sieve.
Violence
the norm to get what
cannot be
through the ballot.
Is power so blinding we
gorge on our own?
Brother against brother, the same
kind, flesh and blood
stripping bare to kill for a different
cause or
for promises of treats?
The future sheds tears eaten
up greedily by cackling flames
lamenting
silently through swirling
fumes roaring hatred
and what is left
to moan for—cinders that were
once homes now
kicked to the side
as vultures from foreign shores
line up behind clouds looming
at the periphery of the island
waiting
to step in and devour the land.
Shirani Rajapakse is a Sri Lankan poet and short story writer. She is the author of five books including the award-winning Chant of a Million Women as well as I Exist. Therefore I Am. Rajapakse’s work appears in many journals and anthologies including Dove Tales, Buddhist Poetry, Litro, Linnet’s Wings, Berfrois, Flash Fiction International, Voices Israel, About Place, Mascara, Counterpunch, Deep Water, Silver Birch, International Times, Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine, Spark, The Write-In, Asian Signature, Moving Worlds, Harbinger Asylum.
My entry is one of the 158 long-listed entries for the erbacce prize for poetry 2022. It was selected from close to fifteen thousand entries submitted by poets worldwide. Didn’t believe this would come through, especially since there are so many contenders.
My poem “The End of Summer” is published in Better Than Starbucks. It was first published in Dove Tales a while back and it’s nice to see it back in the news.
The poem is also published in the print edition and is available from Lulu.
My poem “The Cellist” joins in this musical journey of poems and stories from around the world. It was published by SweetyCat Press in January 28, 2022. You can get the book here, or read my poem below.
From heartbeat to drumbeat. Birdsong to crooners from yesteryear. Piano keys to the strings of a sitar. In “Stories & Poems in the Song of Life,” 175 authors and poets worldwide explore the theme of music, from the melodious sounds of nature to the world of hard pounding rock and roll. Fiction is mixed with non-fiction as writers and poets take you on their musical journeys, imagined and real. The song of life is our own unique tune – the essence of who we are – composed while listening to the music that surrounds us, in one form or another, from the time we are born to the time of our death. Feel free to hum along as you read this incredible one-of-a-kind collection.
The Cellist – Shirani Rajapakse
Picking up the bow she placed it
gently on strings
recollecting tunes played a lifetime ago.
Tunes that made her heart sing.
The bow moved hesitantly sounding out C,
her left hand resting at her side. Motionless.
Years of neglect had turned memories to dust like young
lives felled in wars in faraway places people barely
talked about anymore. Her fingers had forgotten,
but the bow moved legato from C to G up and down.
Then up. Again. And again.
Outside her window trees tossed their heads, branches
swayed from side to side like people waving arms
at a concert. Birds paused their song
to listen to the deep voice rising from inside.
She played like it was her recital. Four strings
and only the bow going up and down in a strange melody
no one had written, but she remembered. The tempo
fluctuated. The music drifted in andante,
on to adagio and then the bow rested.
All activity outside halted momentarily.
Earth was hushed in a lengthy pause.
And as the leaves began to flutter in appreciation birds
lifted voices to carry the unusual melody far, far
across the land to secret places only they can enter.
The poem that’s published is an old one. It was previously published in Poetica Magazine and was a finalist in the 2013 Anna Davidson Rosenberg Poetry Award. You can read it at the link above or check it out below.
The Shower
She waits for the water to fall, to flow over and wash her clean like the day she was born. Together they journeyed across the land travelling the distance long and hard.
Some died, crammed like cattle inside carriages, trampled on by others trying to make room, or be comfortable.
But she lived, while they died.
She waits for the water in that cold hard place. Shivers run down her back yet she smiles to herself in anticipation of better things while all the rest wait with her, wondering why the water doesn’t come. The showers have gone dry. She looks down at the little child standing patiently by her side and sees her smile mirrored with hope. The future seems fine. They made it after all. It couldn’t be that bad.
Suddenly the smell of gas. All around they scream and gag. She claws the air, falling, crashing never to rise again, the smile wiped off her lips now drawn with pain.
(Previously published in Poetica Magazine, Finalist 2013 Anna Davidson Rosenberg Poetry Awards, 2014, USA)
My poem “Colombo” joins in a poetic journey around the world in this new venture by Sweetycat Press that includes 200 poets writing about their preferred place in the world.
“From mountaintops to sea resorts, from highrise buildings to subways, across continents, on islands, in large cities, and at small and large landmarks, 200 poets from around the world take you on their journeys around the world.”
First of all, reading this book synced with the time very well as Talibans have taken over Afghanistan and taken away every right a woman owns. One could say that this book is deeply feminist and one could say those stories are fictional. But the author hasn’t just stated about the injustice that women face in India each and every day. She has been able to find the deep roots of the society and culture that give rise to the problems.
That’s the beauty of these short stories. Except for the story of Arti, I didn’t feel a huge fury about the assailant (I couldn’t sympathize with Arti’s mother-in-law). In most of the stories, there were clear victims and assailants but author always proves us that all of them are victims of an ill society.
I exist, therefore I am was one of my favorites because it talks about abortion. Those stories are not just relevant to India. Injustice prevails in every society, more or less. Even we are facing an abortion ban in our country and people are expressing different opinions. The baby loses her life simply because she was a girl. But what unborn baby asks from her mother is important. “How did you survive the abortion when you are of the same gender?” It shows how bullied become bullies. Although they have gone through all the pain of surviving as a woman, mother-in-laws are the ones who curse the daughter-in-law for not bearing sons. So this story asks big questions. Is the patriarchal society clearly a man-dominated system or something that’s maintained by women themselves?
I personally loved the story of Shwetha, also. This story is pretty much relevant to any part of the world. Shwetha was a woman rights activist but even she couldn’t break the wall. Throughout the story I was searching for the reason why she had to marry this old man? Author doesn’t directly say what happened. She gives us clues but doesn’t give a clear answer but that makes the story far more interesting. Was it because she was raped by this man? Was it because of her blind faith on this man? Was it purely love? Did he really blackmail her? Shwetha was a wonderful depiction of thousands of women who would sacrifice their lives for their beloved husbands. She was the voice of thousand of women yet she couldn’t speak up for herself. It’s easier to ask others to free themselves but it’s hard to break the walls of the prisons we build on our own.
Her big day was fast approaching captured my heart instantly. It was not a mere story about how insane amount of money, weddings cost. It also reviews the question of dowry and this made me understand why people altogether hated having a baby girl. She was a financial burden. Only rich could fulfill the insanely high hopes and wishes of the in-laws. And it also talks about how a woman become lost. A woman gets dual citizenship in two families and while her own family thinks that she’s now owned to a new family after the marriage and her in-laws treats her as the stranger. She become a stranger owned by everybody and nobody.
Dowry is an old concept which is still prevalent in Sri Lanka and women should be financially independent to supply for herself. Why does she even needs an education if that serves only as a qualification to find a husband? This story has a wonderful storytelling because her parents weren’t villains. Her father tried to give the best to his family although he has to live under the constant pressure of loans, finances and also bearing the the war between his mother and wife.
Dowry was initiated as a way of maintaining the girl’s financial independence in the medieval times. Now it’s a thing that creates a huge burden on poor families who can’t even provide for their families. It also mocks the characters that although they think that they are very modern they still thinks biding to their rotten social norms. Can we really blame the mothers who perform infanticide as way of mercy-killing?
Secrets reminded me of Handmaid’s tale of Margaret Atwood. Women lose the power of owning property in Atwood’s fictional world. They call it as a dystopian novel while in the suburbs of India, Afghanistan, Pakistan and even in Sri Lanka women lose their power over property.
Although western world is sweeping with ideas of third wave of feminism it’s pathetic that countries like India, Middle East, Afghanistan and so many countries I couldn’t mention, still haven’t even had the chance of going through the first wave of feminism. Last but not least, these stories are not just Indian stories. Either it’s domestic violence, abortion, elder abuse or infanticide, those are still happening in front our eyes although we prefer to stay blind. Patriarchal society is not equivalent to male domineering. It’s not just the society’s fault it’s also the women’s fault of not questioning and trying and at least not trying to rebel against the society by secretly opening a bank account. Attitudes should change and Shirani Rajapakshe has done an excellent job of influencing her fellow womenkind.
An accentuated piece from the renowned poet Shirani Rajapakse, entailing the brutality of war and the events predicated on the abominable nature of the corrupt human . The theme “ WAR ” has never before been so profoundly explored through the role of an unbiased viewer. Based on true events that preceded three decades of conflict, “ Fallen Leaves “ entails both the lives lost and the coming of a new season …
The backdrop of our tale unfolds in the 80’s Ceylon , amidst the sparks of outcries for justice which echoes through the stage of life . The first designs outline the feeling of dread surrounding the era. The author vividly recreates the accounts of unspeakable truths which we prefer to push to the back of our conscience . The breaking of their backs ; neither man nor woman was spared from the sins of war ; wrath , pride and greed encumbered.
The beast and the monster ; a stray is brought into the picture several times within the scope of events … It highlights how the perception of righteousness and innocence crumbles with contact of an aota of realism. With the introduction of a secondary female character the author shifts toward the personal anecdotes based on such outlying characters . This gives a unique view into a substrata of experiences previously absent in similar works .
Amidst racial divides a new antagonist bears its fangs as the accounts of the fear felt during the 2nd wave of communism are brought back to inquire as to ; “ where is my neighbour ? “ The writer inserts herself midway to entice other litterates to record and ponder the truth of it all . All the while reminiscing about the love lost ; concluding the prologue .
For when war is more profitable than peace , words become better weapons than swords and pawns lost are fair game in the pursuit of money ; the God to which we pray . This sentiment is brought into focus as the igniting of the flames of war are recalled by the author predating everything revealed thus far . “Old men start wars but young men fight in them” has never been a truer statement .
We are diverted into the paths of those who were once unnoticed as the co-conspirators are brought to light ; a female suicide bomber and even a child soldier. Now the outliers have become the protagonists …
“ The sun sustains life, but here in this unforgiving place it kills ”
Under the conditions that befell a country none are forgiven . Children turned into orphans, martyrs and symbols of hate whilst soldiers linger in the treelines for hours , days or even longer ; the author with her writing prowess tugs on the humanity encased in our psyche .
TABOOS
which must never be broken were shattered beyond comparison as temples were invaded and ceasefires broken all the while the rich were made richer and the poor were made poorer.When the dust settles war merely shifts its direction the gears still turning ; for the words being preached by man and the action brought by man all for power over another man. This is evident in each stanza.
The duplicitousness of human nature is called into question as caste and creed within the factions itself comes into question . The author illustrates this in the most picturesque way bringing into the light the subtle cracks of egos .Thus the treasures of war are nothing but barren bunkers in which to hide the atrocities that once befalled and ones that were forever silenced within all who bore witness .
I would recommend this to any and all history fanatics and avid readers who enjoy wartime tales of unparalleled realism.
Shirani Rajapakse 
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