brick laying
what is a course of bricks
a river or a stream?
i don’t know but it flows
not drop like bricks
it courses in red and brown
turning poetic
blood ground up in red
coursing a course
through jaded veins
passion’s building lays
brick by brick coursing cursing
bricks! no mortar.
renuka mendis, nov 1 2015
smoke gets in my eyes
at loose ends
hiding from the world
the sun comes down in shards
benignly cuts
forearm
hands
hair
shoulders
trying to rip up my thin old dress
hanging loose and lazy
hammock style
i fear the unknown of sunday afternoons
as mondays lie in wait
in fear
sleeping feigning early hibernation
of oncoming summer’s end
a death
an entombment of possible escapes
seeking solace in afternoon tea cups
listless
of hours wasted except for listening
to music
the silence of rustling leaves on the first quavers of dry
towards a bonfire’s early evening blaze
smoke and smell that straight line to when we first walked the earth upright
and noticed trees
unclothed or covered in leaves
can we stop the time at 4.11p.m.
please.
but it’s time
to put away last night’s dishes now dry
except for the drip drip drip of a few spoons that stuck together
so i can rinse that messy pan
and fry something up to slake hunger
and once again forget the world
but then i remember
i can be useful
and stir some milk
and make yogurt
and laugh again fearless;
because you
my darling
are here.
Renuka Mendis, Aug 9, 2015, Toronto.
don’t ask then – by Renuka Mendis
don’t
breathe down my neck
instead
sit here
first
hold my hand
bring me tea and rose water
ask
where it hurts
which part of heart
which knuckle
at which street fight buckled
if it bled
and always bring me tea
and rose water
sit here
first
then
look at the trees
you’ll hear the birds
the sky will smile
and i will spill
everything i held
corked up
in a musty old bottle.
Renuka Mendis – July 4, 2015, Toronto
White Butterfly
Where do i go
what can i say
when you say what you say
what makes you inhuman
is your evil comfort
that which i sensed
the first time ever i saw your voice
you will puke when you read this
be my guest
or it will have no effect
which is even worse
how can you?
say the things you say
i guess that is why
you are where you are
and i am where i am
i am surprized at how strong i am
that all i do now
is clear my mind
it is not stunned
nor bewildered
it all makes perfect sense
and my eyes pond
with tears like the gentle
calming rain
like a balm
they soothe me
like a mother’s touch
when still a child
and ill with fever
hush little baby
baby don’t you cry
i have now seen a world
that i have been avoiding
that I’ve entered in pretense
and i know why
i was right not to step out
but only make my feet wet
with boiling hot water
just enough to get burned
but my skin is thick and calloused
from working in the fields
and they will still walk
picking cotton
shackled
roughened
swinging
from trees
cutting cane
under the fiery sun
with only a song
to shelter me
with one foot chopped off
for wanting
to walk free
to some other meadow
where rats don’t roam free
i will have to deal with
dealing with the past
for opening up
as it was easier to do
it is always easier
to forget
not think
not listen to your heart
we are divided
by things far greater
than fences and walls
or borders or flags
we are divided by consciousness
history
responsibility
and irresponsibility
what we do and what we see
live on in our children
and their children’s children
i am responsible for those who are here
and for those who are yet to come
i am not an island
but a living breathing tree
tall
beautiful
dark
and strong
i carry the burden
of the hurts of the past
by those who have walked
before me
if i did not and if i forgot
i will never reach to the heavens
but stop
stand still
fall down
and die
so will my people
and their children
and their children’s children
i will live my life the best i can
and it is not easy
and not as simple
as waking up
getting on a bus
and letting the day
roll over my back
a white butterfly
flutters in my garden
i don’t know what it is doing there
i am sure
it does not know either
may be it likes
the flowers may be
it doesn’t matter
who tended them
it does not matter
what nurtured them
love, pain, solace or evil
it knows no difference
all it seeks is the honey
no matter who put it there
no matter where it came from
or what hands watered them
dug the ground
planted them
weeded and pruned
it does not matter
to the white butterfly
what those hands
have done
or what they have not done
it does not know
it does not care
it does not need to know
all it needs – is honey
the white butterfly
the white butterfly
the white butterfly
blazing whiter
in the bright
summer light
hurting my eyes
don’t come here
go away
this garden is not for you
but it still comes back
and i do not know what to do
it does not understand
and i cannot even begin
to think of
grabbing it in my palm
squeezing it lame
dropping it on the ground
and squishing it
with the calloused heel
of my only black foot
that would be a sin.
so i walk on
in the blazing sun
barefoot
blackened
shining and gleaming
with sweat
offending
singing a song
hush little baby
little baby
don’t you cry
there there
a pretty butterfly.
by Renuka Mendis – from July 1, 2000
With acknowledgements for Summertime to :
George Gershwin
DuBose Heyward
fenugreek 