This unpublished collection of verses simply titled VERSES consists of over 90 poems or verses, as Shirani like s to call them, that were written over the years. They include some of her earliest verses written in 1993 as well as those written in this century.
REFLECTING ON RICHARD
A man died. I knew him Well and somewhat Not. Too much writing Caused his death. A man died. Two days After he Disappeared into Thin air. Would have Made Houdini Proud. His body Washed up Two days later. Fat and Gnarled and swollen With salt. “At last We can mourn,” they Sighed as they Stuffed it into a box. A man appeared Out of the seas, Sans his name, his face, his Identity. Yet he was the Man that died. His box was Filmed for posterity. The Murderer posed with a wreath Near by, Acknowledging With sadness his Gruesome deed. A long face, a Sad smile. “He was so young, so Intelligent. Too young to die,” he Sighed. Some years later the Murderer died. Two minutes Later they found the fragments of His carcass swimming in The mud and The blood, aided by a Thousand flies. They Packed the bits of Leftovers into a box Much like the box some Years ago. “Who could do such to A man? He never hurt a fly,” Someone Cried. But I know why… A man died. © Shirani Rajapakse 2011 I LIVE IN DREAMS I live in dreams. I walk on Asphalt. Hard and dry. Yet I Sour. My mind unfettered by the Claiming of reality. I live in two worlds, one Real and the other almost real. That mingle into each other Sometimes making it hard To define each other. My dreams ease the burden of Life, hard as the asphalt that Hurt the soles of my feet as They trudge along, day in day Out. Is there no release from This reality, this pain? Except in dreams, when I live I am me. The real person I Was meant to be. But cannot be. Reality hems me in defining Life as it should be. Not as It ought to be. © Shirani Rajapakse 2011 (Listen to Verses In Motion aired on October 15, 2011 for a reading of the verse by Laura LME. The reading is towards the end of the show at approximately 01:23: 40.) | YOU
I sit in this room and Write to you. Echoes of a past Rush silently By. Meaningless; Frivolous thoughts Entwined, their Bleary eyes Wide with the look of Dejection. Hopeful inside of a Better future. Or would it come by? Would it Ever appear? Rising from the depth of Your spoofed out brain? You pretend to Know me, but do you Really know? Me or Anyone else who Walks by your side Hears your voice, Reads your thoughts Your pain, your hope, But do not Understand mine? While I write I see Warped images of You flicker And die. In my mind. What do I write? You want to know, Your eyes question me Across oceans Of pale blue tempestuousness Rising, frothing, Dashing against the Incomprehension of Your mind. You do not know. Do not try to know Why I write. Sitting In this room A refuge, A cocoon of solitude. Hemmed in by walls That keep The ugliness of This world, this Reality away From me As I write. © Shirani Rajapakse 2011 THE RAIN The rain fell Down. Hard then Soft, depending On how The sky felt. Then It fell in torrents, like Giant buckets of water Thrown out one After the other In quick succession. There Was no time To discern The shape of the Raindrops as they Poured out like a River run amok. But then It stopped. As suddenly As it had begun And in that moment of Calm, could be seen The true shape of The rain. Which was No shape At all. No shape But a drop, now Oval, Now round, and now Flat as a pancake On a plate. Was this The shape of the rain? Undefined? Then how Define the rivers of Rain that fall, Fall until There’s nothing Left to fall? © Shirani Rajapakse 2011 |