By Basil Fernando –
Basil Fernando
An old man sits under the shade of a tree
On the slab of a grave.
He is no sage
Running away from world,
He was the grave digger.
Now in retirement,
Returning to his familiar world.
The only interludes are the night visits
Back home for his drink, dinner and sleep.
In his dreams he moves into the underworld
Of Hades, Lucifer or Yama,
Sometimes sees the faces of those
He buried.
Cemetery is place of ceremonies
Of emotions, a powerful world,
Where love is dramatized
And people become real.
Tears, loud cries, explosive words,
Flowers and candles, trying to express
Language of the heart.
Unforgettable cries of mothers
When the young are buried,
Children saying goodbye
to their mothers and fathers,
A place where intellect is silent
Or confused.
Then there are unusual times
When men in uniform
Come with gallons of illicit liquor,
And loads of wounded dead bodies.
Preparing rapid fires
In the dead of the night,
To bury all the secrets,
As uniformed men
Guards the gates.
As the days go by,
Visiters come,
Asking many questions.
Between heaven, hell and earth
With Angels, devils and spirits
Sits this old man
His minds confused with facts
Fabrications and fantasies,
Images of thousands of faces,
Confused about fate, faith
Truth, justice and despair,
Hypocrisy, disorder and fear
And tales of a thousand varieties
Crowding in his mind.
He knows more than historians,
Reporters, journalists
Judges or jurors
In the images that appear,
Disappear and reappear
In this mind
Are the truths
World does not wish
To know.
I then photographed beauty
Who are you?
I asked a bird
Posing for a photograph.
I am beauty,
The bird told me.
Are you from heaven
Or earth?
I asked the bird.
I have wings and feet,
I eat and sing,
The bird told me.
Are you an angel?
I asked.
No, the angels
Were modeled after me,
The bird replied.
I then photographed,
Beauty.
*Basil Fernando published his first volume of poems A New Era to Emerge in 1972. Since then, he has published several volumes of poems in English and two collections in Sinhala. His poems have appeared in several Sri Lankan and international anthologies. His poems have been translated into many Western and Asian languages. A translated anthology of his poems was published in Malayalam entitled Sundaramaithry. In 1983, he and Richard Zoysa shared the first prize for poetry in New Ceylon Writings, published by Professor Yasmin Gunaratne.
Pasel / April 28, 2013
These all are happening in Sri Lanka because there is no human value
/
blind man / April 28, 2013
unlike the moral imperative of “thou shalt” the hallmark of western culture, poetry only offers understanding – just plain sight
does this change of style indicate that =Basil has changed ??
would like to hear about that
/
OutRider / April 28, 2013
The old man, the photographer and the bird
After the picture was taken
the bird flew away and
the photographer went home.
A week later the bird was
having its morning coffee and
reading the newspaper. The bird
got mad seeing its picture accompanied
by a bad poem penned by the photographer.
It flew immediately to the cemetery
and found the old man sitting on
a grave. The bird paid the old man
to dig a grave before the sun
went down. The bird then called the
photographer and told him to come
to the cemetery at midnight. Surprised
the photographer asked why. The
bird said, “Your photograph was so
pretty. I want you to take another
one at a more beautiful surrounding.”
The photographer asked, “Yes, but
why at such a dreadful place at such an
ungodly hour?” The bird replied, “Where can
you find a more sweet spot than the
cemetery at midnight when the moonlight
casts its soft light on an open grave?”
The photographer couldn’t agree more.
Just before midnight the bird flew
to the cemetery and into the open grave.
The photographer showed up at the
appointed hour and not seeing the bird,
called out. The bird shouted back, “I’m here,
come down into the open grave and take
my picture.” The photographer heard the bird
and soon finding the open grave, descended
into it. But he couldn’t find the bird. Instead
he saw a ………….. His eerie scream
could be heard for miles in the night.
Next morning the bird while having its coffee
read the news about a death in the cemetery.
/
Professor K.G.Sankara Pillai / April 28, 2013
thanks dear basil for one of the best poems ever written by you.
good.
. the line “sometimes sees the faces of those he buried” haunts me.
it is a new way of reading history by taking photographs of the dead in their last moment on earth
with the lens of the live eye.
with the lens of compassion and protest.
let there be more and more of such magnificent pieces.
K.G.Sankara Pillai
/