Poetry and poets will not be buried ~ Malinda Words

Years ago, my friend W G Premasiri offered the following by way of explaining the human resource crisis in the country: ‘We lost 20,000 in 1971, 60,000 in 88-89 and several hundred thousand during thirty years of war.’

That’s numbers. If we assume that at least 1% of those who died (as combatants, as activists or simply ordinary citizens identified as someone’s ‘enemy’) were men and women of superior intelligence, extraordinary ability, endowed with a strong sense of justice and absolute integrity and being ready to commit a lifetime to the betterment of fellow creatures, that’s still 3,000-5,000 or even more ‘exceptional human resources’ we’ve had to live without.

Of course, each and every individual who died or was maimed in one way or another, would certainly have contributed in some way to the economic and social well being of their families, their loved ones, their communities and their country, but 3-5,000 people with the kind of attributes described about is a massive number in a country of 22 million people.

We could trace each life and project potentials lost but we cannot assign a value to any of it. Today, as I write, I am thinking of two poets, Chandrakumara Wickramaratne and Nandana Marasinghe.

Chandrakumara, referred to as Gorky by Dayasena Gunasinghe (according to my friend and poet Amarasiri Wickramaratne), did not perish during the bheeshanaya but disappeared not too long afterwards (in 1991 or thereabouts). Indeed, considering the kind of life he lived, foisted on him in part and also in the choices he made, ‘Gorky’ seems appropriate, assuming that Gunasinghe was inspired by ‘My Universities.’ The novel ‘Comrade’ by Anura Dahanayake is said to have been based on Chandrakumara’s life story, but there’s a lot we don’t know about this man. We do know what troubled and inspired him through what he wrote for the ‘Ataveni Pituwa’ of the Divaina and for the Ravaya, and the collection of poems ‘Bhoogatha Kavi Sitha (A buried poetic heart, if you will).’

He was of the nineteen eighties and all the tragedies and sorrows that time was all about. He wrote that history. He lived that history. He may have perished on account of that history. So much poetry has gone unwritten. We are so much poorer.

Nandana Marasinghe was of a different time. His ‘learning’ could be traced back to the JVP of the first insurrection. He was incarcerated but incarceration did not dampen his revolutionary spirit. Neither did betrayals of many kinds. Before and after he was gunned down by the JVP, ironically, JVP activists and many others sang (and still sing) his revolutionary songs. ‘Vimukthi Gee.’ He was, at that terrible moment, running a slipper-shop in the Anuradhapura Pola. At the time he was aligned with Sri Lanka Mahajana Pakshaya led by Vijaya Kumaratunga, probably the reason for the JVP’s decision to assassinate him on November 27, 1987.

From L to R: Gunadasa Kapuge, Nimal Perera, Munidasa Gunasinghe and Nandana Marasinghe

Ratna Sri Wijesinghe captured it all in the poem ‘Nandana Marasinghe Hevath Aeda Vaetunu Kurulla (The fallen bird Nandana Marasinghe). Here’s a translation of the last stanza:

Who knows,
winged friend
that long before
the arrow found your breast
you had already perished
of a shattered heart…

It’s been more than 35 years. So much poetry is gone missing. So much poorer are we.

Ratna Sri knew Chandrakumara too, who would visit his home in the Galle Fort. Activists, especially those associated with the JVP of that time (and perhaps of this time too), would know of him. I didn’t. Rasika Jayakody told me about him and since then I’ve looked for this lost poet and his poetry.

The world does not see me
but I see the world in its entirety
I am a fugitive now
and yet I walk hither and thither
my heart remains warm,
like the sun

That’s something he wrote. K K Saman Kumara, in his preface to his maiden collection of poetry, ‘Naga Maeroo Ala’ dedicated the book to his friend Chandrakumara Wickramaratne:

Even as you nailed to the cross
as the poet of the era
I see Chandare
your innocent eyes
shining through the dimness of imminent rain
yearning for a drop of love

We still have K K Saman Kumara, Ratna Sri Wijesinghe, Amarasiri Wickramaratne and others who survived the bheeshanaya and we should be grateful. We still have Nandana Marasinghe’s songs. We still have Chandrakumara Wickramaratne’s poetry. We should be grateful. Maybe the drops of love they managed to turn into words will re-green this earth. Maybe that kind of flowering will exhume those hearts whose warmth we need right now, more so than before.

malindadocs@gmail.com.

['The Morning Inspection' is the title of a column I wrote for the Daily News from 2009 to 2011, one article a day, Monday through Saturday. This is a new series. Links to previous articles in this new series are given below]

20 June 2023

Poetry and poets will not be buried

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