Sanjaya Epa Senevirathna’s word-ink brush strokes

The unit of time was transformed from hours to litres. The long hand is now at the edge of an Asoka glass. The first pouring began when the short hand was at the three hundred and seventy five millilitre level. Thereafter having ventured into the regions of solitude, the cleared pathway led to the bottom of the glass where all hands collapse.

Along the way, thoughts that arrive from the void meet words subjected to self-inflicted incarceration . Once they meet the journey is no longer one of solitude.    

The past converses quietly with words associated with to generate compatibilities and leave short notes of it all the following morning. The new day arrives through the previous day’s notebook. The note lengthens as new words join those scribbled before. Since I am partial to associating words that graze entirety and context or leave them altogether I have kept them thus. Those that left did not just up and go. Some of them cut, chopped and in other ways hurt with pens of various colours while others received torrents of foul language. Those that are not found herein would forgive, I believe.

The above is the preface to the debut collection of poems by Sanjaya Epa Senevirathna titled ‘Aadara Saadaya,’ (literally ‘The feast of love,’ but dubbed ‘Coffeed Poetry’ by the poet). It doubles as an acknowledgments note. I usually get to the frills, if you will, such as forewords, addendums and acknowledgments only after I’ve got through the main literary course. If at all. In this case, I did, again after reading the poems. The poetry and the poet compelled me to venture to the periphery. That too was poetic. Unexpected and delightful. In fact I can’t think of any such ‘peripheral’ note that complements a collection of poems so beautifully. The first thought that came to mind was, ‘Sanjaya should write prose too.’

Sanjaya may not. He confesses that he had promised himself that he wouldn’t write anything until he turned 40. He didn’t publish, but he did write, but sporadically. He penned a few songs for well-known artists such as Kasun Kalhara, Kithsiri Jayasekera, Chandana Liyanaarachchi and Nirosha Virajini. He produced advertising copy too, but a long time ago. Poetry had come  ‘writing’ had been slow. Maybe what happened was that he translated poetry into another art form, like hours to litres.

Sanjaya Epa Senevirathna is best known as an award-winning designer of book covers. What had become a flirtation in his school days seems to have blossomed into a lifelong love affair. So far he has designed around 300 book covers. The cover for Kasun Pussawela’s telling account of the Welikada riots, ’10, 11, 12,’ won the State Literary Award for the Best Book Cover in 2017. Incidentally, that’s the only award on offer for book covers Sri Lanka. Sadly.

Having read the preface/acknowledgments I asked him, ‘why not a novel or short stories?’ Sanjaya said it could be on account of his work as a copywriter and art director: ‘I must have been framed by advertising briefs — I couldn’t get out of the A4 sheet of paper.’ Maybe one day he will.

So, that’s the poet. What of the poetry?

Upul Shantha Sannasgala in his foreword, written as a poem, likens him to an Indian Gooseberry or nelli. ‘A nelli-flavoured poet,’ is how he describes Sanjaya. The Indian Gooseberry has five identifiable flavours. Sannasgala believes that the poet has evolved into a many-flavoured man of words.

The poems, untitled, speak of and to perennial themes such as love, relationships, things that come together and are torn asunder. They are rich in metaphor and elegant in economy. Maybe this is because he has, as a cover-designer, has much practice in condensing much into few.

Having awoken
in a new territory
language we abandoned
in favour of essence.

The above verse perhaps reveals the poetic mind and explains stylistic preferences. In fact, although inserted in metaphoric sense, he offers…

Let us remove
unnecessary words
and our glasses fill
in the space thus created.

The artist, who is necessarily concerned with line and space, pours familiar techniques into his poetry. He advocates and indeed creates breathing space for the reader, a moment and place for reflection, a pathway into thought and thought process wherein one can become happily trapped and lost but nevertheless find solace of one kind or another.

He concludes, ‘it is in the sound of patience / that (one) can hear love.’

Endowed with such a gift for finesse it is difficult to understand why Sanjaya, at times, feels a need to elaborate. The same poem has the following lines thrust somewhere in the middle:

The sounds of quarrelling
which filled silent spaces
moves through tension, sweat, and
among streaming tears
to moisten the territory…
so tender leaves can sprout.

Such expansion is sometimes necessary, but not in this instance. He says so much with so little and seems to have forgotten himself and his operative principle to brevity.

Consider this:

Direct the uncluttered gaze
beneath the surface…
at the water’s depths
there are words to be found
more polished and spherical than necessary.  

Such words can delight of course. They can detract too. When poetised, the blemishes can be retained but this does not mean they are unpolished. It is an invitation to write as well as read or rather how to write and write and how not to.

It’s the second verse, longer than the first and even more lengthier than the third and last which I believe captures and holds the idea on its own:

All people have stories
but letters are only found
upon riverbeds where dreams have dissolved…

Such ‘editing’ cries out in other poems as well. Consider the following obtained by removing an equal number of lines/words:

Could you be a womb
wherein I could curl
and be reborn
in the sounds
of a pulsating heart?

Such love
I still need
you know?

What can be said of fathers and sons, what of what’s said in slivers of time or volume, minutes or litres?  

Who else listened
to stories that fathers
don’t even tell mother(s)
but men?

Would have sounded better if ‘men’ or let’s say ‘males’ which is the correct translation of the original ‘pirimi’ was replaced by ‘sons,’ I felt. That said, to me it is the most beautiful poem in the collection. Well, the most beautiful verse, for it’s just the first few lines of a longer poem.

‘Men,’ does make sense because the rest of the poem speaks of the work of males, as lovers and friends. Could have been another poem, though.

The poet reveals himself and like an accomplished artist hides himself as well. There’s a Sanjaya Epa Senevirathna who arrives and one who has just left signs of presence, within reach but untouchable.

He writes of an addressee resisting capture in any form.

In all poetry read so far
you are not evident
no, not even in a single line

He continues and I paraphrase: ‘No, not in a text or subtext, not in a tone, a rhythm, not in a brushstroke, or piece of fiction; [you] are in your existence, but I am not.’

I did not distance you,
friend,
into a different circle
I entered
that’s all;
there’s no one else,
but me.

For a friend or a lover where friendship or love has run its course, a word of consolation? Perhaps. Perhaps it’s simply the truth, as in the common ‘it’s not you, it’s me.’  But it seems to me that Sanjaya is where he is as he has always been. In his circle. Alone. From there he gazes upon the world around him, the people who venture close or towards whom he moves along with his circle-residence, condensing treatise into lines, hues and spaces, removing unnecessary words, creating breathing space so readers can sip a cup of coffee and feast on love at their own pace.

The cup runneth over not, but a few drops remain. Just enough to flavour love, among other things.

Malinda Seneviratne is a freelance writer. malindadocs@gmail.com.