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Friday, April 19, 2013

There is nothing stable about our old days
With a television uproar, a sea that kills
And rolls on as a child's eyes turn pearls
Suffering a sea-change as they run deep.
But the noise outside is just an uproar
That turns quiet like sea run out of moon.

A child is violated in an uproar of the veins.
The sea's writ runs largely in the sea bed.
As green bones ride tumult up and down
And sea waves take them down in crowds.
Eyes are unsaleable pearls after the uproar.

(A 5-year-old was raped and beaten for days before being rescued, police said on Friday)

Posted at 03:30 pm by adukuri

Sunday, December 30, 2012

The chrysanthemums are stars of a sun
Taking sun light from wind and worms
A bouquet to no one except an earth pot
Its mother of womb, softly under water
In earthly fragrance of mother and wind.
A sky overlooks from a blue parapet wall
Topped with a Krishna-black granite like
Lake mirroring shore trees,in the evening .
Like sky-stars they seem to last for ever.

Posted at 05:00 pm by adukuri

Saturday, December 29, 2012

I cannot go to sleep for lack of evidence.
The world is alive in a dog's bark tonight.
A Dawkins daughter-to letter is evidence
Of a lack of evidence for not sleeping.

A buzzing mosquito is material evidence
Of its aliveness and my wakefulness.
The dog's bark is a collateral evidence.

These tidbits-they add up to a lack of girl.
This my typing is evidence the girl is dead
And flying as a thing to embrace her fire
Amid a thousand candles that had walked
A sorrow enacted, a mime staged in dark.

The young woman whose rape and torture by six hoodlums on a Delhi bus shook a nation’s conscience died early on Saturday,

Posted at 06:19 pm by adukuri

Friday, December 28, 2012

Read now or later is a question settled.
Afterwards is comfortable with enough
Provision for sleeping conscience now
Waking up and now back in the annals
Of recent past history, lull you sure can.

In the night is a light pouring on words
Pouring by the dozens from alien spaces.
In Singapore certain meat keeps crying.
But not right now , I will read this later
In readability companion of light words.
It is a long read for later in the evening
And I go to sleep with conscience at rest.

Posted at 02:13 pm by adukuri

Thursday, December 27, 2012
Buddha in the lake

Buddha has stood in the middle of our path
Away from our cleverness and a swirling boat
A felicity of word, a beauty of image, a thing.
In the green waters he had waited for us men
To lift concrete goodness and politician's fame
Of an actor petrified in the histrionics of time.

Buddha stands in his stone pleats in the lake
His dazzling smile of a middle path beckons us
From our own concrete holes, to a golden dusk
That glorifies the lake, with all its dirty contents
Flowing from our shames in our concrete holes.

Posted at 05:03 pm by adukuri

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

A crow cawed at dawn suggesting
A picture of idolatry, a woman gone
To wall for decorating a living room.
The crow cannot be mom to eat rice.
Our images cannot eat rice in words.
Images cannot eat rice, only words.

We have other images of ourselves
Hollow men, fleshed out of our bones
Poor nightly creatures of fluorescence
Roaming the empty wastes of minds.

We have other men with rolled shirts
Staring from ancient space, not yet
Knowing my own coming, that meant
His own going from all space in time.
There was space only for one of us.

All our images are shadows from past
That are cast on our space even after
Real things are gone except in sleep.

Posted at 06:22 pm by adukuri

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Father would stare from his corner
Of space in time from an old trunk
That smelt of iron in old moth-balls.
He looked like my own school self
A bit lost in space, in shirt-sleeves
Tucked to elbow, not much in eyes.

He would stay there stuck in a corner
With no knowledge that I was coming
With a future that meant his going.
There was space only for one of us.
He stays wedged between old heads
Still staring at old space unremittingly.

Posted at 05:05 pm by adukuri

Monday, December 24, 2012

The tailor had an eye for his needle
That went in and out a cotton hole
As if it was his very own heart - lung
Furiously beating in an old rib cage.
His needle had an eye for the thread
That went in like it was a Bible camel.
Diwali is closing in with his customers
For new dupattas amid light crackers.
The needle has its catching up to do.

This side, old spinster is at her needle
For unfinished dupattas, long flowing
For many Diwalis that went in and out
Riding out a prince on a white horse.
Her needle is now spinning long yarns
In endless story, from Diwali to Diwali
That will go on like a failed wet cracker.

Posted at 04:09 pm by adukuri

Sunday, December 23, 2012

I carry from sleep this very room defined
By a clipped table light, an indistinct moth
A chair plastic in its back and sitting whitely.
I like to be defined by a tree back to the sun
And sitting wisely on drops of words in light.
The chair likes to be defined by a warm bum
And aching back of history, from shadows
Of night after night sleeping, stomach silent
From poems emerging to fingers on letters

Table light is defined by the room of shadow
But would like to be defined by a pair of eyes
And the soft touch of a body where it curves
On the wall ,with a moth walking in shadow.
The moth carries its room with it on the wall
A room of light to embrace a result of death.
The chair carries a room with it of warm bum
Bristling with possibility of not being in time.

Posted at 03:10 pm by adukuri

Saturday, December 22, 2012

It was a substitute for the vault of a sky
That had risen indefinitely up and up
With two kid brothers playing ball on it.
The prankster sky had earlier annoyed
The grandmother's head in her chores.
They have turned sun and moon in sky.

We now have a tarpaulin over our libidos
Besides running buses of lusts to perform.
Under the tarpaulin, while it is not raining
We have cocoons of married togetherness
That are spinning shiny silks of nine yards
In long musical yarns of Hindi film dance.

But it is raining here in wind and storm.
We have to return tarpaulin to tent maker.
Soon we are naked under sun and moon.

(A 23 year old girl who was gang-raped in a running bus in Delhi is battling for her life in a hospital)

Posted at 03:48 pm by adukuri

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