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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

Friday, December 21, 2012

Words are cry baby's laughing waters
Streaming from its eyes without its salt .
You do not remember when the last
Laugh occurred and a cry turned about
In syllables, like glistening pearl-drops
Of words slow -forming like night dew.

The eyes will laugh at your cry primally
In the deep belly where it will hurt softly
In a sense making effort, of your world
Dying gradually from a ludicrous effort.
Cry from stomach was a wasted effort
At collecting lung air, at making sense
Of a chaotic world, of a mother to die
To cry for and about, to mourn in early.

Posted at 02:49 pm by adukuri

Thursday, December 20, 2012
World's end

Vague we are, we have made the choice
Of leaving the door ajar, a fat choice that
With the cold wind entering living room.
We intend to escape choices, ask questions
Leaving answers open, cold and nagging.

We are sucked into the eternity of a koan.
We sit cross-legged to hurl our questions
At the big question mindfully set in music
To a perfumed stick turning our smells up.

Our world will suitably end at the precipice
A civilization's ruins, a close-ended calendar.
All this while we are awaiting a headless man
To ring doorbell in the small hours of sound.

Posted at 05:49 pm by adukuri

The moment

The moment was just then a word
In the night's early life with a moon
And its fine pointy stars confabulating
In a breath-taking geometrical shape
Closely resembling a forest beast
And stars like its honey food of bees.

We open the balcony door to a night
And the moment is now going behind
In the creaky silence of a night insect
That is traceable to a sleeping bush.

Balcony's night queens spread a moon
All about the night in a dizzy fragrance
Like flowers in a woman's blouse back.
We turn to sky and wait for our moment
In a cosmic dome of dizzily whirring stars.

Posted at 02:17 am by adukuri

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