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Monday, December 10, 2012

Everything would pass in the snow hills
Even the hordes who would climb them
And run down ancestors with their cows

Along rivers snaking down from the hills
Much like elephant foot soldiers elsewhere
Who had brought about a civilization's fall.

There, down, in western hills a fierce wind
Would blow in the pass on temple's beauty
Now stirring wind mills for pure tax profits.

There is no pass but a well worn passage
A message to the world to give a passage
A passport to gold riches that side of sea.

Among us is a grave passage that runs quietly
In vast spaces, filling the debris of our nights
A narrow pass that vanishes in vague hills.

Posted at 02:30 pm by adukuri

Sunday, December 09, 2012
cul de sac

We went into our eating ( by way of a cul de sac
Where we reach the bottom end with the fingers
Scraping the darkness there), in chillies and garlic
With a touch of millet and sweet solid cane sugar
In a blind alley in a car that can take only a u-turn
From a wall staring at our going away after a belch
With a lips- reddening leaf with a white stuff in it.

The fingers touch the bottom darkness that tickles ,
Quickly come out to light, a wave length stretching
And return to where you all began, to bag's handle,
An entry into the car's little space, a medicinal talk
That went over to little cul de sacs in our bodies on
A journey to largest of them, to their deadest end .

Posted at 03:15 pm by adukuri

Saturday, December 08, 2012
The Chinese fisherman

On the wooden cupboard there he stands
With a slung shoulder pole of fish baskets
In a bearded continuum from an ancient sea
Sharing his porcelain immortality with them.
These are things we live among and eat with.

We some times stare at him in a film of dust.
His fish is eternally dead in bamboo baskets
Like his wispy beard, white as the sea-surf.
Mostly we feel his gaze in our back as we eat.

Posted at 03:41 pm by adukuri

Thursday, December 06, 2012
Examined life

This morning you will examine life
As a document from the archives
While looking into a balcony's dark
Extension, its trees secretly living
Unexamined lives in a dark breeze.

Socrates is not an unsociable jerk
But is only finding a worth living life
Of a bearded philosopher of a wife
Who is about to sprinkle dirty water
On a beard,quivering for meaning.

We are not to find meaning in pigs
Going into ham sandwiches, forming
Lumps in the throats of philosophical
Inquiry, finding meaning in pig's life
Nor in our life history of eating pigs
With its justification rooted in nature
In a convoluted evolutionary theory.

We only wonder if the examined life
Is worth all this time,and what we do
Finally with the overwhelming sarcasm
Behind all this, with the smelly bones
At the bottom end of such inquiries.

Posted at 04:28 pm by adukuri

Wednesday, December 05, 2012

Her I stand now to receive blessings
From a father's thin air ,now felt at
The balcony's falling off into a night
My night poetry being of many spaces
This very room shall afford a window
Of opportunity, the curtains a glimpse.

Lest I forget the sill I bring the moths
Out of season,out of rain,their embraces
To the glass of death,their glassy wings
Shall bring a re-generation of leaves
And the flowers ,heads down in shame
Their feet put up to the sky of surrender.

I forget the lake of my liquid space
Its waters jutting out from the rocks,
A white smoke behind a garbage dune
Killing a wet poet's soft innocent verse.
I forget the road of the hanging trees
The pollution van standing to abolish
Poverty and pollution in a round plaque
The crows hanging in trees with worms
To early sun sleepily rising like always.

Lest I forget I hear the drum beating
Of a train picking up gravel hitting speed
In a rising crescendo of the drum stick
By a bearded player who changes tracks
And drum beat shamelessly mimicking
The train while it is away on nightly rounds
With people tucked away in a dark womb.

Posted at 04:25 pm by adukuri

Tuesday, December 04, 2012

What you write in the smallness of hours
Under the inverted light is a fictive thing
An excision of reality from your dark night
A hard to feel thing,a texture of the night
Just the way medicine spreads in the back
A liquid calamine to soften angry flames
Of passion rebelling in your layered veins.

The soft old poet calls it supreme fiction
A rebel song rising to haunted heavens
From an open book in converted palms.
What you sing will not last to the far end.
But an echo of being there somewhere
Parallel to a world that is someone else's
Fictive universe that closes with your eyes.

Posted at 03:41 pm by adukuri

Monday, December 03, 2012

The dog's bark is a pillar of the night
West it away and night may crumble
Like a scaffold holding the creeper.
A petite mosquito buzzes near the ears
Singing its poetry of the unreal kind
A sliver from my own smoke of burning
Where we all burn in our daily smoke.
The sleeping lizard on the roof is a sliver
From my own smoking life, from a roof
That tumbles without a sleeping lizard.
Words are a sliver from smoking nights .

Posted at 03:29 pm by adukuri

Thursday, November 29, 2012
Quiet poems

Early man's dream promises truth
Early man is late man of morning.
With quiet poems at beck and call
Like the poet who saw coins settle
At the ocean's floor in a loud sun.

Be Frank,O Hara, coins shall vanish
In the sinking flesh of a soft twilight.
A birth did not take place in March
Because parents delayed marriage.
There is no stopping a dune buggy
On the ocean beach ,its date certain
And timing a devastating frankness.

(Frank O' Hara's life and poetry)

Posted at 04:52 pm by adukuri

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

We hear the deep throat voice of a girl
Made faceless by unwanted acid love
As it slept on the roof under a full moon.
Face book cannot resolve her moon-face
But screams are heard across our roofs.

(An 18 year girl of Dhanbad, Sonali Mukherjee has lost her face to a vicious acid attack by a spurned suitor)

Posted at 08:52 pm by adukuri

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Soon he would become homesick
Sick of a home away from a home
Where coconuts danced all night.
He would go to bed and not get up.
To a big bank of numbers and notes.

Small numbers crawl up to big ones
Where they swallow the small ones
Into a big sky of a billion numbers
Where light is distance , not sound.

You keep a day book of numbers
But your red ledger is quickly filled
Their figures enter steel cupboards
Where they would live for the night.
You forget to take them out next day.

(upon the passing of a senior colleague in my bank)

Posted at 05:37 pm by adukuri

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