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
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
Monday, November 26, 2012
There is this morning you stay ahead of
For words to remain within your grasp.
The winged chariot steals just behind you
In a moment's program of words ,a quest
For meaning , a context from the universal.
And you do not have the years for words.
He the reader of words has all the years.
In his mornings of darkness he shall read
Meaning in half told tales, impose contexts
And craftily make beauty in their assembly.
If he moves away from truth, let him do so
Because he is making his beauty on the sly.
Posted at 06:31 pm by adukuri
Sunday, November 25, 2012
A poetess whines about love,
Four letters being the shortest
Cliff-hanger hole, grip or leave
Or merely gripe about the holes,
Shun love to plug damn holes.
You hang on the cliff by holes
Since if you let it go , the holes
Shall gape at you in all your life
Like black holes of empty space.
Love is word that is just a hole
In lexicon ,pp 123, as you flip
Page after page for the letter .
All fingers shall disappear in it.
With a funny sound they go in.
Your mouth is the biggest hole
That stays gaping in vast space.
Posted at 04:13 pm by adukuri
Saturday, November 24, 2012
The cricket has just opened its window,
In my ears, to darkness on the other side.
Crickets open their sounds to our ears
And are sole windows to night sounds.
Their song imparts motion to dark sound
As happens in the leaves around a bird
That wakes up at midnight to flutter wings
And gets back to its old Siberian dreams.
Darkness is sound from a cricket's throat
And vanishes as its throat is vanquished
By the soft light sound of the morning crow.
Posted at 02:35 pm by adukuri
Friday, November 23, 2012
We wake up from our afternoon nap,
That is an ironic re-living of nostalgia
A dream broken by a ringing phone.
The phone stirs you to wakefulness
To the unbroken ironies of our lives
Including our sleep that is also living
An exquisite irony ,from birth to death.
He watches us ironically with a smirk,
A puckered up face from an alien sky,
One floated in with no sense of place.
He watches us from the black granite
Of two white chalk columns and red.
His smirk hovers over us like a buzz
Near ears, when we are dead in sleep
In the ironic warmth of winter blankets,
Leaving noses to breath continued life.
Posted at 06:15 pm by adukuri
Thursday, November 22, 2012
We wonder why the dogs have to bark at nights
With plaintive snouts pointing fuzzy possibilities
Of other things, of pale moons hanging by trees,
Of wind whistling in the rush of sleeping lizards,
Of a car past our lengthening shadows dragging
Our day times to the other spaces,the other times.
Wonder why they have to shout at our bellyaches
In the wee hours, before another fine dawn breaks
On our missing people rubbing their eyes at dawn.
And why we do not put up our snouts to the night
Before a dawn breaks on missing dogs crinkling
Rheumy eyes at the incoming suns of our window.
Posted at 09:00 pm by adukuri