ADUKURI'S POETRY




   

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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
Spaces



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
Fictive



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
Sliver



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
Face

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
Homesick

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
Half told tales



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
Holes



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
Cricket



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
 

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