Saturday, December 15, 2012
Having just cleaned the floor, the broom rests
Behind the door, in a soft sibilant silence there
In the slightly open arms of the door, triangularly
Marking lines of shadows enclosing a darkness,
A darkness that is a creaking silence, a soft purr.
It has eaten a room's lines in one large scoop
Lines formed in a half light of curtained sunlight,
Writ in the waters of a window's ascending sun.
The lines are flights of birds white to our fingers.
And they will soon fly to temporary night rests
As little blobs of white in the darkness of trees.
But the broom has scooped up the dusty light
And the light is now flying feverishly as soft dust
Particles towards higher reaches of the room.
After creating the storm the broom safely rests
In the shadow of the door's triangle with the wall.
Posted at 04:35 pm by adukuri
Friday, December 14, 2012
Can moss oxidate is our question hanging
In the cliff, as a hanger is mid-air and against
Streaks of water, dropping from higher rocks
And a shirt color or two emerges at bottom
Among rising food carts for colored sweaters.
Seems we have lichen in oxide color of rock
Or moss that gathers no green but brown.
Imagine rocks rusting like our good old iron.
Their ancient sun does not make chlorophyll
But brown tiny leaves, in pearl-drops of rain
The sun may be rusting of old age in the hills.
It is not the sun alone who is rusting , in case.
The monks are doing the same thing in ocher.
Their child presences are smoking in laughter.
As white curls emerge from their rust brown
Clothes with Buddha peace prevailing in folds.
As they run peace prevails in higher echelons.
Posted at 02:12 pm by adukuri
Thursday, December 13, 2012
The light grew less in his eyes
We hear a body's fall steeped in a melody
With exquisite sound gone from its fingers.
The eyes fell of broken strings , their music
Lost in the winter of its time, in its nightfall.
The glass spread quickly in its stringing eyes.
The big black eyes were strung to a fine song,
The song of a lifetime, the flow of a generation.
The sound is now ashes, the eyes just beads.
(Remembering the big black eyes of music maestro Ravi Shankar who passed this week-)
Posted at 05:04 pm by adukuri
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
The child in falling knickers looks at sleepers
And feels stranded ,beside snoring sleepers
Their sleeping mouths open like death's caves.
The child is stranded in a sea of sleeping men
In the mausoleum, as its pillars rise to the fans
That stir afternoon air, stranded in a hot roof.
The child is stranded beside sleeping parents
Themselves stranded in a sleep of mausoleum,
Over sleepers of ancient deaths in royal finery.
Posted at 01:57 pm by adukuri
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
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
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
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