ADUKURI'S POETRY




   

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Sunday, December 23, 2012
Room

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
Tarpaulin

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
Cry




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
 

Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Walking city

Water spreads in growing maps from houses
And feet advance to more and more people
As their brooms cleanse outsides of houses.
Some of them have white foam at their mouths
As city walks glowingly with new winter sky
In noises of kids eyes opening to school day
And school girls glowing with talcum smells.

City walks in confused memories of dreams
On old biryani stomachs growling distantly.
Puppies keep sniffing at stranger feet pants
And sad ladies do their things with brooms.
City walks with scraps of poems under hair
Soon they are lost from city's thinning pate.

Posted at 03:50 pm by adukuri
 

Monday, December 17, 2012
Baby


Child cry is the beginning of war and night
A sadness enveloping , irony growing lives
Stupidity, not nature red in tooth and claw,
Snuffing out optimism from kids and news.

Bird baby falls dead from an air-conditioner.
A mother bird pecks at the angry sky space
On the internet wire , playing out its irony.

We play irony in our news as a fresh narrative
As a drama on gun control or mental health
Thinking which is which, about baby's mouth.
A baby bawls in the basement of a darkness.

Posted at 04:33 pm by adukuri
 

Sunday, December 16, 2012
Books

Into the yellow of light we enter at the sunset
And open page after page of the written word.
The sun shines brightly outside a green carpet
Against the phonetic drone of a man's words.
Wisdom binds parallel two-dimensional planes
Together here ,joining them in a common light.

Yesterday we had a bundle of lines cleaning up
A room of straight lines, its light catching them
And scooping them up behind a door's triangle
After kicking up a storm in cross luminous lines
And flying light dust particles as in a dust storm.
Light was dust flying in our face, towards roof.


Light is no longer lines nor is broom a bundle
Resting in a triangular door corner , chafing light.
There are light points from room's broken lines.
The points now lie in parallel planes of existence
Held together and a common light thread runs
In them across vast recesses of a human mind.

Posted at 04:17 pm by adukuri
 

Saturday, December 15, 2012
Broom

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
Rust

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
 

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