ADUKURI'S POETRY




   

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Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Father

Father would stare from his corner
Of space in time from an old trunk
That smelt of iron in old moth-balls.
He looked like my own school self
A bit lost in space, in shirt-sleeves
Tucked to elbow, not much in eyes.

He would stay there stuck in a corner
With no knowledge that I was coming
With a future that meant his going.
There was space only for one of us.
He stays wedged between old heads
Still staring at old space unremittingly.

Posted at 05:05 pm by adukuri
 

Monday, December 24, 2012
Needle

The tailor had an eye for his needle
That went in and out a cotton hole
As if it was his very own heart - lung
Furiously beating in an old rib cage.
His needle had an eye for the thread
That went in like it was a Bible camel.
Diwali is closing in with his customers
For new dupattas amid light crackers.
The needle has its catching up to do.

This side, old spinster is at her needle
For unfinished dupattas, long flowing
For many Diwalis that went in and out
Riding out a prince on a white horse.
Her needle is now spinning long yarns
In endless story, from Diwali to Diwali
That will go on like a failed wet cracker.

Posted at 04:09 pm by adukuri
 

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
 

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