The Night of Poetry

Monday, March 06, 2006
The Bankura horses

In Bishnupur our horses do not fly
Like the horses of the Sun-God’s chariot
Their decorated necks are humorous and brittle
Our crumbling terra cotta temples are Godless
The temple ponds are now washermen’s ghats
Our gods no longer adorn the Dance Hall
We have potato cold storages, everywhere,
And our listless young men are playing cards
Under the shade of the ancient banyan tree
Our horses do not fly these days.

(The Bankura horses are made in wood and clay . Making the horses is a cottage industry in Bishnupur.

There are 35 ancient temples,in laterite and terra cotta,dating back to the 17th /18th centuries . The temples are exquisitely beautiful and are in a good state of preservation.

The area is predominantly a potato-growing one with a large number of cold storages. The seasonal nature of the potato cultivation and trade has resulted in large scale underemployment.)

Posted at 04:14 am by adukuri
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Words hit you like swarming flies
On a sticky summer afternoon
Words fester under your skin
Like wounds refusing to be healed
They enter your eyes like dust
Filling them with hot salty tears
You gather them like sea-shells
To empty the pocket and throw away
The moment you reach home
Words grate like steel furniture
Being dragged on a dusty floor
Words fill your tummy with nausea
Like the guts of a dog run over
By a passing truck on the highway
Words turn into a handful of dust.

Posted at 02:38 am by adukuri
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Friday, February 24, 2006

Creatures of the gone world walk,
In measured meters, by dark streams
Flowing with the city’s vulgar sins.
Thinking poems are autumn-falling
In criss-cross patches of golden sun,
Actually these are pallid ghosts
Pulled out of unlit eastern skies
Laughing poems feel like poems
On the grassy mounds, children
Mimicking toothless laughter, hiding
Lots of death-fear knotted around
Approaching birthdays in jitters.
Silver manes falling on grey scarves,
They laugh their guts out, ha ha,
In the club of morning laughter
On grassy mounds in sunlit parks.
Yellowed skulls hiding in monkey-hoods
Hardly hear the world’s laughter.

Posted at 10:41 pm by adukuri
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Friday, December 23, 2005

Here, the man went inward and wise,
Reluctant teacher, about to enter light
The leaves about him had a faint aura
Not a pall of dust but of wisdom’s light,
The why of all including our nothing-
We who had liquid origins and trauma.
He had an answer to all our questions
But no questions to our lucent answers
His ears were long and unhearing
As were his eyes small and crinkly.
It was not he who patted his tummy
And laughed to the vulgar crowds loud
Just a yellow figurine on dusty shelves.
Did you say he had frozen in bronze
With an enormous stomach side-splitting?
Actually our fears froze behind his ears
I can hear their crunch in these leaves.

Posted at 09:36 pm by adukuri
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Here a talking man is sleeping,
His arms akimbo, feet in the air.
Then were wild gesticulations,
Sweat on brow, fire in the eyes
Now vacant and unconnected.
He no longer exists in space
But he had happened in time
Whatever begins shall remain.

Posted at 09:34 pm by adukuri
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There was fear all over;
Things happened very fast.
The body quickly gave way;
The sanitized walls closed in.
The lone crab struggled
In a puddle of scalding water
There were voices around
All happened in a split-second
When someone shouted
Pull him out, for God’s sake;
This is a mere dream.

Posted at 09:31 pm by adukuri
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Saturday, June 04, 2005

Meanings do not accrue
They happen on the side
Away from the world’s centre
There is no fear of uncertainty,
Of not being able to cope.
The metaphors sound clichéd
In the world’s understood
Something much deeper
Comes out of the tranquil eyes
That brimmed with meaning
We laugh all the time, here,
In the parks, under the trees
We do not understand the world
Our talk comes from the medulla
Our thinking is under the ribs
A transition from the concrete
To a fuzzy laughter-filled world
We stopped crying long ago.

Posted at 06:14 am by adukuri
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The white screen of death

I can visualize that happening
The power of death is palpable
Amidst disbelief, impossible reason
Unthinking brain-aliveness
I can see the yellowed feet
Jutting out of the white sheet
Fleeting flies gratuitously sharing
Fickle aliveness with the dead
Existence logic is devoid and white
Like the all-enveloping sheet.

Posted at 06:11 am by adukuri
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Sunday, January 30, 2005

Pesky night,vaguely mysterious
Deeply opaque,painfully crisp
A catacomb of mummified corpses
Of dismembered dead memories
The hungry night gobbles up
Tiny hesitant moonlight shadows
Of compensatory life's little joys
The sea of darkness,vertically bottomless
Stretches incomprehensibly towards
Hopelessly sterile sea-sky horizons
With no little specs of hopeful boats
Bobbing up fortuitously,unexptectedly
No babbling people in sight.
The inky night infiltrates the bones
And cave-smelling creatures of the dark
With their topsy-turvy world-views
Take off in a fit of satanic fury.

A lone flamingo shrieks in its sleep
Causing ripples in the night's stillness
As the night deepens clusters of fireflies
Rise from the depths of the kindly earth
Sowing luminous seeds of sweetness and light
In the vast wild wastes of the firmament.

Posted at 10:36 pm by adukuri
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Friday, January 28, 2005
The snake

Desire lay coiled
Slithering , smooth
Hot and in slow motion
The swaying coconut
Was slowly devouring
The crescent moon.
The pipal waited in the dark
Studded with white pearls
Of sleeping flamingoes.
He that cogitated
Was besieged by
Waves of double-think.
Nothing was certain
While passion-storms
Blew away fluffy
Cotton clouds of sanity
He that reflected
Despised carnality
The cry of the body
Aimed at the pristine
Purity of the atma
The luminiscent speck
Of the primordial matter
The ethereal bond
That existed between
Him and other specs of
Particulate matter
Was not lust, the crying
Of the senses for a sweaty
Union of the imperfect bodies
Think of the tightening coils
The intellectual befuddlement
With undercurrents of
Negation and self-denial
Why this passion for
Things living and inanimate
He that loved and craved
For the essence of things
The passionate attachment
Stemmed out of kinship
With other forms of matter.
A lone flamingo shrieked
Fluttering its wings in sleep
The dark liquid clouds
Coagulated around the moon
Drawing a nebulous circle
The precursor of silver rain
The snake hissed and went back
To its subterranean sleep.

Posted at 11:11 pm by adukuri
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Poetry based upon actual experiences, not one thought up in the intellectual aridness of a pseudo-thinker. Words as they mean in the specific context of recollected thought or image , not meaning several things at a time but that which re-creates an aura or a haze of an earlier experience

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