a.j.rao's poetry volume 5

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Poetry written between 1st April 2001 and 30th July 2001

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  • 1. A.J.Raos poetry Volume5A.J.Rao

2. A.J.Raos poetry Volume 5Poetry written between 1stApril2001 and 30th July 2001 A.J.Rao 3. This file was generated by an automated blog to book conversionsystem. Its use is governed by the licensing terms of the originalcontent hosted at poetryindailylife.wordpress.com. Powered byPothi.com http://pothi.com 4. ContentsAuthenticity 1Climate change 2Metaphors3Phony vision 4Scream 6Holes7Children in the rain 8Bridge 10The temple of shadows11Skin 12Morning at the Tirumala temple 13A semblance14Facts15Layers 16The parcel 18Goats for goddess19 5. Arguments 20Shapes21Circles 22Rites 23The silence 24Collage 25Flamingos 26Pieces27Stub29The internet30Reality 31Knots 32Now 33The hall of mirrors 34Children in the afternoon 35The messenger 36The days truth 37 6. The temple god 39Morning in Begumpet40The idiot41Secret 42Glass43List 44Scribbles45Ghosts in our sleep47Free will, free fall 48Identity 49The beggars51Tautologies52Room 53The girls song54The grandmothers narratives 55The metrical memoranda 56Ear pain 57 7. Snakes and planes 59The ceremony60The horizon 62Making sense63On the night of the lunar eclipse 64My mother 65Passages66Frames67Hands 69Dance 70The bearded painter 71Walking 72Strangers 73Sorrow74Humor 75Home-sickness 76Stones77 8. Fish 78Monologue79Television 80Poverty for poets81Abject 82Lamps83The road 84Overwhelmed85Caricatures86The bullocks geometry 87Shame88Murmurs89Coherence90Doubts 92Metal93Power of attorney94The button rose95 9. The dreamer97The clouds 98Highway99History 101Torpor102Mirrors 103Voices of innocence 104The tunnel105Suffering in poetry 107Temporary 108The parapet 109Misconstrual110The window111Wind113Poetry without thinking 114Sanchi115 10. AuthenticityJuly 31, 2011I am often confronted by a feelingOf lack of authenticity, in this river,Of not feeling like a subject, spuriousAgainst mountains that sit in the farWith river waters beating on my ears.I am words from vaporous thoughts,A prose-poem thought in dark nooksOf the mind, mining word after word. The mountains belong to the earth.I, waving in breeze, am a mere babyA cry-baby in quick mountain wind,Flying words against its rock solidityIn its flowing wind and night silence.The mountains are authentic in spaceWith river about me, in daily ripples.They had come here much before meWith the waters from skies, daily sun.I exist here in the river, as a thoughtA passing thought of a real mountain,A thought in river, a temporary rock. 1 11. Climate changeJuly 31, 2011We spoke all our recent dialogues nicelyVoicing apprehension of the big change.Our struggle had continued underneath.It was a monotone speech in a gray skyWhen the line of trees came to a freezeIn their hostility, where they stood tall.The gentle summer breeze did not matter.The trees sniffed autumn and looked away.Emaciated street dogs barked incessantly,At hooded strangers coming at us from hillsFrom the edge of the sky, in clouds of dust.Our dialogues went on in our dark robesAs our culture bristled riskily in our back,The culture of reality, in our failed heartsWhere several realities came up togetherNot as a single earth-reality in silk threadBut a failed reality of a fluid mind-stateA sky of treeless vapour, sea of flake-salt. 2 12. MetaphorsJuly 30, 2011We are nowadays happy with our new doorA membrane bathroom door that now shedsA certain mauve hue on baths, while in song,With the shower flowering on our cool backsStreaming as if from a rock skirted by treesIts vapors swirling like their winter breaths.Our song is under breath, in some mutters.Our vapors are on glass that hides in smokeOur rather banal faces, their jejune laughter.We are, in fact, searching for our metaphors,Being upbeat about our recent turns of phrase.3 13. Phony visionJuly 29, 2011I do not know if the thing is phonyGlass-like, with glistening dew-dropsOf a morning vision on windshield,Pearl-glass that breaks in little coinsOn endless highways, on mild impactOf metallic bodies with drunk men.Some cars have steam on bonnetsLike bees, in spring, on the stone.Our vision is partly crowded, you seeWith birds hiding dust in the eastThat has turned orange at sunriseA phony vision, it is partly clouded.On the highway there are no housesOnly string cots for our dream sleepOn glasses of buttermilk, hot breads.We have whites on our mustachesOf too much buttermilk in throats.You crinkle eyes enough and you will seeWet buffaloes calmly chewing their cud 4 14. In tin sheds that jump out of green fieldsTheir milk sloshing in their pink udders.Luckily their tail-flies and smells fly awayInto tree-tops, waking the morning birds,A phony vision indeed, partly clouded.The sunflower beds have darker kidsThat smile nicely of a little alphabet,Like flowers that turned deep inwardWhen the sun went behind the hills.Their little bees have nowhere to go,Wait; let the sun come from the hills. The village school is closed for todayIn honor of the guests on the string cotThe sunflowers will open with the windAnd the shadows will creep up slowlyBehind the buffaloes, with eyes closedTheir mandibles moving up and down.The vision is clouded, a phony visionCaused by much emotion in the eyes.5 15. ScreamJuly 28, 2011In the bone house it would appearThe lower mandibles were stretchingAnd stretching to produce a screamThat would fail to reach down to ears.Actually they were trying to bite sarcasm,Surely a futile endeavor, especiallyThey do not have tongues in cheeks.6 16. HolesJuly 27, 2011We are talking of holes, mere lack of matterSubsisting in matter and surrounded by itOf words that exist in crevices of thoughts,Words making the worlds holes in whole.My dead are matter in lack of it, globe-earthsThose spin in lack of space, in crisp night air.They spin in the space of time, holes in space,Phosphorus glow-worms roaming thin nights.They are holes in space, where they had lived.They are now words that will live in thoughts,Those remain in my mind, as images of realityTill I become a hole in space, a picture, a word.7 17. Children in the rainJuly 26, 2011We wanted clearly laid out pathsBetween thin strands of July rain.Our faces were drowned in hoodsAs the rain fell softly on our heads.Its sounds came as from the ocean. Our puny judgments took a beatingIn such a steady patter on our earsWhere they seem to be beating usLike angry fathers, back from office.As we walked we made tiny circlesIn rain water, under our umbrellasThat saved us from an angry sky.The houses were a blur in white.Our paths ended in green of trees.Rain-mud spattered on black coatsSurprised by blurs of passing cars,Their wipers saying no to the rain.We had left our school in the street.Our home of angry smoking fathers8 18. And soft grannies in loving egg-headsSeemed to vanish in the fuzzy rain.A scruffy dog shook its body of rain. Back at home, we bath our wet bodiesIn eucalyptus steam, as its vapors riseQuickly to drown the rain in its smell. 9 19. BridgeJuly 25, 2011We had passed the bridge spanning a river of sandAt dawn, when our noisy train spoke to its emptiness.Once out of it, the train was bending like a centipedeAnd we took a long backward glance to see the bridgeNow smarting under noise injury on its deaf,deaf ears. The buffalos on its sand-bed looked up, unmindfulOf the bridge, of the noisy train that passed, and of usIn the train that saw them as mere globs on the sand.Their black bodies longed for green puddles of water.Their eyes seemed vacant, as their tails swished flies.We saw they had not even once met us in our eyes.10 20. The temple of shadowsJuly 24, 2011Men and women live here with stonesTheir shadows live with them in daylight.The shadow phalluses of shadowy godsLive in the musty smells of kings in silksTheir soldiers in attendance on swords.Women have their foreheads on red dots.Priests move throats up, down like birds.Their prayers fly like shadows to the sky,Their hungry stomachs touch their backsWhere they produce shrill incantations.Here god is crying inside, in the shadow.Beauty is hunger in distended stomachsDrunk with soft palm wine from the sky. 11 21. SkinJuly 22, 2011Here my life began in a belly- fear of the darkIn a sky not visible, filled with fearful locustsThat comes in swarms, across the snow hills.The swarms eat up all our grasses in the way.But woman-insects begin life in the same way,Afraid of the dark in their own womb houses.I now swim in this my pool, where I had comeNot of my own, my dad being of different skin.When I come out of these waters into the sunMy skin shall wear all those paints in the sunSo it can please the leathery skins of dads classAnd I can build my own womb-house to hostA tiny swimming tadpole, with a swaggering tailThat shall never have belly-fears of the dark.But I only fear that my oxygen will be cut offBefore I open my eyes to the sun in the hills. (Female feticide is practiced in some parts of India due topreference for the male offspring, ostensibly to carry on the familylineage)12 22. Morning at the Tirumala templeJuly 22, 2011The morning starts cawing in its throat in sleepAnd the silky song of Gods morning shall waitFor worship flowers to come in the flower train.Flower trains are full of milk cans and turbansAnd women in colorful costumes smelling milk.The pigtailed high-rise throats shall begin nowIn gods praises, he bleary-eyed from late nightsJumping across the night to wifes house below. The shepherd is tending sheep of yesterday evening.The morning shall begin when the clouds move awayAnd stop threatening the shepherd with cloud-rain.In the meantime of morning, let rolling people rollLike waves in the midnight ocean, their wet bodiesMaking silent noises against the stones of the temple. 13 23. A semblanceJuly 21, 2011I have decided not to call on her in his deathIn order to create a mere semblance of as was.My ghost would continue to exist in this far,As a mere shadow of a r

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