Jagannath rao Adukuri


Jagannath rao Adukuri Poems

1. A Photographer’s “doggereal” 11/7/2008
2. The Photographer's Quest 11/7/2008
3. Sunrise 11/7/2008
4. Urban Legends 11/7/2008
5. The Plastic Curtain 11/7/2008
6. Transience 11/7/2008
7. The Crows 11/7/2008
8. Miracles 11/7/2008
9. The Morning After The Train Journey 11/7/2008
10. The Sea 11/7/2008
11. Words Are Things 11/7/2008
12. God’s Mountains 11/7/2008
13. Images In Poetry 11/7/2008
14. At The Kapady Beach In Kerala 11/7/2008
15. Black And White Dreams 11/8/2008
16. Mother And Sea 11/13/2008
17. Poems 11/13/2008
18. Responsibility 11/13/2008
19. The Rock 11/13/2008
20. Possession 11/13/2008
21. Struggle 11/13/2008
22. Existence 11/13/2008
23. Leaves 11/13/2008
24. On Return To Mumbai 11/13/2008
25. The Sun-Photographer 11/13/2008
26. Train Thoughts 11/20/2008
27. Broken Images 11/22/2008
28. The Skull-Pot 11/22/2008
29. Fears 11/22/2008
30. Sunrise And Flowers 11/22/2008
31. Images In A Train 11/22/2008
32. Fear Of Death 11/22/2008
33. The Song 11/22/2008
34. Refusal 11/6/2008
35. Poetry Is Late 11/6/2008
36. Enacting Transience On A Pleasure Boat 11/6/2008
37. Morning Images 11/6/2008
38. The Train Journey 11/6/2008
39. Beauty Is Not Truth 11/6/2008
40. Sideshow 11/22/2008
Best Poem of Jagannath rao Adukuri

The Kitchen (A Tribute To Woman)

We liked her much and her ethereal self
She carried her transience about her
As though it was a long flowing toga
For her transience was a settled matter
Of evolution, in Darwin and burlesque
Just a comedy of sorts, full of sarcasm
Surely the world was made in her kitchen
Apparently he could not make a fine job
Actually when she laughed it was at him
Not that she was afraid of him, except
In the spirit-smell of a buttocks- injection
When she had a creepy feeling in her belly.
Things seemed to happen by a strange logic
A beyond-logic one failed to nail ...

Read the full of The Kitchen (A Tribute To Woman)

Poetry Is Late

Poetry is now the late breeze rustling in the tree
After the temple tank's mossy stillness.
On consciousness had luminously arrived
The phallus god, in brown beauty- hues
And cyclical eight faced phallus, in turns,
Tranquil-white and angry-red in stone eyes.
Polished now as God, a washer man had used it
In rhythmic beats, all for beating laundry.
We have our myths, carefully polished

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