Poetry By Sudeep Adhikari

Sudeep Adhikari, from Kathmandu Nepal, is professionally a PhD in Structural-Engineering, and a compulsive reader/writer. He lives in Kathmandu with his wife and family and works as an Engineering-Consultant.  His works have found their place in many online/print literary journals, based in United States, Canada, England, Wales, India and Japan. 

Noise is Depth Psychological 

I am a Noise geek 
or call me a spiritual punk if you please 
beat disgusts me, and the rhythms bore me to death  
a castration, some initiatory baptismal rites, 
a simulacrum of murder, Music. 
Bob your head, go to the club, conform 
Wal-Mart aesthetics of Spotify, YouTube and I-Tunes
you have some codes in your brain, 
a plastered grin and a pair of plastic boobs 
culture-industry Gods celebrate the consecration parade. 

 I don't like it the way music nucleates my thoughts 
and makes it static, stiff and dead 
 like the mid-January's Erie lake;
Be nothing, represent nothing
be beautifully indeterminate, bent 
but profusely protean like the Noise;   
The politics of dissonance and distortion,
is also the story of my becoming. 

The vibrant void is the nothingness, that speaks 
in the language of reverberating Noise 
"Emptiness is form. Form is Emptiness"
the Heart-Sutra of screaming mountains, 
Cagean aesthetics, noise-rock, 
Buddha's silence and Wittgenstein's mute.

Go to the nosie-gig of Michael Gira or Lightening Bolt
and see how Structures arise 
in the absence of syntax and rhythm
out of the pulsating "nothing" mist; 
the Unspeakable can't be caught in grammar 
all we can do  is to allow it to self-express 
in emergent forms.

The fuzz of archetypal seeds
 conspires the ordered structures of synchronicities 
the happenings of soul, that can't be understood 
in terms of linear syntaxes of time;
Psyche and Noise, both elude the reasons 
and happen in the space  
of rupture-rapture inter-zones. 

My "Self" is the Noise
a field of infinite possibilities  
an inexact, ambiguous  and fuzzy whole 
and my "Ego", 
is the celebration of murder 
a fabricated clarity, a sell-out
or the chart-topping  Billboard's whore.      


(I would like to dedicate this poem to Mr.  Michael Gira, the frontman of the very badass Swans, who is going through some bad times at the moment. I believe Mr. Gira, may he come victorious from the ordeal)




A Sunday-Evening Kathmandu Zen  

A short city 
always has a long tail 
and longer tales.
 I realize, when 
I walk through the dirt-roads 
at the bank of her cataleptic rivers.

 Dreams come in different colors 
a ghetto ass bar, 
an orphaned hume-pipe
a starry sky-scraper 
or an electrical public-vehicle  
that looks as if infected 
with HIV-AIDS. 

Gods of quartz  
live in their ornate homes 
and people follow
 their deadbeat routine; 
they believe that Free-Will exists.

 I see God everywhere 
in black and white,
 in roses and rust 
and in machines and ghosts; 
Devoid of categories, 
my reality pulsates with nothing
 but the sweet void 
of this immediate Now. 
A bird chirps outside, 
and I am the sound; Don't think. 

 I don't talk much about "Love"
probably the most pimped out word
but how can you hate 
when the world is nothing
 but the plural continuum 
of your own self ? 




I Am Not a Dadaist but I Don't Mind

Someday I may write a poem
its words, lines and verses 
I will generate from I-Ching, 
some dices randomly thrown
for an oracle 
or some automated random
 numbers dictating its form. 
 it will just stand
and stand for nothing, 
like a tree 
on an unheard Amazonian swath. 

Mean nothing, serve nothing 
say nothing. 
Vimalkirti's sermons, 
 or Reed's Metal Machine Music 
holy is 
Nothing. 

The value-whoring art-thing 
represents, schools and philosophies 
and thus misses 
the plastic meaninglessness 
of this immediate now. 
seeing things naked, 
is seeing Nothing 
and this, 
my truest seeing so far.