Showing posts with label Sudeep Adhikari. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sudeep Adhikari. Show all posts

Thursday, May 2, 2019

Three Poems By Sudeep Adhikari

Sudeep Adhikari is a structural engineer/Lecturer from Kathmandu, Nepal.   His poetry has recently appeared in the venues like Boned, The Magnolia Review and Mojave River Review. His 5th book of poetry "anti-philosophical deep dreams" was released by Pski's Porch Publishing, New-York, USA in March, 2019.

a worm-hole took me home

on my way to the wood,
i once saw rivers,
gushing
with crazy turbulence
on the concentric lives
of a fallen tree-

and the micro-trajectories
of little atoms
on the wall
of an eroded rock-face-

while a spider by the side
was silently
weaving a space-time rupture

to take me to the world,
that has somehow gone
into a comfortable oblivion-

amidst the countless
rat-races, i am supposed to come first.


 the sacred dragonflies

the green of the mountains
encircling the holiness
of my mother, 
are now covered
in milky white drapes;

the temples are quiet,
silently watching
over the sufferings,

still you can hear
the gods talking, and
the buzz of dragonflies
flying like helicopters

over the little
patches of her distant remains. 


M87*

we somehow look
into your distant past
when you were there
all alone-

making a rupture
in timelessness-

drinking beams of light
and the liquid fields
of cosmic architecture
to be
the unseen lonely one.

is not that strange ?
the way a being bathed
in super-seas of light,

somehow appears
to be the darkest one,
a beautiful yin and yang-

painted on the canvass
of an inconceivable breadth. 


Monday, May 29, 2017

Sudeep Adhikari: Zen Buddhism, Existential Poetry, and a Tribute to Chris Cornell

Sudeep Adhikari is a structural engineer/Lecturer  from Kathmandu, Nepal.   His recent publications were with   Red Fez , Kyoto  , Your One Phone Call, Jawline Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, Beatnik Cowboys, Poetry Pacific, Silver Birch Press and Outlaw Poetry. 

Poet Sudeep Adhikari


Zen of Sleeping Bodhisattvas

After hitting absolute rock bottom 
of my haunted Self, it took me 
a couple of heart-breaks, 
an obsession with Wittgenstein, Buddha,  
Carl Jung and Ian Curtis,    
6 years of research on fiber reinforced concrete
in a shithole for a lab, 
and a few self-destructive episodes 

of shame to realize that  everything is still 
empty and groundless, and   
Impermanence is permanently incurable. 

But my psyche finds its own way 
to self-organize I guess;  Because my same 
old demons, are now the
dreams of my sleeping Bodhisattvas. 




We all are Same God 

We are the reciprocal ripples
of our own loneliness
and endless fragmentations 
that follow. You consecrate,
you desecrate
does it really matter?

My psychoid, schizoid episodes
remain unalloyed and pure
form the ether
of our collective madness; 
A noisy signal, a psychic-wave
 undulates the noosphere. 

Unheard, yet turbulent.



Black Hole Sun 

The hopelessness and despair. They keep coming 
at you like a black hole sun. 
You stand at the edge of a dreadful void;   
tempted to peek into the singularity, 
all anxieties collapsing under the gravity 
of a superunknown. 

The other-worlds might let you sleep like 
a kid, you think. A very long sleep, without
worrying about waking 
to the world of piercing black lights.  

Life, Ativan and Rock n' Roll 
it's a killer combination, my friend. But 
the shit goes on, in its usual Jesus Christ Pose. 


[A tribute to late Chris Cornell]

Friday, May 6, 2016

Boolean Algebra of Self-Awareness and Other Poems By Sudeep Adhikari

Sudeep Adhikari, from Kathmandu Nepal, is professionally a PhD in Structural-Engineering. He lives in Kathmandu with his wife and family and works as an Engineering-Consultant.  His poetry has found place in many online literary journals/magazines, the recent being Kyoto (Japan), Zombie Logic Review (USA), Scarlet Leaf Review (Canada) and Red Fez (USA). 

Boolean Algebra of Self-Awareness 

A mute distilled from the vibrations
of infinite souls. Speaks, sings and makes the knots 
of my space-time in local coordinates, 
life is a sonic multitude.   Only machines don't speak, 
silicon skylines running Webdriver Torsos
on the cities of organized death.
I pity you Artificial Intelligence. I really do. 
A little arthropod, 

with antennas of gold and wood 
sneaked into my cubicle. I hear you little soul, 
your infrasonic love-songs. 
Self-awareness implodes, and creates
an array of multiverses within. A small

 knock on the door 
can throw my universe to splinters
can gear the big-bang of me. 
at the moment, I am a singularity; naked, fertile,  
and made of Buddha's  bones and boners. 



Poetics of New Acoustics

Dystopia used to be a myth. But now
I live like a Transformer, headbanging
on the sonic booms
lacerating skins of Gaza-strip,
Baghdad, Belgium and Lahore. People
have evolved. In place
of their head, now
they carry a Call-of-Duty type
mask of Kevlar black.

The territorials are coupled
with the terror-machine, through oil-ducts
made of high-end alloys
heat-treated, non-corrodible
and desert-friendly. Middle-path,
middle-east, middle-finger
media-machine squeaks. Free-thoughts
are not free after all. New-age
Whitmans and Wordsworths,
they need to hear the ultra-sonic sirens
of titanium drones, and the rattles of MH370
rivers don't flow
 with the same tranquility anymore.

A new layer of sonosphere, now circumscribes us
and Beethovens are pretty out of context
we need to find love, in a different way
and make some poetic-machines
for the new sounds of our time.     

                  

The Floating Bars of Ohio

The summers were always nice and warm 
we used to go to some lakeside bars on Saturdays 
and had Bloody Mary and Corona alternately, 
till we got buzzed. The old couples used to bring their private
 boats and get wasted at around noon
Once I met an old lady who claimed
 to have babysit Patrick Carney from Black Keys 
when her 20 years younger boyfriend 
kept looking at us as if we were from mars.
and one nice Saturday afternoon, 
a girl came and started asking about my whereabouts 
and said she is from down South. Her cousin came, 
and angrily he said "Why are you talking with this terrorist"?
I had long hair and beard at the time 
and I also had a very long laugh to follow.
I was not offended. I dug his context
 but I hated his teeth, 
which kept reminding me of Global Warming and Nickelback. 

Wednesday, March 2, 2016

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. 

Thursday, December 3, 2015

Poetry By Sudeep Adhikari

Sudeep Adhikari is from Kathmandu, Nepal.

I went to a gig in a ghetto

I saw a couple of shoegazers, punks, 
a death-obsessed ambient rocker
wearing a Reese's tee-shirt on his gig; 
an industrial metal-head 
who was recovering
from his cocaine-addiction, 
and a poor noise-instrumentalist
from Deutschland
wearing a tattered coat
and standing by the side
of his depressed van, smoking
a cigarette and
still trembling 
from yesterday's hangover.

This all happened 
in the middle of a Ghetto
where on a foggy day
shards and shrapnel of graffiti
can make you miss your mother. 

In the ghetto, 
you are never alone
there is an incessant 
noise of fear and loneliness 
that smells like piss, weed
half-burnt cigarillos and beer combined. 

A gig in a ghetto 
is essentially an existential ambush. 

Sudeep Adhikari


Multiplicity Nothingness

Glitch and gravity, both 
bend the space
time-warp my already 
whacked-out reflexes 
I make the Möbius strip
and a couple of more paradoxes 
out of my psyche;
God must be a geometer 
as Kepler has thought once.

a sonic excess of noise 
or the rhizomatic fuzz 
inside the root of a pepal tree; 
life oozes out of 
every impossibilities 
in a path
nor straight, neither curvilinear
fractal, probably. 

Have you ever tried 
to make nothingness
deep-dream in Google?
to get countless virtual raves, 
multiverses, cat-eyes 
for the laser-light
and few psychedelic 
shinto temples. 

matter and mind 
weave an irreducible
psychoid whole 
related and plural
undivided, yet many 
The Tao of psychophysics. 

All my life, I haunted
for the single truth 
and ended up finding 
many whores, 
some sleepless rivers that flow 
straight from a beer-factory, 
few deathless trees that refuse 
not to dance for a second 
and some coked-out gods 
who like to party
wearing a blood-soaked skull 
for a cap. 

I am not a sell-out
but I find no difference either. 


Time Nothingness

A silent day
keeps on folding  onto itself
a cosmic embrace it creates,
and sleeps with its own solitude.
White efflorescence
colorless noise, aches with a rage
of an apocalyptic dread
kisses every contour
of my cosmos within.

The discordance of a cacophonic calm
the noise of gaps and blanks
waves of unthings
it engulfs and emits
spans the ether
of an inconscient chasm.

A poem it is today
a self-composed ode
dancing on its own tunes
along with myriad shades.
 Sheer becoming without a soul
a non-objectal field  
a relentless spin without an axis
a cosmogenesis sans protean gods.

Vapors of irrational as they go punk 
outshine the revelry
of the most promiscuous science
a somnambulist walk
through its desolate woods
and silver cities with misty-eyed times
where hanging on its blue
satellites of vertigos and dreams.


Sound Nothingness

Eldorado of sounds and 
dancing souls
mottled frequencies
melt with an
unconstructed ease
create a river
of sweetest of chimes
and reflect the rainbow
on its bosom
of your treasured noise.

Sonic revelations
actualize themselves
to an orgasmic verge
and I silently eavesdrop
on the party of gods.

My soul-ether
your space and time
silver incandescence
mercurial whirls
and your surreptitious
slow motion shit
between those
ivory towers of doom
with a rhythm
undisclosed yet.

Mists of inconscience
as they try to blind
you gravitate
to your lonesome best
within the pearl
of my singular self.

A cosmic crescendo
a solitary breath
a joyous terminus
of my multitude
that I have 
hitherto dreamt.