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).
Zen and the Art of Karma-Cycle Maintenance
I started reading Zen, when I was 19
and Dr. Suzuki was my favorite author.
I was done with it when I was 25, and started
reading Wittgenstein, Jung and Aurobindo.
Now I am 35, and all I want to read
is Blue Cliff Record, Dōgen's Poetry
or the stories of mad Zen Masters who did
everything they were told not to.
The mountains are again mountains. I am
again a 19 years old punk.
I keep losing my gazes to Nothing. As if I
have come a full circle, to become
the geometry of Zero, similar to the one they
have on the cover of Mummomkan.
It is about time for my lunch
I am going to have a cup of Yogurt, with
the bread my mother baked this morning.
and when I eat, I love to do some bird-watching
and call my wife at work.
Buddhahood can wait, or it
can fuck off for good.
Dubstep: The Art of Going Batshit Wrong
There was a small club near my school
where they played indie-Electronica and Dubstep
dropping bass into our beer mugs, of the size
falling somewhere between the
ego of Kanye West and Ali's punch.
Dubstep reminds me of life; both celebrate glitches,
drops, drones and drags.
Both taught me the art of going batshit wrong.
Goth, emo, punk; transvestite, gay, lesbians
straight, curved, wiggly; black, brown, white;
it was a little sub-cultural sort of joint
where everytime, I found nothing less than
the peace of mind. Once I met an undergrad student
there , and he said he needed
to write the differential equations
to model the girls' mind. I said, "Yeah Right.
But first, let us find exactly when the bass will drop".
2: 22 P.M Buddha
Truth, I don't seek you.
I see multiple fields,
and well-rounded structures
happy faces, dejected spirits
and I am alive, breathing
existence and endless conjectures
going tangent on me, at 2: 22 P.M.
a fractal tree, stands on my drive-way
a monotonous caw
carries the sounds of the other-worlds,
spans some moment
nonetheless, an eternity in itself.