Seven New Poems


What is there to relish in heaven

if the vulgarity of relationship haunts

even after retiring from earth?

The loose threads of yearning criss cross memory

I can still feel the river’s twisted flow

toward lower reaches, exhausted and stripteased.

The nudity of moon and stars is beyond touch

who cares I evolve or end like them

suspended from a plane I can hardly reach?


How does it matter

I remember or forget

the nights or lights

that stand still

in the dense fog

noting visible

nor audible

the thundering panes

touch the ground:

it’s all game

of guess and vague



even the tick

of the clock

this freezing hour

redolent of

crumbling echoes

I can’t divine vision

or loom up certainty

to mock follies

of dying sun


Unmoved in the wind

the rose still stands erect

in the night’s silence

I imagine my teens

the street is lonely

and love-ache ever fresh

with stolen fragrance

now halting rhythm of sex


Away from home in academics

sex, philosophy and religion

I’ve been skeptic about all these years

revels of hell in lost memories

couldn’t be a new dialect in my mind with fire

but no heat or light, sterile emotion

routs the spirit to live making

all presences dark and absence

fears are no bread from heaven

nor unfilled emptiness any sky

yet the eagle flies with wide eyes

nose opened to stinking patches

the mud- and ghost-scapes that yield

mandate for dreams wrapped in nightmares:

I live preying for liberation

and decay with divinity


Seated by fireside

a crying child wards off flies

on her tear-stained face:

both hungry in a rich house

the master picks stars in her hair

who cares how this sullen place

turns golden with mask over

a poor woman’s face:

the bull performs the act

and flees hiding

blackness in the dawn

and distorted relics


There’s more to view in a dew drop

than what lies in my backyard

— years of muck and mucking about–

burial too difficult

in sunlight images shine

like crystal ball reveal my mind

in poetic disturbance

leaking lust and blood on dried grass


I won’t know my chakras

when I’m drunk even if

I do yoga nidra

and fool myself

consuming a peg or two

read dissertation on stylistics

and comment on what is not done

it’s still the ego that dominates

and I think I’m great fool


R.K.Singh (2012)

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