R.K.Singh's Journal

Tuesday, June 26, 2012


I can’t understand
their mystic heaven or thrills
housed in awareness

time’s intricacies
or sources of plastic mist
through mythical depths

the wings of my thought
are too short to climb God’s height
or blue deeps of peace

I stand on the edge
of earth’s physicality

waiting on the brink
with shadowy lines
and curves to image march of
eyeless Jagannath

if nobody sees
the collapse of procession
and the dark precinct

don’t blame the poets:
there is too much emptiness
and gloom to ignore

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I have no magical power
to change my restlessness
into glory radiating
peace or purpose in living:

they give me no room to better
men or myself but condemn
as one hanged for nothing:
poets are no living lessons

I stand aside ruminating
what I couldn’t do or be
or await miracles through
circles and zigzags of the mind

even corrupt faith and curse
destiny for the maze
of my own making and yet say
I know the spirit’s upward fire

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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

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3:28AM - SMOKE

I can’t enter
the sky high mind
of a crow or eagle

but I know
how it feels
in cold-wet air

I have lived
breathless winter
in the open

and no star woke up
to clean the smoke
I slowly became

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Walking along the beach
they collect empty shells
that fascinate senses
in the salty air

feel the life now no more
but argue about the sex
of a conch ignoring
the fisherman’s song

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With sudden twists and turns
popping up each new day
life still awaits intrigues
through meandering pathways
I search the golden light
the rising Capricorn
held for a Sunday child

the labyrinths are dark
and scary but I know
the way in is the way out
I can’t trip along the way
like others in blind alleys
the guarding angel
leads me to golden reward

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Don’t defile
my goddess you smell
private parts

with sexy
hibiscus don’t crack
the centre

take bath first
and touch Kali
with clean mind

I can’t let
your wandering hands
make mistake

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3:25AM - DEATH

We do not know
who cares for us
live or dead

nor do we know
our end
now or ever

which meeting with whom
is the last
we do not know

when darkness gushes
in from the breach
sky sinks down

as stranger we come
as stranger
we pass

like withered grass
unmourned, unknown

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Friday, December 30, 2011

6:08AM - Three Haiku

travelling back
from the waves of bliss
a foam leap

vultures waiting
for the leftovers
of the sacrifice

after the party
empty chairs in the lawn--
now moon and I


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Not much fun--
cold night, asthmatic cough
and lonely Christmas:
no quiet place within
no fresh start for the New Year


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Wednesday, March 29, 2006


A Matisse or Picasso
only complicates
the secrecy of your face

I don't understand
you, your body, or the nude
even if I touch

hold your hand or sleep with you
sharing long kisses
the mystery of the dark womb

your mind and silence
hardly make up love we feel
squeezing wit and soul

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It's part of prayer
to have the lingam kissed
or kiss it to feel

the creator's pulse
for a moment
thank the body too

that houses the spirit
we seek in His name
for relief and salvation

through the cycle
of day and night
meeting and departing

learning and unlearning
each moment synthesising
god, sex and the world

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Your vacant eyes
reveal this city:
dom, humid, abent-minded
orchestrating bronchial noises
'quakes in the face

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Saturday, March 25, 2006


I seek new strides
in each of your moves
new dreams in your eyes and thighs

nude lyrics in lips
shape the night's sway
set my heart afire

I seek the lingering fragrance
the rhythm that frenzies the soul
the timeless joy you conceal

I seek the hues that blaze being
and shade the nest I rest in:
your chains renew my freedom

each time I look at you
I see natural woman
the fount of poetry

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Friday, March 24, 2006


At the river-front
in-drawn with Buddha's image
in Padmasana
eyes half-closed, meditating
his eyes not yet opened

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Her letter smells
the lotus she wore each time
meeting in the dark:
I touch her fingers again
with all the hopes and passion

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