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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
uncelebrated
unmourned, unknown
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
--R.K.Singh
Not much fun--
cold night, asthmatic cough
and lonely Christmas:
no quiet place within
no fresh start for the New Year
--R.K.Singh
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
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
Your vacant eyes
reveal this city:
dom, humid, abent-minded
orchestrating bronchial noises
'quakes in the face
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
At the river-front
in-drawn with Buddha's image
in Padmasana
eyes half-closed, meditating
his eyes not yet opened
Her letter smells
the lotus she wore each time
meeting in the dark:
I touch her fingers again
with all the hopes and passion