Setu, August 2023 carries my poems
Poetry: Ram Krishna Singh
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| Ram Krishna Singh |
MYSTERY
I’m still on nodding terms with days I hardly relish
except for memories of sex and poetry books
that’s me in stuckness in bits and pieces
howsoever dwarfed or doomed today
I grope the mystery that couldn’t be living:
autumn with songs of unbloomed spring
restive stillness mocking on the curtains
naked beings lying with blinder on the eyes
the lost moon in curse of tears never shed
the short grace period is no breather
to manoeuvre the words shelled in the skin
or turn oracular to light the vale
***
IF I COULD PAY
Luck awaits me
if I could buy it from
her miracle store
she gives me three dates
for her call to reach
the higher cosmic forces
she dreams me stand
in the middle of a
tree-lined park
against saffron flowers
flashes of light focus
on my serene face
the shower of gold tempts
a being of light descends
I’m offered a new life
divine abundance
defeat of enemies
and stream of love
if I could pay
for her rituals of
angelic magic
***
SEARCH FOR LIBERTY
Why do they ignore the clitoris when half the world has it?
the lovers don’t care, the doctors don’t talk
it’s no leaf that falls on the wave’s crest
and rots on the shore before they prescribe
a chocolate remedy or testosterone cream
to revive in dapple light:
denial is the way of life
be it desire, emotion, or frailty
for conformity, unity and control
the redness of the setting or rising sun
is too much to the drab colors of the priests
who accuse of heresy, witchcraft or immorality
to shut the so-called hot beds of sedition
when all they seek is stoppage
of the show of teeth, blood and skull
on the spinning wheel
condemned to nursing home
***
THE HELL IS REAL
They lure me with wealth in heaven
as if plucking hair would reduce
the weight of the dead body
they don’t see the bruises abandoned
on the fading skin of apple
that rolls metaphors in the basket
sleeplessly I watch her drift in dreams
on the horizon float to descend
for a share in the horrors of earth
they blindly conceal to hoodwink
god’s will for poets cultured in the past
now glittering as the sun’s wreckage
I can’t clean nor rebuild around them
the hell is real I can’t run away
with sweet nothings I can’t die in bluffs
***posted by Ram Krishna Singh | 11:29 AM
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