Tuesday, August 19, 2014



By: Pallavi Kiran

The poetic form and style of haiku shows a sudden spurt in India almost parallel to technological
 More and more people with a variety of professional background have been trying their hand in communicating their brief sensuous experience in this genre of Japanese poetry. As Thomas B. Robert in his article “Haiku: Language, Communication, and Hypnosis” writes:“Writing haiku is a process of utilizing a modicum of words to promote an intimate connection with our direct experience. Just as wood is to fire, the words in haiku are consumed in the process of creating the experience to which the words refer. The fashion in which words are used in Haiku is unique in that they provide a vehicle to enrich observation and subsequently communicate that observation.”1Thus, haiku being a linguistic creativity with ability to connect is the key mechanism that triggers the reader’s involvement. The intense compression and compactness (within 17 or less syllables) of imagistic language has kept the long-winded poems out of the limelight. The decline in the reading habits of long poems in the fast-paced world owes to the multiple layers of meanings that get unfolded over a few readings. Moreover, long poems often grapple with narratives, take time to read and at times appear imperfect. Surprisingly, this decline is an offshoot of technological advancement as people spend more time reading online. The expansion of internet facility has enabled the poets to get together from various parts of the world, either independently or under the auspices of a larger haiku group, to study and practice haiku. There are several haiku sites which are quick, easy and convenient to use which are no less than fully endorsed encyclopedia-like sources.Viewed in this perspective, the Indian English haiku scene during the last 25 years has a dominating presence of poets such as Angelee Deodhar, Dwarkanath H. Kabadi, I.H.Rizvi, D.C. Chambial, Vishnu P. Kapoor, Narayan Raghunathan, Kanwar Dinesh Singh, Urmila Kaul, R.K.Singh, Kala Ramesh, Ramesh K, Vidhur Jyoti, Radhey Shiam etc. Among them R.K.Singh has come to the prominence with his printed haiku anthologies namely Every Stone Drop Pebble (1999), Peddling Dreams (English/Italian, 2003), The River Return (2006), Sense & Silence: Collected Poems (2010), New and Selected Poems: Tanka and Haiku (2012), and I Am No Jesus and Other Selected Poems: Tanka and Haiku (English/Crimean Tatar, 2014). He has his official websites, http://rksinghpoet.blogspot.in/ and http://rksingh.blogspot.in/2013/07/haiku-directory-haiku-personal-blogs.html to promote and protect his work and broaden the possibility of a rich array of haiku poetic style. Singh has tried to concretize the haiku images of self-effacing nature oriented haiku with subjective, surreal and mythic elements, the emergent social and political consciousness, validating and exemplifying haiku practices in India.
As sensitivity to seasonal change is an important part of Japan’s native culture, Singh incorporates this sensitivity in the seasonal festival and activities of his own country. His use of language drawn in Indian context is evident from the haiku analyzed below:

Awaits the sunrise
in chilly Ganges
 nude worshipper (TRR, p.88)

A native of Uttar Pradesh, a place of ancient and traditional festivals, and living in Bihar for about four decades the poet captures the fervor of ‘Chhat Puja’, an Indian thanks giving festival dedicated to Sun god. He projects the devotees paying obeisance to the sun. The word ‘awaits’ is the waiting for the sun to rise which is perceived as the co-creator and sustainer of life on earth. It also connotes the common belief among the Hindus that their wishes are always granted by observing Chhat Puja. ‘Sunrise’ suggests the sun rays that blends with the aura to enrich receptiveness of cosmic energy. The cosmic energy imbibed through eyes at sun-rise heals, elevates and transforms the human body. In the second line, the adjective ‘chilly’ adds to the seasonal reference. Chhat Puja falls typically in the months of October or November, celebrated on the sixth day after Diwali, during the winter months in India. Winter is the usual festival season in North India. He makes ‘Ganges’ as a kigo which is the most sacred and national river of India as well as the powerful hub for religious activities. The Hindus believe that the rituals performed by the river Ganga multiply their blessedness. Thus, the phrase ‘chilly Ganges’ connotes the true spirits of spiritualism. During the festival hordes of women and men observing fast stand in waist deep water with closed eyes and folded hands praying for well being, prosperity and progress. This ardent faith helps them to sustain the chilliness of water. Lastly, the phrase ‘nude worshipper’ portrays men/women who are not completely naked but their bodies arouse uplifting thoughts and emotions. The adjective ‘nude’ adds a positive spiritual sense and not a negative sense of nakedness. The word ‘nude’ stands from complete nakedness to usual body covering (women in simple sari and men in dhotis) which is a lifestyle component justifying the practice of asceticism for spiritual and physical purification in Hindu way of life. Thus, the poet while experiencing and enjoying the splendor of Chhat festival attributes a sensuous presentation of the local culture.

We get another example of an Indian festival in which moon rise is worshipped. He writes:

A thin fog
rides the wintry moon
rising slowly (TRR, p.46)

The haiku refers to the ‘moon rise’ during the winter months for the rituals of ‘Karva Chauth’, a festival in North India. The kigo ‘moon’ describes the keen observation of the poet. The phrase ‘thin fog’ denotes the seasonal reference. Fog which often forms in winter night reduces the general visibility. However, the adjective ‘thin’ shows the little thickness of fog. The festival is generally observed on the full moon day in the months of October or November, Indian winter months. In the second line the verb ‘ride’ shows how fog controls the movement of full moon in winter. Therefore, the poet refers to the moon as ‘wintry moon’ suggesting the ‘Seasonal Full Moon.’ The exceptional thing about this festival is again the arduous observance of fast by the women for their husbands’ long life without taking a draught of water before the moon rise. With the mount of full moon the women break their fast. Therefore, they eagerly wait for the moon to finish up the rituals. Meanwhile, the poet paints the playful act of moon with the phrase ‘rising slowly’ which suggests that the moon seems to play hide and seek with the waiting women. This sounds similar to what the Muslims do on Eid. The use of the adjective before the words ‘fog’ and ‘moon’ and the adverb ‘slowly’ after ‘rising’ evokes emotive responses. This shows how the poet fixes his words comfortably in his English haiku and within the haiku conventions.

Singh’s haiku is an expression of a visionary moment and an effective mode of communication in its extreme brevity. The kigo used within the words and the exalted feelings of the language in a haiku constitutes the system of signs and emotive signals to the reader. The visual scene with literary references heightening the image’s mood and cultural meaning is well depicted in yet another haiku:
Autumn’s mellow mist:
none available to clean
the carpet of leaves (TRR, p.46)

The haiku echoes the transitional season i.e. autumn when the temperature gradually decreases. The poet makes ‘mellow mist’ as the seasonal image to harness the power of season and give deeper meaning. The adjective ‘mellow’ describes the reddish color of mist (clouds) that hovers in the sky bringing in the winds. It is also called the ‘fall season’ that makes the plant leaves with reddish tinge to fall away covering the floor surface as a ‘carpet’ and paving the way for further growth. The use of colon (punctuation mark) is an implied pause that allows making an internal relationship between his contrasting ideas and images woven into one single image. The images are the ‘mellow mist’ and the ‘carpet of leaves’ and the ideas is about ‘the absence of women/men/children’ in the house and the ‘harvesting season’ in India. ‘None’ here symbolizes women/men/children to clean the house courtyard which is covered with the fallen leaves.

The poet highlights the standard beliefs and values of Indian mythology according to which sweeping the house in the morning is related to goddess Lakshmi who adores cleanliness and removes negativity from house. Moreover, the concept of ‘harvesting season’ is implied as the season provides ideal conditions for harvesting crops, fruits and vegetables. In India planting is done in spring season and harvesting in autumn season. Harvesting is the most labor extensive activity for the farmers and family members. The women as well as children join their men on the field as agriculture is the only means of their earning. Written in 5-7-5 format and refined with his aesthetic sensibility, Singh’s haiku is a border between abstract and concrete expressions. This creates a mystical quality.

Singh’s style of haiku composition incorporates keywords that indicate all living things- human beings themselves and the cultures created by human beings. They are examples of senryu. The Haiku Society of America defines senryu as: “A senryu is a poem structurally similar to haiku that highlights the foibles of human nature, usually in a humorous or satiric way.”2 Contrary to this, explaining his haiku style, Singh states the following: “Now I do not adhere to the 5-7-5 syllables nor do I make any difference between haiku and senryu.”3 A close reading of his haiku shows that creating haiku for him is much like an inspiration that depends upon the degree of sophistication in relating to his own sources for his haiku images. For example:

With her saree
hitched up between the legs
my wife in bed (TRR, p.48)

Saree is one of the oldest forms of clothing for Indian women. It shows their modesty, grace and culture. However, the haiku ironically evokes an erotic picture of Saree that is so deeply ingrained in Indian ethnicity. His wife appears more dazzling to him in Saree which seems to turn him on. The verb ‘hitched up’ shows her unwillingness or reticence, or resistance to the desire of sex. The visual image of Saree hitched up between the legs adds to an erotic sense of Saree here used to protect the part. R.K.Singh creates haiku out of ordinary incidents, situations and events that one encounter in day to day life. He observes a situation, perceives it and describes it in such a way that it immediately assumes his urge to achieve harmony between concept and medium, between what is said and how it is to be said.
Singh, further, shows the portrayal of action in images that leads to a meaning and appears visual:

Knitting silence
my wife on the bench
after lunch (TRR, p.57)

The poet describes his wife’s loneliness that she experiences in her dwelling. With the verb ‘knitting’ the poet suggests the indispensable urge of his wife for a conversation. This conversation can be inferred as ‘gossip’ which is often the favorite recreation and pastime. ‘Silence’ is ironically pointed to a woman’s tendency to get involved in gossip to pass time. Gossip is a sort of pleasurable behavior for the woman who is all alone all day and carves for an adult conversation, or has worries which she must share with someone. The noun ‘bench’ adds to the context referring to the benches in the park where one often visits to relax or meet someone to talk to. She is more likely to complain about other women, their weight gain, their children, their sex lives, their bond with their mother-in-law etc. that is how she seems to be planning quietly or ‘knitting’ in silence. The phrase ‘after lunch’ indicates the free time which is a kind of relief to her from her mundane routine. The poet satirizes the whole point of gossip which is to add two and two to make five.

He composes most scathing of all personal satire when he images the declining level of intellectual activities:

Reshuffling the shelves
it’s only dust in alleys
sneezing scholarship (ATEG, p.107)

With the verb ‘reshuffling’ or rearranging the book shelves, the poet hints at the irony of shifting dust covered books that results in allergic sneezing rather than expanding knowledge. The phrase ‘dust in alleys’ suggests that the books now molder in dust and damp metaphorically, degenerate scholarship. There is no sharing of knowledge in the isolation of “alleys.”There is a tendency to forget the facts and events over time; it is dust covered. For most of us, after we graduate from high school or college, our pursuit of new knowledge bottoms out over time. The poet ironically states that his knowledge makes him feel uncomfortable. He seems to believe that the development of knowledge, what to man was the panacea for all problems, has pushed wisdom aside. With this generalization, the poet in a confessional mode communicates that the consequences of our wisdom-less knowledge now threatens our happiness, welfare and survival.

Meanwhile, interpreted in another way he even seems to hint at the recent technological revolution which has adversely affected the value of books and altered the reading practices. The Internet has become the World Bank of information covering almost every field of knowledge. Even the poet finds himself in the grip of this text-saturated world via his personal computing device. With the advent of internet and more recently user generated content developer; knowledge via printed books is beginning to slowly lose its value. Within his three lines, the poet looks for ways to squeeze the maximum meaning and feeling. Jim Kacian in his essay “The Use of Language in Haiku” writes: “Haiku is the poetry of a real. That is, it is the poetry that seeks to convey as clearly as possible the actual experience so that the reader may come to find the same experience in himself, and therefore share the insight which the experience prompted.”4
Singh visualizes his life experiences in an ironical way while watching an observing a weaver bird:

Weaving its nest
grass blade by grass blade
R K Singh (TRR, p.99)

In an ironic self portrayal, he compares himself to the weaver bird. The phrase ‘weaving its nest’ refers to the weaver bird which is noted for its nest building techniques using grass stems and other plant fibers to protect eggs, nestlings from predators and adverse weather. The phrase ‘grass blade by grass blade’ suggests the typical technique of tearing the blade of grass lengthwise by biting through the one edge of the grass blade. As the male weaver bird is responsible for building nest, working very hard to woo a mate and to house the yet to-be-born chicks, the poet talks about his haiku making, slowly and steadily. The poet realizes his potential to deal with the life’s difficulty patiently like the birds. The simple language shows the poets perception and expression of his own self possibly proving what Professor Michael F. Mara in his book Japanese Aesthetics- the Construction of Meaning has written: “the power of language, thus, resides its ability to say something by not saying it, or to say it by pointing at something else, or even by it’s indicating the opposite of what the poet intends to say.”5

As a vehement critic of fundamentalism, Singh’s biting satire is directed at the religious orthodoxy in the haiku below:

Setting ablaze
Muslim houses and children
Seeker’s of Ram (TRR, p.63)

The poet denounces the hypocrisy of the religious leaders and their article of faith. The phrase ‘seekers of Ram’ perhaps refers to the ‘Bajrang Dal’, a militant Hindu the youth wing of Vishwa Hindu Parishad in India. Though their official slogan pronounces a belief: “in validity of all religions and respect for all human beings irrespective of caste, color and religion- ‘Aatmastvat Sarva Bhuteshu’,”6 in actual practice they demonstrate hostility to people who are not Hindu. They are committed to building a temple of Sri Ram in Ayodhya. But, ironically, they indulge in violence and burn houses and places of worship of Muslims and Christians as reported in the newspapers from time to time. The shock agitates the poet and he forebodes the consequences of the socio-religious schism and mocks at the false principles of all those extremists who seek ‘Ram’ by killing followers of other religions. He seems to justify what Marx stated about religion: “Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, just as it is the spirit of spiritless conditions. It is the opium of people.”7

Analyzing his haiku pragmatically helps to dig for hidden meanings for his free style of haiku. Gradually, the reader understands the new ideas and feelings that he talks about in Indian culture. The symbolic and the imagistic language gives an access to the readers about the way the poet relates them and the direct presentation of things, his experiences and the exploration of tone. His haiku style justifies what Michael Dylan Welch says in his essay “Ten Ways to Improve Your Poetry with Haiku”: “Description may imply certain things but implication is not the same as inference…The poet may imply something while the reader may infer something. Therefore, it is effective for the poet to imply and central to the enjoyment of poetry, particularly haiku for the reader to infer, to figure something out based on the hints in the poem.”8 Thus, Singh’s poetic communication through his haiku gets enhanced with his language knowledge which he utilizes to project his skills of observation and the image evoking words to express that observation.


1. Roberts, Thomas B. “Haiku: Language, Communication, and Hypnosis.”American Journal of Clinical Hypnosis 47.3 (2005): 199-209. 7 Jul. 2014. Web. http://www.asch.net/portals/0/journallibrary/articles/ajch-47/roberts.pdf
2. “Haiku Society of America.” Haiku Society of America. N.p., n.d. Web. 18 July 2014. http://www.hsa-haiku.org/archives/HSA_Definitions_2004.html
3. Dominic, K. V. “Haiku and R. K. Singh: A Critical Analysis of His Peddling Dreams.” Prof. K V Dominic. N.p., n.d. Web. 18 July 2014. http://www.profkvdominic.com/?page_id=375
4. New Zealand Poetry Society Te Hunga Tito Ruri O Aotearoa.” The Use of Language in Haiku by Jim Kacian. N.p., n.d. Web. 18 July 2014.  http://www.poetrysociety.org.nz/languagebykacian
5. Quoted in Willson, Robert D. ” Study Of Japanese Aesthetics: Part III.” Esejieng. N.p., n.d. Web. 18 July 2014. http://haikureality.webs.com/esejeng102.htm
6. “HinduOrganizations.org.” HinduOrganizationsorg. N.p., n.d. Web. 18 July 2014.http://www.hinduorganizations.org/listings/bajrang-dal/
7. “Marx’s Critique of Religion.” Genealogy of Religion. N.p., n.d. Web. 18 July 2014. http://genealogyreligion.net/marxs-critique-of-religion
8. Welch, Michael D. “Ten Ways to Improve Your Poetry with Haiku – Graceguts.” Ten Ways to Improve Your Poetry with Haiku – Graceguts. N.p., n.d. Web. 18 July 2014. 


1. TRR- The River Return. Bareilly: Prakash Book Depot, 2006.
2. ATEG- Above the Earth’s Green. Calcutta: Writers Workshop, 1997.

About the author:

Pallavi Kiran,
Junior Research Fellow,
Department of Humanities & Social Sciences,
Indian School of Mines,
Dhanbad. 826004
Contact: 9470142847, 8603371337
e-mail: pallavikiran@ymail.com

Wednesday, July 02, 2014


VOLO DI FENICE: 1987-1989
Mi faccio uomo
ogni volta che creo
scena, carattere, tono
d’una poesia
creo senso poetico
svelo il mio ente naturale
con cinque sensi in gioco
distorsioni e inversioni
evolvo nella storia e società
per salvare l’uomo in me
con la poesia dell’io
Il seme del mio canto
in fondo alla memoria giace
come riso nel campo
sboccia e avvizzisce quando soffia
vento fuori e dentro e cresce
geni nel grembo, muta l’io
Una poesia è una follia
unica malia
linguaggio liberatorio
ri-crea, ri-simboleggia
stravolgendo le note
norme fisse
sovvertendo le sicure
Quando l’insonne poesia
fallisce i negoziati per la notte
m’attendo sogni bianchi
L’alone della mia visione
è lo sguardo della Madre:
colui che io cerco
si cela nei suoi occhi
che spargono amore e speranza
tutt’intorno la sua misericordia
Amore mia prigione
e insieme libertà
in presenza di lei
la mia brama la sua brama
d’essere tutto
il suo shiva e
shakti due-in-uno
me e lei, uno
Amore porta a bellezza
e visioni di perfezione
pilastro di polvere o
fugace ombra può
mutarsi in luce che gode
puri canti plasmati da
creta mista a gioie
in passioni nude cerca segni
di rivelazione dell’io
vagando con delizia
e profumo d’associazione
nella valle della pace

Traduzione Angela D’Ambra

fligh of phenix – khrisna

I make myself man
each time I create
setting, character, tone
in a poem
create poetic sense
disclose my natural being
playing five senses
my distortions and inversions
evolve in history and society
to save the man in me
through poetry of self
The seed of my song
lies deep in memory
like paddy in field
blooms ages when wind
blows inside out and grows
genes in womb, turns self
A poem is madness
unique fascination
liberating language
re-creates, re-symbolises
disfiguring the known
secured norms
inverting the safe
When sleepless poetry
fails to negotiate night
I wait for white dreams
The halo of my vision
is the Mother’s gaze:
he whom I seek is
hidden in her eyes
shedding hope and love
all around her mercy
Love is my prison
and freedom both
in her presence
my wish her wish
to be everything
her shiva and
shakti a dual-single
me and she, one
Love leads to beauty
and vision with perfection
pillar of dust or
fleeting shadow can
turn into light revelling
pure songs wrought out of
the clay blending joys
in naked passion seek signs
of self-discovery
roving with delight
and perfume of fellowship
in valley of peace

silenzio della notte -krishna

Immobile nel vento
la rosa sta dritta ancora
nel silenzio della notte
vedo i miei anni verdi
strada deserta
mal d’amore sempre vivo
di fragranza rubata
ora convulso ritmo del sesso

Traduzione Angela D’Ambra

night’s silence- khrisna

Unmoved in the wind
the rose still stands erect
in the night’s silence
imagine my teens
the street is lonely
and love-ache ever fresh
with stolen fragrance
now halting rhythm of sex

fonte di poesia – khrisna

Cerco passi nuovi
in ogni tuo movimento
nuovi sogni nei tuoi occhi e cosce
liriche nude sulle labbra
foggiano il rollio della notte
m’infiammano il cuore
Cerco la persistente fragranza
il ritmo che manda l’anima in delirio
la gioia eterna che tu celi
Cerco tinte che diano luce all’essere
e ombra al nido in cui riposo:
le tue catene rinnovano la libertà
ogni volta che ti guardo
vedo una donna naturale
la fonte della poesia

Traduzione Angela D’Ambra

font of poetry – khrisna

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

biografia ram khrisna

Ram Krishna Singh, nato e cresciuto a Varanasi, è un professore universitario i cui principali campi di interesse riguardano la scrittura inglese-indiana, in particolar modo poetica, così come lo studio dell’inglese inerente la scienza e la tecnologia. Ha insegnato inglese per circa trent’anni a studenti di scienze della terra e ingegneria.
È autore di più di 160 articoli, 170 recensioni e 36 libri, quali Savitri, A Spiritual Epic (1984), Indian English Writing: 1981-1985: Experiments with expression (1987, 1991), Using English in Science and Technology (1988, 2000, 2010), Recent Indian English Poets: Expressions and Beliefs (1992), Psychic Knot: Search for Tolerence in Indian English Fiction (1998), New Zeland Literature: Same Recent Trends (1998), Multiple Choice General English for UPSC Competition (2001), Communication in English: Grammar and Composition (2003), Sri AuroBindo’s Savitri: Essays on Love, Life and Death (2005), Teaching English for Specific Purpose: A Evolving Experience (2005), Voices of the present: Critical Essays on Same Indian English Poets (2006), English as a Second Language: Experience into Essays (2007), English Language Teaching: Some Aspects Recollected (2008), e Mechanics of Research Writing (2010).
Le raccolte di poesia pubblicate comprendono My silence (1985), Above the Earth’s Green (1997), My silence and OtherSelected Poems (1996), The River Returns (2006), Sexless Solitude and Other Poems (2009), e Sense and Silence: Collected Poems (2010). Alcune sue poesie sono state tradotte in francese, spagnolo, rumeno, albanese, arabo, cinese, giapponese, serbo, farsi, croato, sloveno, bulgaro, italiano, tedesco, portoghese, greco, esperanto, hindi, punjabi, tamil e bangla.
Due libri di poesia, soprattutto, New Indian English Poetry: An Alternative Voice (Ed: I.K. Sharma, 2004) e R.K. Singh’s Mind andArt: A Symphony of Expressions (ed: Rajni Singh, 2011) offrono un quadro complessivo sul percorso creativo perseguito dagli anni ’70. La biografia del Professor Singh è apparsa in 35 pubblicazioni in Inghilterra, Stati Uniti, India e altrove.
Membro di numerose organizzazioni e comitati editoriali, il Professor Singh ha ricevuto molti riconoscimenti e onorificenze, quali una laurea ad honorem in Letteratura dalla World Academy of Arts and Culture, Taiwan, nel 1984; una borsa di studio dalla International Artists and Writers Association, USA, 1988; il Michael Madhusudan Award, Kolkata, 1994; il Ritsumeikan University Peace Museum Award, Kyoto, 1999; il Certificate of Honour and Nyusen Prize, Kumamoto, 2000, 2008; Universal Peace Ambassador 2006, il Lifetime Certificate Award 2009, ed è inoltre membro insigne della IAPWA, Albania, 2012.
Il Professor Singh è attualmente a capo del Dipartimento di Scienze Umane e Sociali, presso la Indian School of Mines, Dhanbad, India.

Monday, June 02, 2014


HI: What are the titles of your books and please provide a brief description of each one?

RKS: I have published forty  books: Ten books relate to English language teaching practices, including Using English in Science and Technology, Bareilly: Prakash Book Depot, 1988, 2000, and 2010 editions,  pages 336 (a text-cum-practice book); General English Practice. Bareilly: Prakash Book Depot, 1995, pages 192. ( A textbook on Comprehension, Precis, Summary, Letter, Sentence, and paragraph writing);  Communication in English: Grammar and Composition, Bareilly : Prakash Book Depot, 2003, pages 148. ( A textbook on grammar and composition ); Teaching English for Specific Purposes : An Evolving Experience, Jaipur: Book Enclave, 2005, pages 289 (a collection of my earlier published research articles and review essays);  English as a Second Language: Experience into Essays, Jaipur: Book Enclave, 2007, pages 308 (An edited collection of research articles);and English Language Teaching: Some Aspects Recollected, Jaipur: Book Enclave, 2008, pages 238 (An edited collection of research articles);

Eleven books relate to criticism/literary appreciation, including Savitri: A    Spiritual Epic, Bareilly: Prakash Book Depot, 1984, pages 164 (A critical study of Sri Aurobindo's epic Savitri); Indian English Writing: 1981-1985: Experiments with Expression, New Delhi:Bahri Publications Pvt Ltd., 1987, rept. 1991, pages 168 (A collection of critical articles, edited with an introduction); Recent Indian English Poets: Expressions and Beliefs, New Delhi: Bahri Publications, 1992, pages 192 (A collection of critical articles, edited with Introduction); . Anger in Action: Explorations of Anger in In Writing in English, New Delhi: Bahri Publications, 1997, pages 238 (A collection of critical articles – edited with an Introduction); Psychic Knot : Search for Tolerance in Indian English Fiction, New Delhi : Bahri Publications, 1998, pages 211 ( A collection of critical articles – edited with an Introduction ); New Zealand Literature : Some Recent Trends, New Delhi : Bahri Publications, 1998, pages 138 ( A collection of critical articles- edited with an Introduction); Sri Aurobindo's Savitri : Essays on Love, Life and Death. Bareilly: Prakash Book Depot, 2005, pages 176 (a collection of my earlier published critical articles); Voices of the Present: Critical Essays on Some Indian English Poets. Jaipur: Book Enclave, 2006, pages 267 (A collection of earlier published critical articles); and Indian Poetry in English: In Search of Identity. New Delhi: Authors Press, 2012, pages 303 ( a volume of critical essays, jointly edited with an Introduction with Rajni Singh);


Seventeen books are poetry collections including My Silence, Madras: Poets Press India, 1985, pages 44 (my first  collection of poems); My Silence and 0ther Selected Poems: 1974-1994, Bareilly: Prakash Book Depot, 1996, pages 185 (A collection of poems, including earlier out-of-print volumes); Above the Earth's Green, Calcutta: Writers Workshop, 1997, pages 126 (A collection of poems); Every Stone Drop Pebble, New Delhi : Bahri Publications, 1999, pages 70 ( A collection of Haiku, jointly with Catherine Mair and Patricia Prime); Cover to Cover: A collection of Poems (R K Singh : The Face in All Seasons , pp 43),New Delhi : Bahri Publications, 2002. ( A Collection of Poems jointly with Ujjal Singh Bahri);  Pacem in Terris, Trento, Italy: Edizioni Universum, 2003 (A trilogy collection of poems in English and Italian, jointly with Myriam Pierri and Giovanni Campisi, including my haiku collection,Peddling Dream, pages 63-88);  The River Returns, Bareilly: Prakash Book Depot, 2006, pages 86 (A collection of tanka and haiku); Sexless Solitude and Other Poems,  Bareilly: Prakash Book Depot, 2009, pages 86 ( a collection of poems);  Sense and Silence: Collected Poems, Jaipur: Yking Books. 2010, Pages 338. (The volume includes all previously published collections of poems with some new poems, haiku, and tanka); New and Selected Poems Tanka and Haiku, New Delhi: Authors Press, 2012, pages 96 (a collection of poems); and I Am No Jesus and Other Selected Poems, Tanka and Haiku. Iasa: Editura StudIS, 2014, pages 54, (my latest collection of poems with translation into Crimean Tatar by Taner Murat and Illustrations by Alsou Shikhova Ildarovna).

HI: Where are your books available?

RKS: Most of my books are available directly from the publishers. Their names, addresses, and websites/email are as under:

1.    Prakash Book Depot, Bara Bazar, Bareilly 243003, India. Web: prakashbookdepot.blogspot.in  ;  email: prakashbookdepot@gmail.com

2.    Authors Press, E-35/103, Jawahar Park, Laxmi Nagar, Delhi 110092, India. Web: www.authorspressbooks.com ;  email: authorspsress@rediffmail.com

3.    Bahri Publications, 1749A/5, First Floor, Gobindpuri Extension, Kalkaji, New Delhi 110019, INDIA.  Web: www.bahripublications.in  ; email: bahripublications@yahoo.com

4.    Book Enclave, F-11, S.S. Tower, Dhamani Street, Chaura Rasta, Jaipur 302003, India. Web: www.bookenclave.com ;  email: aadipublications@gmail.com

5.    Yking Books, G-13, S.S.Tower, Dhamnai Street, Chaura Rasta, Jaipur 302003. Web: www.ykingbooks.com , email: ykingbooks@gmail.com

6.    www.nazar-look.com  ; email: nazar.look@mail.com

Some of my books are also available from  amazon.com  and  createspace.com

Almost all of my  poems, both new and old, or published individually and in book form, are also available on the following sites:










HI: What are you currently working on?

RKS: Nothing very specific, except reading some new collections received from poet friends, and guiding a couple of MPhil/PhD dissertations.

In fact I badly need a change from the present deadly monotony of existence in the maze of routine: it has been a long journey from loneliness to frustration to depression, on the one hand, and search for purpose and meaning in life, on the other.  So, I am now eagerly looking forward to a relaxed, retired life, with freedom to do or pursue what I couldn’t, and to enjoy and discover myself. I have been toying with the idea of writing my autobiography, but let’s see…

HI: What writers inspire you?

RKS: Since I have been mostly reading new and less known poets writing in English, I can’t mention any big creative influences as such. Yet, I must acknowledge the impact of my American poet-professor friend, late Lyle Glazier (of Bennington, Vermont) whom I met in 1971-72 as a student and with whom I stayed in touch for about 25 years till his death. He was my best poet-critic friend. In fact I not  only learnt from him how to edit a poem but, reading his poetry, I was also able to discover my own poetic sensibility. Then, the Psalms of the Bible have been my another inspiration and influence.

HI: What is the biggest thing you have learnt while self-publishing?

RKS: While one hardly finds a publisher for poetry, most of the established or well-known poets care tuppenny for the new or aspiring poets: they will neither read them nor mention them to people who matter. And, it hurts most when the academia dump them without even reading their work that always reaches them gratis; they don’t even acknowledge receiving a new poet’s book, published with so much expectation and enthusiasm.

Even if the internet has made one easily accessible, it is disappointing to find most poets/writers interested only in their own works rather than in others’ works. There may be some ‘viewing’ here and there but there is hardly any serious ‘reading’ which makes self-publishing a self-defeating exercise.

Yet, this (self-publishing) is the only alternative available to most of us aspiring to become published authors.

HI: What advice would you give to other writers.

RKS: Read and help each other, recognizing the merits, rather than rejecting and dumping one without caring to read him/her even once. The more you shed your biases, the more will be your pleasure.

HI: Where can people follow you on the internet?

RKS: On my blogs, twitter, facebook, LinkedIN, and various other sites. Some of these I have already mentioned. Some others could be:  https://twitter.com/profrksingh ;  https://www.facebook.com/rksingh311250 ; www.rksingh.wordpress.com  ; http://www.lit.org/author/R.K.Singh ; http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Ram-Krishna-Singh ; www.poemhunter.com/poet/r-k-singh ; www.poemsabout.com/poet/r-k-singh ; http://micropoetry.com/author/profrksingh ; www.facebook.com/profrksingh ; www.marsocial.com/rksingh ; http://www.tumblr.com/blog/rksingh1950 ; http://www.syndicjournal.us/ ; in.linkedin.com/pub/ram-krishna-singh/17/195/890/



Tuesday, May 27, 2014



Poems by Ram Krishna Singh
Dhanbad, India


crowded streets
moving among the years
wretched faces

a sleeping snake
curled between the eggs—
layers of leaves

a yellow spider
crouching in a corner
invisible webs

lying listless
on withered creeper
a golden bird

a lone sparrow
atop the naked branch
viewing sunset

a frog
bullied into the hedge:
snake’s breakfast

on the road
an injured toad—

parents pelt stones
at the mating street dogs—
nosey children

spots of sunshine

sudden downpour
noisy trucks at midnight
crowded footbridge

watching dogs
frolicking in the park—
jaded couples

dusky backyard
crowded parrots’ shrieks
autumn onset

chasing each other
in the by lane
two birds

a teenager
glides past me on roller blades
her long hair flows

receding crowd
from the street fair
Jesus in the eyes


The coiled divine
renews eternity
in the body's cells
fed on sensuous sweetness
and moment's littleness

for years fleshly reign
seemed spirit's radiance
in the deep pit
now suddenly sparks the itch
for heaven's nude delight


The dates on calendar question
all my undone acts

and memories that haunt or fade
in nightly nakedness

stumbling toward the next day’s sun
without celebration

at 63 January jeers
my degenerating sex

a still itch: mantra and mirror
quiet god and drying petals

--Ram Krishna Singh


Saturday, May 03, 2014

SOME POEMS, TANKA AND HAIKU translated into Crimean Tatar by Taner Murat

From the book I Am No Jesus and other selected poems, tanka, and haiku, 2014
by ram krishna singh
translated into crimean tatar by taner murat

I Am No Jesus – Men Isa tuwulman
A project developed by Nazar Look
Attitude and Culture Journal of Crimean Tatars in Romania

edited and translated into
crimean tatar by
taner murat



Life is too real to be believed, yet we must keep dreaming and try to live
with a resonance of what we think while we touch various levels of
reality—political, social, personal, or spiritual—and be ourselves.
Genuine poetry happens as an event to be truthful, clear, courageous, and
honest to oneself; to be open about things one often tries to conceal. Poetry
provides an opportunity for expressing ones intimate moments with the
same passion as while talking about the interwoven outer realities.
I also view it as the expression of cosmic, organic, erotic life, creating its
own forms, expressing itself and, in being expressed, finds its voice.
My experience convinces me that we are not limited by what we are, but we
are limited by what we are not. Poetry becomes a means to overcome this
limitation, and thus, allows us not only to know ourselves but also to
expand on what we are.
This means we should remain open to healthy revisions that we can make
to our way of thinking, and incorporate new perspectives into our outlook.
In other words, we should not let our own rigidity destroy our potential,
but rather we should evince a forward-looking, tolerant, and open mindset
if we wish to create future.
I don’t know if my poetry fits in what I think at the moment, but poetry
does help us traverse the boundaries of hesitation to see the joy of
I am grateful to my poet friend Taner Murat for not only readily agreeing to
translate this collection into Crimean Tatar but also to publish it to
support intercultural creativity .
R.K. Singh


Yalandîr dúnya, lákin usunnuñ siyasiy, maseriy, saksiy ya ruhiy gibí túrlí
seviyeleríne baskanda bíz ózlígímízden bazgesmeden tús kurup óz
túsúnğelerímíz men barabar sîñlap yasamalîzmîz.
Hakkikiy siir tora, asîk, ğesaretlí, óz-ózí men dogrî-dúrúst bolmak bír
yaratuw olaydîr, sîk-sîk ğasîrîlgan siylerní asîk-asîk añlatmasîdîr. Siir
insannîñ ísíndekí anlarîn añlatkanda tîsînda tokîskan olaylarîñ hewesí
men añlatmasîn sîrasîn tanîr.
Men siirní evren, kewde, súygí, yasam ifadesí gibí kórermen, óz sekílníñ
ifadesí gibí kórermen, bo sekílníñ yaratuw sîrasînda da bír seslenme gibí
Ğelenímíz bízím bolganîmîz tuwuldur, bízím bolmaganîmîzdîr, boga
teğrúbeme gúweníp inanîrman. Tízme bo ğelenní gesmek bír imkáandîr
onîstan o hem ózímízní tanîmamîznî kolaylastîrar, hem ózlígímízní
Bo hem túsúnğe tarzîmîznî sawlîklî deñístírmelerge ázír tutmamîz kerek
bolganîn aytar, hem de kórísímízge ğañî noktayiy nazarlar eklemek
kerekkenníñ añlamîna kelít. Baska bír sóz men, óz kuwetímízní óz
sertlígímíz men ğok etmemelímíz, keleğekní yaratağak bolsak razîlîk man
hos kórúw kósteríp kollarîmîznî asîk tutmalîmîz.
Kosîklarîm búgúngí túsúnğeleríme uyup-uymaganîna kefíl bolmam, lákin
siir toktamsîrawlarîmîznî gesíp emellerímízge ğetísmemízge yardîmğîmîz
Hem bo ğîyîntîknî Kîrîm Tatarğasîna terğúme etken, hem mamuriyet
tíllesmemízge yardîmğî bolgan Tatar sayir arkadasîma minettarman.
R. K. Sink

I. Selected Poems - Saylangan manzumeler


They say my birth was a heavenly event:
here I am suffering third-rate villains
that erect walls to stop the chariots
from Merkaba: the angels fume but who cares
heaven is a mirage in human zoo


Mením tuwumum múbarek bír olay bolganîn
mína súndí Merkebe telegelerín toktatağak
yúksek kalawlar kalagan
úsúnğí sînîf yamanlarnîñ azaplarîn segemen:
melekler tuman atar ama kímíñ ísíne kírsín?
insaniy haywan baksasînda ğennet bír seraptîr.

New Year

The dates on calendar question
all my undone acts

and memories that haunt or fade
in nightly nakedness

stumbling toward the next day’s sun
without celebration

at 63 January jeers
my degenerating sex

a still itch: mantra and mirror
quiet god and drying petals

Ğañî yîl

Kúnsayîmda kúnler bútún yapîlmay kalgan
íslerímní sorgîlar

kese sîpalaklîgînda rengí agarîp ğoklap turgan
akîlîmda kalganlarnî da

ertesí kún kúnesíne dogrî súrúnúp

altmîs ús yasînda Osak ayî
soysîzlaskan ğínísímní maskara etíp taslay

hareketsíz bír kîsînuw: mantra man ayna
sessíz tañrî man solgan sesek yapraklarî

Nude Delight

The coiled divine
renews eternity
in the body's cells
fed on sensuous sweetness
and moment's littleness

for years fleshly reign
seemed spirit's radiance
in the deep pit
now suddenly sparks the itch
for heaven's nude delight

Sîpalak zewuk

Burumlî mewla
kewdeníñ kózelerínde
hem an tarlîgîna
hem sehvaniy tatlîsîna peslengen
ebediyetní tazeler

senelerdír ten húkúmí
ruhnuñ nurî gibí edí
deren sukurda
súndí bírden kîsîntî balkîldar
ğennetíñ sîpalak zewukî úsún


I don’t know where I lived
in my former existence
but the hell I’ve breathed
for three decades here
couldn’t adapt my soul:
I remain a stranger
to them and to the cold walls
that put out the candle lights
in my roofless house


Eskí barlîgîmda
ka-yerde yasaganîmnî bílmem
ama mínda kîrk senedír
ísíme tartkan ğehennem
ruhumnî hes alîstîra-almadî:
olar úsún, tóbesíz úyúmnúñ
maysîraklarîn sóndírgen
salkîn duwarlarî úsún
men bír yabanğî kalîrman


Time’s wrinkling fingers
trivialize the sun and snow
in a crooked land

I see history crippled
with midnight dyspnoea
the green umbrella

hosts disaster:
the avalanche waits on its shoulder
the wound opens

Kar awmasî

Zamannîñ kîrîsîklî parmaklarî
kîyîs bír memlekette
kar man kúnesní asalatîr.

sakatlangan tewúke kóremen
yarîkesede solîs tarlîgî man
yesíl semsiye

omîzînda kar awmasî beklep
ğara asîlîr

Gleam of Light

Late August:
clouded midnight, sneezing
restless in bed

all negative vibes
well up the mind

jackals yell outside
I read Hsu Chicheng
for a gleam of light


Awustos soñî:
bulutlî kese yarîsî, hapsıruwlar
tósekte kiyípsízlík

bútún bolîmsîz sílkínúwler
akîlnî totîralar

tîsarda sógel-bóríler bakîrîsa
bír ğîltîrîm úsún
Kîsuw Çiy Çeñní okîyman

Dying Sun

How does it matter
I remember or forget
the nights or lights
that stand still

in the dense fog
nothing visible
nor audible

the thundering planes
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

Ólgen kúnes

Akîlîmda tutsam da bír
unutsam da bír
hareketsíz kalgan

ğîygîn tumanîñ ísínde
ne bírsiy kórílír
ne de esítílír

gúdúrdegen tayyareler
ğerge tiyer:

sáde añlasîlmaz
bír tapmasa oyînîdîr

sáátíñ takîldamasî

bo toñgan sáat súresí
parsalangan kaytawaz
kokîsî tasîr

húliya kór-almayman
súphesízlíkke de písím ber-almayman
ólgen kúnesíñ sasmalîgîn
mîskîllamak úsún


Last evening
I saw a flower bloom
today it’s faded

but my fear
lurking like a shadow
ever present

I can’t erase:
emptying the mind
easier said than done


Gesen aksam
askan bír sesek kórdím
búgún solgan

ama her zaman
bír kóleke gibí añîlîp
pîsuwda turgan korkîmnî

akîl bosaltmasî
kolaydîr aytmasî, kîyîn yapîlmasî

Poetic Disturbance

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

Siir raátsízlígí

Arka baksamda tabîlganlardan fazladîr
bír siy tamlasînda kóríleğekler -
sóplíkke atîlgan seneler, senelerğe gezíp tozmak,
bek kîyîn ğenaze

kúneste kóríntíler balkîldar
kurî otka kînlama agîzdîrîp
siir raátsízlígí sekken túsúnğelerímní
ortaga salgan billúr tobîday

Return to Wholeness

The body is precious
a vehicle for awakening
treat it with care, said Buddha

I love its stillness
beauty and sanctity
here and now

sink into its calm
to hear the whispers in all
its ebbs and flows

erect, penetrate
the edge of life and loss
return to wholeness

Pítínlíkke kayt

Kewde kîymetlídír
uyanuwga bír telege
oga sak bol, dep aytkan Buda

súndí mínda onîñ sessízlígínden
gúzellígínden we múbareklígínden

óz kabaruw man alsayuwlarnîñ
pítín sîbîrdawlarîn esítmege
sabîrîna dalaman

yúkselíp yasam man kayîpnîñ
kenarîna dalîp
pítínlíkke kayt

Who Cares?

Death hides in the body
but who sees? it’s obscure

living on the edge
seeking space into swamp

they all talk about the sun
swelling in the sky

and close eyes to the spider
spinning waves on the ceiling

all alone, but who cares?
suspicion and distance

like lovers they pretend
to leave, yet stay longer

dishing out luxuries
showing off generosity

on the heart’s fancy table
waiting to welcome the guest

Kím dert etsín?

Ólím kewdeníñ ísínde ğasînîr
ama kím kórsín? ísí karañgî

yîkpalga asîlîp yasamak
bataklîkta kurî ğer karamaktîr

herkez kókyúzúnde sísíp kabargan
kúnesní lap etíp

tawanda egírílgen órímğek ğîlîmîñ dalgalarîna
kóz ğumar

ğap-ğañgîzlîk, ama kím dert etsín?
súphe men mesafe

yáreler gibí ayîrîskan kísí bolîrlar
ama gene barabar kalîrlar

kaálbíñ húliyalî sîprasînda
sápír beklep turganda

artkan mollîk,
ğumartlîk kósteríp

I Am No Jesus

I am no Jesus
but I can feel the pains
of crucifixion

as a common man
suffer all what he suffered—
play the same refrains—

at times cry and pray
hope for better days ahead
despite lack of love

diminishing strength
failures, ennui and blames
for sins I didn’t author

I am no Jesus
but I can smell the poison
and smoke in the air

feel for humankind
like him carry the cross
and relive my dreams

I am no Jesus
but I can feel the pain
of crucifixion

Men Isa tuwulman

men Isa tuwulman
ama mîklanuw ağîlarîn

sîradan bír kísímen
onîñ bútún sekkenlerín segermen
ğîrlagan nakaratîn ğîrlarman

bazîda-bír ğîlap duwalar okîrman
eksílse de súygí
keleğegímízde taa yaksî kúnlerge umut etermen

azaytîp kuwet
bolsa da kayîp, ğan sîgîntîsî,
ğúklense de kabaát bolmagan gúnama

men Isa tuwulman
ama hawadakî zeher men
tuman kokîsîn kokîlarman

insanlîk úsún
onîñ atanak tasîwîn segermen
kórgen túslerímní bírtaa yasarman

men Isa tuwulman
ama mîklanuw ağîlarîn

It Doesn’t Rain

It’s lightning
every evening
in the sky
but it doesn’t rain

I keep postponing
my journey

whether the train is late
or I miss it
it doesn’t matter

I look below
the chasm is wide
like the lightning
but it doesn’t rain


her aksam
ama ğawmaz

sîltawlay beremen

tíren kesígíp kelse de
kasîrsam da
dert tuwul

asaga karasam
ğar ğalkîldaw gibí
ama ğawmaz

Valley of Self

I don’t know which psalms to sing
or which church to go to feel
the flame within for a while

sit or lie still with
faith weather the restlessness
brewing breath by breath

I don’t know the god
or goddess or the mantra
to chant when fear overtakes
my being and makes me suffer

plateaus of nightmares
paralyzing spirit to live
and be the promised fulfillment

I see no savior come
to rescue me when mired
I seek freedom from myself:

my ordeals are mine alone
in the valley of self
I must learn to clear the clouds
soaring high or low

Óz-ózímníñ sayîrînda

kaysî mezamirní okîp
ya kaysî kílsege barağagîmnî bílmem
ísíndekí alewún yasap

otîrîp ya uzanîp ğatîp
inans man solîs-solîska
raátsízlígíñ kaynamasîna karsî kelmege

kaysî tañrîga ya tañrîsaga tapînîp
kaysî mantîranî okîyğagîmnî bílmem
barlîgîmnî basîp
korkî sektírgende

kara túsler kîrlarî
yasaw ruhum man
oñma sózímní felske tutturup

kelíp kurtarağak kurtaruwğî
kóre-almayman batîp
ózímden azatlanmaga karaganda:

segísmelerím sáde maga kala
óz-ózímníñ sayîrînda
bulutlarnî asmaga úyrenmem keregír
asada-yokarda taya-taya usa-usa


The barber sees
a potential customer
in me but I pass

the tense faces
after the long walk sunshine
a fag in the car

short carnival:
neatly hide faded vests drying
in the balcony

helter skelter
afternoon windy rain
allergies again


Berber mení
iktimaliy bír músterí kórer
ama men katîndan gesíp ketermen

kergín yúzler
uzun ğúrústen soñra
arabada ogîrasuw

kîska karnawal:
balkonda sorkîp kurutulgan
rengí sîkkan kazakalar ğasîrmak

kîy-kaleket úyleawgansoñlar
ğellí ğawunlar
baska alerğiyalar

None Talk

Flowers don’t bloom
in tribute to
builders’ apathy

the trees are dying:
they too know they’ll be felled
or the heat will kill

the concrete rises
calamity too will rise
none talk the ruins they bring

Lapîn etmezler

bina otîrtkan ísçíníñ dalgînlîgîna
hasret bolîp asmaz.

terekler ólír:
kesílíp ya da ateste óleğegín
olar da bílírler

beton yúkselír
felaket artar
mîratkanlarîñ lapîn etmezler

I Can Live

I’ve outlived
the winter’s allergies
and depressing rains
in a human zoo

I can live
my retirement too
without pension and medicare:

the wheelchair doesn’t frighten
I can live

uncared and unknown
survive broken home
the numbness of the arms

the pain in the neck
and inflation too


Tírí kalîp sîktîm
artta bîrakîp kîslarîñ alerğiyasîn
hem bír insaniy haywanat baksasînda
góñíl karartuwğî ğawunlarîn

kartlîgîmnî da
tekmílğílík men sawlîk gúwenğem bolmasa da:

tegersíklí ískembe korkîtmaz

tírí kaldîm atlap yuwa bîzîlmasîn
ğansîz kusaklawlarnî

moyîn awurmasîn
hem para kîymetí túsmesín


My shrinking body
even if I donate
what’s there for research:

devil in the spine
abusing tongue in sleep
or bleeding anus

defy all prayers
on bed or in temple—
the same heresy

oozing and stinking
onanist excursion
dead or alive


Kîskargan kewdemní
bagîslasam da
bílím ondan ne añlasîn?

omîrgamda saytan
yukumda awuz bîzgan tíl
ya da koñk kanamasî

kîlgan duwalarîm sayîlmadan
hep so yalanğîlîk

samîrlap sasîp
onanist gezúw

Clay Dreams

They make my face
ugly in my own sight

what shall I see in the mirror?

there is no beauty
or holiness left
in the naked nation:

the streams flow dark
and the hinges of doors moan
politics of corruption

I weep for its names
and the faces they deface
with clay dreams

Balsîk túsler

Óz yúzúmní
ózíme sírkínlestíreler

aynada ne kóriyím?

kalgan hesbír gúzellík
ya da múbareklík yoktîr
sîpalak millette:

ğîlgalar kara-kara agar
kapîlarîñ baglamalarî da îñgîrdar
ahláaksîz siyaset

onîñ atlarî úsún ğîlarman
balsîk túsler men
itibardan túsúrúlgen yúzí úsún


I don’t seek the stone bowl
Buddha used while here:
She dwells on moon beams

I can see her smiling
with wind-chiseled breast
in sexless solitude

her light is not priced
but gifted to enlighten
the silver-linings


Buda bo yaklarda ekende kullangan
tas sawutnuñ pesínde tuwulman:
o aynîñ nurlarînda yasar

onîñ kúlúmsúremesín kóre-alaman
ğel ğontkan kókíregí men
ğínsiyetsíz ğañgîzlîgînda

onîñ ğarîgîñ kîymetí písílmez
kúmús kaplamasî


I’ve lived 23,000 days
awaiting a day that could become
god’s day in eden earth or within

or even my grandson’s smile
on his first day in mother’s arms

now I sit an empty boat
on a still river
and shake with quail dreams


Men 23.000 kún yasadîm
Aden baksasînda Allahnîñ kúní
hálíne keleğék kúnní beklep

ya da torînîmîñ kúlúmsúrewín
síptí kúnúnde nenesín kusagînda

súndí akmagan bír ğîlgada
bos bír kayîkta otîrîp
bódene túsí men terbetílemen


The crack in the sky
is not the rosy cleavage
to rape the body

nor is the beast any free
to escape the bloody river
that reflects stony wrath
in doggy position

they all expect their reward
for burying the noise
of sunny free wheeling
in frozen passion

turn beggars they all
search warmth with ash-smeared sadhus
at road side tea stall
whistle and wash off sins

in sangam muddled
with privileged few soar high
but I’m glad I crawl on earth
my roots don’t wave in the air


Kókyúzúnde ğarîlma
tuwul so pembe tayîs
kewde teğawuzî etmege

kuturgandelílíkní kaytîmlap
sakîltaslî ğîlgadan kurtulgan
it turusunda
wahsiy haywan da tuwul

hepísí baksîs bekler
kúnessíz aylanuwlarnîñ dawuslarîn
toñgan hewesníñ ísíne
kómgení úsún

tílensí ğetíp alayîsî
kúl súrmelí sadhuw rahiplerden sîğaklîk karar
ğol kenarînda çaykanelerde
sîjgîrîp gúnasîn bosatîp

sangam ísínde sasîrîp
bírkas sayuwlî man yokarga sekíríp
ama ğeryúzúnde súrúnúp ğúrgenímden razîman
tamîrlarîm hawada ğelpíldemez


Being good
couldn’t make me know
any better

I was harmless
they sold my name
and became
what I couldn’t

in the middle of day light
I vanished like faces
from voters’ list

with no difference
to who wins
or who loses

Bas awurtmamak?
eñ yakîskan
yaksîlîk edí

men zararsîz edím
olar mením atîmnî satîp

kún ğarîgîñ ortasînda
yúzler saylaw tízmesínden ğok bolganday
ğok boldîm

bas awurtmadan

I Too Descend

Some fresh bones, and designer’s dress
distorted hopes, cataract vision

hardly any better the face of the body

and if there is a soul, the soul hears

the map guides the mind’s midnight
but the destination is different

deception is courage

they know the end of journey
and get down when the train stops

I too descend

Men de túsermen

Bírkas taze súyek, bír písímğí entárí
kîyîs umutlar, kóztumanlî kórís

alayîsî kewdeníñ yúzí men zorlanîr

bír de tîn bolsa, tîn esítír

ğolnî karta kósterer akîlnîñ yarîkesesíne
lákin barîlağak yer baska

pesmanlîk ğesarettír

olar bílíp ğolnîñ soñîn
túserler tíren toktaganda

men de túsermen

From the Window

Tall houses appear
to grow like trees from the plane
slowly rising high

people turn tiny
with cars water birds and beasts
in the summer flame

nervously worried
watch the moving mass of clouds
from the window

eternal patterns
nature’s wonder on the edge
a streak of orange

thousands of lights
twinkle in colors like stars—
seat belt fastened


Yawas-yawas yúkselgen tayyareden
tereklíktiy ósíp ketken
ónder úyler kórínír

yaz álewúnde
masinalar, kuslar, haywanlar man
insanlar kískene kalîr

hareketlí bulut súrúwúne karap kalaman

soñsîz nakîslar
zewuklî tuwa ğazibesí
portakal rengínde bír sîzîk

biñlerğe ğarîk
renklí- renklí yîldîzday ğalpîldar,
emniyet kemerím taguwlî

Eyeless Jagannath

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

Sokîr Jaganat

bílíns ísínde yer algan
olarîñ sîrlî ğennet ya orseñlerín

zamanîñ múrekkeplígín
ya efsanelí derenlíkten
suniykamîrlî tumannîñ sokragîn

túsúnğelerímníñ kanatlarî kîskadîr
ne Tañrînîñ ónderlígíne barmaga yeter
ne de engeníñ mawî derenlíkleríne

dúniyanîñ ğismaniyet kenarînda
bosagasînda otîrîp

kólgelí túz ya burumlî sîzîklar man
sokîr Jaganatnîñ ğúrúsún
taklit etmege

eger bírew kór-almasa
alaynîñ sógísín
we mahalle karañgîlîgîn

boga sayirler kabaátlí tutulmaz:
boslîk man kaswet o kadar kóp ke
kózge almadan bolmaz

Body: a Bliss

“To see you naked
is to recall the Earth”
says Garcia Lorca

it’s no sin to love
strip naked in bed, kitchen
or prayer room

the bodies don’t shine
all the time nor passion
wildly overflows

but when we have time
we must remember parts
arouse dead flesh

rub raw with desire
peeling wet layers through light
sound, senses and taste

play the seasons:
the thirst is ever new
and blissful too

to recreate
the body, a temple
and a prayer

Kewde múbareklíktír

“Sení sîpalak kórmek
Ğerkúrení akîlîma akelmektír”
dep aytar Garsiya Lorka

sîr-sîpalak ğatakta, askanada
ya da ibadet odasînda
súymek gúna tuwul

kewde herwakît ğîltîramaz
hewes te
delíğe tasîmaz

ama wakît tapkanda
parsalarîmîznî unutmamalîmîz
ólgen etní uyandîrîp

ğalañnî ístek men oksalamalî
arsîp kaytîk tabakalarnî
ğarîk, ses, tuygî we tat man

mewsím oyînî oynap:
suwsuzluk her zaman hem ğañî
hem múbarektír

kewdení, tapînaknî,
ğañîdan yaratmak úsún

On Her Birthday

I want the best of life for you
but you too must understand
what I can’t do

you must be patient and do
what you can—
I can’t create the fruits

I may create space
for you to stand but I can’t
become the legs

you must run the race
on your own and be
what you dream

the redness of mars
and the whiteness of moon
merge in you

you have worlds to conquer
and miles to go, my dear

you must rear the goose
and have the gold each day

Onîñ tuwum kúnúnde

Men saga hayatîñ eñ yaksîsîn ístermen
lákin yapa-almaganlarîmnî
sen de añlamalîsîñ

sabîrlî bolîp
men ğemís yarata-almam

seníñ ayakta turmañ úsún
boslîk yaratîrman
ama ayagîñ bola-almam

ozîsnî kazanmak úsún
ózíñ ğuwurup
túsúñdekísíndiy ózíñ bolmalîsîñ

merihníñ kîzîlî man
aynîñ aklîgî
seníñ ísínde bírlesír

ğeñeğek ğihanîñ bar,
ğúreğek ğolîñ bar, ğanîm

hergún kaznî itep
astîndakî altînnî ğîymalîsîñ

I Can’t Hide Fears

I couldn’t make my bedroom church
reading psalms and Lord’s prayers

the light of my lamp and
the potion of my cup couldn’t

lift my soul mired in passions
and silence of the morning

the confessions couldn’t remove
my anguish of ages

nor the tears and cries strengthen
faith hope and love – the rock

slips the grip for enemies
within don’t halt my body

glues to the ground seeking
darkness of the womb and joys

ever restless the child doesn’t
grow and the father fails

in verses I can’t hide fears
my face I despise, can’t find

freedom from the chemicals
sprayed in the air and the smog

oppressing my breath, the sun
fails to keep the covenant

the terrors of death are real
the traps overwhelm, I can't

escape my own creations
the bed, the flesh, and serpents

that seize the house of God
I can't redeem, can't save

the soul in battle with me
in bed I can't sing and praise

Korkîlarîmnî saklayalmam

Tañrîga sureler-niyazlar okîmaga
ískerímden kílse yap-almadîm

lámbamnîñ ğarîgî man
fínğanîmnîñ serbetí

saba sessízlígínde heweske
batîp kalgan tînîmnî yúkselt-almadîlar

ne ísímní asîp
yas ağîlarîmdan kurtuldum

ne de ğîlap, kózyasî tógíp
inansîm, umutum, súygúm úsún kuwat taptîm

kaya sîptîrîlîp keter ke
ísímdekí ğawlar toktamaz

kunak man umay karañgîlîgîn karap
kewdem ğerge ğabîsîr

ebediy raátsízlík sekken balasî ósmez
atasî da tízme uydurup kún kaybetír

men tízmelerímde korkîlarîmnî saklay-almam
yúzúmní de seg-almam

hawaga pîskîrtîlgan kimiya maddelerden
we kírlí tumandan kurtulmam

solîsîmnî bastîrîp
kúnes bergen sózín tut-almay

ólím korkîsî usundur
kabawlar buwuwğî

yapkanlarîmdan kasa-almam
tósek, etler, hem ğîlanlar

kím Allah’nîñ úyún basar
ğulmasîn ódep kurtara-almam

ózím men sogîskan ğanîmnî
tósekte duwa okîp seğde yapîlmaz

Echoes Haunt

Sleepy roads
with or without light
tear the sky

I watch the murmur
in the misty darkness
Tao of midnight

tranquil emptiness:
breathing deceptive cold
the echoes haunt

Kaytawazlar ğoklap turar

Yukulî ğollar
kókyúzún ğîrtîp parsalar

sîrîldamanî siyír etermen
keseyarîsî Tawo’sî
tumanlî karañgîda

sessíz boslîk:
kandîruwğî suwuk solîslî
kaytawazlar ğoklap turar

Quakes in Elements

She trusts her reading of my horoscope
and predicts a comfortable future

even as I know my toothache
now means the fall of my teeth
and anal bleeding means sure surgery

my dying libido is as uncomfortable
as the dream of humans sleeping on the ceiling:

their flattened naked back amuses me
who knows who’ll fall first?

before I wake up I try to gauge the selvage
of restless lines, moon, saturn and venus
conspiring new challenges
for the quakes in my elements

it’s already mid-November
and the bouts of bronchial allergy
tell of the cycle of incarceration:
her moving lips are no soporific

Elkelerde zelzeleler

O mením yîldîz falîma inanîp
keleğegím raát bolağagîn ğorar

kaberlí bolsam da ke tîsîmnîñ awuruwî
túseğegí demektír
koñk kanamalarîm ameliyat demektír

óliyatîrgan ğínsiy meragîm mení raátsíz eter
tawanda yuklagan insanlarîñ túsí gibí:

basîlgan arkalarî hosîma kete
síptí kím túseğegín kím bílír?

uyanmadan ewel sîzîk, yîldîz, solpannîñ
raátsíz tereklígín ólsiyğek bolaman
kím arttan ís kóríp ğol asar
elkelerímdekí zelzelelerge

tap kasîm ayîñ ortasîndamîz
bîronsit tutmalarî da
mápís deweranîn añlatîr:
onîñ oynagan eríní yuklatuwğî tuwul


While we were talking about
love, marriage, and migraine
she kept fiddling with

her reticule—opening
putting her pen in and out
and shutting again


sewda, úylenúw, we basawurmasîn
sóz etíp añlatayatîrganda
o oynap tura edí,

de santasî asîp
ísíne kalemín salîp
de bírtaa sîgarîp kapatîp


They colour their hair
paint the face to look younger
and speak aged lies
to match rainbow life but stare
into the sky to find
which colour follows which
before melding into one
they wonder what to do
with beige and indigo shades
that stick their vision


Olar ğas kórínmek úsún
sásíne-yúzúne boya ğagarlar
hem kókkusagîñ hayatîna yakîstîrmak úsún
kadmiy yalan aytarlar
amma bírí-bíríne batîp bírleskensík
renkleríñ sîralamasîn kóreğek bolîp
kókke karap kózín asarlar
kózíne ğabîsîp turgan
sútlí kawe men sewet renkperdesín
ka-teğegíne de túsúnúp kalîrlar

II. Tanka - Tankalar

Awake in dream time
he looks for the candle—
love’s invitation
lighting up in the dark
and sings the body’s song

Maysîrak karar
túslerínden ayînîp -
ask sakîruwî
karañgîlîkka ziya
kewde sarkîsîn okîp

Watching the waves
with him she makes an angle
in contemplation:
green weed and white foam break
on the beach with falling mood

O man barabar
dalgalarnî siyír etíp
kóse aylanîr:
yesíl ot man ak kópík
kumda kaswet kestíríp

Awaiting the wave
that will wash away empty hours
and endless longing
in the dead silence at sea
I pull down chunks of sky

Bos sáátlerní
ğuwup alağak dalganî beklep
soñsîz sagînuw
ólí sessízlík ísínde deñíz boyînda
kókyúzúnden parsalar asaga tartaman

the soul’s pursuit hidden
by its own works:
the spirit’s thirst, the strife
the restless silence, too much

óz salîsmalarî saklasa
ruhuñ niyetí:
ruh suwsuzlugî, segísmesí,
raátsíz sessízlígí fazla kelír

After a tiff
lying under the same blanket
two of us stare
the peeping moon and turn
with glee to each other

Idalaskan soñ
Konîlganîñ astîndan
Kararmîz ayga
Soñra kunak ísínde
Aylanîrmîz yúz-yúzge

I hate fakery
and phony academics
out to win spurs through
lies and lowness at the helm
bully and yet complain

Uyduruw sekmem
yalanğî alím sekmem
ke idare eter
alsaklîk man, yalan man
hem kawgağî, hem dawağî

Plodding away at
season’s conspiracies
life has proved untrue
with God an empty word
and prayers helpless cries

Abînîp ğúrúp
mewsím fesatlarîna,
Tañrî sózí bos,
duwalar yokka ğîlaw,
yasam yalanğî sîktî

The mirror swallowed
my footprints on the shore
I couldn’t blame the waves
the geese kept flying over the head
the shadows kept moving afar

Ayna ğutawuydî
kumluktakî ízímní
dalga gúnasîz
yokarda kazlar usup tura
kólgeler uzakka kósíp tura

Little candles fail
to illumine the deity
or golden dome
in the valley darkness reigns
and god too awaits light

Ne tañrîga
ne de altîn kubbege ğarîk atar
kískene samlar
sayîrda karañgî húkúmdar
tañrî da ziya bekler

On the prayer mat
the hands raised in vajrasan
couldn’t contact God—
the prayer was too long and
the winter night still longer

Abînîp ğúrúp
mewsím fesatlarîna,
Tañrî sózí bos,
duwalar yokka ğîlaw,
yasam yalanğî sîktî

I wish I could live
nature’s rhythm free from
bondage of clock-time
rituals of work and sleep
expanding haiku present

Tuwa vezinín
haykuwnî keñiytíp,
sáát kólelígíñ,
salîsîp yuklamaknîñ
tîsînda yasar edím.

Unable to see
beyond the nose he says
he meditates
and sees visions of Buddha
weeping for us

Murnuñ usundan
taa uzak kóre-almaz
deren túsúnúp
Bízím úsún ğîlagan
Budanî kórermen der

I can’t know her
from the body, skin or curve:
the perfume cheats
like the sacred hymns chanted
in hope, and there’s no answer

Onî añlamam
tírsek, ten, kewdesínden.
Kokî aldatîr
umut bergen kaside
gibí, ğewap ta yoktîr.

Waiting for the remains
of the sacrifice vultures
on the temple tree
stink with humans and goddess
on the river’s bank

Búrkútler bekler
tapînak teregínde
kurban parsasî
insanga tañrîsaga tolîp
sasîr ğîlga ğagasî

The lane to temple
through foul drain, dust and mud:
black back of Saturn
in a locked enclosure
a harassed devotee

Tapînakka ízlek
kírlí balsîktan, tozdan, samîrdan:
kírtlí bír odada
Saturnnîñ kara arkasî
tağiz etílgen bír dindar

Unable to clean
the cobweb of years he eats
the Passover meal
but forgets to wash the feet:
now drinks Good Friday prayers

Yîllarîñ ğîlîmîn
temízliy-almadan asar
Pesah yemegín
amma ayagîn ğuwmaga unutar:
súndí Kutlî Ğuma ibadetlerín íser

From head to feet
shrouded in habiliment
of burqah
a slogan-shouting Indian
in God’s abode in Kaba

Bastan ayakkasîk
tígíssíz ak pestímalga
duwa okîgan bír Hint
Kábe’de Alla’nîñ ğurtunda

Naked children crowd
as I pass through the alleys
between smelly slums:
dogs bark to alert them to
the presence of a stranger

Sîpalak ballar
kokîgan salas mallesínden geskenímde
yabanğî barîn bíldíríp
itler úrep sokaknî ayakka tursata

The mind creates
withdrawn to its own pleasures
a green thought
behind the banyan tree
behind the flickering lust

Akîl yaratîr
óz zewukuñ tartîlmasîna
yesíl bír túsúnğe
ínğír teregíñ artînda
tuyum hewesíñ artînda

Age seems to stop
for a while in sex act
a running horse
erect and heavenly
white as a lightning

Ğínísiy faaliyette
yas toktaganday bola
sabîsuwda at
tím-tík mewlayiy múlk
bír ğîltîrîmday biyaz

Striving hard to feel
the image of spring again
the whole body blooms
love gently and silently
revives the final flame

baární bírtaa kórmege
kewde sesek asîp
sewda yawas hem sessíz
soñ álewní ğanlandîra

Shaped like a bird
a drop of water lands
on her breast:
my breath jumps to kiss it
before her pelvic flick

Kus sekílínde
bír suw tanesí tama
solîsîm onî ópmege atlay
sanaklîgî úrkmegensík

Waving arms of trees
conspire with overcast day
to drench again
the two of us look for shade
under leaking umbrella

Terek kolî sallap
sîrdasîrmîz bulutlî kún men
bírtaa suwlanmaga
ekewmíz de kólge karap
akkan semsiye astînda

A mist covers
the valley of her body
leaves memories
like the shiver of cherry
in dreamy January

Bír tuman ğabîp
onîñ kewde sayîrîn
tezkire taslar
kiraz úkmesí gibí
túslí osak ayînda

On the wall
the window grill’s shadow:
midnight pain
overwhelming touches
indifferent after-taste

pencíreníñ parmaklîgîñ kólgesí:
yarîkese ağîsî
buwuwğî oksawlar
súrgen meraksîz tatlar

Each night
peace is taken away
by my father’s shrieks
and our useless effort
to calm down frayed worries

Her kese
sessízlíkke soñ berer
babamîñ sesí men
kaárlí ókírúwlerín
toktataalmagan bos sabalarîmîz

Professors beware
intellectual success
lies in inventing
lies to conceal common truths
and sound holier-than-thou

Muwallím sak bol
múnevver basaruwlar
hakknî ğasîrgan
yalan yaratmaktadîr
hem ústún kelgen bír ses men

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

Kurî basîna
suwukta óksírúwler
eglenğesíz Noel
ne raátlík, ne sessízlík,
ne yîl basîna tazelík

No cakes or cookies
to celebrate my birthday
this New Year eve
lunar eclipse and blue moon
cheer the cup in foggy chill

Ne tatlî, ne piskot
Ğañî Yîl arífesínde
tuwum kúnúmde
ay tutulmasî, tuman,
suwukta kade togîstîrmak

Nothing new
in tomorrow’s sun:
year’s last day
too passes off like each day
nothing is amazing

Ğañî bírsiy yok
yarînnîñ kúnesínde:
yîlîñ soñ kúní de
hergún gibísí geser
sîratîsî bírsiy yok

I’m no river
flowing toward the sea:
I must find my way
asking strangers in strange places
sensing soul, using insight

Tuwulman ğîlga
deñízge dogrî agayîm:
tabarman ğolnî
sorap yabanğîlîktan
seslep ísímní

III. Haiku - Haykuwlar

crowded streets
moving among the years
wretched faces

yîllarnî gezgen
kalabalîk sokaklar
kadersíz yúzler

a sleeping snake
curled between the eggs—
layers of leaves

yukîda ğîlan
ğîmîrta arasînda -
katlangan yaprak

a yellow spider
crouching in a corner
invisible webs

sarî órímğek
kósede tomalangan
kórínmez ğîlîm

lying listless
on withered creeper
a golden bird

ğatîp otîrgan
solgan sarmasîklarda
altînday bír kus

a lone sparrow
atop the naked branch
viewing sunset

ğañgîz bír torgay
sîpalak kalgan dalda
batîska karap

a frog
bullied into the hedge:
snake’s breakfast

bír baka
salîlîkta tagîlgan
ğîlan sîprasî

on the road
an injured toad—

ğol ortasînda
bír ğaralî kurbaka

parents pelt stones
at the mating street dogs—
nosey children

tas atkan insanlar
síptlesken sokak itínemeraklî

spots of sunshine

kúnesíñ tamgalarî

sudden downpour
noisy trucks at midnight
crowded footbridge

boratkan ğawun
yarîkesede kamiyon
kalabalîk kópír

sipping coffee
at a wayside stall
cockroaches too

kawe ğutumlap
ğol kenarînda túkáanda
bóğek te bar

watching dogs
frolicking in the park—
jaded couples

oynasîp turgan
beksílík itler parkta
yorgîn kosaklar

dusky backyard
crowded parrots’ shrieks
autumn onset

kólgelí baksa
kalabalîk dudukus sesí
kúznúñ basînda

a teenager
glides past me on roller blades
her long hair flows

ğiwan kîz gese
tegersík kîzagî man
sásín ğelpíldep

a toddler
trying to stand up by the pram—
young mother watches

paytonda bala
ayakka turağak bola
anasî karay

a girl
between the railway tracks
swings her pony tail

bír kîz
temír ğolîñ ortasînda
tulum sásín sallay

june heat wave:
two long shadows
whisper in bush

ekí uzun kólge
haziran sîğaklîgînda
salîda pîsîlday

from behind the grill
bows to the setting sun
a man in wheel chair

parmaklîk artîndan
batkan kúneske ğúgúngen akay
tegersíklí ískembede

december dusk
firy cleavage on roadside
breathless coalfield

aralîk aksamî
ateslí ğol kenarî
tînîk kómírlík

blue black fumes
swirl around his head—
floating hand

mawî-kara tuman
burum-burum basînda
sallangan bír kol

wheezing his way
to shiva’s hilly abode
a young miner

kuruldap míner
siva’nîñ bayîr úyúne
ğas bír madenğí

smoggy mist—
filling each collier’s house
with yama’s call

kara tumanlar
her madenğí úyún totîrar
yama sakîruwî man

open cast mining
burning coal on the roadside
dying vultures

asîk madenler
ğol kenarînda atesler
ólgen búrkútler

the wind hushed
a collier died
in the cage

yawas esken ğel
bír madenğí ólgen

tired pitman
carrying coal on bike—
only meal

yorgîn kómírğí
biçiklet men kómír tasîgantek

with burning eyes--
abandoned mine

ateslí kîzargan kóz menterk
etílgen maden

reechy morning
driving on express way
old empty dreams

tumanlî saba
ana ğolda aydamak
eskí bos túsler

midnight darkness
wrapped in loneliness
dreamy escape

yarîkese sumî
ğañgîzlîkka orawlî
tús gibí kasîs

morning’s threshold
one more glimpse from moving car—
vanishing roses

saba sîndîrmasî
ğónegende soñ nazarkaybbolgan

a fading rose
lies with weeds between stones—
valentine day

solgan bír gúl
ot arasînda taslîkta -
yáreler kúní

on her back
writes with hair a light poem—
weight of love

onîñ sîrtînda
sásí ğeñgíl siir yazarsúygí

making love
hands clasped and head hung
prayer in bed

ellesken kol, sargaygan bas
tósek ibadetí

wet in sweat
from her under arms

terlí we îslak
onîñ koltîkastîndan
múst kokîsîndan

she recognizes
the difference in my breath:
drink in her absence

o añlar
solîsîmdakî farknî:
yokta ísmelímen

the morning dews
touch the hem of her skirt:
flight of first love

saba siyí
tetk kayuwuna tiyer:
síptí ask ususî

where has the moon gone?
I saw it two nights ago
uncertain grace

ay kayda kettí?
ekí kese ewel kórdím
túrlengen letafet

fallen under the tree
the last mango

yarsî asalîp
terek astîna túsken
soñ mango

wrapped in cloudy sheet—

ay ğarîgî
bulut sarsabîna sarîlgan--

shadowy hope
and disappearing hair—
63rd summer

kólgelí umut
sásíñ túsúp ğok bolmasî
altmîsúsnúñ ğazî

in the night’s silence
moon’s shadow

maksatsîz gezúw
kese sessízlígínde
ay kólekesí

alone in the sky
the sun standing still—
friday doomed

ğañgîz kókyúzúnde
kîymîldamagan kúnes
ğezalî ğuma

patches of shade
under a bare tree
wintry sun

kólge ğamawî
yapraksîz teregíñ astînda
kîs kúnesí

fingers feel
decaying fireflies
in night lights

parmaklar sezer
súrúgen atesbóğeklerí
kese ğarîgînda

full moon eclipse—
everything dark, unknown
yet filled with light

ay tutulmasî
hersiy karañgî, tanîlmaz
ama ğarîklî

incense sticks smoke
before the paper goddess—
one more new year

káát tañrîsaga
kokîlî sîbîk tumanîbír
ğañî yîl taa

mosque’s dome
lower than mobile towers—
weaker god’s signal

ğamî kubbesí
menkul kuleden alsak -
inans zayîflîgî

on loud speaker
prayers disturb
the night’s silence

kese sessízlígín bîzgan

drifting between
my eyes and the moon

ğolîn kaybetken
kózím men aynîñ arasînda

itchy rheum
runny nose all day

kîsîgan ğelím
bútún-gún akkan murnum
ğawun mewsímí

half-hidden sun
calls clouds to thicken:
chanting mantra

yarî-saklî kúnes
bulut kalînlastîruwğî:
mantîra okîwî

a drop embedded
in the half-opened bud—
winter morning

kómúwlí tamla
yarî asîlgan tomîrsîkta -
kîs sabasî

from the peepal
swirling rain drops—
palms open

ínğír terekten
burumlî tamîzdîrma
asîk awuslar

not alone
in midnight misery—
easter season

yarîkese sefaletínde--

unexpected guests
a hell of formality:
third day of Ramzan

beklenmez sápír
Ramazanîñ úsúnğí kúní
tabiyat kayidesí

icy fish
laced with blood
spices smell

buzlî balîk
kan man súslí-oyalî
edviyyat kokîsî

Arab spring—
tending death and roses
a short bloom

Arap baáríólím-
gúlge ğónelúw
kîska sesekleme

locked in a cave
the goddess
in dim light

kuwusta kírtlí

wiping his face
under the umbrella
an old man with books

kart yúzún síler
semsiyesí astînda
kitapsî akay

watching his slide
from the sixth floor—
god in vain

altînğî kattan
resímlerín siyíretmek--
tañrî bosîna

evening sky
a pale moon behind
listless trees

aksam kókyúzí
meraksîz teregíñ artînda
solîp kalgan ay

lonely sunrise—
a butterfly flutters round
a dead marigold

ğañgîz perdahlez--
kanat wurgan gómelek
solîk sefasesek

tattooed butterfly
jumping over marigold—
bare shoulders

tamgalî gómelek
sefasesegíne atlapasîk

seeking refuge
on the wings of wind
scattered petals

talda karamak
ğelníñ kanatlarînda
ğayrî yapraklar

locked between
my bed and quilt
december chill

kîsîlîp kaluw
tósek-yorkan arasînda
aralîk suwugî

the morning sun
fondling with tender fingers
the red roses

saba kúnesí
ğîmsak parmagî oksar
kîrmîzî gúlní

awake whole night
no angel cares to watch—
frosty morning

kese kóz ğummadîm
melekler dert etmedí
bo saba ayaz

returning home
to the swaying branches:
new year’s wild rain

úyge kaytuw
salkalangan dallarga:
ğañî yîl ğawunî

end of festival:
I stop by her haiku
on twitter.com

ğîyînîñ soñî:
haykuwsunda toktayman
twitter awunda

cyclonic rain
mating with the rising waves—
deserted beach

burumlî ğawun
síptlenír yúkselgen dalgalar man -
bom-bos kumluklar

hunger haunts
a pavement dweller—
christmas again

aslîk awlar
sokakta yasagan bír úysúzní--
noel zamanî

living life’s routine
cycled in infinite loop
feel so limited

hayatîñ hergúnlúk
soñsîz burumunda aylanîp
tarsiganday bolaman

non-stop rain
confining me to facebook—

pítmegen ğawun
mení facebook’ka kapatîp
ğanîmdan buktum

tastes the rose
a blue butterfly—
nimble feet

gúl tadîn alîr
mawî bír gómelek--
sekírsek ayaklar

in the shade
talking haiku
to a schmo

haykuwdan sóz etúw
bír ğahil men

between the lips
shadow of her tea:
lingering taste

erín arasînda
onîñ sayîñ kólgesí:
kaluwğî tad

love takes to
animal of the body:
living again

súyúsúw aketer
kewde wahsiylígíne:
bírtaa yasamak

fresh flowers
before paper deities:

taze sesekler
káát tañrîlarîñ aldînda:
Nawaratriy bayramî

steering wheels talk
in the middle of the road
a curved silhouette

ğol ortasînda
túmenní sóz etíp añlatmak
kewde karartîsî

smelly sweat
in the exam hall
two girls talk

ter kokîsî
imtan aralîgînda
ekí kîz añlata

stars twinkling
the beetle’s path
from manure

yîldîz balkîsî
bóğekleríñ ğolînda

unashamed my son
sits tight over his trousers—
smiling mother

sîgîlmadan ulum
pantolanîn beklep turar
ana kúlúmsúrer

receding crowd
from the street fair--
jesus in the eyes

tartîlîr sokak pazarîndan
kózlerínde isa

going alone
an empty shadow
in the mall

bos bír kólge
ózí-basîna gezíp dolasîr

from the ruins
rises a mute flame:
heaven's song

sakaw bír alew yúkselír:
ğennet sarkîsî

short lived the sun
in the smoggy morning:
birthday visit

az yasagan
kúnes tumanlî sabada.
tuwum kúní ziyaretí

bamboo grove--
hearing whispers of
liquid dream

ğeken korîsî
seslep síngen túsleríñ

hidden between the sheets
my smothered senses--
salted honey

saypalar arasînda
saklî buwulgan tuygîlarîm,
tuzlî bal

Translated into Crimean Tatar by Taner Murat, Editor, Nazar Look, Romania.