Friday, February 07, 2020

A new haiku/tanka book

https://issuu.com/prof.r.k.singh/docs/newhaikutankabook.docx


SILENCE: A WHITE DISTRUST




ever evading
happiness for the now—
unfinished song

                  
   
moonless
                   this November night
                   livelier with stars
                   and breathing silence
                   perfumed with night queen



still lingers
her scent on the linens
drying in shade

        
half painting
palette and easel
collect dust
in the studio
painted silence of mother


  
lemon tea—
shade of her lipstick
on my lip

   
                    last night’s rain
paves way for a clear sky
this morning
the breeze is cool and the sun
adds a new hue to the spring



 filling emptiness
waves dance over each other—
the sky meets the sea



life is beautiful
when you enter another
body…mind
and become one
in each other



closed eyes:
smelling the cleavage
crescent wanes

            

her name
a soothing music
in the mouth:
I forget the pain in back
I seek the sky in silence



unzipping her back—
hundreds of nights grow wings
with wasp touch



intruding
the darkness of bedroom
a tree’s silhouette:
she whispers its masked presence
and says no to making love



brightness of the star
half-closed bedroom window:
moon shies away



waking to a morning
tainted with prayers
on the toilet seat
nude nature waves a dull sun
smitten by the night’s long eclipse



moon energy
fills up the inner space—
call to wake up



the busyness
and weariness of now
they toss about
regulating their sleep
by one another’s



stain-dried lingerie
reminds of the night’s act—
flowers of lips



smallness of the small
no sharing half-chewed betel—
mischievous whisper
in bed fuzzy sensation
ruddy lips that’s no love



muscle or meat
hang it on the forehead:
spine migrates



things get hairy, scary
with body failure
ailments pop up
spirit dries up
mind disconnects



hestitating
to take the first step through—
stands at the door


unhappy
with how I look and
feel right now
seek a best version
and just look within


silk silence
the sky measures
new cup of joy



in the white of night
sighs for supreme delight
steal tender pleasure
manipulating wetness
in bed unmask simple sin



greet the sun
on the terrace—
two roses



November morning--
too many thorns to reach
the only rose
and the tormenting thought
that I am forsaken




stunted bud
in the earthen pot—
winter sun



choking air
in a walled colony:
two tired pigeons
perch on overhead tank
whisper pity on us






a robin whispers
our talk in bed last night—
another bird



light switched off
love sliding on
window pane
moon too shies away
behind the bare tree



stolen truck
in parking lot:
they have a quickie



frozen
in the icy wind
my fingers
she fears the chill
on her cheeks



journeying
on a late-running train
squirrels frisk near track



if I die today
it won’t matter to any—
I have no worth
they all care for themselves
search nearest in curved space




repeats daily
in the mind my own story—
a feature film



a couple of drinks
and soft  music to forget
the year’s hard days
now welcome the new morning
bid good bye to factious party



darkness of the heart
bouts of quiet clashes:
midnight oracle



visit Vinayak
each day new prayers inside
years old faces
at the threshold hit their heads
the dumb deity stays unmoved




visiting home—
shadows of forgotten days
on the wall



spiders’ network
between two photo frames
bridge or bury
sensations no longer
spurt action in silence



on the terrace
facing the sun
an empty chair



black pigeons
sitting in a row
parapet
cracked for seeds to die
before they fly back



cease growing
new lines on the palms:
broken bangles



I’m not alone
waking up in the grave—
angels await
my rise to eternity
my love’s union again



noise of crackers
monotony of light
Diwali



4 a.m.
a noisy start to
Chhat puja:
blaring songs from neighbourhood
sweet smell of frying from kitchen



incense sticks
perfume the air around—
offering on altar



end of May—
scorching heat follows
rain and hail
before iftaar this Friday
prayer promises bliss



Easter Sunday—
blood stains stick on the cross
more bomb blasts


wearied winter
each night bed a living grave:
drying breathing passage
and lonely shadows
delaying disaster



dirt conscious
everyday struggle:
rising up

             

too small to explore
the sea of the unknown:
island existence
breathing hell of darkness
dreading hungry excursions



cleaning the remains
of burnt out earthen lamps—
dusky temple yard


   
source of salvation
depository of sins
no cake cutting
in church promise of reaping
if we sow recovery seed




aching legs—
nightly tension crowns
moon sickness

                    

an island
between the head and fate lines
bridges blackhole
in life’s labyrinth shadows
move always ahead of me




after the discourse
beer and biryani in lunch—
Happy Drinksgiving




earthy body
and nightness of silence
fear in mirror
return to the river
echoing hollowed sound



long waiting
short consultation—
ophthalmologist


   
morning smog—
an asthmatic with grandson
coughing restlessly
on the terrace even
a limping crow seeks fresh air




she stoops down
writes her name on the sand
waves return



dark alleys
chaos on the road
fear delays
homeward move at nine
lumpens lie in wait




in the street corner
breeding maggots and vermin:
abandoned father



the wounds exit
the pain of truth lingers
under my sky
savage head battles for
vacuity, a victim



sprinkling spices
on the fried fish
hungry hubby


   
full blue moon—
divine channel from heavens
illuminating
arrival of Easter Sunday
and April, the angel month




absorbing
microbes of her complaints
poor hubby

                    


before retiring
swallow pills to mitigate
her hackles
that walk me through to death
of desire for love in bed



pre-monsoon ramble
wilderness in harmony—
worlds within world


hail stones
lashing mango florets
my car too:
I fear thunder squall and rain
leaking roof and wetting bed




wild sugarcane
no animals savour
ageing monsoon

    

fishes swim
weeds disheveled
silent lake
I inhale
the city’s garbage




post-retirement
my watch not worn for days:
horologist



with foreign sound
I couldn’t be a lasting poem—
provisional body
nude smell and white distrust
play freedom in mounds of cloud




--R.K.SINGH





copyright:
--Ram Krishna Singh

 



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