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Ram Krishna Singh


A Selection of Tanka


She is no moon yet
she drifts like the moon, takes care
of him from the sky--
meets him for a short, waxing
leaves him for a long, waning



Yearning to meet him
she turns a silk-worm spinning
love-silk in cold night--
stands in a shade melting tears
like a candle, drop by drop



Gods couldn’t change the rhythm
of the body and its needs:
erotic scars stick--
after three decades love waves
tense the flesh and rock the night





Locked in the shadows
of unrolled curtains her love
in the lone boudoir:
she plays tunes on the guitar
flowers fade at the windows



At the river
she folds her arms and legs
resting her head
upon the knees and sits
as an island



Swirling spiral
of her skirt spills tides of dream
and memory:
I breathe fire in the dance
forgetting bends and twists

Picture

Ram Krishna Singh's Profile    


Before going to bed
she looks too sad to have 
any sweet dream:
the lonely lamp glints no love
and no star peeks through the curtains


The wind lifts
her curved nudity hidden
in the water curtain:
I touch the strings that whisper
love in each falling drop


The smile you weave splits
the sun I lose my direction
in clouds that cover
the banks darkening the white
of the lake moon kissed

​

A Second Selection of Tanka...

What should I do
about the mornings
that couldn’t be:
now fog controls
appearance of the sun


A cloud-eagle 
curves to the haze
in the west
skimming the sail
on soundless sea


Standing at the edge
I long to float with waves and
wave with instant wind: 
on the dream water’s breast
I read tomorrow’s wonder

The room has her 
presence every minute
I feel she speaks
in my deep
silently


Crazy these people
don’t know how to go
down with the swirl and
up with the whirl but
play in the raging water


I fear the demons 
rising from my body
at midnight crowding
the mind and leading the soul
to deeper darkness
Exhausted she sleeps 
unaware of my presence
this warm night carefree
I croon my spring song alone
and fill the void with new dreams


The chilly wind blows
to freeze my feet and fingers
tonight I can’t rise 
and silence the whisperings
storming the vacant room


Looking at her face
for the glint of her nose-pin
or rise of renku
they couldn’t finish but form
in their eyes together

​

Smallness

I live in a crowd of fakes
smallness rises with age

my mind has ceased to think
new metaphors hardly happen

hunger keeps me awake all night
I mitigate minginess

the inner lives emptied
and filled with fresh stresses

too many fault lines run through
to make sense of the divide

my passion itches and prompts
I nuzzle the virtual too

it’s the same virus aground
the same hackers that hurt

the vigor and rigor of
the new, left, or pushed behind

whatever the remedy
wounds take deaths to heal
​

Happiness


Dreams puzzling
smallness of waking
I can’t live
the child’s circumcision
promise of happiness



​

Picture

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***

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