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Poems by Durlabh Singh


SONNET ONE

These are the domains of our inner pride
Boundless as thoughts free based as twilights
Hydra of incense spreading over billowing sea
Over dark passages of earth over all its spree
Survey mighty empire left unheeded by self conceit
Uncovered by clappers song undeemed by egoed plea
>From clover burnt turmoils of the deeper self
Galloping shadows of our anxiety raced on
Basement triangular established on mulberry
Adding their weight against the winds of liberty
Roll up curtains let rays of darkness penetrate
Rancid smell of heath fires on our mercurial glades
This instant might constitute a milestone in our destiny
A squalid little adventure or the embellishment of liberty.




SPACES OF HEART

Neither wreck of hope nor promises fulfilled
Neither love nor torture nor mutability
Nor hooking of oneself ego’d to oneself
Or to the world for its swaggering applause.


Spaces of heart
Abundance of access
Numbers & squares
Inscrutability & recess
Receiving & receding
Angels of high repute
All rallying around
To accommodate in art
The spaces of heart
An abundance of access
Numbers & squares
Inscrutability & recess.



LA MANCHA.


Bereft of the poetry of his soul
The knight took refuge in the house of death
Into darkness he went with his mind crushed
Wandering lust gone and with his own trust.

The enchanter gone
And disenchantment entered
And the land of La Mancha
Slowly turned to dust & cinders.

Talisman of allurements or of feasts
Chimeras of windmills or of fabulous beasts
Golden liquors and the shining decanters
Tales of poets sorcerers and of wizards
Adieu to stillness and the romance
Tryst and other typographical stance.

His merry madness had to go
And sanguine sanity had to be constructed
Don Quixote had to be demolished
And Alfonso had to be resurrected.

Alas! there is no poetry left now
In the lands of the Al Toboso
And no veils of Dulcinea now accrues
Across the knight of the mournful rue.




TREES OF GREEN

Trees of green
Flowers of bloom
Clouds of vapors
Streets of gloom.


Earth of wonders
Skies of gold
Sights of breath
Hands of fold.

Dews of dust
Thorns of flesh
Raids of blood
On fingers of trust.



THE DESTINY.


This is not a country for living souls
Recoiled the heart lives under the enshades
Of vampire ridden nature and all its pards
On beggarly sums amassed by the pauper
Of bleakness and cold hunger and mort
Here existing we burrowing like moles
In drenched country in termite eaten rocks.

Here are no events images or happenings
But over the same the generations waste
Cobwebbed on a bold spot their anger
In rimless cups in pale lipped liquors
Time eaten tales aimed at amusing
Lamenting on their irrecoverable loss
A loss which was never their gain
Forward they go groping in search of substitutes
In hotel rooms where empty pouches hang
Over the pegs of wealth work and pleasure
All have accepted with harried hands
Stiffening nature humbly no measure for measure
Their guts hanging loose from under their stomachs
While vultures of low airs peck their brains
Piece by piece removing the gilded frowzy matter
Leaving the skull festooned and vainly waste.

The ancient cults of sacrifices still existing
Among jeremiad rules of the gushed brain
Each fang beak or tentacle of spidery web
The venom just dents entwines with its embrace
No grief for marshalled loss no pent up for soul remained
The old conscience just sleeps in arms of lap dogs
And each hour becomes just sanctified and sane.

It is not for charter of the world do we create
Burning our brain and the light of our eyes
Each image in our mind creates
A corresponding image in the space
And each line of the verse entombs
In eternity a sightless gong
Which the poet can hear with his subtle mind
In the spa n of his wretched life and can find
Some solace when everything significant is betrayed
When the weed choked fields of this world can claim
Their foremost place on the altar of the poesy.




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Biographical sketch: A widely published poet based in London.Two solo collections of verse.

Durlabh Singh recommends:

50 Great Poets by Milton Crane
Reason: You can read all the great poetry of western world with good translation of non-english
poems.

Recommendations for writers:

Craftsmamship & creative contents.



 


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