Aftermath

The sensual moth
wooed by the lick and flicker
of flaming tongues
breaks its harness,
hurls itself,
into its heart's delight - death.
Ungrateful for
the kind offices
of the darkness.

These words, these dancing runes,
are as lit torches in the hollows
of doubt.

These words,
the old and familiar
lick and flicker
of flaming tongues . . .



II.

I will no longer
seek comfort in rhymes.
They are an allusion
to form, an illusion
in a world, so invincibly
without.
A shaped utterance is for the faithful,
who have forgotten
that before a single word was spoken
a million succumbed.

Submarine

(Published in Dundee Writes 5 )

The warm ocean rolling by

hollers

like an old friend,

each wave minting silver

in the light.

I float along

the surge of a crest,

the low of a trough,

like a note

trembling

in a young throat.

I can see

the catch

content in its trap

splash gleefully

in mortality.

I have with me:

a periscope to see

and not be seen,
a key out of this dream
when I'm submarine.

Potato

A  crop  foreign  to  every  land
I  have  lived  in,
and  yet  familiar ,  a  cultural  accomplice
(as  if  we  grow  and  move  in  tandem)
this  humble  potato
shaped  like  a  heart.

Organic  growths  both,
solvent  to  the  senses.

Being  neither  a  cardiologist,
nor  a  lover ,  nor  no  farmer  either,
but  a  poet
I  wondered.

I  could  not  have  grown  it,
nor  can  I  know  it,
nor  offer  it  as  a  token
of  affection.

But ,  it  rested  on  the  kitchen  slab,
as  if  releasing  calories,
the  ideals  of  love
and  nurturing
(your  presence ,  my  heart,
my  body ,  these  carbs)

of  comfort  and  fat
(study  reveals
surge  in  spud  consumption
during  depression  leads  to
weight  retention),

of  culture  and  otherness,
this  bold  immigrant  mingles
with  cuisines :  in  mashes  and  curries.
Will  you  say  'no'  to  this  foreign
born  potato?
(China  and  India  account  for  a  third
of  the  world's  production).

It  had  filled  a  poem.
What  could  it  do  more?
Apart  from  being  fried,
there  was  really  nothing.

The Common Ash

The  Common  Ash

The  care  of  a  harsh  nurse  ill-suits  you.

At  her  first  loud  slaps,

you  wept  flaming  tears.

Then  the  Sun  closed  his  fists.

No  golden  fingers  curled

around  your  empty  brown  ones.

Your  limbs

grew  grey  as  age.

No  finches  lingered.

Alone 

you  stood,

clutching  at  wisps  of  shadow;

donning  a  shroud

to  mourn  the  season's  denial.

Your  heart  sank

to  your feet;

the  earth  swallowed  it,

and  then  clamped 

her  white  teeth

shut.

Cloistered

within

this  close - mouthed  earth,

you  are  its  deep  thought,

its  communion

with  eternity.

Soon,

the  finches  will  come,

bright as medals.

The Sun

will  unfold  his  arms

to  hold you.

For  it  is  you

who  is  to  occasion  the  earth-song

we  call

Spring.

- Skendha Singh

A Sonnet for a Sonneteer

Dearly beloved, we gather here today,
To join this man and woman in a lyric;
Mrs. Love, will you please give the bride away?
And Father Meter, keep up the groom's spirits?

Now you girls, stand in groups of four, on each
Side. You six, stand apart from the rest. Whom,
should we, appoint mistress of ceremonies?
Alright then, that's on me. Let's fetch the groom!

Now you, Sir, will obey this holy man!
This is it! The end of your dallying with dames!
You shall end what you long ago began,
To maim prosody when skirts were your aim!

Fine, that's done! This should complete the sonnet.
By Jove, never again, it's stressful, dammit!

Heart beats

Sometimes
I shadow this city,
my heart and feet
keeping time
like dancers.

The heart in tune
with the turns that
I trace.
Until I'm lost
in a dream of your face.
And then

I am the dance;
of heart beats,
slow feet,
and chance.