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The Poetry of...

Durlabh Singh



  • With great control of language and unique, but comprehendable angles of exploration, Durlabh speaks to every poet with a gentle, colourful and yet luring tone, projecting his imagination in to reality.



    Based in London, England, Durlabh has been widely published in anthologies, magazines and newspapers and also has two solo collections to his name. He also has a profound and creativity-founded view on poetry, telling PP:" To me, poetry is the phenomenology of soul and without it the hidden depths of our being will forever remain unknown."

    Durlabh believes in the spark inside the poet that makes dreams possible, and alive: "Intent to create is the fountainhead of poetry. Without it there is no awe, no wonder and we remain asleep. Only a ray of poetry makes us alive."

  • Durlabh now has an ebookshop online, which is well worth a visit at www.iumix.com-a new window will open.

    Read his poetry now, and take his "journey into uncharted oceans of the mind where strange things happen under the intensity of emotions and sometime new creations are born..."





    Explore

    And who will explore
    The days of sullen lore
    Where stars get numbered
    In their deep slumbers
    Around outskirts of milky shore.

    Building castles with strands of dust
    Tracing shadows with outstretched arms
    Garlanding planets with rings of advent
    Or greeting clouds at your very doorstep.

    Touched by some grace of love
    Which provoked one to dream or scream
    And who will explore or deplore
    Shells of mountains or their molten core.






    "The Moonlight" by Durlabh Singh ©





    Each Night

    Each night I died the death of yesterday.
    The pestle poisoned the peel of each thought
    Grinding shelling the shadows of hearth stones
    Demurred decried the enemy cannot act
    Cannot grudge cannot cheat with fabled screams.

    The greased guillotine struck with might
    On portals of mind sealing lips
    Binding hands huddled in a herd song
    To escape the fire fury and the shrieks
    Tongue tied tassels tempting not
    Ever more the calcined dust
    Vaporizing shattering scratching
    The skins of landscapes peeled and plotted
    Heaped up with skeletons of the old thorns.

    Death and dreams have buried the day
    Amputated the time with lavender spray
    Broken wings and the life's span
    Renewed never but ever the same
    Fresh tongues giving it a form
    Ripening the grief and the corn.





    The Museum

    Where mummies gloat and pyramids fly
    And curators sleep tightly in middle of night
    Where marbled halls smirch with plundered loot
    Amid coffins all decoyed amid some Grecian root.

    In darkened chambers of the prophesised promises
    No room here left now for the doubting thomases
    Iron clad statues and saints of demonology
    Lampoons of histories arranged in neat chronology.

    Scholars children guards and aliens abide
    In murky corridors where the bored breaths hide
    No room catered for the soul to find inner liberty
    Everything is sealed stamped by approval of authority.






    "Metamorphosis" by Durlabh Singh ©





    Touching Again

    Having touched that skies were gold
    Having touched wanton winds carrying knives
    Having touched that wandering eyes were sweet
    And having touched the bitter taste of each smile.

    Having touched the brindled blossoms
    That speared the wings of each firefly
    Having touched the gateways leading nowhere
    And having touched vicarious verse which defies.

    Having touched the meadowy slips of dew
    Having touched the chaste hungers of bereft
    Having touched the springs that kept murmuring
    In adoration of cool waters in the mountain clefts.





    Lady of my Dreams

    Lady of my dreams
    Moon colored
    Raven haired
    Inaccessible
    Like a distant shore.

    Dwelling here
    Closer to the heart
    A reason a dream
    Undefined yet real.

    Moon colored pebbles
    Shining among plains
    A cluster
    Deeply driven
    Etched like a wound
    A rose or a moan
    Or a crimson scar
    A luminosity
    Or a distant spark.

    Lady of my heart
    Moon colored
    Raven haired
    Inaccessible
    Like a distant star.






    "Hand of Destiny" by Durlabh Singh ©





    Lost

    We have lost our being
    We do not even regret
    The loss of our voices or of our souls
    Encrusted deeply now in spider’s web.

    Between sleep and deep
    Cyclic our lives always depart
    Forgetfulness of the invisible
    Which the dull brain always retards.

    We are a poem that is unread
    We are a thought without any hold
    Longing to decipher the universe
    We are a passion of singly unbold.





    La Manch

    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.





    TO VINCENT.


    You did not love the sceptred sunshine
    You loved the summer's undiluted sun
    Which in the end took its bitter revenge
    In depriving you of your saline serenity
    Into the depths of crazed pivoted symphony.

    Rest assured in your diverted quickened steps
    That nobody loved the soul within your crest
    The crazed straw hat topping your yellow hair
    Your red beard drenched in the crowds, a fear
    It was enough to drive the crazy sickened mob
    For a revenge on your enflamed tortured throb.
    Children will mock you
    Citizen will lock you
    Women will scorn you
    People will disown you.
    Dawning clouds and rustling winds
    Broken strokes of the lemon rinds
    Vermillioned lamps amid ochred yellows
    Cobalt blues of the sulphured mellows
    Embittered flowers in the wasted vase
    Vibratory landscapes in twisted grass
    Pavement cafes under the starry skies
    Purpled deeds in hallucinatory nights.
    With color and the light
    And amid a creative start
    An explosion within your soul
    And a bullet in your heart.






    I WITHDREW.


    I withdrew from the race
    And felt the antizymoid
    I stood apart and withheld the klee
    In searching meaning of endless sentimite.
    I grabbed the aim of a flen
    Flayed deeply into a tapered row
    Drunk with rage the saline taste
    I watched till the eyes became dim
    It invaded suddenly the meaningless pause
    Talk of deliverance, where to?
    The meaningless pause surmounting
    But ever a pause without cessation.

    The soul's abyss became deeper as chaos
    Fiery as firmament, withered as the world
    But never a part of transaction
    Of cessation without you.






    HEART IS HIDING.


    The heart is hiding again
    Under the cloak of grief
    Under hispid haunting eyes
    In shades of the verses brief.

    Misty is the moon tonight
    Resting amid rustled cloud
    Wanton wind bent on blowing
    Fragments with shrieked aloud.

    Tedium of time on hands displayed
    Bartering for happiness is mind's trade
    Music now flowing supporting the soul
    Briefing the death in lands of no more.




    Copyright © 2001 Durlabh Singh


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  • Durlabh now has an ebookshop online, which is well worth a visit at www.iumix.com-a new window will open.




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    All work on this page is copyright © 2001 to Durlabh Singh,
    all rights reserved. It may not be copied or reproduced
    without expressed permission from the author.


    All work submitted to Paramount Poetry is assumed to be
    the original work of the author and PP can take no
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