Voices Within: Kanwar Dinesh Singh

Kanwar Dinesh Singh

Kanwar Dinesh Singh is a poet, storyteller, critic and translator based at Shimla. His publications include several volumes of poetry in English and Hindi, besides books in literary criticism. His poems, short stories, reviews, interviews, essays and papers have appeared in reputed newspapers, magazines, journals and anthologies in India and abroad. He is the recipient of the ‘Himachal Pradesh State Sahitya Akademi Award’ for poetry. He has also got the Associate Fellowship of the Indian Institute of Advanced Study. Currently, he is Associate Professor of English at a Government College affiliated to Himachal Pradesh University, Shimla and Editor of Hyphen. Email: kanwardineshsingh@gmail.com

 Where I Belong

Where a koel comes to tweet me everyday

in sweet notes wishing me every morning a good day;

Where I get my share of sunlight,

strengthening my hopes with its every ray;

Where every deodar lifts my morale

to keep my goals high on life’s pathway;

Where oaks motivate me to fight against seasons and

lay out a carpet of their leaves on my way;

Where the wind with its varying temperature

quicken my soul with its soothing sway;

Where the setting sun shines even better

with a mesmerizing mélange of colours everyday;

Where monsoons shower the coveted amrita

my earnest obeisance in reverence I do pay.

Shimla is mine where I am in the right place,

I belong to this town―unique in every way.

 At Variance

Where are those evenings

that made us turbulent

if we didn’t converse

with each other?

Where is the moon

that was the eye-witness

to moments we consumed

in togetherness?

Where is the twilight

that used to incite us

to be lost in the eyes

of each other?

Where is the gloam

that camouflaged us

while our lips were locked

eyes closed?

Where is the night

that snatched away sleep and

all winking

from our eyes?

A year and a half

has slyly slipped away and

I am still waiting for you

with owly eyes…

 Sunset

Look,

there goes the aged watchman―

packing up all his rays,

carrying them on his shoulders, he is

descending the steps

down the western horizon.

Now he’d take rest

For some time

There.

Look,

there, at the bottom of the horizon,

on the bank of a brooklet,

there is his hut;

he’d wash his face, hands and feet

and would move into his dark cellar,

where to one nook

he has his kitchen―

he’d light his hearth

and cook some spinach

and four loaves for himself.

Then,

warming his feet

in the heat

of the hearth,

he’d rush into his cot,

wrapped in rags,

getting under a patchwork quilt,

snoring for some hours,

he’d stand up again―

as everyday, he’d wash

his face and hands, carry

the pack of rays

on his shoulders

and walk on foot

along the side of the brooklet,

would reach

the bottom

of the eastern horizon,

would climb the steps

and appear at his post again,

stand for his duty,

spread his rays

as everyday.

 Cedars

Who has seen cedars—

bedecked with flowers?

Yet they do bloom

            for life, they emit perfume,

            they do shed pollen, and

transpire the vital air,

apt to the season

titivated they groom.

Seasons come and go.

With seasons, cedars alter

the ways of exuding their fragrance,

but they never ever

change their colour—

their evergreen viridiscence,

which is the foundation

of the entire vegetative life;

Standing straight—

on their roots,

being steady, unflinching, they

attain the coveted heights and

live a life, handsomely long and healthy.

They are never stuck up—

in the prime of their youth—

akin to flowers—

in allures of

a variety of colours.

Voices Within - Complete List of Poets :: Setu, January 2019