https://www.scribd.com/document/709729918/Knocking-Vistas
https://www.academia.edu/115628015/KNOCKING_VISTAS_HAIKU_AND_TANKA
KNOCKING VISTAS
HAIKU AND
TANKA
Ram
Krishna Singh
1
March, 2024
For my wife, Durga
Celebrating
our 46th Wedding anniversary
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The
poems in the volume are in continuation of the experiences and spirit one may
notice in my books Against the Waves:
Selected Poems (New Delhi: Authors Press, 2021) and Poems and Micropoems (Sierra Vista: Southern Arizona Press, 2023).
While there is concern for something or other in the depressing contemporary
human condition and chaos, there is also an exploration of who we are and what
we are, with search for sense in senselessness.
The snippets of our complicated existence find images rooted in nature
and physicality with whispers of the soul.
Acknowledgement
is due to the editors and publishers of the following online and print journals
that carried some of the poems, including individual haiku and tanka that make
up the linked version, presented here:
Scarlet
Dragonfly Journal; The Bamboo Hut; Creative Flight Journal; International
Writers’ Journal; Setu; Better Than Starbucks; Minuto De Poesia; Creation and
Criticism; The Pan Haiku Review; VSANA; New Academia Journal; Haiku Universe;
World Micro Poetry Journal; Failed Haiku; Spillwords; Edge of Humanity;
Poleart; seashores; Das Literarisch; Lothlorien Poetry Journal; Haiku Zbornik
Ludberg 2023; Samobor Haiku Meeting; Rendition of International Poetry;
Kelaino; Poetcrit; Writers Editors Critics; and International Journalon
Multicultural Literature.
Some
poems have also been anthologized in Diverse
Voices: An Indian Poetry Anthology (ed. S. L. Peeran. New Delhi: Authors
Press, 2023); Home For the Holidays
Anthology (ed. Paul Gilliland. Sierra Vista: Southern Arizona Press, 2023),
and The United Haiku and Tanka Society
2022 Anthology: Songbirds Online (ed. an’ya).
01
March 2024 Ram Krishna Singh
1
MELTING
ELEMENTS: An Experimental Long Poem
Looking
for image
of divine on the wall
to
pray or chant
a
mantra or hymn in mind
she
leans on him to kiss
her soul touch
vibrating in depth
in darkness
reclining
Buddha
unmindful
of drinking
he
and she
discussing
taste
aged
in India
half asleep
one with poppy--
Buddha’s bar
in
the park
seeing
the green in her eyes
joy
wells up
she
feels the silver blue
the
leaves breathe her touch
smoked fish
in the elevated hut--
honeymoon
butterfly
cushions
flutter
the skirt
flame
flickers
ground
to whiteness
for
her feast
verandah--
touching her naked skin
morning breeze
one
more night
hairy
darkness of womb
yellow
moon
inside
parts slop for love
haptic
wind sucks the wetness
adventure
between the thighs--
tailored deal
so
cold
with
three days rain
our
bed
she
abstains for
fear
of my touch
seeing her body
in the lingerie drying
on clothesline
her
lips
crimson
with paan
stings
my heart:
smell
of saffron and cardamom
melts
in my haiku
sweet perfume
untainted flower
evening lust
softness
dies
in
his pressure
much
pleasure
melting
elements
feed
the soul in flesh
glows on her
magenta bracelet:
year’s colour
seashore:
she
lies on her back
eyes
closed
feels
foam on the waves
butterflies
too
on the back
a reclining nude:
kiss of the wave
her
beauty
smells
the soil that sings
grace
in look:
I
whisper my heart and chase
the
glow her shadow spreads
her sharp nail draws
love sign on the stone’s back
green patina
lying
in sun
on
a straw mattress
a
nude couple
whisper
dreamed-up nest
when
their ship comes in
drowsy eyes
sun behind the clouds
dreams wrapped up
the
musky sillage
confirms
her presence nearby
in
cold sun I wait
for
beer with her one last time
get
drowned in her wild kisses
her décolleté blouse
and see-through saree--
curve’s vanity
at
the swimming pool
he
asks if he could borrow
her
underpants just
to
feel her from inside
with
fidgeting currents
she wrings her hair
rising from the lake:
rural Venus
shining
in sun
water
spots
on
dry skin
she
smiles to see
night’s
memory
part of me
enters her body
blooms puffball
share
memories
in
the dark of night
race
for life-
brave
scents from the brink
mate
kisses with grace
red with shame
the sky at sunrise
one more kiss
sitting
in armchair
she
tells her maid how not to
share
the secret rose
wet
with dew or red with fire
at
the heavenly entrance
seated woman--
sleepy gestures
dim delight
a
walking woman
pregnant
from the back raising
hand
for her man’s hand
a
little away holding
the
cell phone to his ear
she wanted to sing
dream-songs she couldn’t:
spring hand-cuffed
an
old lady
calling
heart-centred men
to
awaken
in
three sessions their full
potential
in bed and beyond
he sleep-babbles
let’s become earth and sky:
four-decade love
Kali
Puja
ruddy
garland round the neck
kneel
to quench the thirst
with
rum and goat meat invoke
the
goddess for midnight sex
half of my mind on God
and the other half on sex:
eternal hunger
between
her coming
to
bed and sleep
a
burial of longing:
her
indifference widens
even
touch is a no
awake
cross-legged
till witching hour--
no means no
dining
table
resting
place for the dust
my
mind emits
before
her third eye opens
I
switch on the AC
flour dough
between the fingers
despair sticks
she
draws a church
on
the back of a leaflet
to
resurrect Mary
in
whose name she cried for years
and
none counted her tears
walking in fire
with wildness of passion
bewitching nude
undissolved
in light
chasing
rainbow desire
no
grand affair
no
experiment to live
the
essence no end to dust
beyond the body
shimmering her soul--
naked among clothed
dream-incited
I
awake with a start
to
her promise
sleeping
together once
more
before we depart
new moon
rocking her world--
twin flames
each
syllable
allergic
pollen and dust
her
autumn tongue
one
more song to prick with
new
variant new wound
lonely hours
restlessness of night
breathe satyr
no
temple
this
body degenerates
memory
fades
stinking
remains
can’t
forget all
looking for light
hidden in darkness:
drifty silence
2
LOVE
HIDES: A Haiku Sequence
sex
excels:
a
host of sins
love
hides
she
says she’s single
and
ready to mingle--
just
moments away
thrice
she clicks
her
heels together:
secret
code
her
hair up
transparent
front and back:
birthday
cake
midnight
moon
senses
aroused--
lift
the veil
silence--
her
eyes word
a
wine song
love
in folds of sleep
forgotten
memories:
washed
up melody
her
disheveled hair
delight
in disorder--
bittersweet
flings
taking
selfie
with
her new mobile:
breast-feeding
past
lover
time
to clean up house:
cold
moon
a
curled snake
with
fangs ready to poison
love’s
narrow passage
stars
celebrate
the
body’s wet music
sublime
sensation
sunflowers
ring:
teenagers
ChatGPT
Sapphic
know-how
how
innocent
the
children of night--
sleep
and death
clad
in white
peaks
behind peaks--
Everest
within
3
KNOCKING
VISTAS: FIVE-LINERS
wintered
sadness
different
dimensions--
nature’s
cycle
unable
to cope
meditation
thoughtless
mind
weeds
and refuse buried
empty
heart
illusion
of self thrown out
yet
the guest doesn’t visit
climb
to deity
hands
folded in obeisance
crowd
behind unaware
of
awakening silence
of
depth in inner self
myriad
lines
in
the hollow of my palms
joined
in prayer
prepossessing
humour
cynically
exchanged
from
Shiva’s temple
high
decibel puja noise
wrath
of the goddess
she
prays for long power cut
for
her short meditation
with
soda and mint
apple-flavoured
vodka
and
khichdi in lunch
follows
Mahakaal darshan
maze
through devotees’ long queue
every
home
Shiva’s
monastery:
cannabis
no
secrets or lies
relish
special tea
alliance
of lies
pre-
and post-twenty fourteen
fresh
phoenixes rise
devotees
greet in temple
new
histories on wallpaper
tainted
with greed
my
curse an addition--
theft
politics
whores
gang up in red light
make
water flow uphill
no
firsts in hunger:
they
all push one another
for
a pail of rice
to
cook without fire roof and
utensils
lost in landslide
can’t
tackle big beasts
and
the sheeple that snigger
candle
procession:
read
silent tears on the cheeks
of
the mother of the lynched
wailing
over
adversaries
that seek good
and
do evil
he
asks how long the dead
be
denied condemnation
known
a man of word
before
exiting the windowless hall
scrawls
his bearded sinisterity
none
could read: he proves a rhino
turning
the temple into funeral home
anti-national
every
dissenting voice--
lotus
regime
bullying
the generation
with
changing narratives
too
complex
the
calculus of grief:
forgotten
fractals
cold
and heavy inside
each
loss rips through dusted stash
hide
dubious dreams
behind
sweet tongue and praise
cunning
colleagues
free
from humility
now
I taste my silence
await
setting of
burning
sun and arrival
of
night to go out
for
a beer with chips
to
soothe her hurt spirit
sleepy
yet awake
recreating
grief and pain
a
flightless duck
sits
over the soul’s scars
no
mourning tends or mends
sitting
by the road
she
plays the harlot for bread
men
sin she suffers
from
police raid to VD
they
gift with morbid morals
questions
the living
honoured
for deeds concealed:
slave
market
every
second buyer
a
civilized rapist
naked
in debris
a
baby girl crying
he
bends to pickup:
eyes
wander to locate
her
mother too nearby
Manikarnika:
he
collects warm ashes
searching
gold to live
by
country liquor or bread
for
starving wife and children
young
and widowed
her
body a burden
can’t
help herself
reduced
to a donkey
suffering
morality
a
one-eyed woman
the
window curtain shakes
nightly
stillness
veronal
dread in hell
breeches
itch in half-sleep
a
sleeping soul
under
medication
mumbles
love tanka
he
can’t recall
on
awakening
lanterns
in hand
villagers
climb up the hill
hunt
for mushrooms
before
the sun rises
rush
to weekly market
foggy
morning
choke
humans and animals
icy
darkness
around
fire on the roadside
they
smoke bidi with chai
giving
in to grow
intimacy:
wants
no trouble
realizing
dream life
on
daily basis
a
sleeping man
under
the tree
awaits
a grave
villains
in village keep
gaslighting
all day
puff
by puff
smoke
away their tension
trainee
programmers
on
the roadside mixed smell
of
sweat and talcum powder
winter
arrives with
wheezing sneezing
and backache
whole
night without sleep
I
try pills to get better
lamenting
ageing and pray
the
nagging pain
in
the index finger joints
kills
all poetry
of
body and mind at night
I
yell sighs in half-sleep
morning
walk:
two
boys going to school
pick
plump jamuns
rolling
on the roadside
for
tiffin at recess
grey
morning
shivering
body
walk
back home
to
the drizzling din
of
a muddied street
unpredictable
monsoon
clouds in Bangalore
confusion
all time:
wet
again my walking shoes
mud
splashes by running car
peeping
eyes
view
in the skull
weird
videos
deep
breathing on the rock
dazed
shapes in moving frames
a
solo show
at
the lounge corner:
stoic
visitors
sipping
insentience
moving
ahead
a
nude back
of
reclining man-
more
female
yet
less inciting
on
Lesser’s canvas
his
son views letters
on
the billboard a sparrow
awaits
green light
for
the road to be free
to
peck at the fallen grains
with
dumbbells in hand
he
logs in YouTube to build
arm
muscles and says
he’s
off social media
to
make new relationships
in
the bright sun
my
dark shadow
parts
company
under
the banyan
one
more burial
sudden
sound and smoke
Diwali
pollution
in
road number one
midnight
asthmatic breathing
and
no neighbor cares to stop
kitchen
sink:
hot
water running
over
the cup
between
the fingers
rises
winter sun
an
old woman
steals
hibiscus from our gate
grinning
nav-ratri
puja
at home and hurries
back
before my wife confronts
the
tree is me
leafy green
bent straight full
rich
rooted
in nature
loving
sun moon
and star
sheltering
one and all
lighting--
roaring
colours in the sky
red white
dark
merge
into one
fire water
earth
in
the sky’s map
distorts
in no time
my
funny face
no
physics could force
the
cloud’s short-hand
I
have been
not
what I am--
my
old version haunts
she
says I blabber in sleep
fuckers
that block my success
half
moon
cool
enough
to
move ahead
leave behind
forgotten
memories
what
poem can brew
on
faces hidden behind
veils
misty eyes say
all
I can’t image in
haiku
with season word
4
KNOCKING
VISTAS: THREE-LINERS
rioting
flames
witches
dance in a cave--
strawberry
moon
pecking
behind
the mask
magic-seekers
walking
on fire
with
wildness of passion
bewitching
nudes
without
silver wings
she
hugs angels in the blue
becomes
a star
wondering
the
sex of seashell--
nude
portrait
astral
energies
shifting
trajectories--
no
promises
intangible
psychic
insights:
moments
of muck
wash
the sheet clean
nags
my father in dream--
winter
morning
absent
spirit
planetary
transits:
halcyon
years
fail
to follow
divine
timing or sign:
soul’s
dimming flame
splash
the eyes
for
clearer vision:
faith
in tension
Taliban
march
no
Covid could stop--
unanswered
call
a
year of war
let’s
go fly a kite
sunny
day
high
minaret
recorded
call for namaaz
soul’s
melody
post-cyclone
stagnant
water in field--
fishing
drought
wearing
wishes
for
money miracles--
green
adamite
season’s
first rain--
still
await yellowing of
mangoes
on tree
missing
the gut
to
pick and choose numbers:
hangout
in vain
sky’s
canvas--
disfigures
in no time
my
funny face
post-retirement
a
nobodaddy--
missing
courtesies
memory
full:
fail
to store name and number
autumn
evening
she
dislikes my face
oily
with wrinkled hair--
stinky
armpit
warblers
fly back
seeing
the soft-stepping cats
in
the grassy yard
creepy
shadows
along
the muddy road--
big
bright moon
closed
Lion Gate
no
Sirius shines
August
8*
[*On August 8, spiritual gateway opens:
Sirius aligns with Orion’s Belt, the Pyramids of Giza, and the Sun in Leo;
hence the Lion’s Gate. The numerologists suggest that it’s time to align with
the highest Divine Self. ]
chaos
in sky
dark
with colour and light
rising
waves on stone
in
the wild
inner
echoes-
dragonfly
garden
edge--
morning
mist
in
the eyes
tarot
prophet:
taking
last order for
heart
cleanser
full
moon
a
frozen dot--
deaf
beyond
nearer
God
the
Cross on bedroom wall--
midnight
tears
unending
discourse
for
one-minute prayer--
pineal
testing
giant
wind--
sail
through the cavity
in
the tide
night’s
silence--
what’s
this raw whisper
beyond
the breeze
the
wind blows my way
the
year of metal Ox ends--
Water-Tiger
roars
can’t
erase
the
DNA of touch--
dragon’s
head
Vishnu
in stone
weight
of the universe--
sitting
tortoise
at
the entrance
five-headed
Hanuman:
chanting
mantra
violence
of voice
shrinking
rationality--
turbulent
light
eagle’s
shadow--
the
still boat on the bank
blank
page of tomb
climate
crisis:
light-bulb
in the head goes off
where’s
green future?
melts
under the feet
grey
sadness of sand on shore--
blue
waves in stone
seashore--
waves
rush to squeeze
feet
in sand
the
wet dawn
pre-empts
chilly sun--
early
spring
cloudy
night--
they
say it’s depression
I
can’t breathe
one
with granite tub
a
beetle in the bathroom--
silence
of dampness
each
winter
different
from the gone one:
virus
variant
so
old my crud
they
turn into remedy:
placebo
effect
physical
ageing
can’t
keep the mind whole:
unfriendly
moon
growing
grasses
corners
of the rusted gate
food
for stray cows
mid-June
morning-
gardener’s
muddy fingers
scratch
the itching scalp
sudden
screaming
from
the kitchen:
a
centipede
searching
the seed
in
layers of cabbage:
wok
on red flame
threatening
rain
dark
clouds hang over still trees:
smelly
clothesline
Chhat
volunteers
pushing
the pond’s green algae
smelly
roadside
down
the lake
with
tucked in beak
a
drowsy duck
drippy
night--
she
shuts the window
saves
her books
her
smile--
a
pair of empty gums
in
wrinkled light
a
new-born
bridging
the distance
between
two houses
stopped
at toy store
a
little girl still crying
for
unicorn
taking
selfie
with
her new mobile:
breast
feeding
smoke
of cow dung cake
and
roasting in shanty--
watery
tongue
smelling
turkey
leftovers--
thanksgiving
love
touch
spirit’s
spring time:
new
day
spicy
meatball
morning
anal bleeding--
All
Hallows Day
still
new
last
year’s mask:
Halloween
a
sweaty couple
sip
iced coffee in beer mugs--
highway
dhaba
loud
floor show shatters
light
and night break through the glass:
end
of a haiku
chill
in morning
inciting
to love-warmth:
linger
in bed
ageing
youth
without
smoke flame of fire:
blended
scotch
nude
statues
pursuit
of pleasure--
sex
tourism
party
till dawn--
calling
out sleepy hubby
her
water breaks
a
fleeting shadow
on
the kitchen wall--
last
breakfast
hands
sweaty
heart
pounding:
secret
message
they
watch from the street
our
embrace at the window
sneak
into liquor
birds
back to the tree
the
sim flame beneath my tea
hearing
chill whispers
Covid-struck
she
stares at her nails:
fading
face
anal
bleeding
frightening
beginning--
Year
of Dragon
on
the terrace
shadow
of black pigeons:
second
full moon
shadow
of coffin
togetherness
one last time
before
burial
breathless
search
for airy room
underground
old
diary-
finding
phone numbers
of
friends still alive
dark
fears-
loping
in the street
mantra
on lips
healing
vibrations
21/21*
–
winter
solstice
[*Astrologically, this day—winter
solstice on 21st of the year ‘21-- comes once in a 30-year cycle.]
wintry
morning
thick
smog
seroflo
puff
fragile
bloom
tending
the winter--
self-salving
miles
away
stars
cease to twinkle:
no
new moon
on
his epitaph:
he
died protesting land tax
on
his grave
last
tribute
a
gowpen of dust--
rise
again
people
trust
what
utopia looks like:
lighted
banks of Saryu
a
nibbling mouse
enters
the snake’s mouth:
guiltless
secret
Christmas
lunch
she
scooches over--
love’s
lightness
in
my flower pot
white
magnolia fading--
end
of the season
Copyright: R. K.Singh
AFTERWORD
The Narrow Road: R. K. Singh’s Haiku, Tanka and Beyond
“Alas
for mortality!
Underneath the helmet
A grasshopper.”
– Matsuo Bashō
(Translation by Donald Keene)
Poetry is the highest
art, so say some in citing the ancient Greeks and others. There is no use in denying such a claim. Poetry is foundational to all the other arts
– the etymology of “poem” itself, as we may recall, lends itself to, quite
literally, “something made,” which makes the claim self-evident. Poetry is concise. It must do more with less.
Each word must be packed. Each phrase must be packed. Packed rich with “sound
and sense” as the famed New England bard would instruct us. A poem is a failed poem that does not do
this.
To be an effective
poet, a concise poet, a good or great poet, one must be able to also see beyond
the proverbial veil. Each line must take
the creator and the reader on a journey to the barely speakable, seeable, and
translatable world of ideas. The melding
of the literal and metaphorical into a space that is beyond language that
grounds us in the now but is simultaneously transcendent is quite the trick.
Ram Krishna Singh is able to do this in this poetry, particularly in his own
species of haiku. In this regard, Singh has become a master magician, an
alchemist – taking base metals and turning them into gold.
Singh
is among my personal, top-five, living poets (writing in English or any other
language).
I
will not list the others here. Among
poets of all time, I rank him among a longer list of my personal favorites,
which includes Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Coleridge, Dickinson, Rilke, Pound, Plath,
Mary Oliver, and, of course, Bashō. These poets, at their best, created concise,
somewhat Bacchus-inspired, transcendent work. All of these, too, were
alchemists.
When
Pound writes “The apparition of these faces in the crowd: / Petals on a wet,
black bough” under the title ‘In a Station of the Metro,’ he is essentially playing with haiku form in
a powerful way. The title is the first
line, the description follows in the second, and then the kireji – the
turn to evocation. I know this has been noticed before but it bears repeating
in this context. Even though the syllable count may differ in this example in
Pound, and in Singh’s fondness of the 3 / 5 / 3 syllable counts per line (among
others) as printed here, both Pound and Singh honor Bashō’s approach.
drowsy eyes
sun behind the clouds
dreams wrapped up
And
another by Singh:
a night wolf
chomps the leftovers –
teeth in moon
There
is a truth Singh chases, a truth that is not predetermined. It arrives in the moment of “the turn” in
real, written-in-the-mind time. It arrives in a flash, I suspect, when the poet
is often in nature or in a “natural” personal or societal setting, prepped by
the poet’s willingness to observe and his keen eye for description – the very
sacraments of art itself. The process
takes into account a philosophical approach as well, perhaps. Emerson’s words here are better than mine:
“Standing on the bare ground – my head bathed by the blithe air and uplifted
into infinite space – all mean egotism vanishes. I become a transparent eyeball; I am nothing;
I see all; the currents of the Universal being circulate through me; I am part
or parcel of God.”
Singh,
I believe, through his work, seems to be an adherent of Transcendentalism. He
appears to be a realist, if not a cynic, at times, particularly when he speaks
of sex, or romance, or love; but, he also seems to desire, as indicated by his
artifacts of composed words, a connection to the spiritual world, like a true
amped-up Romantic, which he seems to acknowledge at every turn of phrase and
watchful eye and curve of pen, no matter the form or syllable count.
In
1952, R. H. Blyth, a prominent scholar of Japanese culture at the time, noted
of Bashō in Haiku:
Volume Four: “He is awake in the world that for almost all men exists as a
world of dreams.” I believe the same is true of Ram Krishna Singh as it is of Bashō. Singh is awake.
His
work is very worthy of a deep dive, all of it, in all forms -- in haiku, tanka,
and beyond. Basho’s The Narrow Road to Oku delivers large truths through
moments of enlightenment achieved by walking a long distance on a seemingly
narrow path. Singh’s journey is, perhaps, a bit longer, a bit wider, and a bit
more “modern.” However, the universal truths both poets sought, seek, and
captured in the written word are guided by an attitude of spirit that is
equally revelatory and sublime.
-- Kevin Marshall Chopson, M.F.A.
Four-time
Pushcart Prize Nominated Poet, Award-winning Experimental Filmmaker, Conceptual Artist / Performance Artist, Poet
Laureate of Gallatin, Tennessee
ABOUT THE POET
Ram Krishna Singh, born on
31 December 1950 in Varanasi (Uttar Pradesh, India), has been writing poetry in
English for about four decades. He has authored over 160 academic articles, 175
book reviews, and 56 books. His collections of poems include I Am No Jesus And Other Selected Poems,
Tanka and Haiku (English/Crimean Tatar, Romania, 2014), You Can’t Scent Me and Other Selected Poems(New
Delhi, 2016), God Too Awaits Light (California,
2017), Growing
Within - Desavarsire launtrica: haiku, tanka and other poems (English/Romanian; Constanta, Romania, 2018), There’s No Paradise and Other Selected Poems
Tanka & Haiku (French Edition, Riga, Latvia, 2019), Tainted with Prayers: Contaminado
con Oraciones (English/Spanish; Colombia, 2020), Silencio: Blanca Desconfianza/Silence: White
Distrust (Spanish Edition, Edición Kindle, Colombia,2021), Covid-19 And Surge of Silence/Kovid-19 Hem
Sessízlík Tolkȋnȋ (English/Tatar; Romania, 2021), Against the Waves: Selected Poems (2021), 白濁: SILENCE: A WHITE DISTRUST (English/Japanese, 2021), and Poems and Micropoems (Arizona, 2023).
Widely published and anthologized, and appreciated
for his tanka and haiku, R.K. Singh’s poems have been translated into several
languages, including Japanese, Greek, Italian, German, French, Irish, Spanish,
Chinese, Portuguese, Romanian, Crimean Tatar, Bulgarian, Russian, Slovene, Bosnian,
Hungarian, Croatian, Albanian, Farsi, Arabic, Serbian, Esperanto, Hindi, Punjabi,
Kannada, Tamil, and Bangla.
His awards and honors include Ritsumeikan University
Peace Museum Award, Kyoto, 1999, Certificate of Honor and Nyuusen Prize,
Kumamoto, 2000 and 2008, Life time Achievement Award of the International Poets
Academy, Chennai, 2009, Prize of Corea Literature, South Korea, 2013, Naji
Naaman’s Literary Prize, Lebanon, 2015, and nomination for Pushcart Prize,
2013, 2014.
Well known as an Indian English poet, haikuist and
ELT/EST practitioner, Dr Singh retired on 31 December 2015 as Professor (HAG) at Indian Institute of Technology--Indian
School of Mines, Dhanbad (India). More at: https://profrksingh.wordpress.com
https://rksingh.blogspot.com
https://rksinghpoet.blogspot.com https://profrksinghlistofpublications.blogspot.com/
and https://pennyspoetry.wikia.com/wiki/R.K._Singh.
email: profrksingh@gmail.com
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