I’ve been noticing you every day now. I know it’s not at all unusual for you to appear about now, in what is called midwinter or February thaw by those of us who are optimists. I remember how you love so much attention this early. Poets are clamoring to write about the crocus, shut-ins are all smiles and contentment at the sight of any color in the deep of winter. Every time I walk up the driveway, I see you peeking up through the wiry, belligerent juniper bushes. You’re the Show Off, even though the junipers have blue berries. They lack confidence; they feel rejected for shedding needles at inopportune times, but they too are beautiful in their uniqueness. And the dogwoods, they have no flowers at all in February, but look at those crimson red branches. Yes, people will take another look at the leafless dogwood, if only for the beauty of the branches. Still you, my tiny friend, are the Winner, but be humble my friend; always remember your true origin.

Velvety purple, pure white and glorious sunburst yellow make a delightful sight. Considering all the snow we’ve had this year, I suppose you expect to be aahed and oohed, but knowing, even in your denial, that you might be covered again with the wet, cold, white stuff. You bask in the conversations, “did you see the crocuses? They’re up! Be careful. Don’t step on the crocuses!” Yikes. That would hurt, wouldn’t it?
It’s been a beauty contest the last two weeks and you are number one. But yellow daffodils, and creamy narcissus are coming up any time now. You know the other risks you take, being the first one to show your face. Yes, you will be the first to abandon your flowers, and then your leaves, only to reflect and renew yourself for another season. You’ll have a time of repose, after your stems wilt and hide underground, nourishing yourself for next year’s smile of winter thaw. Again, you will be the beauty. Don’t be too proud; don’t ever forget where you came from.

Durlabh Singh: Paintings, Poetry and Essays

About Durlabh

Durlabh Singh is an artist currently living in London, England. He was born In Nairobi, Kenya of Indian parentage. He has lived in London for over 40 years, though he serves as an international artistic ambassador to the world.

He holds a Bachelor of Science degree from Panjab University in Chandigarh, India, as well as a Master of Arts in Visual Arts and PhD in English Literature.

He is an active member of the International Artists Association, Free Paints and Sculptors in association with the Menier Gallery of London, the British National Artists Association and the UK and European Union Migrant Artists Network.

His art has been exhibited and is housed in private and public collections all over the world including India, Kenya, Spain, Italy, Germany, Switzerland, Belgium, Finland, Paris, France and New York, New York.

Some of the public displays for his art are including, but not limited to the UK Ministry Of Defence in London; the World Trade Center Disaster Fund Office, New York City; the offices of Oxfam.UK; The Kinsey Institute for Research at Indiana University; the Wild Life Trust of India, Delhi; the Loggia Gallery in London; the corporate offices of British Petroleum, Britannic House in London, the Blackfriars Theatre and Arts Centre in Boston and the prestigious Horniman Museum, also in London, England.

He is also an accomplished poet having published in over 300 publications worldwide. He has written and illustrated several books including his critically acclaimed poetry collection, Chrome Red, the chapbook Invisible Lore and a fascinating collection of short stories, Kama Sutra of Love. His latest novel is In The Days of Love.

Durlabh’s Message

Since R. Mutt's (Marcel Duchamp) ill-advised “urinal” creation in 1917, visual art in the western world has suffered a shock and a decline. It has become mere conceptual and has reverted to those former literary traditions of making statements, both social and political. Abstraction has become a puritan's attitude of non-depiction of human body in a dignified form. My art is a sort of revolt against this kind of pseudo-intellectualism.

My art takes account of both biological & metaphysical aspect of human body. It is a breakthrough to new levels of reality creating significant forms necessary for development of human spirit. My aim is to add new dimensions to contemporary art through language
of colour, innovated forms and expressions.

I welcome any suggestions or comments regarding my work. If anyone is interested in buying please contact me. My primary aim, artistically speaking, has never been financial gains.”

Claws of Moon.

Claws of Moon.





--    , Dental--

Golden Temple

The Moon

The moon

Oh catch the moon

Put a noose in its nose

Bring it back to harness

The icy wilderness of the noon

Sprinkle it with flowered dew.

Catch it before it runs

To penumbra of sun hide itself

Oh run and run to recover

From suffocation of grief & bart

Stiffen its dust with tears

Or the ceremonial flood

Of the tidings of the present

The anti poetic

Peregrine of the sedged cart

The olibanum of crushed heart.

The moon

Oh catch the moon

Catch it till it runs

To the hilliard mansions

The septic pun

Where the master of hounds sleep

With his metallic face

Turned to the wall

Where under the greenish shadows

Shines the dool

The moon

Oh catch the moon

Catch it before it runs

To the penumbra of the sun.



You asked me to

Sell my land

How could I sell my land

It would be like

Selling my soul

Selling the skies above

Presences in the airs

Sparkle of the waters

Memories in dark woods

Green meadows and

Sounds of humming bees.

Where sentry stand guarding the mists

Ghostly reflections among the sandy shores

The sap that runs through pine needles

The blood that courses through my veins

The heats generated by the shaggy pony

And my brother’s bear, deer and the eagle soar.

The rivers are my brothers

They quench my thirst, they feed me

Show me kindness, live my life

Feel me heal me bathe me knead me.

The earth is my mother

She nourishes me flourishes me

Perfumes me with flowers

Feeds me with corn

Sings me lullabies

Feels me in her pain

Renews me clues me with mystery.

Do not force me to sell the elements

My mother earth my brother river

My sister wind the sap in my brain

Gods of my visions heaven Striven

All my spirits among the forest frames.

The Bride

The Bride



Woven By Sunsets

Woven by sunsets

She sharpens her claws

To take revenge on victims

To prove her ability to storm.

Broken charade of her life

Concealed under glance of beauty

A beauty that soon be fading

Turning skeletons of bare bones.

I wish she had fester feeling

To see high seas or starry nights

The lone pathways of her mind

Wish could whisper into her pains

Sorrel advent of some new dawn.

Her claws are sharp

Her teeth are blood soaked

She would never command

Some chilling call for intimacy.

Only the empty ego

Of her awakenings

Will rule over the stubbornness

And all her artless meanderings

May end in a wanton wilderness.



Poetry as a Way of Action


Our universe is an intensely vast entity and it may be hard to find anywhere else, our kind of life.

Durlabh Singh

We may be the carriers of a unique kind of consciousness but which we are reluctant to explore
fully. The field of our consciousness can be as vast as the universe.

Beside our personal & collective consciousness there may be other kinds of consciousnesses
and which we are reluctant to admit We always act from a very narrow egotistical point
of view. Poetry is a way of looking from a broader viewpoint thus gaining access to wider
realities of world and existence. It seems a sheer waste of life as to always live within narrow
confines of purely rational life.

A poet worth his salt should be able to break the barriers of programmed living and of trivial
indulgences of our daily lives.

Poetry is not a dead entity of rhymed lines or blank versifications, of an exhausted mind bleeding
under blows of cruel fate but is a defiant and energetic activity of human soul.

The greatness of human mind consist not simply in amassing wealth or fame but in discovering
new worlds, in keeping with artistic dignity of human spirit and this greatness is not of space and
time but of creative spirit and this vision gives significance to our fleeting mortal lives.

One category of metaphysics defines the absolute reality as ‘emptiness’ or ‘ nothingness’ but we
should not take it as being a vacuum for nihility but something beyond ‘thingness’. We put a
frame around everything and call it thingness. It just defines the boundaries of our understanding.

This ‘shunyata’ is like the virgin sands on a sea shore after the tide have washed away all the
scattered litter and sand castles. These sand castles may be defined as ‘Maya’
or illusion in popular sense but in deeper sense this very maya is the creative reality. The creation
of world around us, which is to a large extent, is our own creation, a collective consciousness.

It becomes an illusion only when we hold on to past forms, the traditions, the hero worship of our
idols or our efforts to keep the status quo, as inherited in our traditional attitudes. But
this individual creative aspect of our conscience can become a poetical anomaly resulting in new
awakening and liberation from mundane realities of our own making.

Sahib mera nit navan
Sada sada daata

My God is new everyday
He is the giver (of newness)

(Sikh Scriptures)

So God or reality is new everyday and we must keep pace with this newness. It is no use running away
from daily flux and seek refuge in old forms or past experiences. One should be a creative warrior
and fights the battles of life by producing works that resonate with our inner spirit. In our life there are
certain premises where neither contemplation nor physical action can give full satisfaction but our heart
cries for such creative vision.

With daggers drawn and swords clashed of steel
With dauntless courage and linked suffering for feel
The merciful warrior forwarded amid fight and pity
For both his friends and foes
Now drenched in bloods of futility.

Frets and fears of egoism now laid aside
His only concern now became
To fight for the liberty of his mind
Not for diversions or for abandoned castled dearth
Not for the prized glory in the eyes of the world.
Driven to edge for his hatred of tyranny
He showered his message of dignity for all sundry
His hand extended for support without caste or creeds
Amid sanctity of sufferings and all hallowed deeds.

Scribing Bachittar Natak his dramatic verse
Wondrous play of nature amid works of divine
Worlds of action or of contemplation
Beyond the little thine or mine
In jungles of Trai & Machiwara his tortures confined.

Here where men hate and taste blood in consummation
Indifference in ignorance of vultured eliminations
Great loss of innocents of his sons he endured
Among bitter smites but his poise he secured
The Sant Sipahi then reluctantly took to his sword
To defend dignity of Hind against marauding hordes.

Copyright © 2008 Durlabh Singh.

Durlabh Singh Websites

The Role of the Artist and Writer

by Rebekah Moan

On Wednesday, I had a full-on meltdown. I’m talking lying on the floor while tears streamed down my cheeks. What precipitated the meltdown was feeling like I’m not fully utilizing my talents, and at the same time unclear what precisely that means. What am I doing with my life and how can I make money doing what I love? Add in a dose of doubt that my dreams are even possible, and you have a synthesis of my breakdown.

I think primarily I’m struggling against making art and making money. The age-old conundrum. My spiritual teacher says it’s the duty of society to support its artists because artists are pioneers. “If those who are the pioneers of society … if they are forced to starve or half-starve, this will certainly not be to the credit of human society. It is unthinkable that these creative geniuses should curse their own fate.”Read More!