Powerful People

POWERFUL PEOPLE: SINGING OVER BONES BY AMY SINGH

by Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri March 21 2025, 12:00 am Estimated Reading Time: 9 mins, 8 secs

Poet Amy Singh speaks on her debut collection, the power of poetry to heal, the politics of verse, and why true poetry must linger, unsettle, and transform its reader. Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri interviewed her.  

Poet Amy Singh unveils her debut poetry collection, Singing Over Bones, on International Poetry Day, 21 March. A trilingual poet, she masterfully crafts verses in Panjabi, Hindi, and English, drawing from personal and political landscapes. In this exclusive interview, she reflects on the birth of a poem, the role of poetry in healing, and its impact on social change. Singh discusses the influence of poets like Amrita Pritam, Louise Glück, and Shah Hussain, and shares her perspective on the explosion of poetry in the digital age. A poignant conversation on the enduring power of words in a world often dismissive of literature, this is a must-read for poetry lovers and literary enthusiasts alike.

I first came across the poetry of Amy Singh in a film directed by Vinta Nanda, #Shout. Among the many haunting images in what was a brave and brilliant film, Amy’s engagement with her poetry stood out. I spent the next couple of years trying to reach out to her. Finally, managing to do so at an event in 2024. We discussed the possibility of publishing her poems – and I was blown away by the depth of her words, the worlds they encompassed, and the fact that she wrote with equal felicity in three languages.

About a year later, her debut collection of poems is now ready for a release on International Poetry Day, 21 March. I spoke to the poet on her journey, on what poetry means to her, on the explosion of ‘poetry’ on social media, and the process whereby a poem is born.  

When did you realize there was a poet in you? When did you start writing?

I don’t know if there was a single moment of realization. Poetry was a quiet undercurrent before I even recognized it. I remember one of my earliest poems in Panjabi; it was about my relationship with my mother, juxtaposed with a flower’s relationship to its plant. I was probably six years old. I think poetry existed within me before I had the ability to own it. Perhaps I became a poet when I realized silence wasn’t enough, that I needed words to make sense of the world or my feelings. God knows how early it happened.

How is a poem born? Do you think there’s a moment of epiphany? Have you processed how a poem comes into being?

It’s different each time. Sometimes, a poem begins as an ache, something unresolved that needs a body. Or a thing of joy that wants to sing. Other times, it’s an image that won’t leave me alone. These days, I go to a café where they have this beautiful fish, all alone in an aquarium, and I feel it in my bones—it’s asking for a poem, or maybe a companion. Perhaps that’s what poetry is, a companion. Our imagination, observation, or lived experience triggers a moment of creation. In some, it takes the form of a scream, in others a painting, a song, a film. For me, it is a poem.

A poem, pared down, is a form of expression. And this creativity is happening all the time, like stars and nebulas coming to life, even as I write this. The moment that tells me, this is a poem, is when language begins to rearrange itself inside me, refusing to be ignored. I have tried to process how a poem comes into being, but it’s like trying to bottle wind. Every time I think I have an answer, the process shifts. Creativity is always in motion. Sometimes, things align enough for that energy to take the shape of a poem, just like stars sometimes become constellations.

Do you spend time rewriting, or does a poem come in one sweep of inspiration?

It depends on the poem. Some arrive in a single breath, fully formed, as if they’ve been waiting for me, like Daak, Yaani, or Khan Baba. Others require patience. I return to them, carve away the excess, sit with their silences until they sound like themselves. I try not to overwork a poem, though. There’s a moment when it stops feeling like revision and starts feeling like tampering with something that was meant to be left raw.

Some poems are also miscarried. Ones that were meant to be…but got lost because I meddled too much or not enough. They slip away into the universe, unfinished. I’ve learned to respect that loss too, but it’s very unnerving.

You write in Hindi, English, and Panjabi. How does your approach differ?

Each language carries its own weight, rhythm, and politics. Panjabi has an earthiness, an instinctual quality that feels rooted in my bones. Hindustani is lyrical, it’s the deep-feeling, filmi, romantic part of my expression. There are truths I can only speak in Panjabi because they wouldn’t hold the same emotional depth in English. But when I’m untangling my thoughts, arriving at an understanding, English becomes my medium. It is a language of wider connection and intellectual drill.

I don’t see a clear pattern yet. Perhaps it’s purely intuitive, but poems announce their language. I’m listening to each poem in its origin language and only recording it. During the lockdown, I wrote embarrassing Turkish poems while teaching myself the language. It was baffling how poetry started appearing in my head in this new language, which I barely understood. I think poetry comes to me in whatever language I open myself to. The poems choose me more than I choose their language.

You’ve spoken about dealing with depression and poetry coming to the rescue. Could you elaborate on the power of poetry to heal?

Poetry doesn’t erase pain, but it holds it. Sometimes, it also releases it. It gives me a way to name the hurt, to see it clearly instead of being swallowed by it. It has been a form of survival. When everything felt heavy, poetry gave me something small but certain to hold on to. The pain wasn’t my doing, but tending to it, reclaiming power over it, was.

It’s not just in writing. Reading poetry has been just as vital. When I was at my lowest, finding a poem that echoed what I couldn’t yet articulate made me feel less alone. Rumi, Kahlil Gibran, Hafez, Habba Khatoon, they all came to my rescue, from time to time. So yes, poetry has the power to heal. Not by fixing what’s broken, but by making space for it. Poetry is a safe place for all things wounded, all things aching.

Your poems have a strong social and political content. How did this come about? Do you believe in poetry’s ability to make a difference, especially in a country where books and the written word aren’t always valued?

I don’t think for me poetry and politics can be separated. My poems are deeply personal therefore inevitably political. Every act of bearing witness is political. My poems are shaped by the world I live in, by the injustices I refuse to turn away from. It’s natural to write political poems when you are participating in the political world.

Do I believe poetry can make a difference? Yes. Not in the way laws or policies do, but in the way it shifts something inside a person, plants a question, unsettles us enough to see differently. Even in a country where books may not hold immediate power, words travel in ways we don’t always anticipate. Daak: To Lahore With Love did. Yeh Kavita Ek Elaan Hai did during the anti-CAA-NRC protests.

Even today, I turn to poets who came before me. Faiz, Brecht, Forough Farrokhzad, bell hooks, Lucille Clifton, Guru Nanak they are not only naming wounds but tending to them. Poetry’s impact on humanity’s heart endures.

Who are the poets and poems that have influenced you?

Oh, many. The last poem in my book actually bows to them.

Amrita Pritam, for her truth. Louise Glück, for her precision and emotional clarity. Mary Oliver, for teaching me how to look at the world with reverence. Basho, for loving the moon and trees the way I do.

I also return to Shah Hussain. There’s something in his madness, his refusal to conform, that feels deeply familiar to me. Shiv Kumar Batalvi, Bhai Vir Singh, Pash, Lal Ded. I read poetry widely, and poets who love their isht, their land, their beloveds come to me as and when I need them.

The internet and social media boom has led to an explosion of poetry. A lot of it seems like a mockery of poetry. What’s your take on this?

Poetry has always belonged to the people, and social media has simply made it more accessible. Yes, there’s a flood of content, and not all of it is good. But who decides what’s mediocre? Poetry lives beyond gatekeeping. Some of it will last, some won’t.

What concerns me is how social media often reduces poetry to short, easily digestible pieces designed for quick consumption rather than deep engagement. In an era of fleeting attention spans and excessive digital noise, poetry is often treated as just another post to scroll past. But true poetry should linger, it should leave a mark, unsettle, inform. A part of you should be forever changed when you read a poem that moves you. Poetry is meant to be lived with, not just consumed in passing. Social media, with its emphasis on instant gratification or virality, often takes away that possibility.

What does it feel like to have your first book of poems? Can you tell our readers about the title and what it means?

It feels surreal, like releasing a part of myself into the world and hoping it finds a home. I am filled with excitement and joy, but also a deep nervousness, like being exposed in a way I never have before.

My debut poetry book is called “Singing Over Bones”, drawing from the folkloric tradition of La Loba, the wolf woman who resurrects an animal by singing over its bones. It is a fierce and tender reckoning with what remains after loss. It’s a decade-long journey of looking closely at all that has been hurt and all that has healed. These poems are coming to life for you and me.