A Poet’s Journey Across Continents, Memories and Madness
Singaporean writer Hamant Singh shares the inspirations behind his poetry collections, blending horror, philosophy and personal history into vivid, chaotic, and deeply human expressions.
Hamant Singh brings a fearless intensity to contemporary poetry, weaving together threads of horror, philosophy, and cultural identity with unnerving clarity. A Singaporean writer now based in Guadalajara, Mexico, his work spans continents and genres, from the haunting lyricism of The Sibyl to the raw introspection of VALTOHA. With a background shaped by life across Southeast Asia and a deep engagement with the occult and the Sublime, Singh’s voice is as global as it is deeply personal. In this conversation, we explore the experiences and philosophies behind his critically recognised collections, his experimental approach to form, and the visceral collaborations that continue to shape his evolving body of work. Singh’s defiant stance on the writing process, his rejection of traditional advice, and his fascination with chaos offer a compelling portrait of a poet unafraid to confront the unknown.
A bold and uncompromising voice in modern poetry, Hamant Singh crafts work that challenges, provokes and lingers in the imagination.
How do your experiences in Singapore and Mexico influence the themes and styles in your poetry collections?
In addition to Singapore and Mexico, I have also lived in Indonesia, Thailand, Myanmar and Vietnam. As a result, several motifs and themes that are unique to these countries appear frequently in my writing. I also have quite a bit of experience with the magical practices of these countries and these references can be found in my poetry as well. With all that said, I try to write about themes that everyone can relate to, not just those from the countries I’ve lived in.
Could you elaborate on the inspiration behind ‘VALTOHA’ and how it differs from your previous works?
I’m glad you asked! VALTOHA sticks out like a sore thumb and doesn’t match anything that I wrote before or after. The rest of the catalogue is mostly made up of dark poetry and horror but VALTOHA is a non-fictional narrative about my relationship with my grandfather that I’ve never met. All of it is based on true experiences where I went to India in search of my grandfather’s village. We found it nestled in Punjab amongst betrayal, old history and family we’ve never met. It was the resurrection of my grandfather’s memory and an incredible story that just begged to be written into a book.
‘The Sibyl’ received notable recognition, including a nomination for the 2022 Rhysling Award. How did this acknowledgment impact your writing journey?
‘The Sibyl’ was my first ever collection of poems and it was nominated for a number of different awards, including the preliminary ballot for the Bram Stoker Award. It will always be a very special collection to me and seems to have defined me as a writer. These days I am more focused in moving away from the preconceived notions that readers have of me. The themes I write about are still dark, depressing and explores things that most people avoid thinking about. I like to think that I have evolved from writing about chaos to actually writing chaotically.
In ‘NÁUSEA | CONFESIÓN’, you explore inebriation through various forms. What challenges did you face in conveying these complex states in poetry?
‘NÁUSEA | CONFESIÓN’ is indeed quite a complex exploration of inebriation to the point where it actually examines madness. It explores various types of inebriation including, anger, murder, and even an orgasm. The text brings the reader face to face with the abject figure of the inebriated person. I think the biggest challenge in writing this one was perhaps the manner in which I wanted to arrange the lines to provoke thought.
Your collaboration with Mexican writer Pedro Tsamaxan in ‘NÁUSEA | CONFESIÓN’ is intriguing. How did this partnership shape the final work?
I met my dear friend, Pedro Tsamaxan in the mountains of San Cristobal de las Casas in Chiapas, sometime in 2022. At the time, he had just released his first collection of poetry. We naturally became fast friends over our mutual love for writing, horror and of course, alcohol. We decided to collaborate on a collection and then began to conceptualise what is now the finished ‘NÁUSEA | CONFESIÓN’. It was certainly very helpful to have another drunk sat next to me that I could engage in discourse with.
‘CHAOS: RRR’ delves into binaries and dichotomies. What personal experiences or philosophies influenced this exploration?
In many ways, ‘CHAOS: Remnants of Ruptured Reflections’ is a twisted afterthought of ‘The Sibyl’. It felt like there needed to be something else after the first book so I began writing this collection. I decided to not only write about Chaos but to also make reading chaotic. As you mentioned, the book is made up of pairs of poems that end in the middle and the idea to do this comes from a few different sources. The conceptualisation was mainly derived from the Left Hand Path vs. Right Hand Path discourse in magic and Buddhism’s Middle Path philosophy. The concept was also influenced by the writings of Hegel and Foucault.
As a writer inspired by the Sublime in horror, different cultures, and the occult, how do you balance these diverse influences in your poetry?
I don’t think I want to balance each of those elements in a single poem, as much as I let each individual theme breathe (or, fester) in a poem. Multi-faceted poems are so much more interesting because they allow for dialogue. All art should stir the emotions and generate discussion. Otherwise, it would have failed. Horror as a genre has also become so diverse that I think all the other elements blend quite easily into it. I think it is important for poetry collections to be conceptually tight and not just be random, unconnected poems stapled together. I consciously keep my themes in mind and ensure they overlap as I write the collection. Some of my poems are nothing more than hymns that worship Chaos and specific entities.
What advice would you offer to emerging poets seeking to blend cultural elements and personal experiences into their work?
I have never believed in giving advice for several reasons. We are each a product of peculiar spatiotemporal conditions that determine we are all different. Why on earth would I want to point someone down the path that I took? Every writer and artist needs to figure their own way through their art and create their own path. I hate speaking to people who agree with me; disagree with me and we shall both learn something! To add on to this, I also don’t consider myself in a position of authority to tell others what to do. Instead, I tell other writers what I think. When we examine this act of giving advice deeply, it seems that the only people that give advice are in fact, fools.
