poetry

poetry
Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 16 september 2019

An Elegy

The abundance spills on my
torn shirt, when I was
gathering your voice.
 
The affiliated sore
begins to fester in your face―
after flying a kite.
 
It blurs, when you give
a speech, manipulating the lives
of innocent bystanders.
 
When you were heaving the numbers,
I was holding on the poems, like coins
not your paper thoughts.
 
Being blind was not becoming
a Buddha in the garden.
Suicides were increasing every day.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 15 september 2019

Killing Yourself

It was a flame in the drizzle:
a golden peacock.
I was trying to understand
the Adam and Eve.
 
Between X and Y, my
heliograph stood in the foliage of words.
The hetero factor was generating heat.
 
The mitochondrial Eve will
search the land where the seeds were
dispersed. The swinger was still
active in the dark.
 
You have missed the bomb.
The laser-fed boom landed―
in the crotch of death.
The black dust covered the grave.
 


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 14 september 2019

Where Dreams Live

Despite the great divide
a dialogue must ensue, between
earth and sky.
 
This was a climacteric change, when
you cannot land on your feet,
after the rainfall.
 
The criminal assaults, rapes
and homicides, bring the species
on boil. The books are our god.
 
You cannot start a group
conflict, skirting the question
of mining the gold.
 
The void within widens, you
will not tell my dreams. For each
star I had picked up a soul.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 13 september 2019

Kidnapped

Lamenting, what not to―
think. Condemned to burn
the words daily.
 
The dwindling values tear open
the sit-ins of faith. I was
not ready to become a stone.
 
A busy vessel sends daily, the
blood to remote memories.
I look askance at the falling peaks.
 
A dog star following the
heels of master with blinders. No
straight vision. Time was the
mystery of the clock.
 
The moon is nowhere
in sight. I was starving
for a cardinal pain.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 12 september 2019

From The Edge

You were becoming more prone
to violence, confronting
the moon. Heat was rising.
 
Like a mongrel, twirling
round and round in dirt,
to sit in.
 
It was very dangerous, the
racial thought of eliminating
oneself in the mainstream.
 
A morphogenic change
was visible. Why were you
shrinking in horror?
 
The group pain was getting
a hold of me. I am not
sure, what I will do now.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 11 september 2019

Picking Up The Threads

No attachment with the
alma mater. You have
eaten away all the grass.
Bounteous breast was empty.
 
Like a nun, dropping
the robes, the moon was rising.
Would you meet her in dark?
 
The night wanted to come
and sit in your lap.
Let us play with cowries.
 
You know my life was
never in the hands of god.
I was a walking tree.
 
So simple were the means
of death. Nobody knew
who was me.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 10 september 2019

From The Streetlamp

Hits you in the face, 
disseminating the chivalry 
of fragile connotation. 
 
A virtue slips away from― 
your hands, when you think 
what is a pain. 
 
Then the poem starts 
writing about the pen 
which had no ink. 
 
You need courage to― 
smash the mirror which 
was telling the truth. 
 
And the complexity of 
relationship comes, to the fore, when 
the belief was stronger than love.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 9 september 2019

The Raging Storm

A scavenger fails to thrive
in upward mobility.
The emotion becomes a virtual,
collects all the garbage
and becomes negative.
 
There are only varied questions
of different shades, and
no appropriate answer.
 
A fantasy remonstrates with the diminutive moon.
 
Stone pelting becomes a daily
ritual with the song. There
was no music in the language.
 
Scarves were few. And it
was very cold―
out in the chilled dark.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 8 september 2019

Influenced By Lingua Franca

Be precise, I would say.
The definition was changing― of the sand,
in our eyes.
 
Who was going to judge the
translation of sex? There was no man, no woman
in terms of misery.
 
The nights were deluged.
Days dry. My grains refuse to grow under―
the timeless sun.
 
The mother tongue is
laced with fluid endurance. I stand in
a storm, breathless.
 
The absent death
mocks at the living dead. How many times
you will go to the river?


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 7 september 2019

Great Defiance

A smear campaign starts
against the ladder, which permits―
the ascension, but leaves the spaces in between,
of dark. You stand still.
 
The hunger becomes the mouth―
of rags. I will come and collect
some numbers.
 
It was useless to hunker―
after the game. The fear will ultimately
start a monologue.
 
On bees, I will build a
synopsis. The sleuth always falters
when the moon hides.
 
A canned script draws the
scorn. The player had become grey―
in dark.
 
A bunch of mushrooms,
like tall girls, standing
in wind, gossiping.


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