poetry

poetry
Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 9 october 2019

The Seeker

Skin bleached in moon,
you prepare yourself tonight to hit the mystry,
 
of a recipient. The days are
tattooed on your body. The hands become claws.
 
A terrorist, becomes a canine,
biting blood-hot.
 
Like the opal, in a slow stream
of light, displaying the pisces around your―
 
eyes, swimming. There is no
money left to bring the milk of blue pain.
 
A physical contact via moon,
would you talk to me after the glorious sunset?
 
O, multiheaded cobra,
which of your hood is going to strike me


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 8 october 2019

Sunbath

The tibial spiking
now hurts.
The floaters on the dried bed―
 
of bones, speak volumes
of sand in eyes.
Pawns have disappeared.
 
The earth is wounded.
A snake climbs onto the pink lips
to know its crime.
 
The matter interacts wrongly
with radiation. Spectroscopy
fails up to the hilt.
 
On the spur of the moment
I ignite the shadow
of the space between us.
 
The miser starts counting the coins.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 7 october 2019

Musing On

There was an urgency―
to finish the job,
beheading the tulips.
 
Wolves were coming.
 
The surveillance had failed.
Nothing but clouds between
the titles.
 
Writing was illegible.
It was the last offensive
of blankness.
 
Before the dawn.
You have to draw a crescent
moon on my forehead.
 
I am going to scream.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 6 october 2019

Concealed Fever

It is raining.
The water colors.
I miss the ache.
 
When, to wear a crimson
dot on forehead, the sky
had become a bride.
 
Destiny fractured.
Why did't I tell the lies
 
to achieve the greatness?
Not my effects. I stare
blankly at your portrait.
 
Blaming the conceptual
crisis, you cannot speak the truth.
 
Weaving a web of unseen
threads, you hold a poem
ready to take a flight.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 5 october 2019

A Hanging Tale

Your hands tremble,
when you accept―
the cup of hemlock.
 
Not like Socrates,
who described the ascending bane
paralyzingly.
 
Art of letting it go―
was inherent. Exogamy.
The root population grows.
 
I have come to take
your hand, O death,
out of caste.
 
You tell me,
it was out of turn,
to stitch the black wound.
 
The howling was persistent―
Moon was not yet sighted.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 4 october 2019

Being Alone

Writing your own elegy in a
blocked artery―
 
for a syntactic analysis.
How do I know
 
that dolphin will remember
my name,
my address?
 
It swims silently.
No ranting.
 
Eating nothing― anorexia.
Standing under a tree,
tying the thread round the trunk,
you want to move against
the time.
 
Only a question
remains unanswered.
From where the journey begins?


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 3 october 2019

Not A Dream

Imperfect mating.
I am lurching forward―
in a chaotic
non-existence.
 
There was no divinity
in your sinless sprinkling.
A timeless death was
the only riposte to ephemeral queries.
 
A lif-size God stands
sentinel outside the museum.
Only the mortal were
etched on the walls.
 
A pygmy cycas has bloomed
after a decade. I have come back
home to collect―
my belongings of last life.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 2 october 2019

When Technology Fails

Your comatose
countenance:
punctuates a coronal spurt.
 
Life will never
forget this insult and return
your freak awards.
 
The moon cancels
a lake meeting. You cannot
celebrate the arrival of night.
 
Helplessly, I scrap
the terror threat, though
your memory was severed in an ambush.
 
At ground zero,
a young couple starts a sit-in
against the raining sermons.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 1 october 2019

Testimony

A wax house you were
gifted to live in sun.
No comments. As if the chess
game now starts. You do not know
how to move a checkmate
 
Always a looser. You do not
want to win this game― of
betting the cemetery― where your
ancestors were buried. No―
body has come to claim the remains.
 
Unkissed, the seeds will wait
to become antiqued, till a
historian finds a shovel. A
state of mind, you were very poor.
I will not cry for the fall's colors.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 30 september 2019

Moon Burning

I become again a fakir,
but not on alms.
 
A giver wants nothing
after a knife thrust.
 
Take away as many as
you can, my thoughts, my limbs.
 
There is no language
of charity, in the black hole.
 
You are the one, who
does not need any ladder.
 
Sitting on the beach, watching
the waves collapsing.
 
One day you will move
away from the walkway.


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