poetry

poetry
Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 17 january 2020

Skipping The Steps

A tree waits to hug me
after shedding the
leaves. The man
 
becomes a child, entwining
the snaking trunk
for a brush with infinity.
 
The supreme dedication
become humane, enough
to kill the non-man.
 
A lethal mix of
parodies brings a comic
relief to sparring partners.
 
After all you discover
the white fog, god-made
to unlisten the lyrics.


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RENATA

RENATA, 16 january 2020

dopadnę cię

dopadnę Cię krzyknął Zdzich 
ja wcale się nie będę kryć 
dopadnę Cię w wannie 
umyję starannie 
pagórki brzoskwiń kolumny ud
aż stanie się cud

Dopadnę Cię w windzie
nie uciekniesz nigdzie
będę mógł
dotrzeć do twych nóg
przez próg

Dopadnę Cię letnim popołudniem 
na schodach
połączymy dom herbatą przy stole
o czterech rogach
aby potem przekroczyć 
granice rzeczywistości
bliskość Twych warg 
rozgniotę swoimi
jak słodkie maliny
a Ty wcale nie będziesz 
krzyczeć gdy 

dopadnę Cię w trawie
kolorowe kwiaty będą podglądać ciekawie
wyłuskam z zielonej sukienki
czerwone maki i oczu błękit
zachwieję równowagę 
kiedy Cię dopadnę



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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 16 january 2020

White Lies

It was a glass house.
A burning boat capsizes
in milk body, creating
a schism.
 
Relentlessly, a classical theme
was furloughed. I
refuse to sell,
sell anything.
 
A deemed thought is
nurtured, hiring the
tall grasses, to hide
the kill. I am writing―
 
a poem of falling leaves
to eat the huge steps
of a giant, who started
the blood time.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 15 january 2020

The Immaculate Descent

The God refuses to accept
the infant universe.
After the elusive cues, there were
antique radiations to prove
that there was a diplomatic suicide.
 
A bit of grass,
some moon, little water
of eyes, the eternal embrace and
life starts earnestly in the
qualms of terror.
 
Washed out on the shores, comes
the body of liberty. The blood caked
limbs will tell you the tale
of tribal instinct, of mankind to
destroy the self, the
vessel and the sea.
 


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 14 january 2020

Standing In Fog

A diminutive moon
will ask about the infinity
of blackness, when I
was waiting in November night
of a toothed fall
in a missing success.
 
Ahead of time, you
punch the wailing trunk
of the fallen tree. I had the taste
of honey, but who am I,
a giver of anonymity?
 
Withering in a fire house
without door. I have come back
to know my ancestory. This
was my home once, in the
ancient history of man. This
was the gift, this was the dawn.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 13 january 2020

The Reverie

It was devastating.
Out of boredom, drops in
the moon, in the month October.
Hanging over a palm,
to shake hand with a
lone survivor,
a firefly.
 
A silvery silence
explodes in you face, before
you write a simple word
on the golden leaf.
 
And I must undo
the locks of complex, winged
life, which will not set―
me free from the funeral
pain. I am going to
meet myself, beyond you.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 11 january 2020

A Death's Kiss

Sometimes I do not
want to be talked about.
Like the setting sun.
 
The earthworm was busy
in turning the soil,
printing the seed's path.
 
I had removed, from
the house, all the clocks.
I wanted the time, to stand still.
 
My moment has not come.
In aloneness I will
find you in my shut eyes.
 
The dark night swims
once again, on the sea
to reach the boat.
 
You lay down your head on
the oars and go to long sleep.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 10 january 2020

Bitter Sweet

Autumn was round
the corner. I was preparing
for the fall.
 
The great wall
is crumbling. Will you
come for reunion?
 
Thea leaves,
I am ripening for you in sun.
Come like the moon's milk.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 9 january 2020

Broken Armour

I hear your voice
coming from within.
The disconnect, the cultural clash,
from river,
from tree,
from the golden nest.
 
The circle was complete,
breech birth,
the explicit insult.
 
The parched moon―
will bring the cold
tears, to extinguish the sparks
going home.
 
The roadway leads
to nowhere land. You will
again meet the wounded
cuckoo which will always sing
the hurts.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 9 january 2020

Without Destination

You come to me like
a fall.
All the colors have arrived.
 
The being, an entity―
multiplies. For now,
in past, in future.
 
A will not move away very far
from the dots.
A tangent will lead you to me.


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