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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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 8 january 2020

Fractured

Blunt and bold were
the wet spots.
You bleed like me.
 
The seizure takes hold
of millions thoughts.
My sins are walking with me.
 
No annihilation of
the flesh. I was meeting
the spirits.
 
The face becomes pure
gold, when you
start burning the issues.
 
The years had survived
in slumber.
Death will not come to the hanged man.


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RENATA

RENATA, 7 january 2020

związki nie całkiem bezpieczne

***
związało  ich życie strumieniem piwa
           fontanną wręcz
raz jedno raz drugie się kiwa
wśród krzyków ' do matki precz

                        ***
chciała być jak opoka
co trzyma bramy świątyni
została trofeum 
w chlewie u świni

                   ***

jesteśmy sobie przeznaczeni
mówili wszem i wobec
połączyły ich dzieci 
podzieliły pieniądze

                     ***
jaki on dobry mamusiu 
nawet obiady gotuje 
na pięćset puls uczciwie zarobił
i już pracą się nie przejmuje
                    ***

latały łabędzie parami
swoim niebem górami lasami
ten trzeci wbił się na chama
oj moja będzie ta dama

 zdradzona istota
 łzy pod poduszkę chowa
 w egzekucji trzeciemu odda
 karmy wodospad 
                 ***


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 6 january 2020

Night Spots

Tonight the moon will sit
on the gazobe,
to have a look at the sea, rising.
 
*
 
On the night's shade
dewdrops will wait, till
morning glory blooms.
 
*
 
It was a long night.
My lamp starts to flicker.
I hurry up to finish my poem.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 5 january 2020

Unthreading

It was a damp kiss
of an image.
Dispassionately you drop
an old coin into my hands.
 
Faithless in your poem.
I adored the Venus in twilight.
Carnation. A rose pink color,
appears in your eyes.
 
Rising from the marshy
slush, greater flamingos
keep watch underneath, at the
army of urns.
 
The sameness now dithers.
You want to weave the moon
in your breast, unpreparing
to open the heart.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 4 january 2020

Many Shades

The brown rice were
not yet ready.
An old man turns in grave.
 
*
 
The thingness
was shapeless in dark
Like a sleeping Buddha.
 
*
 
Once I told a lie.
The snow started melting
releasing methane.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 3 january 2020

Crumbling Down

Can you understand
the agony of a titan, which
cannot afford to show its fall?
 
Missing the defeat―
no one was victorious.
Battle cry was a phantom.
 
The questions, that were
fluttering in a storm―
had become the sufi fakirs.
 
It was a dirty stricture.
The colors had stopped flowing.
Even the death has lost its terror.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 2 january 2020

Uninviting Destiny

I would not understand
your fabric, when you come
wearing only smile.
 
The politics of life was beyond
my poetry. I only have the words
as my wealth. No other assets.
 
I wanted more space
between the black holes. My earth
needs a rebirth. I am very lonely.
 
Poison poems. You always
sparred with a family of weighting
heights, which could not touch the sky.
 
A series of serial killers,
were ready to begin the assault
on the tossing daffodils, deaf, dumb and blind.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 1 january 2020

Too Crowded Was Arena

I felt you, through your
words. Tight and
crisp. But you remained untouchable.
 
For thousand of years
a lity of valley
cried, to get a dove's cooing voice.
 
The musk deer will not
leave its domain. Some
poems were hungery of its hideout.
 
An ordinary day of fall
starts the inferno. Syllable
by syllable in colors.
 
The dilemma of drinking
the hemlock at one go.
How would I describe the ascending paralysis?


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 31 december 2019

Wounded And Alive

In search of wholeness,
the words sit around me
cutting the edge of the corn ear.
 
A new shibboleth, will
announce the arrival of
a bloody tribe.
 
In this life cycle, I
will meet you, to kidnap
a Pir for remaining silent.
 
Who was on the road
to give a sane advice
to the waning roses?
 
It was not poemtime.
The kids were bleeding
from the barbs of unknown.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 30 december 2019

How Blue Was My Country

The godman also had
an underbelly.
He lost his vision,
came full circle.
 
Now paper lamps
float in rows
on tear effect.
 
An underdog―
becomes a horseman,
follows the royal buggy
with a naked king.
 
The verdict was
very simple.
It was a nightmare.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 28 december 2019

Turning To Dark

I believe in you, O tidal
mouth, where the salt
meets the stream.
 
I never had any God
to put the fish in desert to swim,
and someone can write a poem.
 
I am not different
beyond the unwritten
miracles. I cannot undo a cliché.
 
It is still my dharma ―
to listen to unheard cosmic
chants of blue birds.
 
And I reached the emptiness
of a vessel, which had
spilled over the milk of seeds.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 27 december 2019

A Spirited Dust

Was it a calculated
risk, when it was poetry,
 
falling like rains
on the parched lips
 
of yellowing pages.
Like the stones of a
 
grey mountain,
singing a hymn to blasts,
 
pick pocketing the sun?
I start reading the anatomy
 
of violence, ever, never
easy to understand.
 
Lots of red blotches
were spread on the tiny figures.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 26 december 2019

Each Day

The suffering
was suffering.
You pay for it.
 
There was no point
in returning, to fumble.
 
Sodium or Potassium
fluoride will make it lethal.
 
New crack's open the
mind, like a walnut.
 
God's creation―
lies in halves.
 
Take it, or reject it,
the maze of words―
 
describing the brutality
of life's half-truths.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 25 december 2019

Beyond Words

Skinned alive, as
an aftermath of speaking
against the unhinged
blue gods.
 
Like cacti: growing
straight towards the sky
exploring the questions,
you open a can of paint.
 
The secret spills. In
happenings, you will find
some poems, written
for tribes of flowers.
 
The colors sings at the
feast of tearfalls.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 24 december 2019

No Revenge

Penultimately,
I pick up my choice
of not accepting my defeat.
 
The grades were falling.
Yet my limbs move
on fine grains of salt.
 
I will write, blue names
with chalk
on the blackboard of―
 
a teacherless life.
The disasters had helped me
to redefine the attachments.
 
The jail-break was
imminent Moon was coming
out from the nemesias.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 23 december 2019

The Deep Cut

Under your baton,
The targets are being
identified. Moon will
find out the hiding
of muse.
 
A purple rhythm
will not be stymied
in bud. Hold the
ground. Sun was setting
very soon.
 
I have not heard the
boots of departure
as yet. The music
will go on till the
last breath.
 
A very positive black.
With closed eyes, you
sit in meditation―
until the flames arrive.
 


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 22 december 2019

What Was Left

A veiled threat,
a muffled cry. It was not human.
 
No beast, no monster
yet unhuman.
 
The feel of wolf's
lair, was there in dark.
Anything would happen.
 
You wanted to become
a self-proclaimed divine Being.
Yet, you were not a god.
 
A black pit opens. Do not shout.
The clogged artery had bursted.
 
I give you back your city
you can scale the high wall
and jump into eternity.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 21 december 2019

For Heaven's Sake

In shreds,
the day has passed.
At night, I will touch;
the unasked questions.
 
You were sending, the
soap bubbles, like
swans carrying the messages.
 
The weather changes. A
fantasy becomes real.
The moon has missed the night.
 
Like the Morse code, there was
a flurry of taps, the
blank paper flies for a rite.
 
It is dawn, breasted and melting.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 20 december 2019

Tall Slogans

A futile attempt to go
for a collection spree.
You got only the numbers.
 
It had to happen. The drums were beating.
 
The minority suffers
in the hands of many gods.
 
Between the black
and white, will it be last battle?
 
Temples were asked to
give the details of divine―
winds and the red moons.
 
There was a spiritual conflict,
without giving any purpose.
You cannot dissect
my poems.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 19 december 2019

The Ire

Encrypting the cause―
of death. Why do you
truss up the statement?
 
Tell me, whom you were
punishing, accepting
the legitimacy of lies?
 
 
Anything would happen
to the author,
who was writing a diary
on the fallen saint.
 
The palace fumes. There
was an extraordinary delay
in execution of
fire spoons.


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