Latest items:

poetry

Paweł Szkołut, 11 september 2017

Spring

As April’s green endures; or will endure
Like her remembrance of awakened birds,
Or her desire for June and evening, tipped
By the consummation of the swallow’s wings.
W.Stevens “Sunday Morning”

May - the miracle of spring

in increasingly longer days
the smiles appear more often on your face

but it could have been differently -
the sun would have extinguished
darkness would have reigned on the earth
and winter could have lasted forever

the entropy of the Universe
could have been reversed
and it would get narrower
to recur soon
to the primordial state of chaos

but now again - the miracle of spring
an infinite amount of the life forms
élan vital
there is more light around us
and it is slowly beginning
the celebration of flowering

but it could have been differently -
winter would dominate still
in your soul
and your heart could have shrunk
to return to the starting point -
beyond the horizon
of eternal love

IV 2008

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Satish Verma, 11 september 2017

Buddha Sleeps

After the plumes,
legs are blown off.
Your body smells of migration
and length of
wasted strings.

The questions will
never return.
Buried deep in crescent heart.
Do you have the authentic
information about the murder
of the crested tit?

The woodlands
will go without a song.
I will live in rotation
with biological grief of earth
and emotional blackmail
of moon.

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Paweł Szkołut, 10 september 2017

The White Doors

”In the universe, there are things that are known, and things that are unknown, and in between, there are doors.”
William Blake

There are doors
the white doors next to which
flowers don’t grow
nor butterflies fly

when opening
– they are being opened and speak up

the old high double-wing doors
placed in the infinite
space of the Universe
here among the yellow walls
of the prewar flat
they stand in a silent speech

they don’t evoke aesthetic feelings
rather they create a metaphysical silence
when I stand in front to
look and listen

then I am going through
and I eat an apple

there are the doors which
I am passing through
there is myself and the taste of a fruit

there is He who Is

1983

number of comments: 1 | rating: 1 | detail

Satish Verma, 10 september 2017

Becoming Oneself

Truthless,
I was searching the self,
in truth of life.

It leaves many
questions, unanswered.
There was import-

of risqué. The generated
heat would kill
ordinary answers.

You can tear up,
a mountain to release
the particles,

although invisible.
You stretch out your hands
to collect black currants.

For a kick-start
you start shouting.
I am the truth!

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Satish Verma, 9 september 2017

Anonymously

You want to cover
the great distance,
between you and lost innocence.

The imploded silence
will speak of
great murders.

I was going down-
the stairs,
to dig out the skeletons-

from the latched, oak
chest. The empty drawers
had the imprints of fallen ancestors.

Soon the eyes will
swell, with salt of
a frozen sea.

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Satish Verma, 8 september 2017

Heart Of The Matter

A man,
in the shadow of a child,
walks, for the sake of
phylogenesis.

The Great Bustard,
was on the brink of
extinction. Somebody
was not an achiever.

Seeking,
an inborn god in thighs,
for running faster than light,
weightless, faceless.

Dust will take,
dust for the dark matter
sequencing a disaster.
The animal within roars.

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Satish Verma, 7 september 2017

Earth's Intelligence

Do not open this dirt file of
the suspended time. It reverberates
in me while standing
on the edge of a precipice.

Are you hungry of a desert
light in dark. The birds are
going to follow the sun carrying
the moon on their wings.

A dream creater stands on
a golden rock to retrieve
the archaic relic of a Desinovan
who hit the grave without shoes.

The greed ultimately takes over
the silent death.

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Satish Verma, 5 september 2017

Time-Lapse

The particles,
spreading a weird cult.
You were colliding with moons
daily.

It was a bird call
under a gilded, cold, dark
sky. The desire was immense
than the meet.

You just wanted to feel
the hurt; flaunting an
erosion. A coherently large
body. Is that a mass-

of goddammed invisible?
It was my harvested pain,
the lost virginity of a
spot. The exit war starts

for a gentle colossus.

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Satish Verma, 4 september 2017

Virtuous Or Vicious

No words,
no thoughts,
remained unkissed, unwed
by a shapeless white death.
Still under the spell,
I squatter before the moon,
peeling off, to receive
the ultimate.

I am trying,
to find the roots,
of unknown.
Breaking protocol, for a
moron liability, unclouding
the dark sky. It was homecoming
of a Michelangelo to repeat
the performance.

I want to write
a dirty poem

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Satish Verma, 3 september 2017

In Private

A bruise-
opens up again.
Why you did not know,
how to stop, in the blue night,
under the shadow of
god particles?

A glimpse-
of the naked form;
the size, the shape,
unsettles the script, the committed
dogma. Why you were still
unvisible, O glory?

Absurdity-
of the beliefs.
Life becomes a peddeler.
I don’t want to go to any bazaar
now. A poem is good enough
to move on.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

10 - 30 - 100

Latest items:

poetry

Spring

Buddha Sleeps

The White Doors

Becoming Oneself

Anonymously

Heart Of The Matter

Earth's Intelligence

Time-Lapse

Virtuous Or Vicious

In Private

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