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poetry
Satish Verma, 21 april 2015
Bon Voyage
Absolute yes or no
makes you wish
not to understand philosophy
of semipermeable life.
Sort of, lies pass through,
truth is left behind.
The fingerprints don’t speak
the identity of runaway minutes.
Somewhere you fail miserably,
break the cushions
and lie on thorns
to feel the terror of time.
Where the birds have gone?
Trees have startled the sky.
The staircase is broken.
Bon voyage to blue eyes.
B.Z. Niditch, 20 april 2015
PLAYING HANDEL
Playing Handel
in my mind and head
playing you
for a month at a time
at the end of the war
hearing the rain
falling like the 1945 nails
of the Cross
on one small corner
of the universe
in sound proof studios
on the ball infields
or by the ocean sands
under a beautiful foreign sun
washed bodies of water
with you swimming out,
your notes not lost in visiting
to honor the righteous
in the concentration camps,
when you feel
like a thousand days
of long suffering,
we can always hear you.
B.Z. Niditch, 20 april 2015
WHAT IS NATURE
Say to the clouds
give up your rain
to the scaffold
give up your poets
who want to live,
to the grassland
stay back for March
for soccer games
to the dunes
crush the sap of Maple
for your morning pancakes,
by the marshes
have a cup of Bourbon
from Paris here in Warsaw
to remember me by
who will always
be back to the edges
of nature.
B.Z. Niditch, 20 april 2015
WHEN A NEW VOICE ARRIVES
The sun disquiets
our memory
as a surrealist poet
signs autographs
against the elm
after his urban read
then after a party
in his honor
plays his alto sax
from chapped blinded lips
addressing the eager crowd
on the riverbed peace garden
recounting my a double life
as a poet and musician
asking only
that millstones be created
from language into bread
on a hungry street of fountains
for a surrogate future
making even a lily blush.
B.Z. Niditch, 20 april 2015
MARCH MUSIC
Shadows fall
near the mirror, coat
and once soiled banner
held on a marathon run
in March
from another time,
wanting to play sax
as my notes dance
in a good mood
vibrating a curious scaling
from our chilled out tones
to sway smooth jazz.
B.Z. Niditch, 20 april 2015
ON A NEW CHAIR
Someone is whispering to me
about the chaos
of intangible memory
our shadows hidden in Warsaw
by a Milosz library
near a lemony canary in its cage
as seen in the sunshine
at the edge of a wine glass
left to me by grandmother
my guitar standing in silence
near the serene reading room
waiting to be played
by a visiting exiled poet
full of suspicion
murmurs at his own fate.
Gert Strydom, 20 april 2015
Come live with me
Be a love to me and Come live with me
and I swear by God in the sky above
that I will be true to you
and we will wander out to sea
sit on the rocks, witness the how the waves
knocks, splash thundering
and only you and me
will hear the seagulls sing.
Come live with me, be a love to me
and I swear by God in the sky above
that I will be true to you.
Satish Verma, 20 april 2015
Footfalls
It was in you,
the beast.
Reading your private thoughts:
tribal instinct-
to gather tools.
Dwindling belief.
You are left high and dry
after the deluge receded.
A big fire
erupted in your house
to burn you alive.
Footfalls of disquieting roar
breaks the empty silence.
So thin was the salty air,
it spewed the fire.
Death of the moment.
You sit down on the rocks
outside your body
and start counting
the winks.
Satish Verma, 19 april 2015
Foeticide
Ends did not meet, like beginnings,
fact was insulted by fiction:
the newborn stuns the God.
Drop by drop
life drips from ankles.
Desolation takes advantage,
forgets the path, becomes self-centered.
Dialect changes, to taste the foul
heritage,
cadaver breaks the glass jar.
Foeticide of a flute, overnight
the soft face becomes dark. Orange moon
floats like an empty boat.
Waves burn
for the sake of swollen lids of time.
The essence of lies weaves a theme
a skull rolls down on a slide
laughing like sin of omissions.
Night screams.
A hot sun glows from the window.
Satish Verma, 18 april 2015
Last Flowers
A hero demands affection, the heat
for a surrogate role
of a saviour of oppressed.
Deafness increases
towards the integrity of a failed man.
To become something after impotence
with implicit metaphysical rags
worn in chains of blind silence.
It was all, molesting the parting hour,
or nothing, obscuring the pressing hope.
The game continues to bluff the speechless
for casting a spell on innocent vision.
Essence and rose want to separate,
no sensual dive in the sea of
silken love with blackened hands.
The other forehead has a smear of blood.
My fingers move in tender wrongs, you
did not deserve this cold night. Nothing
will happen to the vase. I
am plucking the last flowers.
Latest comments:
21 november 2025
violetta
Och życie też przykuwa uwagę na coś niemądrego:)
21 november 2025
Piękne podziwianie:)
21 november 2025
Piękny
21 november 2025
Jaga
Takie sny na długie zimowe noce :)
21 november 2025
To jest rajska jabłoń, odmiana Czerwona Piękność,
21 november 2025
sam53
czy to nie berberys?
21 november 2025
Ja też, więc szybko zdjęłam, by utrwalić
21 november 2025
Dziękuję Wioletto :)
21 november 2025
Bezpowrotne boli bardziej.
20 november 2025
Śliczne igiełki:)
20 november 2025
Uwielbiam takie cuda:)
20 november 2025
wtedy radość podwójna :))
21 november 2025
wiesiek
20 november 2025
wiesiek
20 november 2025
Jaga
19 november 2025
Jaga
19 november 2025
ajw
17 november 2025
wiesiek
16 november 2025
wiesiek
15 november 2025
Jaga
14 november 2025
wiesiek
13 november 2025
Jaga