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poetry

Morgan, 2 july 2021

Seige

Reading on--
'I can't believe it', cried old Vallette, in toney Italian. 'The nerve!'
His secretary's quip was plainer. He adored the old man and his crazy bravery.
'Een-cred-DEE-bee--lay! Can she think of no interest but her own? A chip off the old block. Thanks for nothing!'
And so on.
'Oliver, she's your sovereign', old Vallette reminded him.
Oliver said nothing. True her didn't like bad-mouthing his queen.
Say nought, regret nought. But he wanted his sympathies clear.
Through the corbelled windows, towards the ruins of St Elmo across the harbor, old Vallette studied the crumbled western rampart, the stone-filled moat, the figures of the engineers atop the wall. Like ants.
He recalled the battle--those long, hot, awful, bloody days--
days he would like to forget but couldn't. He thought of the men--how bravely they fought, how horribly they died.
He viewed the yellow fronts of the palaces--graceful outcroppings of limestone cliffs they sprang from--
both turned fiery gold in the low sun,
the in-between stretch of dozing water a pool for descending angels to bathe in.
It bent back the sun's rays.
Magnifico!
'As it always would be', thought old Vallette. Thanks to him. Anachronism, indeed!
But he didn't say that last part. He just felt it.
Turning from the window, he swore in Italian.
It must have sounded gracious to Oliver's ears.
Without doubt, English was the language of profanity.
On the marquinia table, inlaid with pink and orange stone
he tossed the missive bearing the English queen's seal.
'Thanks, thanks, thanks, much-indebted--thanks for...
thanks, thanks, etc.'
'Of course', said old Vallette. 'Don't mention it.'
The envoys who brought it couldn't read but in the hall below
were feasting on plaice and drinking Sicilian wine.
Outside, the sea bristled with ships, sailing placidly
to Genoa, Marseille, faraway Valencia,
bearing spices and wheat from the Levant and slaves to London.
'Good riddance. And the language--barbaric!'
There was lots to do. Old horrors fade before fresh triumphs.
Across the harbor the city was rising fast.
He, himself, laid the first stone. Would he live to see it done?
He doubted it. Not the way he felt. But God willing, he would.
The mantel clock chimed six. Along the peninsula
in each little belfrey, swung a bell on its rung. Soon
there was a chorus. It lasted a whole minute, then ceased.
Old Vallette liked the bell sound.
He would have a little dinner then go to bed.
'And Oliver...'
'Yes, sir?'
'Go to bed.'

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Morgan, 2 july 2021

Haiku

On a certain day
we caught many crows
but their cries all flew away.

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Satish Verma, 2 july 2021

Three Vistas

Do not count.
Do not return my poems―
written for you,
in memory of hot pink
flamingoes, that had not returned
to their abodes.

Flashbacks. Fear of colors
arises. You shut your eyes.
Idolatry soaring. Night
will ask the stars. Why am I
carrying the burden of a rock
on my shoulders?
Moon laughs.

You stay quiet,
will not commit any kill.
A train whistles by. Evening
plays a thief, stealing your demeanor.
Inside you burn. No smoke was
coming out. No reference―
to smiles and tears.

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Satish Verma, 1 july 2021

Truism

Almost reached.
Your tongue slips;
Then you fall.

The cyclone,
develops an eye, to hit.
You become blind.

An outcast―
became a star
in dark sky.

Why the elite,
of choice or exhibit―
wants to wear rags?

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Satish Verma, 30 june 2021

You tie a
sacred thread to
the hollow tree.

That walks around
in search of
a morose Buddha.

The world
has gone beyond
the suffering.

A square, a
circle, a dot?
Who are you?

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Satish Verma, 26 june 2021

Always Self-Deception

You collapsed―
on the stairs in frenzy
falling into a debt trap.
The moon was asking back his pain.

This was a naked aggression.
Kitchen was not ready for roots
and flowers and footprints
of staggering price of being alive.

Riding in a Humvee, the
rhetoric fails. The lies become
spiteful. Your arms holding
a wavering testament.

Religion of sending
a young legate of death, to veiled
untouchables, to spread
the glitter of bones and red meat.

A gift of asking to become
blind, nothing less.

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Satish Verma, 25 june 2021

Midnight Happening

You never forget
the fat preemie.
A perfect revenge of the curse―
at ungiving.

Streaking in
snow, when it
was frighteningly dark.

The moon-bathed
body of the thumb king
running without feet.

How would you―
climb, the black hills
of desire in tragic land
of skulls?

The living god was to
become a marbled statue.

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Satish Verma, 24 june 2021

Midnight Happening

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Satish Verma, 23 june 2021

How Much Does It Matter

You were not choosing
the right words, being reticent
for a seasoned yes.

The hurts of intimate
symphonies― don't bleed.
Only scars were left in triangles.

The chilled morality
of summer stream, was eating
away the banks of amnesties.

It was a sublime touch
of unseen fingers moving into
the trees and sky of dark spaces.

Days were slipping
away. I cannot put my
memories on flame.

There were explosions
on the crossroads.

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Satish Verma, 22 june 2021

What Renunciation

Would you bear the cost
of peace, if there was
no war, no country, no
personal gods?

We are not talking about―
a retropain of recent past.
It was there when we―
started walking, and
discovered a superhuman being.

The crowd swells every day, and
a new religion crops up
every now and then.

There was no fatal crash.
It makes you rich overnight.
The money grows―
from the barrel of the gun.

I refuse to celebrate the victory.

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Latest items:

poetry

Seige

Haiku

Three Vistas

Truism

Contents

Always Self-Deception

Midnight Happening

Midnight Happening

How Much Does It Matter

What Renunciation

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