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poetry

George Krokos, 19 february 2021

Backyard Cemetery

In the confines of the house's backyard
there are no marked graves at all to see
but an attempt will be made by this bard
to relate according to personal memory
of some creatures buried therein to be.

Over the course of many years gone by
various creatures have been laid to rest
in the soil of the yard's ground to comply
with an improvised simple funeral blest
by a short little prayer to end their quest.

There were a couple of cats it is recalled
one of them was within the property born
though with the other memory has stalled
which is not surprising and hardly forlorn
to blame or point at with a finger of scorn.

Then there were also a few local birds
mainly sparrows that were regularly fed
which flew all around and dropped turds
being a little distressing to find any dead
some due to after eating crumbs of bread.

They were preyed upon by neighbors' cats
and left for dead when they were disturbed
in their instinctual appetite that included rats
when by humankind were scared and curbed
due to their wild nature's feast so perturbed.

Then on occasion also mice would run free
which were seen coming through the fence
and when at times chased scurried up a tree
where they would hurry to get away thence
a similar burial applied if found dead hence.

It'd be so incomplete here not to mention
all those spiders and insects that had died
in some way or other due to a pretension
that their annoying habitual nature implied
to be poisoned or squashed in their stride.

They have all been buried in the backyard
in various places there that are not marked
laid to rest in the ground either soft or hard
under where others had roamed and barked
in the distant past after they were all carked.
________________

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Satish Verma, 19 february 2021

One Black Summer

I break myself
today, angry with me,
for small things.

Not able to finish
the track, I will sell now―
my dreams.

How do I turnaround,
to seek my aching legs,
for the fear of climb?

The call of the peaks,
in deep ocean,
for an asylum?

Why did it happen to
unhappen, when you were
fighting like a lynx with fate?

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Satish Verma, 18 february 2021

What Else Does It Mean

You did not tell me―
what did you want?

Departure was sad,
unceremonious, escaping
an epitaph.
My legs become heavy.

Unthinkingly, you
write on the wall with foggy hands.
The silhouettes tremble.

Who will break this
infernal cycle of reincarnation?
That means, we should redefine
the death.

Nonetheless
a creed is born.

You walk on the burning coals
to pick up the poppies,
a gift of torn love.

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Satish Verma, 17 february 2021

The Safe Journey

How not to feel
the rapture of the deep
after arousal of a centotaph.

Like losing a hand,
while groping for
light.

This was the sin
of the silence, not ready
to share the pain.

Do not invade the
private domain, when
you decide to abdicate.

Dishonesty was
intact. You will not
bargain for lies.

When you love,
You make it dirty.

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Satish Verma, 16 february 2021

In War

O Earth,
today, standing on your bones
I will study my fears.

I am talking to myself
to say everything, which I don't
mean, presiding over the violence.

Bullet-ridden I
will return your sorrow
to sky, hailing the stars.

From grief to grief
I walk pigeon-toed,
to explore the mines of seed thoughts.

In summer, you
offer the naked hands to me
to write the poem of the day.

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Satish Verma, 15 february 2021

Prayer In Message

There were no regrets―
from the life to lose the game.
Tell me, how can I forget
you, when flesh was melting
from the bones?

The poetics. This was not
the world, I had dreamed.
Sinkhole. You are swallowed alive.
The script was changing.
War allows to drop the morality.

Eye shamed. For your sake.
O God, I had loved your creation.
Why it had become dirty?
This was no more my property.
Take away the loaned apples.

It is the split,
the divide. I am walking
barefoot to feel the bygone dead
sacrifices.

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Paweł Szkołut, 14 february 2021

In café Mleczarnia

For K. & Ł.

On the pictures from the café in Kazimierz
we are sitting at the open front window,
the mirrored glasses reflect our shapes,
the flame of a candle and a yellow tulip,
chocolate is flowing down the white cup

we are talking about the origins of the Universe
and the atom’s construction,
about the mystical journeys to the East
and Tarkowski's films,
we dispute over the divine nature of Messiah
and gnostic ideas of salvation

experiencing everything anew
and constantly looking for our own way -
we open ourselves to the Logos’ action

the time is elapsing,
the faded portraits of old inhabitants
look at us from the walls,
the candle is dimming
and it becomes colder,
on the following pictures
we are sitting in the café’s back room

our hearts touch the opposite feelings,
we’d like so much from life - but we want also
to be free from our desires

in our heads there are still sounds
from the jazz concert at the club Alchemia,

outside it has silenced the noise from the Jewish square
- and thousands miles away
Jerusalem is plunged into a dream

the Logos is wandering among us,
somewhere in the distance we try to see
the royal outlines of his face

immortalized on the pictures
from café Mleczarnia
we are sailing through the spring night
to the promised land
or not

IV 2008

* Mleczarnia – (Eng.) dairy

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Satish Verma, 13 february 2021

Ceremonial

Coming of age becomes
temporal, when
I start to speak.

It was my ancient wound-
which had come into being,
to bleed.

No mannerism,
idiosyncrasy or culture
was needed to stay dumb.

Time runs in a
narrow tunnel, to cross the enemy lines.
I will unmourn my death.

Like collecting the bluebells.
After the burial of candor,
there was no other ceremony.

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Satish Verma, 12 february 2021

Something To Happen

The ache of taking a
call, when my
book was burning.

I scramble to warn
the bees, not to
come near the sundew.

Words hide the
sticky floor. Walk prudently
to swap the hunger strike

for bread and wine,
as the fingerprints untangle
the mystery of desires.

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Satish Verma, 11 february 2021

Not Left Behind

I will keep on
looking back, when you would
not be there.

Trying to put it behind me, the
Moon-blind dysphoria.

The riddled moments. You
are badly hurt, but
would not say.

Bare-boned, in
the oasis of flesh.

The mankind―
why were you feeling let down
by animalcules?

Into the grave milieu,
you― sleeptalking, without
voice.

Trying to rekindle the
flames from the wet eyes.