poetry

poetry
Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 10 march 2019

Soaked In Glory

The plunging line was― 
going deeper, cutting close to 
the bone. I was preparing 
myself to be martyred 
alive. 
 
Prod me viciously, my 
love, I want to die in your arms before 
the dawn. It should be 
too good to be true 
for you. 
 
Waterbirds. They are ready 
to take a flight. Petal 
by petal, sun will send you 
the message. I am going to fade away 
in moonlight. 
 
Water hyacinth had the death secret. 
Knife me gently. I will 
meet my Apollo in dark.


number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 9 march 2019

Along The Path

Encountering a dislocated self, 
here it goes, the “I”, 
flicking out the name 
which will reach nowhere. 
 
The foreword will not 
disclose the contents of 
the book. It was reading 
only a footnote. 
 
I place a searing moon 
on your plate. You can take 
a slice of it and gulp 
your agony. 
 
The arrival does not finish 
the journey. There are far― 
away worlds beyond 
your fantasies.


number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 8 march 2019

Left On The Dunes

Talking points at ground zero 
trap the heat. The tyranny 
knows no bounds. 
 
Trauma of awaiting liberation 
was intense. No truth was 
ready to accept the bends. 
 
I feel cheated when, 
the dark gives a sermon about 
the hidden dawn. 
 
The hair burn in unmade 
bed, taking a cue from 
the beast, who will not sleep. 
 
Where do the white stars 
go, when the sun rises? I 
will ask the crying lake.


number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 7 march 2019

Winter Story

When clouds were 
drawing graffiti on sky, 
where were you? 
 
Untamed manners 
in a profound grief 
brings back the black buck. 
 
The buck stops here, 
fallen on the golden ax. 
Get me the lantern.


number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 5 march 2019

Unbuttoning

Scratching the rusted face 
of the dust storm-
to read the message. 
 
I have come very far, 
from the old stinks. 
It was not the escape. 
 
The unshaped sap, 
spills from the cut end- 
of treetops. I gather your cones. 
 
The fall begins abruptly. 
It was a landslide of 
leaf drop. Yellow and brown. 
 
I wait for the red. 
It reminds me of blood 
dripping from your poem.


number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 4 march 2019

Tones Of Beige

That obscene stare 
aggravates the silicon 
thrust. You become a victim 
of an upheaval. 
 
The white dwarfs have 
invaded the blackboard. 
You can get a glimpse 
of unsolicited rape. 
 
A cyanide capsule 
hangs on your chest. 
Will you commit a suicide 
after an unnatural kill? 
 
It takes a toll. The 
abuse of the fingers. 
Instead of writing a name 
you print the cave.


number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 2 march 2019

Walking Down The Lane

Time entombed, a negative 
film, showing the 
white bones of 
a black moon. 
 
I am surprised, how 
a jungle of humanity, lives 
with predators― 
uncomplainingly. 
 
A lost genre will find 
new syllables to start a 
heliographic script to 
make history. 
 
There has to be some 
reason, in the lamb days 
to become a wolf.


number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 1 march 2019

Lone Wolf

On ladder, you climb 
for espionage, with 
a feeling of an evil. 
 
Somewhere, somebody 
pulls the strings, 
at arterial roads. 
 
You put yourself 
in harm’s way for 
exotic blooms. 
 
A civil disobedience, starts. 
A bone of contention was 
the muscle of love. 
 
One on one 
tooth for tooth, 
lips for lips.


number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 28 february 2019

In The Labyrinth

The pungent smell of dry 
smoldering leaves, greet you 
when you cross the road. 
 
The knower has become 
unknowable and I start collecting 
the pebbles, a remimder 
of lost childhood. 
 
Somebody has kidnapped the 
art of the nocturne. The 
songbird will never find the moon. 
 
When you are under attack 
you run faster, 
to drink the speed of dust. 
 
It was a case of intimidation. 
Invisible ghosts were demanding 
their bricks of gold.


number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 27 february 2019

The Warts

Like a wax moth, me― 
sensing your footsteps 
from a mile. 
 

 
The half-truths 
were always baked in milk 
to look white. 
 

 
The cleric was 
jubilant. God has decided 
not to live any more.


number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail


  10 - 30 - 100  

Terms of use | Privacy policy | Contact

Copyright © 2010 truml.com, by using this service you accept terms of use.


contact with us






Report this item

You have to be logged in to use this feature. please register

Ta strona używa plików cookie w celu usprawnienia i ułatwienia dostępu do serwisu oraz prowadzenia danych statystycznych. Dalsze korzystanie z tej witryny oznacza akceptację tego stanu rzeczy.    Polityka Prywatności   
ROZUMIEM
1