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poetry

Satish Verma, 15 january 2015

DOVES HAD STOPPED FLYING

Somebody had put the feet
against the flame,
the street had become a wall.

Commitment had failed,
the doors were locked.
Collective guilt was seeking favour.

Repeating the same story
blurs the sky.
Sun will not come out.

You are speaking.
He was speaking.
Truth was speaking.

Solitude and silence
come before the summary.
I was responsible for myself.

Earth refuses to conceive –
fire in veins.
Doves had stopped flying.

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Satish Verma, 14 january 2015

KUPFERNICKLED

Looked downward –
the granite face,
to see imprinted kupfernickeled
god, lying in dust.

From where to where
we have come sleepwalking?
In freezing winds, like brown angels
with swollen lids.

White moon-poised to commit suicide?
Blindfolded heavy as lead
in the trade of spared lies?
Back pain will carry us not very far.

Green stems have yellow leaves now.
We start blaming ourselves
to keep the winter away,
in torn shirts.

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Satish Verma, 13 january 2015

DOWNPOUR

Your lips were me.
I wanted a kiss
which never came.

Insertion of a word, was committed
my wings took a flight
for anonymity.

To keep suffering alive
truth was accepting the hurts.
I was not speaking for myself.

Who was me to want a praise
for the custodian of morality?
Something for my name?

I must salute the fallen fingers,
who did not write death –
for my hugging blankness.

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Satish Verma, 12 january 2015

I WAS CLOSING THE WEEPING CHAPTER

When terror strikes,
fear inside you
makes a hissing sound,
breaks the vessel.
Pain spurts out.

Your limbs swell like sapphires
in a naked suffering.
You were searching the face
of your dead brother on burning ghat.

And then on, it pours.
Babies were burning in incubators.
Blasts devouring the eyes,
ears and noses.

But the dredging will continue.
Irrespective of ocean of death
leaping to fragile shores
till the waves send back the relics.

Whom shall I call for condolence
in the thick of fog?
I was closing the weeping chapter.

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Satish Verma, 11 january 2015

DILEMMA

There was the hunger
and suicide.
In favor of my brutal truth
or virtue of my failure,
I do not want any comments on my trauma.
Morality has a dubious equation
with power, provoking my anger.

The days were full of abandoned kilns.
No more shaping of containers
in which one can put the moon,
and honey and roses.
Everything was turning brown
with infinite, sulphur smelling teeth
ready to bite into golden flesh.

Convicts behind the walls were playing
with mirrors to throw the light on slick
towers. Death was laughing, waiting on the trees,
eating black berries.
And I was forced to taste the blood of sky
with sodium –
in sanctum sanctorum.

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Satish Verma, 10 january 2015

ECSTASY

A pink rose was set to strip
letting the leaves fall.

The roots were jealous of a thorn
for stealing the blood from heart.

It was the last page of a book,
no more commas, no full stop.

The dead tongue now seeks syntax
of the lips that smell like enemies.

Two hard little breasts start a dance
like geraniums on bush.

Between the shadows of thighs
slept the pride.

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Satish Verma, 9 january 2015

SHARKS

They manipulated the words
to cross the corridors of essence.
Crib was empty, child was stolen.
At blood stained altar
there was no clue to mystical death.

The contents now matter. Time
displays tools of murder,
snaps the sheet from the bed,
kills the neophyte at water hole,
unsucked breast swells, weeps endlessly.

Apes are coming.
Duplicates look brilliant like novae.
It was becoming crowded. Becoming
was destroying the matter. Fear
moves in water, on the earth.

Faraway a cuckoo sings
a saddest song.
Come, belong to my tears, drops
of my soul’s vessel, kiss the eyes
of planet earth.

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B.Z. Niditch, 9 january 2015

PERHAPS

(for Tadeusz Konwicki
22 June 1926 – 7 January 2015)

Perhaps watching
the Konwicki film
"Salto"
with Zbigniew Cybulski,
the Polish James Dean,
last night,
brought back
the times
after lectures
when we would sneak
into art theaters
for two foreign films;
then afterwards
how we would lay
on warm blankets
intertwined with
the grass
by the Charles River.

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Scott Mitchell, 7 january 2015

Ensemble

Sonatas, be surely defined
when closed lush lips, to his soul
whisper the sweetest wine
Horizons, be known to endure
in low light when the moon ignites
as he consumes what once was yours
Stars, grasped as a tigers mane
stilettos point to the sky
in sharp reciting of his name
~
Scott Mitchell
2015

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Ankit Damani, 7 january 2015

Crater

I once had a birthmark on my left shoulder.
A baby screaming in agony bore this mark,
the result of an injection
which was meant to protect
my helpless body from infection.
From danger.

A neat little sliver of protrusion
surrounded by a crater,
the moat to my microcastle.
It once proudly stood alone,
a landmark against impurity.

My forefinger would sometimes
drift off towards it and circle cautiously,
perhaps its feeble attempt at time travel,
taking me to my days of perfection,
of honeydew and home movies.
I would once again feel familiar fingers
that ran over the lonely guardian,
as they washed my flawless skin,
fingers kneading all along
those puny yellow-brown arms.

I may still have the mark today, but I can't be sure.
My forefinger doesn’t drift anymore.
It wouldn’t dare to navigate around the
swarm of pustules, boils, cysts
that now stand tall, surrounding the terrified knoll.
The moat rendered hopeless.
Furious volcanoes, land mines
so eager to burst forth from
this toxic, etherized land,
pulsating like a horde of smartphones
buzzing in sync to form an earthquake.
Nothing could stop them but goddamn,
do they infuriate the perfect child in my dreams
who glares at me scornfully, every night.

My eyes cannot meet his.

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Latest items:

poetry

DOVES HAD STOPPED FLYING

KUPFERNICKLED

DOWNPOUR

I WAS CLOSING THE WEEPING CHAPTER

DILEMMA

ECSTASY

SHARKS

PERHAPS

Ensemble

Crater

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