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poetry

Satish Verma, 24 november 2013

RANDOM SIN

In pinnate physicals, the thing,
moves like a stark terror
savagely. A primal fear

takes over, because dead don’t
speak. The bullet had passed
through chest. Mutiny of dumb

dandelions, lipless voices in the
sea of madness. Search for a missing
truth begins. The mass grave

contains the dried bones of renegades.
You remember the promise? Who said
we will end the war?

Listen, he bows his head, before
the trespassing starts to kidnap the
bed. Jealousy kills the snakes.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 23 november 2013

UNRAVELLING

An outcast, stripped and beaten
up, the sickle moon
smears the clouds with blood.

I hate to wait for –
the sun to undo this mess,
an ethnic mutilation will bring a chaos.

Nursing the peripheries,
tribes were in pursuit of bayonets;
will not surrender the arms

to mate.Unceasingly they are
digging up an abysmal grave
to throw in the truths in uniform-

in pursuit of feathers, offering
for temple archways, turning
on the future, for past glory!

Satish Verma

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Catman Cohen, 23 november 2013

She's my Hallelujah

I have an evil lover
Torments me with her sting
Fierce Canadian winter
Wearing boots
Made in Beijing

Bathes me in her blood
Leaves wounds across my face
Traps me in her heart
Feels like ice
Inside her lake

She’s my Hallelujah
My Hallelujah
In our Land of
Na Na Na Na

And no man
Could forget
The darkness in her eyes
No man could resist
The perfume of her mind

Build a pagan temple
From her naked holy skin
Live inside her spider
By the gods
Who dwell within

I have an evil lover
Rides my aching soul
Blocks the sun
From shining
In the desert
Where I grow

Wraps me in her scent
Stupefies my brain
Turns my nights
To hunger
For the feast that
She became

She’s my Hallelujah
My Hallelujah
In our Land of
Na Na Na Na

She’s my love
My tragic flaw
In our Land of
Na Na Na Na

My tragic flaw
Hallelujah

number of comments: 0 | rating: 3 | detail

Catman Cohen, 23 november 2013

The Mentor

In dreams I appear and take her
Down a path she dares not wander
In a town beset by plunder
I shake her blood and bone

In dreams she asks my guidance
How to live in holy silence
Beyond the anger of her father
Enrich her mind and soul

Hold me inside all the night
Your leaders your baby
Hold me inside all the night
Your teacher loves you crazy

In dreams she feels me beside her
As I stoke her female fire
In a world that feels so lonely
I fill her need and hope

In dreams I appear and take her
On wings of heavens power
Beyond tears that stain her pillow
She takes my love and poem.

Hold me inside all the night
Your leaders your baby
Hold me inside all the night
Your teacher loves you crazy

Hold me

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Catman Cohen, 22 november 2013

Hostage in the Bedroom

There’s a gun upon my bed
Not the kind made of metal
A vivid tattoo color
Above my lover’s
Secret devil

And that gun is like a demon
Aimed toward her pleasure zone
Urging hunters to take a shot
And take the trophy
Home

I see blood upon the doorstep
I smell murder in her fold
I fear ghosts will haunt her body
In the bullets I have sown

I hear hungry infants crying
The ones she gave away
And the bastards she is hiding
Are my regrets from yesterday

I feel the gun blazing
As she sucks my breath away
I’m a hostage to her body
In the mayhem
She purveys

In the middle of the night
I’ll make my escape
Run, run, run
Run away

I’ve got to run

In the middle of the night
When her back is turned
Run, run, run
Run away

I’ve got to run

There’s a gun upon my bed
It belongs to my baby
Burned deep inside her
On a night she went
Crazy

And every time I think
I’ll flee
Her dangerous painted gun
She draws it against me
And I feel myself succumb

I see blood upon the doorstep
I smell murder in her fold
I fear ghosts will haunt her body
In the bullets I have sown

I hear hungry infants crying
The ones she gave away
And the bastards she is hiding
Are my regrets from yesterday

Save me from her gun
She’ll never let me go
Save me from drowning
In her young and wanton soul

I’ve got to run
But there’s a gun

My baby won’t let me go.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 3 | detail

Catman Cohen, 22 november 2013

Give me Back my Shirt

You stole my shirt again
The one with stains
Beneath my armpits

You lied and said
The shirt somehow fell
Into your suitcase

A dark black shadow
That hurled itself off a cliff
And landed inside your
Sad blonde soul

And when you sleep alone at night
In the naked stretch of your wine-soaked skin

Do you smell my harsh manly aroma
In the pillow of your theft?

Do you wet yourself in the taste of
The baby felons we might make?

Do you imagine yourself wearing
My body
Upon the sharp thrusts of my
Contempt
And
Love?

For a liar, a thief, a fetishist for
Fabric
That revives memories
Of lust long faded

You stole my shirt again
The one that has faint traces
Of your drool, in the way you
Drip yourself upon me
In the hot slumber of your
Babbling incoherent dreams

Give me back my shirt
It was a present from my sister
Who rarely bought me anything
Except for a blue cotton candy
Vivid blue
Like your icy sullen eyes
In the childhood
Of my lonely
Indelible
Lament

number of comments: 0 | rating: 3 | detail

Gert Strydom, 22 november 2013

Wolraad Woltemade appears

He comes from the sea as a spectre
with seaweeds hanging on him
and rides his horse
that its hoofs crash like thunder
until he stops to climb down

and looks at the wide world,
are astounded for moments
and the horse snorts, sniffs in the wind,
wants to return to the sea again.

It’s clear that everything now is different
and he notices a ship sailing past,
hears factories droning in the distance
and smell the age-old fog of the sea.

[Poet’s note: After fearlessly riding into the storm swept sea to rescue several people from a sinking ship (De Jonge Thomas) on 1 June 1773, Wolraad Woltemade had perished in the great waves.]

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Gert Strydom, 22 november 2013

Wolraad Woltemade (cavatina)

Beyond Table Bay far within the blue deep
man and horse waits
while their bones lie in sacred bravery
at the sea’s gates
still lunging to and thro in the great swell
their forceful traits
are burnt into the hearts of small children
and of many South African countrymen.

[Poet’s note: After fearlessly riding into the storm swept sea to rescue several people from a sinking ship (De Jonge Thomas) on 1 June 1773, Wolraad Woltemade had perished in the great waves.]

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

Gert Strydom, 22 november 2013

Wolraad Woltemade (cavatina)

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

Satish Verma, 22 november 2013

AIR WAS NAKED

After the putsch, through night he set himself alight
ensnared in flames of societal conflicts, for a
vision of tomorrow, in the birth of a bloody dawn.
The drone of history had failed on a loaded salt.

A solitary murder of truth was sufficient to unsettle
me for a downturn of unborn wounds of drowned
voice, of a requiem. The dead were coming back to life
in dark alleys of black skulls. The pink scarves

were still holding the snow flakes of standing
wheat for the thirsty children, of grieving mothers
who lost the homes to red hands, the white paper,
the hungry guns. The thieves were coming again.

I was never naked in my blood, my howling bones.

Satish Verma

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

10 - 30 - 100

Latest items:

poetry

RANDOM SIN

UNRAVELLING

She's my Hallelujah

The Mentor

Hostage in the Bedroom

Give me Back my Shirt

Wolraad Woltemade appears

Wolraad Woltemade (cavatina)

Wolraad Woltemade (cavatina)

AIR WAS NAKED

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