Satish Verma, 13 february 2021
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.
Satish Verma, 12 february 2021
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.
Satish Verma, 11 february 2021
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.
Satish Verma, 10 february 2021
Clouds had veiled
the waning sun.
A topaz.
A blast,
becomes quite blasé at first
then becomes green.
With envy, the moon
gives no light.
My faith tumbles.
Sometimes I ask myself.
Why did you cover
your sore spots?
As a perfect pretext
of buying peace
why did you go for the lies?
Satish Verma, 9 february 2021
O Zero man! you come
with a continuous denial,
of thirst of war,
a habit, predation.
When would you cross the blood lines?
The night blooms.
Sucking stars, moon
and chaste boundaries.
Nothing moves in the
stillness of voice, words.
A green light floats.
When there will be peace?
en face, I was ready to
fold the words, the sky.
Satish Verma, 8 february 2021
Questioning yourself―
like a Spanish Inquisition.
Ruthlessly digging out,
the anatomy of arrogance.
No flavor. I speak
to myself of atypical
intolerance of a man in revolt.
The slavery of tongue will not go.
On the verge, the other
thought collapses. No longer
the heritage remains faithful.
Love suddenly becomes
stranger. You won't touch
yourself. The narcissism becomes suicidal.
The black song
empties the mind. You want to weave,
but air does not become green.
I stand alone. The cosmos
moves away.
Satish Verma, 6 february 2021
Life, sex and pain were
of mundane existence.
From where to where, we
have arrived.
*
From a bridge to bridge
you cross the river
without touching the water.
*
When a nameless projectile
downs your flight
you fall like rags
from the sky.
*
A spider runs
on tiptoes
you wilt like mimosa.
*
The ink spills
an the sheet
hiding the code.
Satish Verma, 4 february 2021
Open the news paper
and find out that war has a set sequence
of going daily,
and has a negativity.
The physical shock, when
the earth trembles. Your body
becomes stone, hairs stand.
Light breaks through the twisted limbs.
I don't love the ritualism.
Time will not stay for you. My life
becomes your life. Sod
will receive the ashes of rage.
And you will delete the
presence, the touch, the dust
of departed fragrance. Once upon
a time, death used to be a song.
Satish Verma, 3 february 2021
Inexplicable.
I run my own life, when
epicenter moves to periphery.
A drink of hemlock
from your purple― spotted eyes.
You want to squeeze the blue sky
in your chest.
Was I violating your
sanctum sanctorum, hidden
deep in crevices of ancient love?
Your voice was cracking up
hoarse, as I listened
in silence, concealing my
poem not to explode.
Wings become the tongue
flying off, like possessed
celebration of loosing
the glaze and becoming a naked mammal.
A cold-blooded laugh!
Satish Verma, 2 february 2021
It was the frontal assault
of brutal summer.
I waited for the rain
to come and fall on my neck.
There was no grief
between the aches.
In starlight, flitting
around in bushes,
fireflies,
you take me in twilight.
The vernacular nirvana
begins, till my moons squeeze.
It was not a stabbing
wound, to be picked up
by a poem in distress. Light
on light will speak
of femineity in dark.
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