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Satish Verma, 5 august 2022
In Cursive Style
A bruise has appeared―
where you had kissed me,
last night. O Miranda―
I am not going for any other moon.
Like Uranus, I bleed
in my eyes; from every pore.
Astraphobia― I am going to
stay in dark.
This theology of aneurysms?
Who was hoodwinking
the ancient gods in the battle
of murderous themes? My hands
start shaking.
A blue rash spreads.
In honeyed voice you invoke
your angel and seek blessings―
before you go for a rape.
Satish Verma, 4 august 2022
Reading Nietzsche
After knowing you,
I want to unknow me.
Did you reach the
head of the mount to bring
a piece of god?
Nonetheless,
he went mad asking for
godliness in stones.
When I wake, make
me go to sleep again, among those,
who are slaughtered
by tongue.
Dig me deep. My bronze,
my blood, are going in a free
death, like the fall from
the mission.
The muted thoughts
go for you,
in loud echoes.
I do not speak.
Satish Verma, 3 august 2022
My Theology
I will do no harm
in asking the colors of
dazzling stripes so lovelorn
that they cling like reptiles.
Cold-blooded. Transcend
like seagulls, which dive
to catch their own images. You kept on
walking on cobble-stones.
Half your life sat between two
deaths. One of redwood
and other of falling star.
You want to go back to lake for a holy bath.
Ignites. You bleed like a
hidden wound. Never finishing―
of endless journey. You
will never find your namesake.
Satish Verma, 1 august 2022
Uncannily
Tracing your eyebrows on paper―
eyes mine, we will
write together our religion.
Each night catches
my moons from the lake
of tears. The days were
becoming shorter.
Surely, I have not
arrived amidst the seekers
of easy death. You give me―
the hope of resuscitation.
I promise myself―
I will not give you a call―
till the nightingale sings in
mango grove.
All night it has rained.
Lacrimal. I prepare myself to
wash my eyes again―
to read your face.
Satish Verma, 31 july 2022
The Will To Survive
Little birds
had become stone pelters.
Uneasy would lie the hands, that
had become avid pawns.
Sometimes you watch
the erotica, mating in air,
to listen to echoes
of self-destruction.
The stigma will not go.
Human judgment was
falling. You grab a Rilke
to find the answer.
If man was truth then
what was a beast?
don't commit the eye of god.
Every honour was fake.
The gay philosophy was
for yourself. I had been living
perilously, not hiding
behind the rituals.
Satish Verma, 29 july 2022
Meet Me Again
There was no collateral
damage to my flower vase.
My roses were intact.
I had asked you to wear
a yellow scarf like a ―
hijab of moon. Somebody was
going to meet plain brown end.
The famous leg cross of―
‘Basic Instinct' does not impress me.
I will drink from your oceanic eyes.
Like Sylvia Plath in
death gown, you amble gingerly
to embrace my poems.
The dew drops hang
from the asparagus leaf tips.
I wipe away my tears.
Satish Verma, 28 july 2022
Meet Me Again
There was no collateral
damage to my flower vase.
My roses were intact.
I had asked you to wear
a yellow scarf like a ―
hijab of moon. Somebody was
going to meet plain brown end.
The famous leg cross of―
‘Basic Instinct' does not impress me.
I will drink from your oceanic eyes.
Like Sylvia Plath in
death gown, you amble gingerly
to embrace my poems.
The dew drops hang
from the asparagus leaf tips.
I wipe away my tears.
Satish Verma, 27 july 2022
To The Bronze Sculpture
Without narrating
yourself, when and how
will you perform the ritual suicide?
Blindfolded, I
open the destiny of man.
Your thoughts make a hole
in the giant feet.
Who would let me, be dark,
to find the light of truth?
O God, take me to wilderness to embark on my journey back,
or become a tree man.
Let the tree-hugging start again.
Very prudently, I need to color my eyes.
Don't want you to begin crying.
Satish Verma, 26 july 2022
Negation Creates
I was not there
when omentum was incinerated.
No unparing was called for
digging your own grave.
In eerie silence, I
start collecting the shells
of forlorn pearls.
It would be a miracle
if I can read the invisible.
I can become a killer when you
are not there.
The mute girl will not―
give her lips.
Only eyes. I must lift my
poem from there.
The Hamlet's dilemma. You
will, will not taste the
hemlock.
Satish Verma, 25 july 2022
Where The Doors Have Gone
You were afraid of,
unknown, walls pulled down―
you stand in bones.
The surrounding hills―
give a call. Come for the sacrifice
for your transparent limbs.
Unsung, unpraised,
moon will rise tn the woods―
to bring out the victims of rage.
No identification was
needed to wash the bodies.
After death, there was no religion.
Now prayers must begin
to save the weeping earth.
Sky will drop the sun.
Latest comments:
9 october 2024
Jaga
Po namyśle zmieniłam :)) Tutaj widoczny tylko
9 october 2024
Zazula przy łące kuka/ gdzie rączka pani nadobna/
9 october 2024
Yaro
Dzięki za komentarz. Przyjdą zapukaj i każą
9 october 2024
Belamonte/Senograsta
o jej, jak upojnie, gloryfikująco - po co się
9 october 2024
szczęścia tylko znaczą
9 october 2024
Taki dramatyczny, ja tam nie jestem taki, spokój,
8 october 2024
Prawda :))) Jeden bardziej pasował mi do tytułu
8 october 2024
violetta
Zauważyłam:) jestem konkretna, a tak owijają
8 october 2024
ale jest i tak ładnie, mnie się wątki ciągną
8 october 2024
Marian Banaszak
dokładnie to z dwoma
7 october 2024
Melancthe
Piękne jak zawsze
7 october 2024
Samotność ukazana...
9 october 2024
wiesiek
9 october 2024
Marian Banaszak
9 october 2024
Satish Verma
8 october 2024
wiesiek
8 october 2024
Satish Verma
7 october 2024
Jaga
7 october 2024
wiesiek
7 october 2024
Satish Verma
6 october 2024
wiesiek
5 october 2024
wiesiek