Najnowsze prace:
Satish Verma, 10 sierpnia 2019
Matter Of Fate
While ascending throne,
you cover up your tracks―
by putting up the somber demeanor.
I don't find myself happy.
No stings visible. The world
is savagely beautiful, always
indulging in finding a goat.
Can you see through a person?
Wooden legs cannot take you very―
far. What you need was your intent,
to scramble and make a kill
of a subtone.
The crowd goes in a tizzy.
Tortoise in a bag, was moving
faster than the man.
Satish Verma, 4 sierpnia 2019
Speaking Stones
When there was a cloudburst―
it was time― I thought
for the soul search.
Again I turn back to―
our complexity, in religion,
caste and lineage.
The prairie was giving―
way, for a volcano to erupt.
Can there be a drive from the back seat?
A prisoner of one's own
follies, you would wait till―
the sky comes down and liberates you.
The illegitimacy bursts
open, when you claim that
no child was left behind.
Satish Verma, 3 sierpnia 2019
Holed Up
You are becoming a
frozen leak, the violet
end.
Ultra was not going beyond
the zero. Here the―
journey ends.
Dispersion of light was
increasing, the surface tension
between me and religion.
Again you are deflecting,
taking an oblique route
to find the truth.
Who was the father
of an unborn lie?
I was not expanding any more.
Satish Verma, 2 sierpnia 2019
Times Are Changing
Addictive in shambles, that was
cognitive decline―
amidst wars of life,
with a right to death.
The gold dust falls
from the dead, colliding stars,
after the violence of giants.
You may not need stem cell transplant now.
Like a gamma ray burst― of
cataclysmic events― to start
the creation of verse. Were you
ready to hear the inner voice?
The urge to go up, was very strong
without grit. My burden will
increase if you are―
reluctant to propel yourself.
Satish Verma, 23 lipca 2019
The Daphnia
The truth of my blood
at the mensal
without prayer and anguish.
Will you be able to
heal the rift between color
and smell?
The other face―
offering the tears in
cupped palm.
The slant eyes will
never know, the end of―
the day under the shadows.
The endemic fugue―
tilts the balance of angels.
The bay tree sends the condolence.
Satish Verma, 24 lipca 2019
What Hospice
Becoming unsteady
at points of darkness.
Tinged with blue
I am ready for the unspoken departure.
How to reach out―
for a situation, which was not?
You sleep on the floor
to hear the earth’s agony.
A helix― surrounds the
imperfect creation of unsavory thoughts.
Abusive was the creator,
The evil had a beauty in destruction.
Satish Verma, 25 lipca 2019
Self-Effacement
Gender―
was becoming unborn, ―
untaught. Very fluid state.
You could transgress the boundaries
like the sea spreading over,
on your land.
My ankles giveaway. I cannot―
walk incognito. Moon will
not open the door. Nightshade welcomes
with open arms. A climber
with purple flower holds my hand.
I may stumble. Almost done―
disconnecting with present―
and past.
This is the sun. This is the
sky. Circumcising becomes an
escape, to cut off the bondage with yourself.
Satish Verma, 26 lipca 2019
The Prairie Wool
The trapped body
will not listen to baby fugue.
The perception will find―
the writing on the flute.
For Neptune, the liquid
carries your voice.
The fugacity will find
the tongue of eternity.
The sea has divided
the land. Water sends the wreaths.
The future will keep an eye
on the scavenger, time.
There were signs. It was going
to become a predator.
Satish Verma, 27 lipca 2019
Violence In A Cup
The winged sex of the
module/wants to stay naked.
Everything backs it up
to become a suicide bomber
on the beach.
A cactus will not bloom tonight.
A shirt was loaned to the
tortured torso without head and limbs.
She was possessed by a
black spirit of a squirrel,
which was killed by a hatchet.
Bit by bit a moth was eaten alive
by the ants. Only the dry wings
were clapping.
Satish Verma, 28 lipca 2019
Confronting The Unknown
I walk for a short while―
talking with the moon and
thinking about the zero―
and spirit and water― standing
my ground, I ask the earth―
tell me, whose fear was greater than mine.
If god was blind, then why
so many planets and moons? Is that true
that between good and bad lives a shaman?
There was something
behind the walls. A lot of noises coming―
out, as if nobody was perfect.
The realization itself was hurting.
The day I started sweating,
reaching the icy peaks of understanding.
Satish Verma, 29 lipca 2019
Seeking Carefully
Where do you stand―
in the crowd, for the love of a cause―
your feet cannot measure the ache
of the earth, respecting the rhythm
of a lone survivor.
Can you believe in the fall of a titan?
Stranded in accuracy
for a salt lick for
a zipless mouth wide open.
Intuiting,
what the flesh would not say.
And I keep standing by the midriff to see the face.
Satish Verma, 31 lipca 2019
After Meeting God
You should not be present―
everywhere, O God. Pull down,
all the shutters of your temples.
I am mortified, of a
hidden hand, that gives
spurious― sugar coated hymns.
A hometown crowd
assembles at the door of the―
palace to hear the arrival.
What was the natural
descent made of? A cyber attack
was the most desirable thing.
A crypt sets you free―
from the engraved sermons.
All night I will sit on the vigil, for a vision.
The book was blank
for a goodnight deal. I will
not cross any unwritten poem.
Satish Verma, 1 sierpnia 2019
Till The Ceremony
I accept, my defeat―
in the hands of Ariel.
You start hiding from your
own chrysanthemums.
Trying to merge the agony
with the diminutive flight.
The tale of a big fall from
the height of assimilation―
I will go all the way to
challenge the unknown fear.
The passage was full of
bumps, slowing the pace of kisses.
Satish Verma, 11 sierpnia 2019
Frost Was Setting In
No moon tonight
I had to find―
my path along the hedges
by fireflies.
The river was in haze,
not wearing any scent.
Some invisible hands were
rowing a boat in midstream.
At this time a god jumps―
in, to sort out the memory of dark nights.
Not dementia. But I will
try to remember your face in moonlight.
Once I had lost my way
to your home. Now my
home has lost me for ever.
Satish Verma, 12 sierpnia 2019
Sheer Expanse Of Tragedy
Staring into nothingness―
the body clicks.
Smells the pungent fumes and/
cedes the suspension of tears.
Quenchless, you drink
the white phosphorus, glowing
in dark, of
stark reality.
The barrenness will put
up a Harappan seal,
to come back.
The stomata bleed.
The blue salt was naïve.
Will not leave the ocean.
You cannot swim,
you cannot drown.
Satish Verma, 26 sierpnia 2019
Predictions
The hunger was scouring
each house― in utopia―
daring you to open the door.
Weavers were ready for―
the moment― of encounter―
to spin the corona.
As if an asteroid was heading
towards the silent ariel,
to destroy its integrity.
Beyond good and bad, there
was an effigy of a designer―
in dancing mode.
It was a jinx in your
speed. You would not climb on a
walk without a rope.
Satish Verma, 27 sierpnia 2019
Before The Sunset
I am trying to do my bit,
nonpareil. A soundproof doer,
erasing the palm from the painting―
drinking the nitrogen from the air
starving myself.
Cannot bequeath my eyes,
my thumb vision. You were always
asking about my sadness, emptiness.
I will not tell about
the acid times.
That killing instinct was not
there. I will give you the
unborn poems, that would not wear
the death mask, my unspoken
thoughts, peeling after the darkness and
I will let you go to find your path.
Satish Verma, 28 sierpnia 2019
The Atrocities
Friends and foes
would have a scuffle
about, who was going to pluck the lymphoma.
A rainbow deflects,
from your eyes, making
me grasp for the breath.
Seeks apology, while
talking to trees, on boil
was the language, under the poverty line.
It does not make any sense.
The rain catcher was on trail
of a fugitive.
The sun. Always hiding
behind the veils of massacre.
I am not going to face the moon.
Satish Verma, 29 sierpnia 2019
Interlacing To Catch A Theme
With the tip in the center,
this is the circle of an iron will
undoing the circination.
You are moving in a straight line
now. The knots in the chest
will take you to surrogacy.
The needle's eye was watching
you― gauging your grit.
Can you take a prick?
Without blood? From an
urn you lift a red string to tie
on the hands of unborn thought.
You miss a line, a word
an image. Still it happens deep
inside. An angst constricts you in
pythonic grip. A poem becomes you.
Satish Verma, 30 sierpnia 2019
One Turmoil Deep Inside
Resisting your wisdom
I want to remain, thoughtless.
Not bargaining, I come in the crowd,
to negotiate a stunt.
The awakening,
the trepidation. I pay honour
to the great stress angler―
my poverty of cruel jokes.
Like a fox to reignite―
the identity. I will move away
from the body of blood soaked denials
standing alone, against the genocide.
Was still hungry, eating
your violet-red― plums. Not was whole,
the controversy. Somewhere a
forensic evidence will say, mask was not real.
Satish Verma, 1 września 2019
Modesty
In fever, I will
always see butterflies
landing on your nose.
White, yellow, black.
They come and go and I am
sitting under a cherry blossom tree.
Stroking you, cajoling you
to drop the wings.
In grass the sun waits
in a dew drop.
The moon was not a poor thing.
Will come in white robes
to preach.
Satish Verma, 2 września 2019
Shadow Boxing
Find an auspice today.
The moon was coming back
after an abdication.
Lurching on cobblestoned stretch
of blue-black clouds; paring
the tall conical trees of
royal pines.
Heaped with roses, a man
with no-war slogan, lies
in the open earth.
You will not perceive―
any smell of smouldering pen and knives.
The body turns without
a comma.
Satish Verma, 3 września 2019
Sound Bites
The plaques were being
attached to the wall. You would not be able
to go for refusal. The right to say no
was inherent in yes.
Accepting the exorcism and self―
flagellation, exonerates you from the guilt of
giving away; which was not yours. How
can you claim that you are your own master?
You tie a knot on the thread, hang it
on the weeping tree, throw back your head,
and wipe out all the questions, I wrote
on your forehead.
Peace― it will be mine.
Satish Verma, 4 września 2019
Moon Burning
I become again a fakir,
but not on alms.
A giver wants nothing
after a knife thrust.
Take away as many as
you can, my thoughts, my limbs.
There is no language
of charity, in the black hole.
You are the one, who
does not need any ladder.
Sitting on the beach, watching
the waves collapsing.
One day you will move
away from the walkway.
Satish Verma, 25 sierpnia 2019
The Dumps
The words had started to fail me.
There was always an ‘if'―
before every war of hunger.
The candlewick has burned
out. I am collecting the―
wax from the eyes.
Wrapped agony, now lifts
the dead bird from the
rose bushes.
The frosted god
will melt to bare a
black stone.
I am not luck
I am not the future.
You know where this path leads into?
Satish Verma, 23 sierpnia 2019
Why A Poem
Unfazed you stand in―
a drizzle, to locate the
moon nestling in clouds.
The speed of bite was fatal,
showing the movement
of incompleteness.
I searched the identity―
of one anonymous, who
had fathered an illegitimate eunuch.
I wanted to make a
confession, looking at the
blue sky, about my waywardness.
The crazy thing of mixing
the flowers, winds, moon and birds
with serious chores of life.
Unmistakingly a poem.
Satish Verma, 13 sierpnia 2019
A Fracas Goes On
Remarkably steadfast, the
mighty oak was standing up, as
the thick rain was pounding at it.
I had come a faraway to unleash
the tenacity.
The flesh and the moon.
It was the anniversary of ropes
and shackles. You should not have
adored the distant dreams
without touching them. The transcript
was not ready. No template
was perfect.
I would not know most of you.
That was a bliss. In blue and dark―
I will sail for nothingness. No more,
no less. The chirping, synchronized trill
of crickets, encourages to stand still, I listen
without hearing.
I have come back to zero.
Satish Verma, 14 sierpnia 2019
Sting's Betrayal
Not settled anytime
between a beast, an angel and the man:
who was indebted to whom.
A cyclic ritual it was, to pay the debt
to the eternal dancer, who
was, harbinger to catastrophe.
Not wanted to be judged.
Fatherless, a shadow moves―
in the womb of justice.
Why do the moon was in distress?
A catmint will improve―
your vision.
No artificial insemination was―
needed. The pungent smell
would put you off.
A taste of triangle, lying
next to the moon
in bed of water.
Satish Verma, 15 sierpnia 2019
Dog Days
Why do I give you the bliss―
of my poverty?
The burden of asking, was light.
Not like the unquenchable
thirst of a desert. I will be a
night blooming cereus.
In exile, I will remember
your sky, tying the stars in
my poems, to recall your shades
when the moon moves away.
The sunlight throws the voiceless
profiles of clouds, motionless
suspended, waterless― dead.
There is no traffic, no history
of any scandles. The corners of
my prayer book have―
become dog-eared.
Satish Verma, 16 sierpnia 2019
No Demagogue
This was not a witch
or witchcraft, striking
a pose to entice the sleep.
The grass will not―
listen the earthly
eavesdropping on moon.
Some extra neutral
wine for a resilient poet
who will refuse to die.
My color was not black
nor white. It had the
golden hue.
Your nails were very sharp
digging for a *Digambra
on my bare chest.
Satish Verma, 17 sierpnia 2019
Old Maxims
This was a twisted ladder
for reduction of poverty,
which climbs the steps during
methane breach.
An absent presence will
snatch away, your unconscious
surrender. The scent had
made a wall of its own.
A summer fall incites the
book makers. The naming was
a secret bet. The dead will
never recall the skeletons.
Spawning an army of robots,
will you go to the volcano mount
to offer a living bait?
Satish Verma, 18 sierpnia 2019
New Invasion
Nestling in the arms of
blue sky, a young moon was asking
the questions―like the pages of moth-eaten
book― why did the blood ties
are ripped apart with the passage of time?
Of the same poles, at the
axis of rotation― two celestial bodies―
would not come near each other?
Following the heels of the
hunter, a small dog star sniffs at
the earth, a pale blue existence?
The entropion overwhelms. The
lashes were scarring the
vision?
The all was not one. I am
still standing at the gate,
bleeding like sun.
Satish Verma, 19 sierpnia 2019
Taking The Odds
An amniotic fluid initiates
the moon to the thunderstorm―
as you climb the tide.
Like a stag― opening the
summer, browsing on
the daisies.
It takes sometime
to sink. This was―
the peacock hour.
A finch will land―
on my shoulder and
look into my eyes, ritualizing it.
The glow was real
in your hair,
borrowed from the sun.
Satish Verma, 20 sierpnia 2019
For The Heritage
For the beasts and men,
a transition will not work.
This was explicit cap―
the polar ice was melting.
He will not take the slights
for the moon. He will
not go far from the eyes
of stars.
Not enough, the astringent
microbes were peeling off
your mask. Sometimes you want
a frugal strangulation.
Incredible. The words
were making a mound, out―
of the space, left by
the departed fever.
Satish Verma, 22 sierpnia 2019
Be The Human
Not giving or taking.
I will share you―
in water.
Believing was not significant.
I was holding you
to implode.
Not your words, not
my script, will translate
the thumbprint.
A time comes, when
you become your own father,
to carve out the pure truth.
The duality bothers
a lot. You want to convert
the myriad into one.
Satish Verma, 6 września 2019
Seeking Carefully
Where do you stand―
in the crowd, for the love of a cause―
your feet cannot measure the ache
of the earth, respecting the rhythm
of a lone survivor.
Can you believe in the fall of a titan?
Stranded in accuracy
for a salt lick for
a zipless mouth wide open.
Intuiting,
what the flesh would not say.
And I keep standing by the midriff to see the face.
Satish Verma, 3 czerwca 2019
A Sombre Moon
This is for the
smaller gods sitting
in rains, seeking asylum in
snow.
Nobody knows the
fate of sunken erotica
when the glacier
melts.
A wild rose
sends the thorns to
prick your conscience.
Let the death walk
in sleep.
Satish Verma, 16 czerwca 2019
Scattered Thoughts
Coming to an end the
consecration. The land will
not give you any god.
Only the demons will come in your dreams.
If it were window, the
street will send the black
noises in your house.
I will not wait
for snow-melting.
The slum was going to be
sliced off.
Wet from the rainfall,
the grain cannot be milled
and you will not eat my sprouts.
I cannot sail now.
It must be very dark
and the glossary
very foul.
Satish Verma, 18 czerwca 2019
Will You Leave Me?
I did not mean to hurt.
Do not try to flute―
drinking the lianas,
wearing a fatigue. Then comes―
the shoot. Like a scarecrow
I sway― the slug― passes through me.
You ask me to turn over―
the death mask―
giving a smile. There was no
reprisal. Must bring under reins―
the pounding heart― I cannot talk.
Alone to mend my grief, the
scaled loss of bliss. Do not want to
use any metal. Poverty becomes
my strength. Fears will stand with me.
I am empty like a glass.
Satish Verma, 19 czerwca 2019
No Message
You have kept the
script― to age in dark,
silent night.
Drawn into the upheaval,
of grains―
ready to strike the mouth.
Nameless wheels were out
to carry the gay pride.
I am not amused of the day.
Who was naturally―
born― breathlessly, holding
the flag, to spite the clan.
A pink window was
stolen from the green house.
The light now burns black.
Satish Verma, 20 czerwca 2019
Change Of Life
Becoming wise to
your faults. I will not wear
any talisman.
No fireworks were needed
to celebrate the return
of the sane fakir.
Standing up― was the biggest
ideal of the oppressed. I
repeat the act.
Taking the helm― without
retribution― was a challenge
thrown by the dark.
I have come to be reborn
in the name of symbols
broken.
Satish Verma, 21 czerwca 2019
Virtually Untrue
Lethal mix
of blood ties― before
a fugue delivers its tremors.
A rage visits with the dark voices...
Reverberating in death chamber.
Heat seeking― the missile
goes straight into the heart of the Himalayas.
I am still recovering―
from the eternal fires― of biligual nights.
I am transfixed―
in my shoes― facing shoulder
fired― a sentence ejecting its hate.
Satish Verma, 22 czerwca 2019
Where The Road Ends
Since you knew, ―
it was going to cast a shadow.
I let the question hang in air.
Death was known, ― only to man?
My suffering begins today. Adding―
my two cents, I go wild. Too few
white blood cells cruising in the veins.
Like lightning strike― I put myself
in harm’s way.
Bright yellow―
the gold and fire, absolutely opaque
decimating the drooping primula.
Impulsive, ― I raise the lid
of blazing rage. A divine exposure.
A millennium melts
beneath the carpet of snow.
Satish Verma, 24 czerwca 2019
His Or Her Majesty
That inner probe―
and access― was the need. I
promised myself, not to
sail on the waves.
It was difficult― the way
of birth, to deliver the truth.
You must invoke―
the legacy of the reals― against the fakes.
Factuality, your image
will not suffer. I will witness
the ultimate happening. The
testament will not be written on the beach.
Between ” I “ and “you” lies
the gulf of ancestry. The
unknowing will make it
easy to understand the glacial fall.
Satish Verma, 25 czerwca 2019
Night’s Song
Grazing on the clouds,
moon was moving
in a daze.
Someone will milk it
for the poor, who will not
sing for the inevitable.
Witch hazel will stop the
bleed of unholy wars
between the diminutive fidelities.
This was the beginning
of a dialogue― meant for
the deaf― who will listen with the eyes.
There was no consolation
for a man who lost his finger
while searching his ring.
Satish Verma, 26 czerwca 2019
Earth Is Moving
It is pouring.
You can feel, smell and touch
the rain. A river of qualms―
starts swelling. Watercress―
will decide the fate of water.
Do not consent to switch off
the amplitude. You cannot drink the sky.
Keeping the lexicon― of road map in order.
The scope of communiqué
expires, if you do not offer the apology
for dousing the snow with
conspiracy and setting it on fire.
A daring attack takes place
to avenge the insult of mountains.
Satish Verma, 15 czerwca 2019
No Saviour
Out of ambit― you resume
the surfing again― on
yellow tulips―
in misting valley.
One who will not bless
the seed― will sit
in shadow of hunger.
Do not touch the―
impossible blue of the
eyes, unhunted by the tears.
Snare or be snared. If
there was a flint and
the steel― do you think the
spark will be faraway?
In silent night, I will open
the crypt to have a look again―
at the wornout cloak of a paragon.
Satish Verma, 14 czerwca 2019
Self-Portrature
A freak hailstorm of
proposition, makes you―
deaf and mute. The sex
orientation― will not remain the same.
It was not pink― it was not
blue. A thunder breaks the
roof― of calligraphy. A
beautiful face― goes manic.
About the harvesting― I
would say ― it was all
humbug. You can wear a gem
in your eyes― and still not go stone blind.
The prayer will have a
summer wedding. All the―
lavenders will bring all the
blues and all the mauves.
Satish Verma, 4 czerwca 2019
Faraway
How much you can carry,
carving a deep gorge
during last rites
of a river?
It was a skunky remain
of the civilized terrain
gone berserk.
Oh pilgrim, don’t come
again to wash your feet
in the snow of
painted storks.
Hiding behind the tattoos
my raw galaxy perspires
climbing the graveyard
of old songs.
Satish Verma, 5 czerwca 2019
Sheared Off
How much you were honest
with you?
The poems had singed
the eyebrows. I am filled
with salt.
Would you know what was
missing between the lines?
Afterlife will not bother me.
My image and me
will not superimpose.
An apology for extradition
of my agony. Trapped, my
mirror has broken. I
will tear off the moon
from the window, when the room
is dark.
Satish Verma, 6 czerwca 2019
I Am Not Afraid
There was a road to landslips.
Why would the mountain break
for consanguinity?
You had spurned the hovering
clouds altering the means
of communication―
by adopting the lightning
for jousting with new gods.
As the thin cobweb flies before the eyes―
I go for insomnia to talk
with invisible in dark. In
moment’s lapse I become grey.
A life’s learning makes a
fool of me, hurting myself
in moonlight. The
abandonment brings fear
of me. I am ready to go
to a sheepeater carnivore and lie still.
Satish Verma, 7 czerwca 2019
After The Snow Storm
It tumbles down. The real.
Heels start hurting.
Once upon a night, there
was a red moon, which used to hang
on your head and I
would watch something beyond.
No outburst of profanity
will take place, when you were
dissecting a triangle―
of rainbows. I will not
assemble the waist of a tall tree
after the fruit fall.
Gone with the snow, my
temple, my god. I am now
waiting for the looters of rings.
Satish Verma, 8 czerwca 2019
No Love Song
In black midnight,
the white moon, like a nun
sits stonely.
The sliding moon is toxic
and you are not ready to
die for the theme.
The high priests will
weave the faux mantras to
invoke the goddess of wealth.
The debt pervades in every
relief. I survive the ignominy
of not touching a yogi.
And you, little brown bread,
will not feed the thousands
who come clamouring for a bite.
Satish Verma, 9 czerwca 2019
Rising Rage
After the blast, the
morning gets wise, and
does not spill the sun.
And the dead will not
come back to celebrate
the dark after the rage.
There, on the white peaks,
the splattered blood will
draw the face of assassin.
Do not enter the dome of
seething screams. The priest
hangs by the bell.
O, my brother, why we
have become coldblooded after
thousand years of pilgrimage?
Satish Verma, 10 czerwca 2019
Unbegotten
Shedding the knowledge
I was aware of emptiness,
that will allow me
to watch from afar―
the message coming from
the locked doors.
Getting nearer the gorge
you want to look at your spitting image―
in water. I hinge an old frame
to find me in baby face. Did you
see your future visits to
cauldron of life?
You never wanted to become
a god of wayfarers. A tinge
of stupidity was evident to renew
your faults to remain human.
Satish Verma, 12 czerwca 2019
The Dancing Tale
I do not remain happy
with noises of wisdom.
Time was running out on me
to know myself.
No sensory cognizance. I
touch you with my invisible
hands, stroking the hair
to dislodge the moon.
Ashes lay strewn. River
was overflowing from the
banks of limbs. I will not
come near the unfathomable
depth of a chasm, between
good and bad. Out of the bed
of roses a snake uncoils.
Praise the dark. It in night.
Satish Verma, 13 czerwca 2019
The Dancing Tale
I do not remain happy
with noises of wisdom.
Time was running out on me
to know myself.
No sensory cognizance. I
touch you with my invisible
hands, stroking the hair
to dislodge the moon.
Ashes lay strewn. River
was overflowing from the
banks of limbs. I will not
come near the unfathomable
depth of a chasm, between
good and bad. Out of the bed
of roses a snake uncoils.
Praise the dark. It in night.
Satish Verma, 27 czerwca 2019
Irony Of Gist
The finger and a ring―
a story of bonhomie;
if you live precariously.
Difficult when you are perceptively nimble.
I would like to take off―
any clinger.
If you live in a crate, ―
there is no escape.
The pollination has stopped.
The washed bees will not go anywhere―
in this rain.
The bumbler will strike
when you are eating the poem.
Satish Verma, 28 czerwca 2019
Take Up Your Book
After the apocalypse,
the fiefdoms were growing―
buttercups― with golden flowers,
cupshaped.
Anemones and hellebores/
aconites and clematises/
famed for making lethal―
poisonous seeds.
So much went through us.
A billion years after― there will be
no life/ on earth. But we
have become lifeless now―
the poems incomplete.
It was getting smaller―
and smaller― the tall man.
Satish Verma, 12 lipca 2019
Future Tense
The reflection was never
complete.
I was trying, was trying
to understand me,
in absence of you.
Looking into the persona
making a saint―
out of sexual surrogacy.
The human gene―
transcripted, on the borrowed womb?
Will you now speak for the fear?
I will never know you
in dimlight―
of suspicions.
Are you a complete man now?
Satish Verma, 13 lipca 2019
A Discreet Failure
A midnight darkness―
threatens the purple moon,
standing in awe.
There were two poems―
in your hands― which you
wanted to read in my face.
One for the asking―
and one for the moral defeat.
Do you have anything else to narrate?
A thunderbird makes―
a landing in my insomnia―
to scatter the dreams.
The insane world returns
the gift of the pagoda tree. Buddha
will not come back.
Satish Verma, 14 lipca 2019
Again A Sheep Walk
I will be kissing in proxy―
at the dark side of
the moon, where my twin crashed.
The cracks had emerged
in the fiery zone― the flames
reaching the zenith of blue, killer sky.
A tamed hematoma,
speaks― for the ripped open brain.
There was nobody left to be whole.
Survivors were the gift
of miracle. A saint starts
abusing the stars.
The god’s temple lies―
in ruins, buried under the sand,
debris and the dead faith.
Satish Verma, 15 lipca 2019
A Riddle Unsolved
Something novel:
a good augury―
creeping to augment,
an esoteric fall.
I repeat the mistake of knowing too much.
Submodified. The man―
still wants to bite the tongue
on the name of truth.
It was very unpleasant
to see a hummingbird
becoming a sphinx.
No need to commit a suicide after homing,
to a blazing icon in the urn.
Satish Verma, 16 lipca 2019
Through The Ashes
Outside, a discreet moon
was rising, breathing―
dark. I was wary of strange clouds
of unknown scents.
Like a blue absence of nothing,
from nothing to emptiness.
The religion of unspoken
prayers― I start the journey,
to void. From there a turbulence will begin.
Blinking eyes― will find
the answer to a no-question, at
the end of the conflict―
when the face is lost to sadness.
You will not take off
your shoes.
Satish Verma, 17 lipca 2019
A Space, A Dot, A Line
The hesitant―
dawn cracks, as the
river of darkness squirms.
The moon―
was in last, to leave
the howling bank.
It looms large, a ―
brain-dead future. I think
I am forgetting my age.
You must face the
dying earth― sustained―
on prayers only.
This is the height
of dilemma. Why―
poems were hungry?
Satish Verma, 18 lipca 2019
Skirting The Book
This was man made,
the blue-chip―
changing the landscape.
Fanatically you cling to mother
terra firma like a baby primate.
Incontrovertibly―
I am going back to look
like my fathers,
with twisted contours.
Forward― facing, but looking behind.
I climb up the blue,
to unsolve the murder and go
into deep meditation to reject
the gods. The gold mine was flooded
by unprecdented rains of hands and footsteps.
Satish Verma, 19 lipca 2019
The Benevolence
Borderless pain was
said untold. I am writing
a new chapter of night.
The somatic scent―
does not rise now, for the peaks
dissecting the snowy falls.
Racial climbdown
brings friction amids the uniqueness
of downtrodden dolls.
There was an intense―
urge to rip open the endless sky―
to find the secret of blackness.
The fabled light,
fails to distinguish between
eyes and ears. A blind man
will not find the shape
of truth by noises.
Satish Verma, 20 lipca 2019
Cracked Open
Living my own way
like flint,
you will not read
my cosmology.
We two, keep quiet in―
the same book― I
want to read some
hidden message from you.
A day slips into night.
What a consumption of will.
The train stops at the terminus―
without a traveler.
Stepping out, from the
grave of body― you will throw
a reflection, of the nerves,
in a wreath.
Satish Verma, 11 lipca 2019
Crash-Landing
The space in between―
the mayhem and spiritual hour;
was not much, but a spitting image,
of swapping with sun bites― was
evident without remorse.
The ice storm was raging.
Blueberries hang from your
eyes, to bluff me. I draw the curtain
and lit the fire to bring in―
the bride of vengeance.
A charitable act, to clear
the needles from the doll: No black
magic will work now. I am clean
and pure, will not cut a
slice of breast, for the red milk.
Satish Verma, 10 lipca 2019
The Sorcery
I can do it, hold the wasp
in my palm― without grains
and short of fructose.
Layer by layer eggs
will leak― wetting
the vibrating stigma.
Neat abuses, will suck
the milk of nodding thistle.
No marrow comes out to save the elixir.
The hoofers, without
stirrups were running blindly
after the fallen apple.
The sage sways sadly
in the passive winds. It’s aroma
enters the stream of sex.
Satish Verma, 29 czerwca 2019
Toxicity
First listen to your heart.
No poetry will walk tonight―
without fear.
Sometimes you will find―
words will not descend/to heal
your ache of unslept poems. Hovering/
like the obsessive hawks.
The migratory, adjutant/
storks, had not come to roost
on the tall tree―
naked as they are.
Democracy always/sends
erotica/to take off your mind
from the trivial subjects.
Fireworks resume the celebrations
for the fugitive/who returned
home after drinking absinthe.
Satish Verma, 30 czerwca 2019
The Right Moment
Tell me,
how would you die
when the call comes?
A hollow skin―
with no viscera― underneath.
Will you cry―
while breaking away from the earth―
carrying your own urn?
Elysian vision―
was not very clear
and Styx was full of bodies.
There was no space left
to celebrate the liberation.
A parchment paper
with your fading name printed;
after the petition of right
to exist, undying
in deeds.
Satish Verma, 3 lipca 2019
A Paragon
Like a starfish― you are
not a star, always opening
the shells― with your tube fest
to find the pearls.
Predator― you will attack
in a crowd― when it is dark―
coming out of your skin.
Flesk for flesh. It was your dynasty.
I cannot reconcile. I cannot
play the game of chess―
and checkmate the opponent.
Will wait for a nemesis.
Unorthodox. The nature
reveals its move― in the galaxies.
The earth is in―
mid-life crisis.
Satish Verma, 4 lipca 2019
Against Nobody
Do you need a divine witness―
if I abdicate a claim
on you, saluting the dark?
Drawing the ire of a void,
the violence becomes visible―
when earth starts dying.
The completeness― will give
you a rude welcome― after
you were landuishing in wait.
An intern surrogacy―
defies the sexual assault of the
gimmick. Why did not you
swear in the moon?
In jitters. I start―
making circles again― and again.
Will I remember―
who am I?
Satish Verma, 5 lipca 2019
Karmic Influence
Under surveillance, the vegetable―
lives on ventilator.
All doors were shut― for the
dark― to remain inside.
The spastic breathing with―
rising chest, delivers the
nuances of death. Are you
sure― it was easier to live?
Asking the destiny to wait―
at the door. You can write
your own epitaph―
on the dust― for posterity.
I am coming home to collect―
your letters― you were
writing to me daily― but
never dared to post.
Satish Verma, 6 lipca 2019
Negation Of What
Living,
in the wounds,
like a gas dragged into
the black hole.
Bedeviling the light.
There are no winners in this war.
Corona will not sit
on any head.
There was ambivalence
in the robust thrust.
The hard x-rays will
burn the thoughts.
Do not go on chasing the
grazed genre. The style
will bring back the questions
which had no answers.
Satish Verma, 7 lipca 2019
Gold Coins
A hate apart, living in embraces,
one night― you find the
bridge collapsed― in the
forest of skins.
In exasperation― I watch
the face of the adultery. I
will know― I am going too fast
for the hypocrisy.
Why you were becoming too
cozy to the silence of the necks.
The little feet are not―
able to run for the morning star.
Shutting the lamps. No moths
will descend on the books― no
bleeding of the verse, so
you can become empty of arithmetic.
Satish Verma, 8 lipca 2019
It Kills It Kills
Eaten up, by wanderlust―
I started my sleepwalks
cheating my dreams.
The grace of knife was there...
it did not open in daylight.
Night was the brilliant host.
When do I meet you―
behind the moon― when stars
were not twinkling out of fear?
The rare gift of footnotes
was sufficient to explain―
the meaning of abstract pain.
You will not treat the stings―
very unkindly. They were
meant to awaken you from letting it go.
Satish Verma, 9 lipca 2019
After Meeting God
You should not be present―
everywhere, O God. Pull down,
all the shutters of your temples.
I am mortified, of a
hidden hand, that gives
spurious― sugar coated hymns.
A hometown crowd
assembles at the door of the―
palace to hear the arrival.
What was the natural
descent made of? A cyber attack
was the most desirable thing.
A crypt sets you free―
from the engraved sermons.
All night I will sit on the vigil, for a vision.
The book was blank
for a goodnight deal. I will
not cross any unwritten poem.
Satish Verma, 21 lipca 2019
An Awakening
Profiling the flaws
after the ignition, starts
the outrage.
A stoic will assume a
secret. The mute testimony
against my naked walls.
Your gifts are lying unseen,
unused. I have gone, O tormentor―
beyond your reach.
When you would try
to annihilate the vision, I will
check the bleed of eyes.
If the bell rings;
somebody will arrange the table
for anaesthesia.
Satish Verma, 7 września 2019
Great Defiance
A smear campaign starts
against the ladder, which permits―
the ascension, but leaves the spaces in between,
of dark. You stand still.
The hunger becomes the mouth―
of rags. I will come and collect
some numbers.
It was useless to hunker―
after the game. The fear will ultimately
start a monologue.
On bees, I will build a
synopsis. The sleuth always falters
when the moon hides.
A canned script draws the
scorn. The player had become grey―
in dark.
A bunch of mushrooms,
like tall girls, standing
in wind, gossiping.
Satish Verma, 26 października 2019
No Explanation
How difficult it was to
remain a simple truth,
as passive grass
with no frills.
I was ready to talk
heart to heart.
You cannot stand all the ink,
writing, simple verse, furtively.
What was eating you up,
I asked the milkweed.
"On this summer, monarchs
were not coming to breed"
it said.
I felt the unease. Grappled with the
amount of pain, at tiny thoughts.
The scale and brutality
of the times, the throats slit open.
Like a clam you shut up.
Satish Verma, 7 listopada 2019
A Keyhole Surgery
Sometimes, I want to write
a folk poem, without name.
Anonymously, you want to
postpone the commitment
to accept the murder
of yourself,
the griever.
The towering belief―
that there were skeletons
on the grains, as the words
become verses.
A snowy virgin
will take a knife, to bring
down the stars
when you sing centuries
of love.
Satish Verma, 9 listopada 2019
Of Innocence And Black Magic
The evil city? You
become the smallest
light.
The lamb did not save
the godman. I was
praying loudly.
It was falling apart.
The concept, the belief
the palace.
Years roll by. Until
the priest was shot down
on the street.
You marvel at the
turning of the mountain.
How do you climb down the salt?
Satish Verma, 12 listopada 2019
Endless Yearning
The thirst will know,
the river was there.
To lie on the grass was ultimate.
It was not the green,
it was not the blue,
but desire had the keyhole to look
at the fine sands,
where you stand to find the
elixir of life.
A crackling of joint, awakens
you. You will not wait
for the rains to come and overwhelm
the permeable umbrella.
A fluttering butterfly
knows, how to become floppy
and dangle like a dead leaf.
The stream was
drinking its own water.
Satish Verma, 14 listopada 2019
Rehabilitation
Trying to bring the change
with bleeding silver.
As it is/was, this world.
You may not agree to it.
The release of tension
from the cupped eyes? Will not
alter the secret deal.
There at the hemline,
bodies were scattered, slain
after the trespass.
The royal coin, flexes
its muscle. It will talk
through the muzzles.
Poorest of poor will become free.
Satish Verma, 15 listopada 2019
Stopping The Wheels
It was a free fall.
A plot seems to thicken.
I would never know.
Perhaps I will not explain,
how the test tube baby
slapped the sky.
The fun of unknowing
the secret of
a cold-blooded murder.
Suddenly the streetlamp
goes off. Night cracks
open to release the animal.
How a godman
becomes a werewolf?
The shadows are hovering.
Satish Verma, 16 listopada 2019
Ancient Echoes
Art of dying
comes, after
you listen to the siren song.
The intention
was to kill yourself,
non-violently, when
moon was hiding.
Man was changing the skyline. You can
redraw the landscape without hurting the grass.
Don't offer to sacrifice
the goat on the rock,
where the shipwrecks took place.
You burn that, what you
would not eat. The
assassination charges were true.
Satish Verma, 17 listopada 2019
Unhurting
Unshackled, the pallor moon
was lying still, in a white-
shroud of clouds, only face
visible, staring-
down languidly.
I have come afar,
from the whispering dark,
to annul my existence.
Your hands tremble,
carrying your name. The
magic of unsaid-
poems, working.
Life had been a Medusa.
The blues, the reds, the
greens, overbearing.
Scores will be settled
when moon,
goes down.
Satish Verma, 18 listopada 2019
Demanding Answers After The Chemical Attacks In Damascus
I was not afraid of the clock, ticking,
dividing your attention. A guarded
withdrawl of the statement, had
brought a comic relief to the distraught
vicitims.
Caving on guns, the
mustard cloud could wipe out
the entire generation.
The tender bodies
wrapped up in white cloaks,
ready to be sent back
to mother's womb: earth.
Why a sun wanted to
pass out gingerly?
Satish Verma, 19 listopada 2019
Empathy With Tattered Cape
Weep every don.
All the translations were fake.
The yellow peaks do not burn the
sky, now at sunrise.
I am forgetting myself―
in the gathering of my foes.
The pilgrim's path is now dirty.
You cannot transcend the―
dead remains of ancestry. In
the hutment, that was the end of view.
Nightblindness. I cannot fathom
out the saint descending a great depth.
From beastkinds I swim back
to save an unborn epic.
Satish Verma, 6 listopada 2019
Elusive Answers
Constrained.
The starlings will
not fly today.
There was a hole
in the sky.
The god particles will fall.
Drawing out
the blood of fallen―
angles, on the street.
Can you count
the sins of man?
We still celebrate the hate.
Satish Verma, 5 listopada 2019
Condensation
A butterfly
in a bell jar.
All I know, we understand
each other.
There was no sun
at midnight.
Only a blue black
dilemma of―
the sky, to burn
like human combustion.
I am ready to start
a journey with sunbeams.
Satish Verma, 27 października 2019
The Ground Gives Way
To blunt the offence
of beautiful pain
you stopped remaining good.
This was a perverse phenomenon
wearing the straight jacket
you try to become
a beast.
The glowing eyes will
send the message to dispose off
the headless body of
a marbled saint.
Someone has taken off
the eyes. You will need
a transplant of religion.
I am very unhappy.
Satish Verma, 28 października 2019
Not Accountable
A breast bomb,
makes a sudden lunge-
disfiguring the landscape
till your body was pulled out.
Your choices were very few.
Either you walk straight
or become a leaf of grass.
It will not work. A swift―
withdrawl from the controversial
marriage with ferocity,
as naked as moon. How
about the aspirant refusing
to sit for engraving in gold?
The salt bearers were coming
to act like gods.
Satish Verma, 29 października 2019
Holding Back
The credibility
of an apple
becoming an icon.
It draws first
blood, when you―
were sleeping.
It still matters:
thinking of milt
but sinking your ferry.
There was no epilogue.
A midsummer night.
I will forget
your name.
Standing in a
queue, you should not
punish yourself
becoming unmatched.
Satish Verma, 30 października 2019
Updated
I will not elaborate,
what I mean.
You have to dig out the treasure.
The puzzle was not new.
The memorial will be
buried in the sand.
A bloodbath will give―
the final touch to the
ground, less savoury now of inhumanity.
We celebrate the anniversary
to forget the world's
conflicts, man made.
Will you come in the
dark? The snipers are watching
out for the sparks of mercy.
Satish Verma, 31 października 2019
Invisible Ink
I will meet the moon
on the terrace,
when the dust settles on the
lids, smothering
the uncharted barricades.
Life had been full of dresses
to play the lead in
conflicts of alliance vows.
Like untouched goodbyes,
you hover around the exit―
to seek the blessings of dark.
In the glasshouse, you cannot
walk nude. The wounds, the scars
the burnt-out fabrics
will tell the truth.
A priest will invoke
the mercy of the vessel.
Satish Verma, 1 listopada 2019
Classical Entry
It takes billions of years
for ancient light to reach us and
rescue the trapped darkness.
You can hunt among rocks
in the palisades, behind
the ramparts.
There was an apocalypse.
Stem cells were ready
to repair the myelin―
searching ancestry.
It was a tense stand-off
between the headstone and a living dead.
Cannot repay the debt of blue
Sky, sending us
the warnings of catastrophy.
Satish Verma, 2 listopada 2019
Not Water Proof
Stoned to death.
The rooted plants had begun
to climb the mountain.
Very hot here.
Difficult to breath in.
Why lesser flamingos were landing
on dry lake?
They enter via back door.
The multi-tuberculates.
Why the man was
running away from the orchids?
Strange, our lineage was
getting interrupted, by
smoke screens.
Ostatnie komentarze:
20 maja 2024
Jaga
Dziękuję za plusy i komentarze :)
20 maja 2024
można je mieć każdego dnia :)
20 maja 2024
...pitne, tylko lekko musujące ;)
20 maja 2024
... i nowy początek ;)
18 maja 2024
kb
jakoś kojarzy mi się z "siostrami wielkiej
18 maja 2024
no chyba że pomieszkuje
18 maja 2024
zdaje się że nikt tu już nie mieszka
18 maja 2024
bardzo
18 maja 2024
orzeźwieni... prawie jak otrzeźwieni... i to
16 maja 2024
violetta
Może w lipcu będę miała takie wakacje:)
16 maja 2024
jeśli tylko
słońce w płynie..
15 maja 2024
Weronika
Za jeszcze jeden rejs!
20 maja 2024
wiesiek
20 maja 2024
Jaga
19 maja 2024
wiesiek
19 maja 2024
Arsis
19 maja 2024
Marcin Olszewski
18 maja 2024
kb
17 maja 2024
Deadbat
16 maja 2024
violetta
16 maja 2024
Marek Gajowniczek
15 maja 2024
Jaga