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	Satish Verma
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Satish Verma, 2 października 2015

Left The Body To Watch

In the ending, there was beginning of fear
of unknown.
The pain of malignity,
evil punctuation of
a serene landscape.
Life moved from one landmark
to another in alien waste.
I shuddered in a patch of sun.

The impulse was very strong to find out the answer
I was violated by many questions.
Words could not tell,
migrated back to their scriptures.
Time altered the names
of fear & death.
Waiting grew into self-knowledge.

Like pleated oxygen mask
life gave me a bump.
Saddened, I played the mutation game.
Failed, tried again, left the body to watch
the death of the self.
Beyond the mind, away from sorrow
and grief of world.

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Satish Verma, 1 października 2015

Design Of Death

You said you were grief,
the marbled tears will not flow.
Was it not much softer
to accept the life
as a design of death?
You needed the continuity of the sorrow.
Why were you seeking the ending?

The visible effect was mirage,
the guilt of genocide.
We emptied our tatoos
on the road,
driving the emotions to insanity
Everything moved towards
the precipice, rejecting the sky.

Sorrow was part of joy, my adversary.
I wished to separate
the fear from the cells.
The pain of perennial setbacks chipped away the ladders.
I stood there at the level
of death, demanding rocks.

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Satish Verma, 30 września 2015

Life Demands One Thing

The brain will not cease.
Agitation explores
the hypocrisy of paths.
My myths burned, I spinned and tipped
over the inverted truths.
Again I skip the swamps.
Body becomes a frozen lake.

Take off the mask now, tree is flowering
solitary shade is beginning to enlarge.
It is arrival time.
For you it is difficult geometry.
The stolen dreams collapse at your door.
Exhausted, you are grateful to defeatism.

The moth eaten rags cover the polarities of words.
Faceless fear is ready to strike.
Your eyes are filled
with civilized tears.
The weaning from wings was difficult.
Life demanded one thing,
death another.

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Satish Verma, 29 września 2015

Microthin Smile

Stage was set for the god of death
to alight in vertical scoot.
Then a wall of fear was raised
to outrage the door of saviour.

The receptors were removed from brain,
rejecting the manhood
to join the queue of media barons.

Truncated lord becomes unbuttoned;
truth condition wavering.
Not again the ride through fire

Me and you are untying
the nuggets of tomorrow.
Death and dew will decide the venue of the event.

Go on beating the microthin
smile on the face of the moon.
Clouds are rising without me.

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Satish Verma, 28 września 2015

Confessional Truth

Liquefied version of pain has started working.
human material constructs
a floating emotion at last.
One by one I rediscover
the children of sorrow
among the ruins of ancient prayers.
The fear lurks
under the trees,
under the stones.

I can read it,
unwashed stillness of a revolution.
It was real yesterday,
but collapsed on the rim of today.
My wrinkled faith gets
ready for a proliferation of rites.

The land suffers.
My solitude remains unmeasured.
In despair I latch on to
sounds of pursuing light.
Impatiently the dialogues
are thrown around.
The philosophy of confessional truth
becomes very auspicious.

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Satish Verma, 27 września 2015

The Tragic Intimacy

A crisp moon rejects the night,
the words retreat, like fallen truths.
Stillness was palpable
silhouettes moved in vacancy.
And we did not know where to go,
how to find the cause of life.
World surged forward like a spider.

The dust, the heat
and a breathing sorrow
met in the twilight
of immaculate pain.
I hated the drooping lights
and burning of feathers.
Birds were dumb
to say how cruel
the benevolence had been.

I fell upon a thorn
who witnessed my incarceration.
A fire in my eyes, I glowed like a volcano.
Fogs were hanging
like veils on eyes of moon.
I tasted lichens in mouth.
The tragic intimacy
of an old poem.

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Satish Verma, 26 września 2015

Stripping To The Bones

Now me, now not,
a thought is always there.
My genes navigate on collapsing walls,
words, dark mind, broken dreams.
But thought is always there.
I hold on firmly to sounds,
voices, tongues,
the thought is always there.

Brain goes into a nameless friction,
of aimless voyage
I rediscover the myth and abandon the zone of thoughts.
Distance becomes a wailing music.
Sitting between the flesh and bones
I recognise the relic of a window.

Let us dropp the years,
become timeless, empty and hollow.
Egocentric wind violates the lungs.
We cannot sing in praise of earth.
I walk through the body,
stripping to the bones, to find the seeds.
I refuse to pluck the flowers.

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Satish Verma, 25 września 2015

When You Peel The Moon

Turgid freedom of nondescript
energy moves on the
secret circuits of nude gods.
Thy body politic breaks into splinters of million thoughts.
When the dusty winds
settle on our faces, it is a holy bath.
The neutral sky perceives it,
lapses into silence.

Poor vision of builders,
carries an abstract frame for the silver screen.
We peer in dark
to find the blasts,
culture of giant legs was the essence of truth
descends deep in crevices.
The technique brings the broken images.

In your mind lies the whole history of a tree.
You don’t remember.
When you peel the moon,
your tongue falters.
Of several centuries
the grief stricken bird recites a poem.
Come beside me,
I will tell you the name.

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Satish Verma, 24 września 2015

Forgotten Hills

Again I was giving chase
to a mirage.
Wiping off the transient thoughts
oozing from every orifice,
I will sell my dreams today.
Limb by limb,
the naked and brute will buy
the bonanza.

For a lost scent
I wandered from moon to moon
flitting past the sky of doves,
and the lonely winds
of crowded griefs.
The trampled earth
will not soak the joy of burning sun.
The tree and the flowers,
and the seeds falling in a heap
went unnoticed.

Now I will go in the forgotten hills
through mist and rains.
Give me some more pain,
it makes me move faster.

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Satish Verma, 23 września 2015

Catch A Butterfly

Deep lies the truth, unfathomed,
you cannot touch it.
Crossing the faceless matrix,
do not reach the level,
reasoning flattens the spikes.
On sand, elixir falls
like drops from awakening.
Arising from sorrow,
mustiness fills your eyes.

This was truth or untruth,
two strokes of madness,
wedged between night and sun.
Silence becomes an eloquent speech.
Each day brings silly
statements wearing artful masks.
Commentary on a vision fails.

Right versus wrong.
The conents of conflict always
linked the fear with poverty of a Being.
The involuted self uncurls
a scheme of war with a big world.
Now the smiles catch
a butterfly to immitate the colors.