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	Satish Verma
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Satish Verma, 16 sierpnia 2015

My Poems Wept

I had to let them stay.
My anguish & anxiety.
Denuding me, filling me with hymns of pain.
The blank days drifted in slow motion.
I tried to sing,
imitating the cuckoo on the tree,
to shake off the clouds from the eyes.

Everyday the pain was new,
dreams were old
in the eternal churning.
Grizzled clouds hanged on trees
for witnessing the chaining of desires.
Empty words went into seizures,
clogging the arteries of crisp brain.

Deep within a seed
opened the eyes sitting
quietly near the blast of pain.
Green sprouts drank the light.
My poems wept
and truth started a dance.
The time and space intermingled
to celebrate a birth.

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Satish Verma, 15 sierpnia 2015

Heart Unsnaps

You gave me a name without asking.
History of my pain
did not need any label.
I recalled only
the blooms of bougainvillea,
not the heat which gave them color.
My burned lips
remembered only the dew
and rear view of life.

The total otherness of the moon and stars
did not heal the scars.
My perceptions had
given me hot tears.
How the distance between us
created the schizophrenia?
The familiar laughs
have frozen after all!

In the middle of night I lie awake
to count the door
and the closed windows.
I listen to the moaning of walls.
My eyes remained half-closed in freckled sleep.
Heart blinks, unsnaps
and weaves a moon.

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Satish Verma, 14 sierpnia 2015

Face Of Truth

It hurts, the abstract isolation of life
emptying of self.
The infection
of water in the sun.
A nameless pain annihilates
the ascending desires.
I want no more
traffic of dreams.
Only discovery of Being.

Where the city had gone from the mirror
of my poems?
Streets had the color
of a wrinkled maid.
And new dictionary had new words
of an obscene vernacular.
I wanted my stack, my lake.

Surface exploded into nothingness.
The lake boiled in the heat of eternity.
A part of the evening was cool,
participating in the festivities
of homing birds.
It took a whole night
to see the face of truth!

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Satish Verma, 13 sierpnia 2015

The Air Was Scented

The tryst with path,

was full of voices of silence,
confronting its wrath & revenge.
Nothing was new, soft matter divided the winds,
arithmetic of energy,
faced up to its agony of spent life.

Decently artful,
you manipulated the clouds, its music,
the bluebells went into trance.
The shower laden
leaves started dancing.
Half solemn, half smiling
you preached the immortality
of a sick downloaded wisdom.

The golden days had
yellowed vision of time, but mutation was complete.
The masts were broken.
The air was scented with
punch & humility.
Adjectives had the
advantage over nouns.

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Satish Verma, 12 sierpnia 2015

Insult The Death

Blows had blackened the mist,
fear of crossing the road, dented the veil.
‘Ism’ versus the boundary had a long rhetoric.
I was struggling with scars of learning.
Pain unwrapped the gift of rhythm with confession
bitten by skorpios, blue and cold.

Finding the cause does not solve the rigidity.
Entering my own genome, increases the panic attack,
where I am heading after all?
And today sun beats the unentered thighs
marrow, blood of a martyr, who pledged
to die to himself between enquiry and truth.

Fragmented self now seeks totality
and the mystery of staying alive,
when the hills are dead and green had turned around.
As usual I am meditating, to live or not to live.
The greatness of earth still impresses,
it does not insult the death.

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Satish Verma, 11 sierpnia 2015

Benediction

How sad you had been
without wholeness for the,
price of having broken shoulders?
The people were shedding their skins
to wear new masks.
I was haunted in my sleep.
Sun was not rising.

House to house from face to face,
death makes a pause.
Time sits for a while, when
we mourn in silence.
A scream halts in our throats.
In the courtyard a pungent smell spreads.
Atrophied limbs tremble.

The elegance foresakes the human touch.
The river dries up,
sucked in by laments of earth.
The unfolding of wounds
festers on cheeks.
Lips sluicing the grief,
spill benediction!

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Satish Verma, 10 sierpnia 2015

Emptiness Was Screaming

When your lies pretend to be truths,
Your house becomes full of cadavers.
The reticent progeny,
you abandoned at birth, strikes.
My hands bleed, lifting the bones.
Actuality overwhelms the landscape
like molten lava.

Shadows in the sun, grow larger when,
we are dissecting the truth.
A daunting work to dig out the relics.
We have not modified our speech.
Ill tempered time
makes me insane.

I was not prepared for this calamity
losing my way in a jungle of untruths.
Mighty darkness
pierces the perennial thoughts
in the brain edifice,
knives were out all evening,
emptiness was screaming.

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Satish Verma, 9 sierpnia 2015

Carried My Father Unside

Mirror to mirror
a face floated in anguish
the mourning was deep
whenever inquest for truth was made.
Was it so terrible?
I cannot read the human face.
We were so used
to wear the masks.

Stoned and deaf,
fuzzy kiss of death levels the ferocious peak.
The nameless murder
of truth got a reward.
Garden of strange foliage
slurred on a song.
A metaphysical experience
sniffs the life.

Chained to the probity of the city
I bowed my head.
Reluctant to move in a procession of ugly months.
Lifetime’s nostalgia lifted a veil.
No sleep will descend.
I still carry
my father inside.

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Satish Verma, 8 sierpnia 2015

White Roses

Mob hurts you
when you were standing alone in a crowd.
Bending like blade of grass
you accepted the rocks.
Your inner world broke down.
Softly you became a river,
flowing, meandering,
sucking the barriers.

The shivering relationship
puts off the mask,
a catastrophy or
liquidation of a frame took place?
With no regrets, life declares the fall of
our incorruptible icon.
The time and face
changed the color.
Farewell to truth was given!

For the poverty, the dirt;
the shriveled faces
god repented.
Dark lead the dark.
Blasts of anger did not help.
Few feet crossed the path of truth.
Stormy winds erased
the clusters of white roses.

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Satish Verma, 7 sierpnia 2015

Wandering Fakir

Blood splatters on walls,

on earth. Erstwhile anointed idol
lies broken. Thatched roof was burning.
Navel crushed on the newspaper,
a rape was atoned by cash award.

A womb refuses to eject the ticking clock
wants to preserve the window of sin.
Mother do not cry for the ashen stranger
he will go to the roaring sea to wash the
bleeding corn, and the mouth.

Salt in the eyes is hurting. Paper thin
purple child becomes the player of death.
Appetite of flesh for nirvana has cuddled
the religion of grizzly bears. Be or not to
be makes a body formless and slapped.

River is waiting for the shoreline to show
respect for the wandering fakir. He comes
once in thousand years and crosses the dams.
World will kiss his tattered toga. He wanted
nothing, he gave nothing.