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	Satish Verma
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Satish Verma, 15 stycznia 2015

DOVES HAD STOPPED FLYING

Somebody had put the feet
against the flame,
the street had become a wall.

Commitment had failed,
the doors were locked.
Collective guilt was seeking favour.

Repeating the same story
blurs the sky.
Sun will not come out.

You are speaking.
He was speaking.
Truth was speaking.

Solitude and silence
come before the summary.
I was responsible for myself.

Earth refuses to conceive –
fire in veins.
Doves had stopped flying.

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Satish Verma, 14 stycznia 2015

KUPFERNICKLED

Looked downward –
the granite face,
to see imprinted kupfernickeled
god, lying in dust.

From where to where
we have come sleepwalking?
In freezing winds, like brown angels
with swollen lids.

White moon-poised to commit suicide?
Blindfolded heavy as lead
in the trade of spared lies?
Back pain will carry us not very far.

Green stems have yellow leaves now.
We start blaming ourselves
to keep the winter away,
in torn shirts.

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Satish Verma, 13 stycznia 2015

DOWNPOUR

Your lips were me.
I wanted a kiss
which never came.

Insertion of a word, was committed
my wings took a flight
for anonymity.

To keep suffering alive
truth was accepting the hurts.
I was not speaking for myself.

Who was me to want a praise
for the custodian of morality?
Something for my name?

I must salute the fallen fingers,
who did not write death –
for my hugging blankness.

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Satish Verma, 12 stycznia 2015

I WAS CLOSING THE WEEPING CHAPTER

When terror strikes,
fear inside you
makes a hissing sound,
breaks the vessel.
Pain spurts out.

Your limbs swell like sapphires
in a naked suffering.
You were searching the face
of your dead brother on burning ghat.

And then on, it pours.
Babies were burning in incubators.
Blasts devouring the eyes,
ears and noses.

But the dredging will continue.
Irrespective of ocean of death
leaping to fragile shores
till the waves send back the relics.

Whom shall I call for condolence
in the thick of fog?
I was closing the weeping chapter.

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Satish Verma, 11 stycznia 2015

DILEMMA

There was the hunger
and suicide.
In favor of my brutal truth
or virtue of my failure,
I do not want any comments on my trauma.
Morality has a dubious equation
with power, provoking my anger.

The days were full of abandoned kilns.
No more shaping of containers
in which one can put the moon,
and honey and roses.
Everything was turning brown
with infinite, sulphur smelling teeth
ready to bite into golden flesh.

Convicts behind the walls were playing
with mirrors to throw the light on slick
towers. Death was laughing, waiting on the trees,
eating black berries.
And I was forced to taste the blood of sky
with sodium –
in sanctum sanctorum.

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Satish Verma, 10 stycznia 2015

ECSTASY

A pink rose was set to strip
letting the leaves fall.

The roots were jealous of a thorn
for stealing the blood from heart.

It was the last page of a book,
no more commas, no full stop.

The dead tongue now seeks syntax
of the lips that smell like enemies.

Two hard little breasts start a dance
like geraniums on bush.

Between the shadows of thighs
slept the pride.

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Satish Verma, 9 stycznia 2015

SHARKS

They manipulated the words
to cross the corridors of essence.
Crib was empty, child was stolen.
At blood stained altar
there was no clue to mystical death.

The contents now matter. Time
displays tools of murder,
snaps the sheet from the bed,
kills the neophyte at water hole,
unsucked breast swells, weeps endlessly.

Apes are coming.
Duplicates look brilliant like novae.
It was becoming crowded. Becoming
was destroying the matter. Fear
moves in water, on the earth.

Faraway a cuckoo sings
a saddest song.
Come, belong to my tears, drops
of my soul’s vessel, kiss the eyes
of planet earth.

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Satish Verma, 5 stycznia 2015

BURNS OF HATRED

You put up a price on all
the gifted items.
I was not ready to pay back in dreams.
Wanted to tell you
without telling.
Lips to lips we talk of a stillborn
space which does not crack.
Betraying the anger, words feel sick.

I was trying to decipher the moist
corners of eyes.
I will wait till sunset, when
I will call for the night and take off
my shadows and dropp petals
one by one and come out
in hot sun to receive the
burns of hatred.

It was not easy. Tulips were in full bloom
and my tracks were warm.
There were false shades
all around the garden.

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Satish Verma, 4 stycznia 2015

GENOCIDE

King of sex,
the third gender
or hermaphrodite,
half male, half female,
existing on margin,
beheads the creator
to propitiate the deity of destruction,
starts a genocide
to create a new model,
new world, sexless, moonless
sunless.

How could you remain normal
when you were being robbed of every myth,
every truth?
And you were walking under the guilty sky
unmindful of the pouncing, long legged tarentulas
to bite off your elements?
All of your tongue?
And the heat will give up the slaughtered spring
dried up in eternal shade?
Within the memory will lie the pain
of million years?

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Satish Verma, 3 stycznia 2015

SHAME AND FEAR

Between the yellow moon
and black stones
pours the river of mourning
in maze of silent night.

At the top of the world –
blue eyes were buried live,
under the incense of palaces.
They stood, unmoved in the corridors of metal tracks.

Mowed down with concrete,
lights had gone from the windows.
Unlit walls returned the legends.
Dictators deferred the hanging -

Of truth. Decided to live in glass house
for sometime. Lilies were growing between the graves.
A green dagger was splitting open the wounds
of mirrors in shame and fear.