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Satish Verma, 2 stycznia 2015
THE BUDDHA WAS GOING TO WEEP
For the fusion of minds
let the long vigil of night begin
for a cultural shock.
Prayer wheels were whirring
furtively.
The Buddha was going to weep.
Imperial march of hundred
thousand boots in fever
wakens the darkness under the milk.
Famished ghost of a town
can foresee the rumbling of
a dark moon behind the trees.
Bullet for bullet
in inner empire.
Gold lips cry at every reason.
Burnt-out shrine will tell a tale.
They were diluting silence of walls,
blood stained by the crash of towers.
Satish Verma, 1 stycznia 2015
FAILED PERFORMANCE
For death of conflicts,
and conflicts of death,
the coming of cessation, I was waiting.
Tomorrow must come
before eternity,
that inness, I will come to terms with one day.
The absoluteness of certainties
creates a danger of half-truths.
An intelligent mind suffers _
in ther era of hoaxes and contradictions.
The happenings of existence
continue without dignity.
Hand-picked rainbow is dumped
face down in shallow creek,
drugged, raped and abandoned
to lose colours in water.
When the sky hangs on the shore
the blue sea sends the condolence.
The sharp cleavage of silicon breasts
weeps for a failed performance.
Satish Verma, 31 grudnia 2014
BLUE DIVINITY
In situ,
a pod holds a promise,
in the wake of a terrorist bomb.
Peace,
said a weeping well –
my bucket is empty again.
Because of a spin
in the rainbow
sky was becoming dark.
The hand on the trigger was trembling.
You are praying,
for a dying god.
And the golden dust was sprayed
on the sins, yellow wishes
to walk on water, killing truth.
Time was moving very slowly.
The flame burns low,
giving out blue divinity,
for resurrection.
New born grass under the feet
was trying to smile.
Satish Verma, 30 grudnia 2014
A VERY HURT POEM
Last night
moon was following me
discreetly,
skirting behind the trees.
A white splendor
drips,
like a dropped coin
on poor’s hand.
Did you see the blood
on roses?
The petals were wounded
in rain.
Casual violence
spreads in the streets.
I write a very hurt
poem.
Satish Verma, 29 grudnia 2014
ANAPHYLACTIC SHOCK
Night was descending
on the tonsured heads,
terracotta robes,
clasping the palms, hiding the seeds
of earth.
Against a ban on lips
for belonging truly.
Blissful. The squids settle in the weeds
of overbrimming sea of arms.
Blood was red, brown and pale.
oozing from the slit eyes,
soaking the green voices, herbs and sad kisses.
In the death, your name will be engraved on your shoes.
The steps were small
but shadows were very long on the ice.
The stings unflawed, did their job.
Suddenly you go
in anaphylactic shock.
Satish Verma, 28 grudnia 2014
SUICIDE NOTE
One day you will arrive.
Night will enter in your pores,
in your bones,
like a baby trapped in a borewell,
crying, striking,
thumping.
On each table, salt moaned
for a classical taste.
A pink moon was smothered
in a virgin bed.
Death walked in a sensual style.
A black discharge continued
from the areolae.
Botox failed to uplift
the sagging breasts.
A thallium capsule broke on tongue.
There was no suicide note.
Satish Verma, 27 grudnia 2014
WINDS
Trapped in your body
a city starts
screaming.
The master has broken off
a huge iceberg.
An Antarctica is burning
like hermitage
from the spark of a red robe.
Lips are riddled
with lies.
No face is left
to smile.
Ruthless with the words
and meanings,
they have manipulated the winds.
The puppets
have come to stop
in complete silence.
Satish Verma, 26 grudnia 2014
ARCHIVES
Fear of a mound,
tumbling down
on the half-buried, half dead
archives of desires, comes
like a stampede of hoops on my chest.
I lie alone in a desert of insanity.
From the sea of agony
one dropp of salted tear,
the title of a wasted life, brings
the blood stained truth.
I want to wash my eyes again.
To watch the autumn leaves falling
on impeccable stones
for forgiveness.
We were not the fruits.
A song of blind water
enters the earth
to kiss the roots,
foo giving liberation from
sun leaked night.
Satish Verma, 25 grudnia 2014
FROM THE CHERRY BLOSSOMS
Not asking, was most difficult, from
the magma, to send a hot spring. It was
a classical translation of the pain in winter
of human spell, in a temple festival.
The space widens between us, between
our thighs and absences, while studing
the red roof of the landscape, where blood
had dripped from the cherry blossoms.
I say to mother earth, where the border
begins between your breasts and foeticide.
Warriors were becoming monks or priests
were learning the art to kill.
This road is not going anywhere.
The interval between matter and time
links to movement of grief. The ahead
is tomorrow under siege. Sun is refusing
to melt the snow on mountains.
Satish Verma, 24 grudnia 2014
BLACK HOLE
Will you walk with me
on the banks of a silent and invisible river?
Not paleowater eating the earth
but a collider, flowing in conscience.
One more dip with epidural
to stay away from awakening,
to start climbing on the burning tower
of truth.
Planting lethal swords in the hands
of earthlings. The essence of memory,
throws counter-questions. Strange happenings.
I am afraid of a black hole.
Ostatnie komentarze:
3 sierpnia 2025
sam53
podoba mi się ujęcie... można byłoby bardziej
3 sierpnia 2025
podoba mi się ten biskupi kolor :)
3 sierpnia 2025
dziękuję za miłą lekturę :)))
2 sierpnia 2025
violetta
Ładne
2 sierpnia 2025
Jakie piękne
2 sierpnia 2025
Weronika
Jednia.
1 sierpnia 2025
Mech bardzo powoli rośnie:)
1 sierpnia 2025
Życie pochłania. Piękny wiersz.
1 sierpnia 2025
grzyby porastają wszystko, mech to już wyższa
31 lipca 2025
Bezka
Cudny klimat
31 lipca 2025
Ewa, aż zabrakło mi słów
30 lipca 2025
AS
mistrzostwo...
3 sierpnia 2025
sam53
3 sierpnia 2025
Yaro
3 sierpnia 2025
sam53
3 sierpnia 2025
wiesiek
3 sierpnia 2025
sam53
3 sierpnia 2025
absynt
2 sierpnia 2025
violetta
2 sierpnia 2025
Jaga
2 sierpnia 2025
dobrosław77
2 sierpnia 2025
sam53