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	Satish Verma
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Satish Verma, 17 września 2014

SUBSTANTIAL SHADOW

Walking on dead leaves covering the grass
to and fro, to and fro in solitude, hiding
behind the mask, pithy face, ideas rebounding,
a loaded eloquence, opening a diaglogue with self,
quietly bleeding inside. You are hearing
the sounds of winged carnivores who had been
devouring your brain cells. The time is ending,
death has no relevance, no respect for the survival,
insulting the existence, anguish overtaking
the joy of new born, lifted by a fog.
We are reciting the hymns now, lighting the lamps
to see the stains on the walls. The bronzed
sculpture refuses to come down from the pedestal,
afraid to go to a warehouse, to the lonliness.
A shadow moves away from the light, makes its own
length and buries in unconsolable sadness.
Pure eyes in which float the tears of million people.
Dying lips will always narrate a tale of abandonment,
will not be able to say adieu.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 16 września 2014

NINTH SYMPHONY

A scented moon caves in
on a tree top
and solitude withers up in a seminal cloud,

It is good to be friendless sometimes.
Me and homecoming become synonymous.

We are ruined by familiar paths.
The mist deepens.
Not reaching anywhere.
I come out in dark to find the stars.
What will you do if the soul sneaks out of a body?

The wind starts a dirty dance.
A tall cedar scowls.
It starts raining,
fabulous as tears on an immaculate face.

Pull up the veil.
It separates the truth.
Do not filter the pain.
We may find a god.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 15 września 2014

BODHISATTAVA

For the sake of lake, I climbed
on the weeping hills
to see the other side of moon.
The precipice of hunger weighs heavily
on shoulders.

Capricious time moves inwardly,
Strikes at the chest.
I set free the love-birds.

Conflict of trees tramples the grass
All summer the smell of dry winds
was scorching tear drops.
Every word was crying.

Dark in my city
I am wandering alone in alleys
of hostile homes.
The collective guilt of the flesh
blazes the mind.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 14 września 2014

SONG OF THE LAST SIREN

Somewhere in between slumber and arousal
the twilight zone scoops a fistful of memories.
Atrophied limbs. Mottled skin. A cancerous face haunts.
Not afraid but I am anxious. Life has not yet ebbed away.
I scramble for sparks, my hands burn.
Very disquietening!
The severed bones in a heap.
They wanted to appease the goddess,
the gnomes were dancing in a circle.

The land, the country is breaking, sky is falling.
Run, run for cover.
I scream in a dream.
Are we disintegrating? Disappearing?
A black hole is calling?
The mega truth has been broken into myriad fragments,
We are now thinking in chips, holding our own mirror.
Show your mirror to your truth. Future is fogging the past.

Come hither my child of sorrow.
We are old tribe. We will keep our pledge
to maintain fidelity towards verses of sadness, evening, night,
stars and dust. The sparkles will die one day. Only the moon
will rise on the dead bodies. Where will you like to go?

Amongst the ruins, walking straight back to the treasure-trove
of ancient wisdom.
Wake up
Bells are chiming.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 13 września 2014

HOME COMING... HYPOTHETICS

I will make amends with me today,
stop fighting with myself.

Unthinkable to live without pain,
in war with suffering.

Quietly cries the flame without sound.
While night lingers on.

Nothing was easy for a quick resignation
of ephemeral tears.

Again love opens like a senile gash,
a chandelier suddenly crashing.

Going back to old city, blowing the limbs off
I will find my house.

Trying to search a clue to the colour of wound?
Catch my style.

I will remain in your thoughts for eternity.
Was not I your hoary past?

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 12 września 2014

IN THE GARDEN OF GETHSEMANE

I tossed back the hot questions
before searching the answer.
Flaming torso of a limbless man
was seeking a place to rest his soul.

I inhale the death’s pungent odour
so opiating and so brutal.
Burning train chokes the windows
calmly, billowing the ebony smoke.

Cries mingled with whistling men,
haggarded infants were stupefied.
Grass was their pillow and stone
was the bed.

Courage was needed to write a poem
to fill the vast emptiness of a long night
without moon, when human torches
were throwing the light.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 11 września 2014

RAAS! *

The evening opens a wound,
a secret agony.
It neither heals nor gives solace.
The sacred whore who liberates herself
from the flesh.
Sun is pink and ashamed.

A crescent moon thought it was time
to step outside and find out the truth.
Night was willing to participate. She
wrote a message on the sky
as a survivor of a slaughter.

And now the paths of winds trace
a faded destiny of earth. It had
nothing to offer, till the god of hopes
comes in purple light and the jasmines,
open their dancing eyes.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 10 września 2014

SWINGING....

I did not will them
dreams of crystals
a stupid calendar of flight
from insomnic past.

Do not want to return to future,
hub of my clouds.
History had been writhing and screaming.
Present cannot redeem my woes.

I ask my bleak, frosted branches
where the birds have gone?
The songs, green hills, divine particles?
When they will enter in frozen affairs?

Anti-matter is now colliding with black energy
I am faltering a rhythm.
helplessly watch a xenomorphic face
disappearing in the blue sky.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 9 września 2014

LEAR AGAIN...

It was not worth it.
Building of castles on the dirty roads.
Offering spiritual coalition
of unscented certainties.

Admission of reversing the course of river
does not exonerate.
Mind polluted, face dripping with fantasies
clairvoyance, but confirming nothing.

Quasi-tales mingling with facts
take you to summer of hopes.
You are not here. I feel a cheap anonymity.
Charred body, clayey hands building a tomb.

Frond unfurling from the stump
gives a clue, without plea.
Rising from nothingness
to unending nothingness.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 8 września 2014

A PEEP WITHIN

I woke up clutching the dreams
in deluge of tears.
Night had a brackish taste,
the other side of moon was dark.

One by one the stars were dying
ideas were no longer candles in gale.
The final thought of liberation demanded
a tribute to partners in revolt.

I wanted a sunlit corner
in the blighted sky of hopes.
Instead of scorched impulse of a mob
injured truth, walking alone.

Give me a bitter fruit of certainty.
I don’t want to loose myself in fogs.
The truth must meet the lie-
alone, in woods of craft.

Satish Verma