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	Satish Verma
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Satish Verma, 11 sierpnia 2013

MATCHMAKERS

non compos mentis
my monologue,
non-believer will say, it was
insult of salt,
under the bark, white ants were climbing, boring into sap,

kneeling,
at war with yourself,
disinheriting the loud blood,
you want to thwart the murky ariel
to scour the black mass
at belly,

the dynasty ends in obscene hugs,
grievers want to be forgiven
for the sake of kneading truth
on merciless palms:
it kills the headache, the eyes, the vistas
of bleeding expansion

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 10 sierpnia 2013

GOLDEN LEAP

at cremation ground
the flames were creating
strange words

he stood still, in void, between unfenced tears

there was no need to question the answers,
kicking up the history, of crossing the bridge
over the river of annihilation

of self, making a gift of forked tongue
of cobra, spiteful, as an old virgin

it was over without thinking, scribbling
on the margin, his name in different inks
a young smell floats an funny rocks of

events and the fish swims in eyes of dead
foetus in womb, with unclenched fists

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 9 sierpnia 2013

WOUNDED PRIDE

Generation grips,
I am the street
in dysphoria.

You run, shout, the arc
bleeds, you become your enemy
that kills the alphabets

A statue was hung
upside down
to eject the violence from plastic lips.

Blood stained sidewalk
throws a challenge to send
the skins of martys.

The taste of endometrium confronts
a fortune of calories in pink
for an unconscious hood.

And the language of golden teeth
hides the backdoor flight
of a fallen god.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 8 sierpnia 2013

* VOICELESS

Crisp and tight, a parallel voice
of black stars talks to sky, protesting
the presence of ultimate outsider, when
everybody was a partner of collective
guilt in nightscape.

What was the center of fight in elite
members? The unhindered ego or claim
of bland crumbs of authority? The innocents
so many, on streets, surrounding a red
smudge, liberty, watching her personification, who
sleeps here!

Whom it burns? As the blood spurts
from the chest of a white stone.

* On the death of Neda Agha Soltan in Tehran on 20st June 09

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 7 sierpnia 2013

BLEEDING DAY

Bilobed ginkgo resolves the conflict
of soul and body on the right side of truth,
laid out on a table visited by desolation;
here comes the crash of bodies.

You stand up against the end of beginning
to lock eyes with destiny, answer obliquely
to raw questions about the baking in plastic
cauldrons, when heat was rising in blue veins.

Engulfed in fumes of muscular words, resonant
with agitation of black banners at the door;
who will stop the sea of whispering veils
defying the shower of bullets coming from windows.

They were out in black night, impoverished,
burning inside, in grass green mud, covering
the ornate faces. Folks dissipating
on blunt shades, your sun outraged.

Six steps to reach the house, you take
six hours. It was naked and desperate aggression.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 5 sierpnia 2013

BREAKING FROM PAST

Fighting with his ghosts,
intimate dirt,
disseminating pain
he was going home.

Finding a panic room
in pectorals, for numbness of toes,
lifting the door of burden
in dying vision,

his father comes in daylight
of old age, climbing the stairs
of bones, swaying
like an ash tree in frost.

One counts the annual rings of
old trunks, depicting
mighty happenings, black and white
green summers of choked life,

tasting one's own decline, filling the
cups of rosemary, a child learns to speak
thatched words of wasted birth in
tune with younger years of grief.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 4 sierpnia 2013

TERROR TRAIL

Shedding the wholeness of negation
you arrive: fear was sweeping the floor
when smoke screen of love was hung on
blue morning, you groped for a hidden
coin, lost in the woods of mania. Distinguishing
a chaste word, without thought, ejected in a
traffic of terror, you want to join a primitive
tribe where a motherless fawn will harvest the milk
from the breasts of a women.

Talking of a global sorrow into the green
eyes of a snake, an awareness breaks, sucks
you inside the hole of a wronged motherhood,
the anthology of big nails on the walls of
understanding, where the traditional colors
throw up the wasted bodies, making you think
tall, and you were running in a dark tunnel
climbing and falling to attend the funerals,
of moon gazing children.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 3 sierpnia 2013

A LIFELONG JOURNEY

On the night when vessel
was empty
grackle did not sing.

For the sake of honey,
smelling a dead city, after
the rape of a daughter.

A black buck jumps on the
queen of roses, stoned after
the death of a green house.

A python had wrapped around
the child on bed,
come, save the red crying moon.

A soft drizzle wets the eyes.
I can see only stars -
disturbed by the winds.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 2 sierpnia 2013

RED AND WHITE

blemish of the needle in eye spreads:
do you still see the moon in the hills,
outstripping the aura of midnight?

resilient, waiting for a renaissance, for
a finger on the lips in dark, to read the
symptoms, feeling floral in wilderness,

the reclining Buddha will speak now,
on stillbirth of a truth in valley of lies,
telling them the god was sleeping

in sorrows of world, the spider looks like a
man's face, moving with large belly on the
dried corpses of hapless ants, the art of

dying, without pain, when the plane was
diving, splitting into two, unconscious of
pins and butterballs, in the mouth of mantis

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 1 sierpnia 2013

NAILED

eyes will chew the words
i will not see all day along, do you hear
my thoughts in the icicles of flames, my bones
jutting out of knuckles,
i will go to memory lane once again:

where the stale smell of yellow pages
throws up invisible thighs groping for support
climbing in vain,
half moon floating on lake of tears
in fire of dark night -

drenched, he was escaping without legs
in white darkness of unaddressed pain,
sorrow of locked shame ...
victim of blisters on blasting flesh,
knees give way,

what was the date of surrender,
i was meditating on the ashes of serpents
beneath the ocean of protests in voyage
of solitude, as your lips quiver
in resilience of benign submission

Satish Verma