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	Satish Verma
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Satish Verma, 3 listopada 2012

STONING

A weeping willow was telling
a trove of memories,
for an ancient provenance
where the lake sleeps.

Why the sheen of water brings out
ephemerality of ‘if’. You want to
take a holy dip, never to come up again
in the throes of birth and death.

And waves, why they clap when they
are hooked up with the winds? Was it
to marry the sky? I am counting
the stars fallen to the street.

Back to the moon in skunk night
of slimming curves and opulent
nose for a ride in bed, sorting out
the remaining stones.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 1 listopada 2012

KISSING CALDRONS

Putting the fire in mouth
as a last rite
he readied himself for the onslaught
of questions, who will attack like
leeches, the blood sucking parasites.

It was a bizarre coalition of love
between kissing cousins.
The knifing will continue with
weapons of death. The suckers will neither
kill you, nor keep you alive.

At what price to get the ice from the Mt.Himalayas.
An abode of god was nursing the blood stained
footprints of men, the escalating war
and dripping mane of black sun.
Huge clouds begin a chorus of dark light.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 31 października 2012

IRONICAL

Sky drank the moon
when night was cool.

A lone tree on roadside
waits for the prowling wolf

to steal the electric skin
like the veins on the breast.

River was flowing
nudging, cleaving the rising frenzy.

Still the thirst does not sink
like the torpedoed sub.

A dropp contains million faces of a moon.
A moon does not have a drop.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 30 października 2012

ALONG THE SORROW

Fire in kidneys
was burning the basket.
Privacy of green thumbs
was intimately involved.

Let us share the candle light march
for the blossoms,
who would not stay
for old birds,

Read me again the epitaph
of the martyr, who wanted to remain
unsung, for the sorrow of
the flowing river.

Frenzy of a lone wolf was
inconsolable, when the dam spilled
the dead wood on the empty
bed of roses.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 29 października 2012

*IMPACT

Turns me on
I will write a poem.

Delirious moon had
picked me up from under the skin.

The safety pin was broken,
now a crowd will disrobe me.

Everytime when my pain makes you cry
oranges are not meant for the sale.

A collegium will stich up the wound.
Once upon a caste the country will go.

• On reading Orange Crush of Simone Muench.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 28 października 2012

TERRIFED

Firing of neurons
accelerates,
under the weight of ruthless
originalism.

A crowd collects the strength of collider
and starts throwing back
sparks in dark.

Each face looks like a spider
alighted from alienness:
distills terror.

The smile
was a miracle.
Never materializes

A prayer time
for balloons
ready to commit unforgivable sin, sin.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 27 października 2012

ANCHORAGE

I do not want to take you,
either the road ahead,
or lovely gyrations
on low stage of voicelessness.

The swoop of eagle
on a little bundle,
of chromatic fever:
was it unbirdy?

The tree of death grows taller
than indelible darkness
of life, harvesting
tongues.

Part of me were you,
I had abandoned in fog.
The gate will not open
in common courtyard.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 26 października 2012

UNABUSED

The bone line travels
from flesh to flesh,
tears into blood.
I was not crude, not blunt.
Dew teasers,

were my guests with luggage
of pain, ready to dip to taste
the language of surrender.
There was no acrimony
between enemies.

Across a hot blazing desert
walking barefoot to find you
in a vein of green water, O my curse
I will scoop you into my poem
to become a daisy.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 25 października 2012

HATING TO DO

To get my dues I come to your door
talking to myself
Today I will present you
my theme song in a live shooting belt.

A confined thought had
the influence fading away
It was a stark, frightful
journey to venus.

Will not tell everything
about the wounds of earth.
It was raging. You tell lies
for seeking liberation from commitments.

Trading abuses when love was lost,
the ancient tribe plays a game.
You have let me grow into a tree
standing at the dirty drain of life.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 24 października 2012

WOUNDED DANCE

A rock becomes a philosopher.
Refuses to move
looking at the stars.

Rogue shirts were walking
on the clouds of unknowing.
I wanted to remove all the clocks.

Who was stealing the water?
Secret of life? Impiety had
undone the pillars of random love.

Ashes volcanic or of tears enter
the pores of consciousness.
The screams wake up the dark blood.

A naked doll pelts the grey eyes
on the blood sucking story.
A dark tunnel opens in street.

Satish Verma