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	Satish Verma
	PROFIL O autorze Przyjaciele (3) Poezja (3973)

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Satish Verma, 3 kwietnia 2022

White Shrouds

The lips will speak
without sound.
A tuliped man hangs himself
down, from a tall tree of fame.

You wanted to live in the―
glare of slit throats.
The blood brings the brilliant
glitter of gold.

End of the speech will―
throw up a mascot. The noose was
tightening around the―
rising― glorious sun.

Slavery never ends. You
become victim of your dazzling
peaks, when you stand alone
at unthinkable heights.

The spirit of the tree dies in your eyes.

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Satish Verma, 2 kwietnia 2022

From When To Where

In deep bottom,
at first light, I
will give you a call.

Because, I was only bones,
muscles worn out in hymns
and the nudes were―
putting on the masks.

You will not deliver―
a denial, nor you will
put forward the Buddhist stance.

Like a curling fern you
want to go in dark shade―
eyes shut.

The circus of stunted men
and lady birds―
will go on unabated.

I swear by fire,
The battered umbilicus will
not bear any gods.

A miraculous escape. I
will not eat your
flesh, hot and red.

We start hitting each other

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Satish Verma, 31 marca 2022

Sage Flower

O my baby pain―
this house is on fire.
My body is going to war.

A lonely path, in life
and death― where does it
lead to― in wilderness of home?

The mob only loots.
Lynches and hangs you from
the lone tree of love.

I confess, there was
a chink in my armor, not
light but water seeps through it.

You start fearing the
windows. Not noises, time
was slipping pout, never to come back.

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Satish Verma, 30 marca 2022

Stains Are Darkening

After centuries of reverie―
a dream breaks, falls
like a mirror in ink, splintering
into thousand thoughts. Somewhere
words start flying.

Oh god!
your feet of clay are crumbling.
I wanted to write a new script
on your body,
slashing my wrists.

How much the truth was
lying? Ask the shades alluding
to moon. Patchy and opaque
in forest of maple, I was counting
the red-lobed leaves.

Your eyes were telling a
soulful tale. On beach were
sitting some youngmen in a row in orange jump
suits waiting to meet
their gods.

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Satish Verma, 29 marca 2022

Clouds Were Collecting

Time
was moving without wheels.

Not a match. I
don't exist. Anonymous.
You were also not same
as I lost you.

Black walls.
You will kiss them
for a promise.

Your lips, wrapping
the wounds, like bandages.

The bruises smell
like poppies.

Not thirsty. Still
I revert to the theme of
dry lake.

Are you going to
shut the eyes of moon?

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Satish Verma, 28 marca 2022

Keeping Head High

Ah, in this―
culture of shames
you will need some divination
for mooning around.

You cannot mend the old
shoes, become an explicator―
of complex human mind.

Cannot face the sun to
catch my shadow. Father and
son were water apart.

The things become no-things
inestimable. I keep on intuiting..

First came the rains,
then winds. I stand for nation.
I fall for you.

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Satish Verma, 27 marca 2022

Arts In Telling

I will never be able to―
tell the full story. Winds
are changing and―
the innocence has ended.

Centuries of recital now
starts the inquisition. It haunts
my psyche. In deluge―
the ferry will ever come?

Yesterday you had seen me
in a very vulnerable state.
Even gods weep.
Do you know what is muse,
goddess of art and an inspiration
of a poet?

In one of the poem I had
asked my muse, can you prey for me?
This is my style of conversational
or confessional poesy.
What do you say?

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Satish Verma, 26 marca 2022

Some Rehearsals

Talking to moon tonight,
in windless night.
You begin― to reflect― the past.

I pretend― I am gifting you
my poems, while bleeding―
from the eyes.

You will not read,
even once, the steaming tears of stones,
when the volcano―
spews its molten grief.

I am gifting you today, forever―
my summers.

Snow will rush into my veins.
I freeze at once, in memories
of the lone, stark naked, yew tree
laden with red berries.

Not poisonous, I am gifting you
my death.

Take me in your solitude!

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Satish Verma, 24 marca 2022

The Blessings Fail

It was too loud
to become a savior. You
longed for― only a
flower weight.

I wanted it to last―
my pain― lying to myself.
I will wait for the
sanity to reappear.

Too raw― the codex.
It burns the author. I
will have to learn―
a new alphabet.

The bell tolls,
bell tolls.
Take me to crypt in dark.
I have to read the walls again.

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Satish Verma, 22 marca 2022

No Man's Land

It was an explicit "I"―
deeply flawed.
You had started hitting
your peers, asking them
to hate you.

Psychopath?
Mea culpa, who would not say?
Kindles a tender feel―
when you love a pink rose,
not uttering a word.

Scared, my tremors
start like a leaf. Cannot hold
the pen. Very quietly
I print my tears.

Thirst, mouthless―
I drink from eyes.
Earth beware― the crop has failed.
Rancher was going―
to commit suicide.