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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 28 january 2022

How To Decipher

Like a virgin birth,
a poem floats
without any pain.

Superimposes, as if
on a face, like Mona Lisa,
with her mysterious smile,
longing a release from
the cycle of rebirth.

Are you going to reperform
for me, your silent
surrender, bewildering
a lost pilgrim?

Will you become a
sitter like a moon-faced, veiled
by crying clouds? I had been
trying to touch your lips, eyes.

This vicious assault
was for me. Stony eyes, and
the striking hood―
impel kleptomania.

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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 27 january 2022

Traumatised

Why did you offer your
eyes, to a non-victim―
of invisible violence?

I broke my silence to―
become deaf, like an
ocean under the ice.

The grainy moon crops
up in dark matter. The blue
bomb explodes in your face.

Blueberries swell on your
lips, throwing the stains on the―
mud path between the hills.

The monk sits for oil―
bath on burning coals.
Truth bursts out as dark lies.

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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 24 january 2022

Broken Arms

The witch-hunt starts
for an unexploded bomb.

A racist slur becomes mute
for posterity.

The words start migrating―
coming out of their skin and colors.

A dead man walks into
a coal pit for exoneration.

Breathless, I become privy
to mass suicides of the flying moths.

You become a child, hiding
behind a tree, watching
a tiger maul a striped ariel.

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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 23 january 2022

Erecting Another Totem

A conspiracy of the sort.

This is what I wanted
from you.
Abandoned in space―
between the eyes, you were
supposed to lead the humble light
for an elusive peace.

I was lost in the
lexicon of intrigues, the
nest of prudence of the
proverbial lap dance.

Standing at the gate
of morgue, waiting to receive
another caravan of
pseudo remains.

Like a Spartan, you will
not retreat, not bend, your feet
near the grave― still standing erect.

Like wasps the green words would zoom.

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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 22 january 2022

Mooning Around

The porus mind―
in the vacant chair, thinking
of infidelity or unbelieving― with
folded hands in prayer
like mantis.

Eating moonlight―
a predator will wait
for a victim fall.

In meditation, you
evolve into Zen. The intuition
to kill, the urge― to go
bald and bare.

The kleptomania. Let me steal
your god from your garden―
without any need. Just
a showpiece.

In a death trap
millions of caterpillars die daily.

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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 21 january 2022

Some Profanity

Smearing an uncut―
and whole moon on the forehead
of night―

the crazy wind starts
turning back the clowns.
Tonight the kitchen would be shut down.

Somebody had climbed
the heaven for a joke, and
became a monster.

Beyond the bread and
milk, lies the cow dead. My
soul cries, who will―
jump on the moon?

The end opens a distant―
black water lake.

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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 20 january 2022

Reciting The Fake Poem

Making them dead―
in a regal way,
you joined the bomb squad
of poems.
Why did I need to remember
you intensely O god?

Why eternity of enormous
pain would ensnare you? A group
of panthers were going to attack a fawn
in the blue game? Will
you hurt me one day?

You don't cover your eyes
with a black veil. Then what was
the purpose of becoming invisible?
Does a truth live in dark?

There was no
need of law, before
you die, after removing the makeup.
We always discover an excuse
to live lavishly on the hired
words of praise.

There are no more parables
no more prophets.

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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 19 january 2022

History Repeats

My killing instincts
were intact.
On this bloody moon day―
I must talk to myself.

Just lips would move,
not the mind.

A mode of non-being
comes in fore. You watch the pansies dancing―
nonchalantly.

The air passes. White phosphorus
ignites on its own.

Memory alternates with pain.
It is not over.
We are still searching ourselves
in a mound of earth.

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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 17 january 2022

A Poetic Version

You were at it again.
Ignoring the truth
of lies!

Embodiment suffers
when you break
the sacred threads of perception.

Dried up tears blemishes,
on the voluptuous cheeks of time―
speak another tale,
catching the fire.

In your smashed tree
of verbosity lived
my small poem like a spirit.

Animistic!
You will not write my name
on the sinless rocks before throwing them
in the sea.

And I will watch your face on each
fallen bract of colored bougainvillea.

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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 15 january 2022

Not Yet Battered

The pain physical.
I carve it in my mind, to
set it free― like the leaf going
to meet the ground.

To carry myself, holding
within, the desire to seek liberation
from coming and going.

My unroofed walls, taking
in, the sun, the rains―
the storm― the snow.

And my hurts―
my poesy.

I am confronting myself
for the final count.

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