Satish Verma, 8 february 2021
Questioning yourself―
like a Spanish Inquisition.
Ruthlessly digging out,
the anatomy of arrogance.
No flavor. I speak
to myself of atypical
intolerance of a man in revolt.
The slavery of tongue will not go.
On the verge, the other
thought collapses. No longer
the heritage remains faithful.
Love suddenly becomes
stranger. You won't touch
yourself. The narcissism becomes suicidal.
The black song
empties the mind. You want to weave,
but air does not become green.
I stand alone. The cosmos
moves away.
Satish Verma, 6 february 2021
Life, sex and pain were
of mundane existence.
From where to where, we
have arrived.
*
From a bridge to bridge
you cross the river
without touching the water.
*
When a nameless projectile
downs your flight
you fall like rags
from the sky.
*
A spider runs
on tiptoes
you wilt like mimosa.
*
The ink spills
an the sheet
hiding the code.
Satish Verma, 4 february 2021
Open the news paper
and find out that war has a set sequence
of going daily,
and has a negativity.
The physical shock, when
the earth trembles. Your body
becomes stone, hairs stand.
Light breaks through the twisted limbs.
I don't love the ritualism.
Time will not stay for you. My life
becomes your life. Sod
will receive the ashes of rage.
And you will delete the
presence, the touch, the dust
of departed fragrance. Once upon
a time, death used to be a song.
Satish Verma, 3 february 2021
Inexplicable.
I run my own life, when
epicenter moves to periphery.
A drink of hemlock
from your purple― spotted eyes.
You want to squeeze the blue sky
in your chest.
Was I violating your
sanctum sanctorum, hidden
deep in crevices of ancient love?
Your voice was cracking up
hoarse, as I listened
in silence, concealing my
poem not to explode.
Wings become the tongue
flying off, like possessed
celebration of loosing
the glaze and becoming a naked mammal.
A cold-blooded laugh!
Satish Verma, 2 february 2021
It was the frontal assault
of brutal summer.
I waited for the rain
to come and fall on my neck.
There was no grief
between the aches.
In starlight, flitting
around in bushes,
fireflies,
you take me in twilight.
The vernacular nirvana
begins, till my moons squeeze.
It was not a stabbing
wound, to be picked up
by a poem in distress. Light
on light will speak
of femineity in dark.
RENATA, 1 february 2021
Nastukał dzieci we wczesnych
latach dziewięćdziesiątych
ona jak krowa dojna
nie miała wyjścia ani słowa
do gadki
Fatalne warunki mieszkalne
absolutnie nie przeszkadzały
czapki z głów dla ojca
bo inaczej szarosinofioletowe
nogi o stołu
On gotuje on pracuje
on kasę trzyma
on ją dyma
tyle szczęścia w nieszczęściu
że wszędzie razem
sklejeni z krajobrazem
bezkrytycznie
Wciągnął ją w siebie
ona w jego niebie
on ją jebie
ona czy żyje nie wie
Gdy tak idzie za nim
nikogo nie poznaje
cieniem się staje
na świat patrzy
jego oczami
jak sarna niezdarna
pyta czy może się wysrać
czuje się zagubiona
trochę szalona
owca
Satish Verma, 1 february 2021
Would not move the things.
They had moved me.
I will never be the same.
Probably a time to learn,
listening to yourself. The
sensors didn't go wrong.
More often I will unroll
my candles and burn
them with my life.
Ripening old, in dry
fountains- waiting for
rains in songs of sorrow.
History does not repeat.
I am preparing myself
to start again writing my book.
Will not commit anything.
Standing in morgue
searching for my unclaimed face.
Satish Verma, 31 january 2021
Would not move the things.
They had moved me.
I will never be the same.
Probably a time to learn,
listening to yourself. The
sensors didn't go wrong.
More often I will unroll
my candles and burn
them with my life.
Ripening old, in dry
fountains― waiting for
rains in songs of sorrow.
History does not repeat.
I am preparing myself
to start again writing my book.
Will not commit anything.
Standing in morgue
searching for my unclaimed face.
Satish Verma, 30 january 2021
Like a falcon
you dive with a notched nose.
There was an element
of absurd in your style.
Crushed under snow,
I would search my lost
shoes. The spirit to move on
wakes me up again.
The pursuit of perfect
truth in jungle of fake
excuses. I was wary
of animal grins.
Thugs, they have become
the stewards. Life was mystery.
Death sorts out the secret
of undying passions.
Satish Verma, 28 january 2021
Will not donate
my bloodstained shirt.
It divides the cuffs.
The alphabet turns
around to watch the fall
of syntax.
Everynight I wait
for the moon to rise
from the crescent of golden eyes―
for another encounter
with a god, who
would not listen to soliloquy
of a rich begger―
sitting in the ruins of a temple,
he built of dreams.
Poetry
Prose
Photography
Graphics
Video poems
Postcards
Diary
Books
Handmade
