RENATA, 12 january 2021
jego głos jego dotyk
chwile uniesień
całkowite przepołowienie
słodkie usta słodkie kłamstwa
chwile wiary
pustka czekania
mógłby być rozerwany
na dwie części
obietnicy nie spełnił
żona z rakiem gryzie ziemię
niech jej zresztą lekka będzie
on miał teraz być już całkiem tu
a mimo wszystko zwiał
bo jak zawsze ta trzecia oszukana
RENATA, 12 january 2021
Byłaś serca biciem
wiosną latem życiem
lecz gdy Twoja gwiazda zgasła
pojawiła się Zuzanna
Przyciągnęła serce nitką
do kłębka
choć była zamężna
mąż francuz zazdrosny
śmiercią grozi w desperacji
kochanek się śmieje
wszak to niepoważne
Nad Zuzanną klątwa ciąży
czy to może zabobony
była serca biciem
Harlekinem
ktoś próbuje przewidzieć
echo zbrodni niesłychanej
osiem kul dostał kochanek
i ona ta przyczyna się rzuciła
własnym ciałem zasłoniła
nie przeżyła
mąż poszedł na komisariat
zabiłem człowieka powiada
Satish Verma, 12 january 2021
What would you give
when I ask for nothing?
A mysterious lineage
of the soul. It has no sequence,
no flesh, no body.
I was heading towards the edge.
Did you know the perfect
no home? It has no crumbling walls,
no hurting windows. The gray roof of sky?
The earth, the damaging
winds. An hour of awareness
in wait. You start
exploring jinxed mind,
hearing voices, but no words.
Satish Verma, 11 january 2021
When the roaring tiger
was behind the bars, there was
this otherness. So much voiceless
was that, it had wounded me.
Your life had entered my
dome to meet its darkness, my
sky, my moon and the
riot of color begins.
By unbecoming, dying
in every home, to write the
script of desire, you will take
the path, where my marrow went down.
The clocks, on every wall
to remind me the moving time.
Will you wait for the explosion
to stop the trembling hands?
Not giving an answer you shut the door.
Satish Verma, 10 january 2021
The other day.
A full moon was walking
on the pavement
like a pedestrian.
I was dumbfounded
at the sight of the imperial walk.
To give a poetical start?
Was it a pin drop visual
with no sound? Only night
was listening to footfalls?
I would not know of,
the journey of ending
or ending of journey.
Like death burning
inside the seed, or a golden
flame becomes a lapping machine?
RENATA, 9 january 2021
Płatek za płatkiem
inny światek
mrozny biały
nierzeczywisty doskonały
Płatek za płatkiem
sypie śnieżny puch
idą w ruch
lasy łąki drzewa
pełne bladych płatków z nieba
jak kasza manna
jak rosa poranna
jak srebrne konfetti
jak w baśni o królowej śniegu
za płatkiem płatek
jak opłatek
wyciągaj sanki
lepimy bałwanki
za płatkiem płatek
i już cała zaspa śniegu
wiatr wieje w biegu
zamiecie wymiecie
śmiecie
zmysły rozbłysły
w umyśle
z rozmysłem
biegnijmy w zimę
Satish Verma, 9 january 2021
Intimacy in dark
carries the emptiness,
pauses in the way-
under the faint moon.
A homeless bird heads towards
the lake.
Passiflora.
The flowers remind you
of crucifixion.
The human loss was intense.
The fire within, extinguished.
No stone was ready to move.
Do you want the sound to be on?
The firmness now starts
melting. A holy river caresses
the bridge. Shores tremble.
Renato N. Mascardo, 9 january 2021
forty eight
the years since
we parted
you went your way
so did i
between then and
now
things and nothings
happened
and did not
leaves lucent and dark
have touched
our heads and hearts
we’ve seen the glitter
of lights so brief
we’ve felt the touch
of shadows so long
laughs and sobs
our ears have hearkened
our tears have washed
yet we are
you and i
after forty eight
still here//
renato
friday 8 january 2021
Satish Verma, 6 january 2021
A moth love was evolving,
without a flame.
You are going to bang the wall.
It was too early
to sing aubade. Night was
still rolling on the leaves.
A tall tree failed,
to send the message of moon drop.
How will I read my palm now?
At funeral, a crowd
waits for the bride. The groom
jumped off the dam.
No music was left
between the lips. Angst
was palpable in stumps.
Satish Verma, 5 january 2021
The cat was finally
dead.
After a professional cut.
An infant injury
of the cadaver, will not speak
of the dead river, of elegy.
No life-
after the rite of passage.
You are confined in a coffin
buried in ice-
in north and south.
The space shrinks
between the screams.
A syncope overshadows the moon.
The howling starts.
Poetry
Prose
Photography
Graphics
Video poems
Postcards
Diary
Books
Handmade
