Satish Verma, 7 august 2021
Had wanted it to happen,
without me.
Remorse was turning against
the self. It was growing very large.
You could feel the enormity of a
suicidal microcosm, enveloping you in its borrowed light―
and rugged terrain.
The peace― it was absolutely absent
in the myriad stars, earthen lamps,
the ethereal beauties of unspoilt hymns.
The spirit was gone. It was all
a floating skeleton of man searching
for the real legs, natural eyes, and
a roving heart.
I wanted to pause, in the penultimate
explosions, when the tornado
dies and I would wake up.
Satish Verma, 5 august 2021
There was nothing to hide.
No jewels, no gold. I
wanted, to get the replica of afterlife.
Meet me in some moonless night.
I will show you a slice
of my bruises, offering it as
my panacea.
You were hurting yourself
invoking the baby god
on the night of lights.
It was hallucinating,
stabbing yourself in a
virtual suicide.
As the last rites started,
you got up from the funeral pyre
and walked away.
Satish Verma, 4 august 2021
I cannot understand you.
You walk straight
into enemy's den.
The skin peels off. A naked
boom. Silver domes
turn black. Ethanol drips
from eyes.
Praise the God. Tears
become poetry. Moon dances.
No door opens in bleeding night.
I ask for the lips. It
is for death of the priest,
who would not accept the streak of sin.
Until you become hot.
Flashes of fireflies have
become longer. Tail to
tail the message will betray the address.
Buddha takes his own time. There was
no light between the dark hills.
Satish Verma, 3 august 2021
Clubfoot.
A poet's dilemma.
You cannot think straight,
cannot walk straight―
unaided.
In grimaced face, one
eye patched, there stood a deliverer
with raised hands―
bringing down the empire of
a baby king.
You walk out of the painting
mutely. The king was
ready to be laid down for the
poisoning effect.
Was there anybody to
explain that why the dynasty
falls one day and the
poet wins the broken fort?
Satish Verma, 2 august 2021
Like a tantric I will
gather you and make you sleep
in my eyes.
In lantern festival, I
will be fighting dark
with hundred wicks.
The dead will come
back to talk about their
amputated thumbs.
You had no bona fides
to tell me how blue were
my aches.
I don't find any metaphor
in this qualified decay,
wiping my glasses to see clearly.
Satish Verma, 1 august 2021
In my sanctum,
you walk in― like
my first child, to join
my innerness.
Trying to decipher―
the moral code of angels.
I just wanted an embrace
of a flame to kiss the sparks.
I hear your footsteps,
sometimes near, sometimes far away―
in the valley of burning tears.
This space and, a gouge hold the
secret of melting lips.
Still unborn, a voice in
cul-de-sac, waits for the grievers
to open the darkness―
for a ray of light. It was very
lonely where you had scripted the clouds.
Satish Verma, 30 july 2021
Where sand becomes
silver, you cower
under a palm.
A birch tree
beacons you to write
the fall of man.
All day you wait
for a miracle.
It never happens.
This autum, I will
worship a naked tree.
A toast for dying moon.
Satish Verma, 26 july 2021
Talking off the runway
moon― being you, a
gut feeling takes over.
You will not stay overnight.
Not cool enough, I was
learning in your calm, becoming
lynx-eyed shooter―
from panther.
Juggling the phrases,
the meltdown begins. A
bridge collapses. Stampede.
Mass panic. The train will
not come today.
Let's go and walk in a
sunflower field. Do you― love
Van Gogh? His studies?
‘A Starry Night ‘ and his interpretation
of self-violence.
Rest of life. I am going
to walk with a hurt.
Satish Verma, 25 july 2021
What if the sword
leaves and purple eyes
of Iris become apocalyptic?
It would be for me― the arrow,
leaving from the arched
bows of goddess of rainbow.
Wearing a tiara, of
golden lotuses, in eerie morning
the sun was rising.
Dawn commits a
genuine sin. Wakes me up
to dig the past for bones of faithless truth.
The silent ocean has
a job to do. Turn me blue in
iced mercy without any smile.
Baked and browned, the
priest, marries a virgin to a ghost.
Satish Verma, 24 july 2021
Nothing other than,
he was hearing―
screams!
Nude was not au
naturel, like
a new born chick.
Half-mumbling,
half-clad,
he walked bare foot.
Giving away the
canvas, you are
blissfully happy.
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