Morgan, 24 january 2020
In the golden light of morning
mists, morphing slowly to women, numb'ring nine
in chorus, they sang to Hesiod, the shepherd,
'We know how to tell lies that ring true,
but we can tell the truth when we've a mind'.
'Oh, fine, replied Hesod, yawning--
you and the media'.
Satish Verma, 24 january 2020
Moon in dying
on the icy bridge
as I stand in fog to hear the music
of hung verdict you are
not playing the carnal game
a threadbare dawn
still waits
for the liquid sun,
the moosewood is going to start a striptease
Satish Verma, 23 january 2020
Leaning against the shadow
of self, starting the
monologue. With the fall
I don't want to think of the other.
The beasts.
I give a call, to someone
over there,
who will listen.
A systematic peel, opens
the doorless cage and
sets free the malignancy―
to spread. Now multiple argan
failure, stares at you,
celebrating the anniversary
of the rape.
We are made up of
charcoal, writing on the walls
with dark fingers―
name of the victim.
Satish Verma, 22 january 2020
I take me,
in the whirlpool of bridges
for a nonprofit.
Gathering on rocks
begins. Moonlight reads
quickly, the faces.
I would not give you
my speech, my blindness.
Become mute like the call of
a mountain.
A broken cry will save
the poetry, the river,
the sea.
An old adage brings
the solace.
Somewhere a truth sings.
Satish Verma, 21 january 2020
I catch the sadness
of gray woods. Stone by
stone, gathering the twilight
of fall.
Would you walk with me,
my fallen peaks,
to witness the cold and wet
dark?
A deep silence sings
in my inside. I scoop
out the golden hole of
pain.
The endless pathway,
where, you will find my
immortal verse kissing the
white snow.
Satish Verma, 20 january 2020
Howling wind!
Why were you gathering the―
dead leaves, sweeping
the desolate white road?
A bleak and dismal emptiness
in-between, the
no man's land.
Thousand eyes watch the tiny flurries.
The perfect peace,
descends.
From moon's navel,
falls the golden bloom.
Satish Verma, 17 january 2020
A tree waits to hug me
after shedding the
leaves. The man
becomes a child, entwining
the snaking trunk
for a brush with infinity.
The supreme dedication
become humane, enough
to kill the non-man.
A lethal mix of
parodies brings a comic
relief to sparring partners.
After all you discover
the white fog, god-made
to unlisten the lyrics.
RENATA, 16 january 2020
dopadnę Cię krzyknął Zdzich
ja wcale się nie będę kryć
dopadnę Cię w wannie
umyję starannie
pagórki brzoskwiń kolumny ud
aż stanie się cud
Dopadnę Cię w windzie
nie uciekniesz nigdzie
będę mógł
dotrzeć do twych nóg
przez próg
Dopadnę Cię letnim popołudniem
na schodach
połączymy dom herbatą przy stole
o czterech rogach
aby potem przekroczyć
granice rzeczywistości
bliskość Twych warg
rozgniotę swoimi
jak słodkie maliny
a Ty wcale nie będziesz
krzyczeć gdy
dopadnę Cię w trawie
kolorowe kwiaty będą podglądać ciekawie
wyłuskam z zielonej sukienki
czerwone maki i oczu błękit
zachwieję równowagę
kiedy Cię dopadnę
Satish Verma, 16 january 2020
It was a glass house.
A burning boat capsizes
in milk body, creating
a schism.
Relentlessly, a classical theme
was furloughed. I
refuse to sell,
sell anything.
A deemed thought is
nurtured, hiring the
tall grasses, to hide
the kill. I am writing―
a poem of falling leaves
to eat the huge steps
of a giant, who started
the blood time.
Satish Verma, 15 january 2020
The God refuses to accept
the infant universe.
After the elusive cues, there were
antique radiations to prove
that there was a diplomatic suicide.
A bit of grass,
some moon, little water
of eyes, the eternal embrace and
life starts earnestly in the
qualms of terror.
Washed out on the shores, comes
the body of liberty. The blood caked
limbs will tell you the tale
of tribal instinct, of mankind to
destroy the self, the
vessel and the sea.
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