Satish Verma, 18 september 2019
Training your voice, you
had come around to open―
the door of the miasma.
The departure stretched
very long. Strange blinkers
were holding the light.
A cunning God would
not let you die―
in the trenches of syllables.
The moon would withdraw
from the humming night―
for a face-lifting.
One blind sun, hurts
the path, where I had
laid the marigolds.
Satish Verma, 17 september 2019
When you would be absent,
O Druid, I will know you better.
Time leaps my watch―
I have become blind.
It was not enough to
read― that was not written yet.
I am coming down the mountain
to meet the dust.
Life was not very kind to me.
Too much undoings had given
me a white sheet to―
write the names of fugitives.
I sweep the floor, I wash
the black earth and shut―
the windows. Too much knowing
had made me a dwarf.
Satish Verma, 16 september 2019
The abundance spills on my
torn shirt, when I was
gathering your voice.
The affiliated sore
begins to fester in your face―
after flying a kite.
It blurs, when you give
a speech, manipulating the lives
of innocent bystanders.
When you were heaving the numbers,
I was holding on the poems, like coins
not your paper thoughts.
Being blind was not becoming
a Buddha in the garden.
Suicides were increasing every day.
Satish Verma, 15 september 2019
It was a flame in the drizzle:
a golden peacock.
I was trying to understand
the Adam and Eve.
Between X and Y, my
heliograph stood in the foliage of words.
The hetero factor was generating heat.
The mitochondrial Eve will
search the land where the seeds were
dispersed. The swinger was still
active in the dark.
You have missed the bomb.
The laser-fed boom landed―
in the crotch of death.
The black dust covered the grave.
Satish Verma, 14 september 2019
Despite the great divide
a dialogue must ensue, between
earth and sky.
This was a climacteric change, when
you cannot land on your feet,
after the rainfall.
The criminal assaults, rapes
and homicides, bring the species
on boil. The books are our god.
You cannot start a group
conflict, skirting the question
of mining the gold.
The void within widens, you
will not tell my dreams. For each
star I had picked up a soul.
Satish Verma, 13 september 2019
Lamenting, what not to―
think. Condemned to burn
the words daily.
The dwindling values tear open
the sit-ins of faith. I was
not ready to become a stone.
A busy vessel sends daily, the
blood to remote memories.
I look askance at the falling peaks.
A dog star following the
heels of master with blinders. No
straight vision. Time was the
mystery of the clock.
The moon is nowhere
in sight. I was starving
for a cardinal pain.
Satish Verma, 12 september 2019
You were becoming more prone
to violence, confronting
the moon. Heat was rising.
Like a mongrel, twirling
round and round in dirt,
to sit in.
It was very dangerous, the
racial thought of eliminating
oneself in the mainstream.
A morphogenic change
was visible. Why were you
shrinking in horror?
The group pain was getting
a hold of me. I am not
sure, what I will do now.
Satish Verma, 11 september 2019
No attachment with the
alma mater. You have
eaten away all the grass.
Bounteous breast was empty.
Like a nun, dropping
the robes, the moon was rising.
Would you meet her in dark?
The night wanted to come
and sit in your lap.
Let us play with cowries.
You know my life was
never in the hands of god.
I was a walking tree.
So simple were the means
of death. Nobody knew
who was me.
Satish Verma, 10 september 2019
Hits you in the face,
disseminating the chivalry
of fragile connotation.
A virtue slips away from―
your hands, when you think
what is a pain.
Then the poem starts
writing about the pen
which had no ink.
You need courage to―
smash the mirror which
was telling the truth.
And the complexity of
relationship comes, to the fore, when
the belief was stronger than love.
Satish Verma, 9 september 2019
A scavenger fails to thrive
in upward mobility.
The emotion becomes a virtual,
collects all the garbage
and becomes negative.
There are only varied questions
of different shades, and
no appropriate answer.
A fantasy remonstrates with the diminutive moon.
Stone pelting becomes a daily
ritual with the song. There
was no music in the language.
Scarves were few. And it
was very cold―
out in the chilled dark.
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