Satish Verma, 8 may 2022
A massive black hole
devoures the devdasi.
The temple becomes
a cadaver court.
Some say it was
less punishment for the sins
of the pulsar.
The dancing baby
in the womb of rubble
of prayers does not want
to come out.
It was a price of
dying intact.
The incense of screaming
roses blooms. How much
heavy was the wreath?
Overnight the image
was replaced. There was
no spinning wheel. Only
a water cistern.
Satish Verma, 7 may 2022
To remain normal―
how difficult it was. To undo
what had not been done.
A pinch of salt was
needed to taste your skin.
Belief will come later.
My unearthly lover, the
moon was becoming physical
sending me a lipless song.
Once upon a pain,
I had asked you to be, what
you were― my rival.
The uncanny fear, wins
over the whispers― when it
appears stark naked.
Satish Verma, 5 may 2022
Not for me,
this politics of living
for sexless alchemy.
You take on―
the pen's broken nib,
writing blood soaked birth
of an illegitimate avatar.
The spin was fatal.
Unfazed a bizarre tone,
announces a miss call. You
are pronounced dead.
You will swim now
in veil. Eyes looking deep
in water where light does not reach.
The mission of salvaging a
heritage fails.
Dog winter.
Sun hides behind the thin survivors.
There was no will,
no suicide pact.
Satish Verma, 4 may 2022
Discarding―
the past, systematically,
you reach the core,
of undoing.
A curse hangs―
over the empty cup.
Now you can fill it
with tears.
Space shrinks.
Eternal memory of
losing your faith―
brings in the damaged truths.
Stick and carrot―
both survive.
It was not, it was,
the liberation.
Satish Verma, 3 may 2022
When I need something.
I will ask you.
But I was never going― to need anything.
From where this―
armoury comes, trying to
influence the vowels, from
the clenched teeth?
When I hold your hand,
you start trembling.
There was mist and
there were walls.
Are we drifting apart―
in search of moons?
Flesh for flesh, bone for bone? You
swim fast, I track on the land.
Satish Verma, 2 may 2022
Time
was the great avenger.
It takes you away
into war,
with swan words.
My baby poem
cries. Lost in a crowd of swindlers.
Not finding the home of truth.
Was it a rarified
phenomenon, that it was
a dark nebula,
that gave birth to the sun?
Are you free to
agree with me, with my existence?
The conclusion was
beyond the judgment of insane people.
Are you going to harm yourself
by accepting the fireball questions?
Satish Verma, 1 may 2022
Shadows―
were lengthening.
I start mending myself.
Speechless―
you commence telling in signs.
Grass flattened. Glass―
in water. The body floats.
The game was over.
A new chapter opens without a book.
Another spurt of poetry.
I will never forgive me.
Fear becomes my guide.
The sound of decapitation
resonates. I lift the pen
and kill myself.
Satish Verma, 30 april 2022
Depression―
was deep blue.
In zero-reflux, I was
intimately involved―
with your pride. The conflict
was rising.
Human mind
like shutting off the sex,
was making a bibliography.
Purity of link will
describe a yellow hollyhock,
waiting to be crushed.
It becomes a burden
when I spend on you― my poems.
Chemotherapy had failed.
Jack Strange, 29 april 2022
He, too, saw the promise of a distant light,
but unlike him, he renounced the gold hat,
and unlike her, she did not renounce him.
His parties were simpler, but she was content
with what he could offer: a romantic
readiness, just like his; a gift for hope
for a life together; a capacity
for wonder at the promise of a dream.
Even now he remembered the sad thing
that happened to them -- the deprivation
and the foul dust that floated in their wakes.
But through the smoke he peered into her eyes,
and saw the light there, green as ever,
and knew they’d turn out all right at the end.
Jack Strange, 29 april 2022
A house is never cleaner
than when unoccupied --
with tables, couches, beds
removed and all inside
accessible to brush,
broom, mop, and vacuum
cleaner.
No resident
had known a cleaner
room.
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