Satish Verma, 27 january 2017
Unslept-
hangman, flees from the noose.
The day had come to execute.
A thought had become a fear
but fear was not a thought.
Naked in the moon
a wolf wants move of something
leaning on the hills of thirst,
bitten by the views of cemetery.
The landscape
was changing. You want to cover your head
with a topi, standing on the edge
of a lake before you are drowned
under the burning eyelids.
A Buddha smiles from
the shelf. How can you fill the emptiness
of a bowl, which has
hundred holes?
Satish Verma, 26 january 2017
Tonight
the nectar will be spread
to tame a random tormentor.
Black and white,
I never saw my father weeping.
Lonely he was.
I am
my own creation today
weather beaten. Confession to -
confession, unread. When the-
storm was tethered,
there was flooding and neck deep-
you were in tears. Am cannibalizing
my own poems, to write a new line.
It was a midnight moon.
Satish Verma, 25 january 2017
Will pursue
the star killed by a limb.
A black hole
is going to devour him.
What was ahead now
in the sea of reverse pain?
You were knocking out
your own creation.
In the hunger's wake
will you stop eating your own
words and say something
of the locked doors of eyes?
I cannot sing the scars
and unmask the fires.
It is gratifying when you are silent,
and still you are heard.
Satish Verma, 23 january 2017
Siblings
will take care of the morgue.
I am going to hang my god
today. Howling winds
are crashing into my breath.
In the sea
of flags, the white death walks on
naked bodies of faith. Innocence
will take a back seat
listening to the roaring assault
of blues.
Was it a hymn to drink
the religion of rage?
The men sitting in the glass vases
worshiping the rising sun in awe
with folded hands.
Satish Verma, 22 january 2017
It was the interplay
between shadow and moon.
An encephalopathy
in ring of fire?
The blast was the tipping
point of your identity. Now
you don’t recognize yourself
amid the books.
Grieving can start now.
Tossed from temple roof
on to mound of ash, you
stand on your grave for final count.
Again your voice will drown
in a green pond. It was a
prelude to a voicelessness for
ever. Irretrievable was, a bird song.
Satish Verma, 21 january 2017
Bounty
of landfall.
I am collecting your berries.
The castle
has connived with the moat
to end an era.
The first step
ends the journey.
An avatar has accepted the bribe.
Gather the tents
and return the sky.
My morale is sinking very low.
The dream
will wash the eyes
to read the book again.
mvvenkataraman, 20 january 2017
Art of writing poetry
Is like growing a tree
We must well-nourish it
To make it stay fit
Through a wide reading
Which, poem is needing
We must gain knowledge
To build a poetic bridge
We must study great books
And shape wisely our outlooks
And read all noble quotes
To travel in poetry's routes
We must always ponder over
And feel diffident never
By pursuing with enthusiasm
We must follow optimism
When daily we make a try
Our thoughts will never dry
We soon write poems easily
Our fame then grows greatly.
mvvenkataraman
Satish Verma, 19 january 2017
Confused and wary like a
spermwhale, you are
nosediving; -
through the shadows
of terrible pain
ejecting ambergris.
Who was getting
the bribery
to fix the belly button?
This was not revolution.
It was evolution-
of a stinking city.
The gods were sleeping
on the lips of a pride.
Nurses were preparing the bed.
How far the sane voice
will reach, to deliver
the relics of a salted dynasty?
•
Unbodied, how do I touch you
groping? The message was not
clear. How to kill oneself on stage?
A beehive falls on
your head. Are you going
to scream?
Entire town was going
for a pilgrimage. The saint
was preparing for a self-burial.
A hundred thousand moons
were placed on your crown.
The sun was going to roll.
Charred bodies
were turning in graves.
Who was becoming untouchable now?
Give me a kiss of cobra.
My bandaged life
wants to sleep in peace.
•
His severed legs were
tucked under his head to serve as a pillow.
He was half-eaten.
Howling
was silencing all the shames
Woman, I am not coming home.
Satish Verma, 18 january 2017
You are peeling me off
like a crab.
Time has sunk very low.
For the hungry kids
who was growing crab apples?
Creating art,
arriving between the pubes.
A microfossil
roosting within me.
I could live without oxygen.
Incandescent,
the liquid wounds.
I will not send any salvo.
Satish Verma, 17 january 2017
Mooneater, I am my poem:
fantasy of words
traveling through fog.
When light sneaks in,
would you like to weep
with me?
Dear death,
I am not ready to
close my chapter.
You are you
but I am not me -
taking a flight in dark.
Disintegrating,
I am collecting the spiderwebs
to catch the moon.
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