Satish Verma, 3 july 2016
Talking of nameless and unhappy death
I resume the pathos of recluse
if not, what do I do after the sunset?
The shadow themes are picking up
and I am saying, 'No, I cannot do it,
may not do it, will not do it.'
I have been a drifter, did not grow roots
between the desire and wish. I had been
hopping from a thing to nothing.
Pretending my privilege, I ask the periwinkle
how do you do it,
remaining evergreen?
A smile spread on the calyx
the kind of a rainbow.
That was the answer.
No trace of bitterness, just the innocence
after many hurts. Life prods, life knocks,
natural and unfathomed pain. Must it leave
a scar? Live as you are, I say.
The blackened bread, the fudge,
whatsoever comes on the way
the flavor should be sweet.
They are morsels of confession.
Satish Verma, 2 july 2016
The point was, he had swallowed
the pawn.
The world rips apart
and ultimate wintering
sets in.
Shy of one truth,
the hour of reckoning demands
the blood facts.
You could have destroyed
me if I were to sing.
There were no crisis. Dismemberment
went on to squeeze honey
from the hapless victims chanting
Hail Mary.
I sizzled in vain.
Choking on your trumped up
victory, you will break in the house
to find the silver god stolen from
a golden mantel.
You climb on a tall tree and
then disappear in clear blue.
Satish Verma, 1 july 2016
Remember it not.
Oblivion,
Let it slide into cave.
The annual rings of old wood are
hurting.
Tree of life burning inside.
It cannot happen
it can happen.
There is no certainty.
this is certainty.
Bread with hoofs
no butter, no udder
no milk.
A spider in the bottle
slumbers on gaint legs
watches with red eyes.
Time to feed.
The aroma of sea.
Pungent smell of brown algae
the bathing moon,
a lone boat.
Did you know why I admire defeat,
retreat:
Perfect solitude,
featureless calm.
Satish Verma, 29 june 2016
Blood and bones
become qualification
watching and being watched.
Eyes in introspection
incubation
waking the black dawn.
Anguished
blank stares, after dispossession
collapse on the hills in confusion –
umpteen times. Ontogeny
repeats filial love
after parental loss.
Monofloral we stay,
you cannot do anything
except to collect the honey.
Shot in the face, my name.
The next tragedy
begins at home!
Break the cutlery
there is no water,
frogs will not jump today.
Satish Verma, 28 june 2016
Shared my solitude, gave me comfort,
the road, my prelude to a long journey
moved with me.
Sensual saints had a break midway
bolting the stars, when bruised arms
were building the shelter.
An offering to genius was not accepted
cold blooded murder of a dream.
Overnight my hair turned white
a genuine tale was twisted.
Absence of’me’ was not a meaning of death.
I was learning to live.
Can you tell me, what is time?
The clocks are crazy, do not slow down,
end was near without stopping,
The spirit was moving through formless door.
Everything was lost in space, the space
and unfolding were becoming one.
I was talking to prisnors of small gods
a snuffed lamp, living voice and beasts.
Satish Verma, 27 june 2016
Into the dark enters the blue;
a homeless song punctures the cloud:
gentle grass was never so green.
The colors start fading
there was no other movement. Sun strides in.
No going, no coming of pain. No propitiatory
prayer of mine or yours.
I seek the wisdom of a tree.
Like hawthorn collecting the wish rags
fluttering in desert flora.
A husband, a father, a patriarch
in heart of conception, malice for none.
Give we some peace of Ash,
rebirth of thinking,
return to being,
burnt out self.
B.Z. Niditch, 27 june 2016
In a treasure trove
of living words
there is no border
to love or define forgiving
it is already done
yet here we are in the sun
listening to Charlie Parker
deciding to explore nature
and reach a nest of birds
caught in dark branches
or here at the beach
we assure that inside
of a shell and rock
that a hurting turtle
is well protected,
we make our ways
through Platonic caves
until we motion
to divine a measure
that we will be connected
in a snorkel of wishes
through the ocean waves
to find and save the fish
from man's leaving plastic
and all sort nets and metal
to save part of our planet
below our earth's
geological shadow
we let go
from the diving board
and swim in our words
in a dramatic mile below
like Jacques Cousteau
surfing with
an environmental smile.
B.Z. Niditch, 27 june 2016
Sylvia walked in a hallway
of pained light
through the window
it was always night
living for words
always in the shadow
of living out the hour
in her poetic insight
from an already blemished day
astonished at her nerve
at a man's wrath
Sylvia moved giving flight
on her own contemporary path
from a finely shaped mind
in a new confessional school
that others hardly would find
a bard to be understood
and cast out with an icy cry
of harassed laughter
wishing to write her name Plath
on the encased blackboard
rejecting all chalk sounds
that would be erased
to reinvent her past,
no one knew whom
was stalked after
such was her lot and rule
recognizing her own fame
she composed by the mirror
taking out her lipstick
not realizing any blame
and shut the door.
B.Z. Niditch, 27 june 2016
June showers in a heat
fall into our picnic basket
it must have taken hours
when the barbecue flames
rose on the lawn
in the smoke by the gate
under the tent of crickets
this Sunday after church
we heard a Beat poet's
parched voice
fading from view
on the street between rains
reading of his experiences
in locating the names
of orphans from the Argentine
called "the disappeared"
of whom Jesus was one
were hunted and rounded up
by the military state
almost vanished
whom he saved
as a jazz brother invited
a young man who was famished
for a Spanish meal and wine
offered a kiss of peace
and we passed the plate
and he stayed overnight
until dawn.
B.Z. Niditch, 27 june 2016
We sat in the parlor
while on the piano
we played the sonata
of Mozart in D major
for two parts
and from wayfarer songs
of Gustave Mahler
composed from his heart
after being caught
by the Bay's spring rains
played some alto sax riffs
and tried my best
even as a romantic
on the sofa to relax
we sang melodies
against sturm and drang
and sought refrains
while we enjoy blue birds
hanging by a hedge
near a cherry tree
knowing life is a gift
this June night
we rehearse Chekhov
of the "Orchard"
and in my own poetry words
of a bard's night verse
we acknowledge a kept love
even the cat slept tight.
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