Satish Verma, 11 april 2016
The way back it worked
the pretention,
the parthenogenesis.
Now we are lying
without any affair, in self-deception.
The belief has no walls.
The truth inside and the truth outside –
there is no placenta in between,
foetus dies in the womb.
Unpleading, immaculate, zen
bleeds in chips.
My god is lying dead.
My butterflies have gone,
perched on moon
I am looking for stars.
Gert Strydom, 10 april 2016
(after George Gordon, Lord Byron)
She has a kind of inner glow
that is reflected in her eyes
a kind of beauty that gods only can bestow
that is purer than the different hues of the skies
and wherever she goes people she does impress
with her sweet-hearted company,
with her cheery ways, how she flows in a dress
and yet her imperfections are many
but she has a quality that is lovely
that continually does stay with me
and she is so different
in the ways that brings to her grace
and comes over as innocent
in some of the expressions of her face.
[Reference: “She walks in beauty” by George Gordon, Lord Byron]
Satish Verma, 10 april 2016
Looked naïve, but he was
elevating himself on the heap of lights
unlearning the human commitment.
Hunger was his weapon
to level the uprising of underprivileged.
This monarch of darkness
picks up the best,
insists on low profiles.
We were searching fossils
under the rocks
to decipher the shadows of history.
Between the glory of hardened footprints,
we found the labels.
Contents unknown but enough to browse.
They were weightless
and soaring high.
But I was not able to survive
in jungle of praises.
You know, the world
has short memory.
Satish Verma, 9 april 2016
Perhaps you know,
that you do not know,
the moment of truth is here,
and we are at the cross roads.
Night is without a cloud
and crescent moon is questioning a star.
Ghost of strayed peace
has slided back in dark.
Pure chemistry of love is boiling.
Planting the tender flowers on lips
I find nothing. I think I will go
for a new lover.
Strawberry was your choice,
but I always craved blue berries.
Pulpy red and blue black were teeth apart.
Your eyes are unreadable,
a watery grave of pain.
Something impossible should happen
Poetry is waiting for symbiosis.
Gert Strydom, 8 april 2016
Where this world is but a grain of sand
in the enormity of endless space
while man struggles in a eternal race
to be more to achieve, to really live,
to love and be loved,
to matter to some one and to society,
in reality we are just actors on a stage
while the rest of the universe looks on
while the struggle through aeons rages
between the forces of the Divine
and the minions of hell
while destiny does leave no man free
from taking to a side
but yet the wave of time comes crashing
onto the shore of life
and like grains of sand we are swept along
when death does take dominion
and oblivion comes to whom and what we were,
to the hearts of our living descendants
when from life we are gone.
Satish Verma, 8 april 2016
After drawing a self-portrait,
I want you to believe
that I am not in it.
The style of rebellion cannot be judged by
blurbs only.
A chunk of refusal,
a narrow escape,
and thin veiled hysteria,
all go for a parody of exactness,
which had been really absent from our lives.
Can you find out
who is betraying whom?
where the tears are migrating?
And where the smiles have gone?
Instead of brutalizing,
I care for the tender torches
moving in the dark bush.
A precise definition is needed
for self-denial of molten lava
which moves like a river
but does not grab the heights.
Post Scriptum, 7 april 2016
Bez ciebie popełniam same głupstwa,
za które wkrótce przekonam się, czy odpowiem.
Po śmierci, zaszytej pod skórą jak obrzęk,
kończy się przygoda z życiem, natarczywie rwąc
naskórek jakby już chciało odejść - zastygnąć.
Przestał mi przeszkadzać lament
upartego organizmu, stał się rutyną,
wydychaną z dwutlenkiem węgla i cząsteczkami
duszy, ulatniającej się bez śladu.
Dobrze, że mam twoje wiersze. Kiedy je czytam,
słyszę jak każdym słowem wszeptujesz się w ciszę.
*
Without you I make all the wrong choices,
for wich I'm about to find my redemption
in death, stitched underneath the skin
lies end of life, rips it apart as if
in a rush to leave - to freeze.
I care for it no more, all this cry
of a stubborn organism had become a routine
exhaled with carbon dioxide and fractions of soul
fading away without any trail.
Im glad I have your poems. When reading them
I can feel your voice, whispering every word through silence.
Gert Strydom, 7 april 2016
On the day of my birth
I am with my own love
and everything on earth
or existing in the heaven above
means nothing more
than the sweet company
of the one that I do adore.
Gert Strydom, 6 april 2016
In anger some religious officials and Roman soldiers came
to arrest Him and called out His name
when in great apprehension and fear
Peter did draw his sword and chopped off Malcus’s ear
and when He restored the ear back in place
there was great compassion and love on his face
but still the officials and soldiers did not comprehend
that they were taking the Son of God to His end.
The crowd that wanted Him dead was unruly and large
and the Roman governor Pontius Pilate could lay no charge
but ordered his soldiers to have Him stripped,
to strap down each wrist and have Him whipped.
A crown of thorns was forced upon his head,
he was mocked while to a cross he was led
and this was the man that healed the ill
that fed multitudes and preached of love with great skill.
Jesus from Nazareth was nailed to a cross
and although those that were killing him was at a loss
He said: “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do”
and if He himself would be eternally dead he did not have a clue
while without a fault He was from the day of his birth
but carried the sin of every converted human, of the whole earth,
could not connect with God while he did set others free
and did cry out: “My God, My God why have You forsaken Me?”
Darkness came to the earth on that afternoon,
dark was the stars, the sun and the moon.
The Jews and Romans viewed this with dread
when the earth shook and people were raised from the dead.
To the Roman Centurion and his soldiers this was very odd
when they exclaimed: “Surely He was the Son of God”
and from the day that His blood did flow
God did His salvation on all people that do believe bestow.
Satish Verma, 6 april 2016
Experimenting with thoughts and nostalgia,
trying to extinguish the guilty fire,
hiding the ruins of a home,
were not simple jobs.
I was building an ivory tower at the dead end of a road.
Give me some hope, nothing else,
A marvel, which gives some sight to a blind beggar.
The clowns had already plundered the shelter
and habitat of coarse logs.
It was a cold night and I was shivering
in worst of time and hour.
How could you do it,
prompting him to leap from the dizzying heights?
After all, suicide was not the solution.
If only life had appreciated his courage
and gave him a ladder.
I am following the trail of blood.
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