Satish Verma, 20 august 2015
The tree, the sky, the moon, of
summer prick the eyes.
We suffer majestically.
The aberrations will
now rule the city.
Incorruptible winds
languished in crooked lanes.
A pale hand will paint the unlatched doors.
When stars meditate in unison,
moon upcurves.
The blue becomes dark,
my eyes climb the hill.
The day has ended without a conclusion.
Clouds are frightened.
Virtue when cuts open the heart,
it does not bleed.
Pseudo reality reigns,
and we amputate the limbs without analgesics.
The philosophy of being
is quietly murdered.
Green leaves start dying.
A terrible dream flicks the hope,
a touch of class with littleness.
Gert Strydom, 19 august 2015
The crushing mob
did push closer and closer to Him
before He could go back to His Father
and they wanted to see an innocent good man suffering,
wanted to feel His blood on their fingers
when they roared: “crucify Him!”
And Pontius Pilate did try to wash off his own guilt
and their abomination from his hands
when suddenly the sun did go cold
and darkness did come to the earth
when the creator God did hang on a cross,
did long for the presence of His Father
and did carry the sin of all humanity
and the populace did wait on a wondrous sign to happen
while the curtain in the temple did tear right down
and God Himself did die as a mere sinner.
Satish Verma, 19 august 2015
An evening primrose glides,
on my rough hands.
I pluck a laugh from the lips,
of a parched face.
It knows the meaning of death,
kissing the pink eyes.
Of the lost fidelity
and the innocence of the dying sun.
How to tell myself,
you are not coming.
Gradually the house,
will go back to its still air.
The white ants,
will draw a pattern
on the stale books.
The traffic of private tears,
will begin to move.
The truth is a happening,
with all the little gods.
I demand nothing,
only pink rose buds, of early winter.
There is no one to know,
that weeping grass,
keeps me touching,
holding my toes.
Gert Strydom, 18 august 2015
When you were in my thoughts tonight
my heart could have jumped around with joy
or with the remembering
I could have drowned in a sea of tears
but between us there is more than just tears and sorrow
and now I want to think of you
with all of the longing and passion
that lies between a man and a woman.
Satish Verma, 18 august 2015
This terracotta urn
contains the ashes
of an earth-baked dream.
You worship the setting sun,
rape of dawn will continue.
Intravenous entry of hope
had failed.
Outside the window
crowd of heirlooms, falling like stars.
Thoughts come and go, we hunted opportunities in vain.
Tonight I will dropp the wheels
on the tarmac, to roll the pride.
My flight had knocked out
the sleeping pain. Now amnesia
will help me to climb on the moon’s shoulders.
They dragged her in the field,
the most deprived one. Was outraged.
I send you my grief, my sadness,
O, god. The flag was flying half mast,
rapist was absconding.
Gert Strydom, 17 august 2015
Your smile is the summer sun
and just as hot
as it shines at high noon
and your eyes do sparkle
the open blue sky
when for moments I am lost in them
and maybe are looking much deeper than I ought to
and I see a lifetime lying in their depths
when your lips do flame of aloe
and an unsaid moment hangs between us
and in that short time that lingers
it’s only the two of us in the whole universe.
Satish Verma, 16 august 2015
I had to let them stay.
My anguish & anxiety.
Denuding me, filling me with hymns of pain.
The blank days drifted in slow motion.
I tried to sing,
imitating the cuckoo on the tree,
to shake off the clouds from the eyes.
Everyday the pain was new,
dreams were old
in the eternal churning.
Grizzled clouds hanged on trees
for witnessing the chaining of desires.
Empty words went into seizures,
clogging the arteries of crisp brain.
Deep within a seed
opened the eyes sitting
quietly near the blast of pain.
Green sprouts drank the light.
My poems wept
and truth started a dance.
The time and space intermingled
to celebrate a birth.
Satish Verma, 15 august 2015
You gave me a name without asking.
History of my pain
did not need any label.
I recalled only
the blooms of bougainvillea,
not the heat which gave them color.
My burned lips
remembered only the dew
and rear view of life.
The total otherness of the moon and stars
did not heal the scars.
My perceptions had
given me hot tears.
How the distance between us
created the schizophrenia?
The familiar laughs
have frozen after all!
In the middle of night I lie awake
to count the door
and the closed windows.
I listen to the moaning of walls.
My eyes remained half-closed in freckled sleep.
Heart blinks, unsnaps
and weaves a moon.
Gert Strydom, 14 august 2015
I do fear that all love does come to an end,
that for each piece of happiness there is oblivion
and the thought turns around and around in my head
as if each life is bound to a kind of darkness,
as if all things and people must go to naught
but then the realization comes
that the essence of love
goes much further than this earth,
that love hits with an own power and fullness.
Satish Verma, 14 august 2015
It hurts, the abstract isolation of life
emptying of self.
The infection
of water in the sun.
A nameless pain annihilates
the ascending desires.
I want no more
traffic of dreams.
Only discovery of Being.
Where the city had gone from the mirror
of my poems?
Streets had the color
of a wrinkled maid.
And new dictionary had new words
of an obscene vernacular.
I wanted my stack, my lake.
Surface exploded into nothingness.
The lake boiled in the heat of eternity.
A part of the evening was cool,
participating in the festivities
of homing birds.
It took a whole night
to see the face of truth!
Poetry
Prose
Photography
Graphics
Video poems
Postcards
Diary
Books
Handmade
