mvvenkataraman, 8 september 2013
If your poetry can give all courage
By supplying boldness adequately
Then there is some meaning in it
And it is approved by the Divinity
If your poem can remove tears
By deeply touching a sick heart
Definitely heaven will thank you
Calling your efforts as the noblest
If your poem can transform a mind
To march toward perfect optimism
Surely it will be by the Lord blessed
As His duty is by your fairly done
If your poem can be by all understood
Then obviously it is a great work truly
And in case the matter in it is educative
The patting from Angels will be sound
If your poem can make the World laugh
By touching the humor supplying nerves
You are sure to gain entry to Paradise
As your contribution is viewed as great
Please create a poem to render some help
Then only it is regarded as very valuable
Never confuse or create terror or horror
As all these evils are disliked by the Lord.
mvvenkataraman
Satish Verma, 8 september 2013
I forgot, was it me
in a body pile draped in dust,
still hot, bruised, burnt, a mad megalomaniac
starting a civil war, creating suicide bombers,
young virgins inhaling death?
This journey under the guns, displacing
hapless thousands, will reach destination
on thick, blood stained red, dirt road of life? Step by step
the dynasty breaks and violence, a malignant
spread overtakes the bones
of avatars; the round bloodshot eyes
cross the barriers of silence and step out
from the skin: they were bombing
his bunker.
*On the death of Vellupillai Prabhakaran, LTTE Leader
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 7 september 2013
the hunt begins after sunset
under cracked moon, blindfolded clouds
start visiting volitionlessly:
the nesting eagles, I choose
this bitter absurdity of large wings
under the sun, where they will announce the shade,
a lonely patch of life, of signature
kill of future, the metamorphosis of a street
into unending wait;
undress the sleeping lion
of combat fatigue, his brain splattered,
the dreams moved like tectonic plates
* On seeing the body of Vellupillai Prabhakaran
Satish Verma
Michel Galiana, 6 september 2013
1. An unhappy young man, forsaken and alone
Was by his parents' death left to live on his own;
Now, since he was so young, go begging could he dare?
Compassionate folks came and of him they took care.
2. A man in these parts heard of his destitution.
Hastened to make the best of the situation.
"That you work on my estate is what I propose;"
The young man said "I can't. I have no working clothes"
3. "To be sure, I would be able to drive a plough,
But I am so poor that I have no spade or hoe"
And the four crowns they cost I never could afford.
Lend them to me, I shall pay you back, on my word."
4. The farmer hired him on a very long term;
A farmhand he had found, reliable and firm.
Yet one day the lad failed to report to his boss,
Leaving the latter to ponder over his loss.
5. Sometime later he was, upon a handful straw,
Found dead in the far slum where he used to withdraw.
His employer, alas, whose heart was hard as stone
When the corpse was removed from there was heard to moan:
6. "To heaven he shan't go as long as I'm not paid,
For he owes me four crowns I have lent him ahead."
And barely three days after, a young lad required
Employment in this very farm and he was hired.
7. Upon the fields he worked as hard as the best three.
But when lunch time was rung the young lad used to flee.
The others wondered and did their best to retain
Him, asking him to eat and drink with them. In vain.
8. He stayed out of the way, as if he was in pain,
Threw himself on his knees, as in wait of being slain.
And the cruel-hearted man, with disapproving frown,
Went and asked for advice the parson of the town.
9. "Over there is a man, as hard as three working,
But curiously enough, with neither food nor drink."
"Sir, you may return home, don't tell them that you came.
I shall call tomorrow. The hour will be the same."
10. Overnight the divine was informed by God's grace,
That it was a dead soul who was haunting the place.
"What are you looking for? Say, what is your demand?
- Four crowns I owe this man, I received from his hand."
11. "The master of this farm lent me once those four crowns:
To pay them back in work now I have been sent down.
And I won't be admitted to heaven's delight
As long as my angel did not tell me I might."
12. When the reverend priest came the four crowns to pay,
The heartless man was punished in a dreadful way:
When to seize the money he had proffered his hand,
His whole right arm from the shoulder fell to the ground!
13. "In Heaven, both of us will meet again, parson,
Of which I was made worthy by your compassion.
The farmer you did pay and all is in good trim.
Instead of casting blame, let's pray to God for him!"
Translated from the Breton (original title:"Un den yaouank, siwazh!")
steven cooke, 6 september 2013
I am the man that feeds the world
genetically engineered crops,
come take your fill.
I am the investor who gives you land,
your debt can wait,
for we know who you are.
Multiply and grow fat for I need an army
teach your children about us and them
and be grateful that you belong to us.
For we are civilised so pay the tax
that freedom brings you.
Tomorrow uncertainty waits
time is the rain that washes the future.
Famine will always be your brother
so hold my hand and walk with me.
Should the bee turn its back on you?
then nature will focus the brain.
To kill for survival is a gift from God,
to live is the right of every man.
Follow me and the acrid smell of new asphalt
shall delete the footsteps of your past.
I am you and you are me
science will cheat all that is written.
End of days will launch the virus
and Preachers will look through saintly windows
at the gathering headstones.
And a child of the world will see
fields full of white chairs
and wonder “where are the people”
The terrorist will kill the innocent
martyrdom their reward
and we will watch the TV in silence,
as our loved ones fall from the sky.
And somewhere in the world
the decision will be made.
A victim will be selected
and a drone will do its duty.
Their coffin will be draped
in right and wrong,
honour to the left
and traitor to the right.
A holy cross will divide this river
for all will cling to the illusion
of them and us.
God will control the believers
political solutions the rest.
No race or religion can alter the time
the sums will solve survival.
Some must die to let me live
and I have chosen you,
the holy grail of the west
to take supper with me.
For in all this destruction
In all the beauty that has been lost.
There stands a human being
the perfect spy from above.
For in human form the devil exists
It is only when we die
Can the angel be born?
And the writings of poets
will be heard no more,
the ink will only follow orders.
Blue and the green will fear the brown
and black will not trust the white.
The language of man will fuel the fire
and the grey of ash shall win.
But in truth who will miss this existence
for the angel is a brother of the devil
and God is the father of all.
Our epitaph will be found
painted on the cave walls of the frightened.
Dreamtime will come again
and the last child will draw the final image.
Of the white chairs waiting in a sea of green
and she will pick the last flower
that only she can see.
steven cooke, 6 september 2013
Her Life defined by the size
of potatoes in a supermarket trolley.
She opens her battered purse
out of shape from the coppers of life,
viewed with despair from eyes
embedded in the bags of time.
Self-esteem abandoned in discoloured trainers.
Her contaminated cheap cider mind
still clings to the fog of that special day,
when she gave herself to him.
The doll that came to life
In dreams that found a prince.
Sweet anticipation was the nectar of being
and forever had found immortality
in the quest for life.
But this flower was envied by the weeds
jealousy was rife amongst the onlookers.
The detritus who once shared her life
now whisper their poison into her veins.
Jealousy is a lonely place for them
and hate cannot spell love.
For love is a need beyond the individual
and evil must walk alone.
She was s a bride of the damned
Immersed in a punk rock dream.
But dreams turned into nightmares
and she was spit on
by the culture which became her jail.
Anarchy came from the womb
obedience came from poverty
and know your place came from the hand she loved.
Silence was now her existence.
Daddy never told her
fairy tales have no god.
Her prince became a frog
a drone who hated is lot
and she became the witch that trapped him.
Made him the victim of Grimm's tales
Which cast him down the yellow brick road
of unbrushed teeth and brown.
Whose fists shattered the crystal ball
of happy ever after,
to be baptized in the liquid sea of Stella
and pools of emerald vomit.
To bite this apple needs no witches poison.
Addiction is anonymous as a wave on the ocean
knowing that death will come when it reaches land,
knowing that this is the fate of all refugees
who abandons their lifejacket to oblivion.
We are all jumpers cleaning the windows of tomorrow
hoping to avoid the ledge of life.
Though in our hearts there is a desire
to step off into uncertainty
for we all crave that moment ,
when we are truly free.
Some will leave this life in anger
others will give their life to peace,
these are the survivors.
But the victims
The Jeremy Kyle’s entourage
will strip their soul one petal at a time
In the act of do not remember me.
We are all born into fairy tales
the dice of chaos decides the memory.
And for those who take the time,
take the time to see the artist at work,
will recognise the beings that walks past us every day.
The stranger who buys the small potatoes
With a purse full of coppers.
Spending what is left of their existence
In the supermarket that we call life.
Gert Strydom, 6 september 2013
On a road near a place called Hotazel
there were no trees,
just the flat openness of the great Karoo
and semi-acrid no stream
crossed that big open plain
and in this flat desolate piece of land
I saw a man on a bicycle pedalling on obscurely
right into the distance
engulfed by the shivering heat
looking like plates of water
and some crows with white breasts
flew past croaking
and it was just a white-hot sun
in a blue open sky.
[Reference: Karoo: “a semi-desert plateau region in southern South Africa.”]
Gert Strydom, 6 september 2013
Sometimes I visit in absence the Highveld
and in my thoughts
are jumping from rock to rock
where aloes flower orange,
where I smell the fragrances of the Proteas,
are walking in knee-high grass
and I am there in lingering moments.
Gert Strydom, 6 september 2013
Just before the rain they fly twittering
until the drops start to splatter
and they have got to flee to their nests
before bolts of thunder can obliterate them.
Alicja Kuberska, 6 september 2013
Do notwake up
the Horsemen of Apocalypse !
Four horsessnort,
hoovestap.
They are readyto gallop
War, death, hunger, plague
are always together
and rideside by side
Auschwitzwas not a dream
The demonsare born
in the dark sideof human nature
the lust for power
the glory of wins
the greed
the fraudulentpropaganda
Do not break the steals
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