Gert Strydom, 29 july 2013
Your hand is in the rain
that falls for fourteen days without end
and when the first yellow peaches appear
and everywhere the rain drizzles down,
when rusty brown leaves fall from the branches
then You are still caring before the first winds do moan
and the cold is present everywhere
with the exhausting of winter
that feels as if it cuts right through everything
and in the rays of that dismal sun
it’s Your love that still circles out wider.
Gert Strydom, 29 july 2013
Although we do live in a dark planet,
a place of sin
while time moves forward constantly
demons cannot win,
God holds the hope and love of tomorrow.
We do go in
the next moment, rather with happiness,
than with all of our sorrow and sadness.
[Reference: “The Minute” by Karl Shapiro.]
Satish Verma, 29 july 2013
Night enters into the drift.
I get through a fossil, quite beyond
the light, a search begins for a tortured
being in some ideal's mire.
The battle begins, of fears and doubts
and upon the trampled sun-blind truths
of past in dry desert of hungry sands
where the veined clot rises to the lung of moon.
Revival of black magic takes place, marking
the boundaries of denial, you will not cross
the line of fire, till the shade between evil
and good was obliterated and sins become
bones of dreams.
Will you wait on the gate, till eternity
accepts you as a forgotten child of
wronged parents? I shall start calling
the names of innocent bystanders.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 28 july 2013
Tonight moon will write a poem
on my hand
about an almond love.
I find a breeze.
Nightmare: I was caught stealing words
from your lips, a lark
flies into death, paralyzed
by peace!
I will have the baby, I cried
at the insult to a rape
of truth, after the brawl
Pyramid was not made in a day.
Who slept in the arms of ambers?
Look, it was an atomic illusion of a guilt
of centuries. Time walks with bowed head
like a blind man.
Baked brown in heat of wars like
a salted pistachio, perched high on dry
grass, a swallow watches the rising
lake with no stones floating.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 27 july 2013
Monologue of a monolith
to live in a moment
was futile. A young house was in disorder.
Not listening, I would find the missing links.
Grey ash to be smeared on forehead in horizontal
lines for shifting the planets.
The age creeps quietly, irremediably poor,
unchanged in hysteria: after hysterectomy
the womb lies in dirt. Ethnic violence will fill
the carts of mutilated bodies, move to market,
selling the rage. Be in today, or tomorrow,
the blood brings honour.
Do not complain of weather, these arthritic
fingers, crooked toes, you will end on a cliff
after the logic of war fails. A bald year
moves, untrusting the noble men, I ascend
a coin to find the circa of topless democracies
destroying the pillars of feet.
Satish Verma
Gert Strydom, 26 july 2013
I would be happy to live in a town
like this, with houses,
a big old brick church with a high column,
girls in blouses
that are talking carefree, smiling at me;
some young spouses
are walking hand in hand as they do talk,
a hollyhock flowers pink on its stalk.
Gert Strydom, 26 july 2013
While our deeds are from harshness innocent,
mere words express
that what we deem love in fullness to be,
what it possess,
as defined by mind, body and soul;
its own excess
we do not really know, comprehend,
as it is selfless to its joyful end
Gert Strydom, 26 july 2013
With the twinkle of first sight in their eye
a flaming star soared across the sky
as it shined with its own new light
and in only a wink it did pass by.
What a strange kind of thing it was to some,
as they thought that a time of joy had come
as the star had brought a kind of good news,
and led wise men away from home.
In every birth of a child on this earth
there is a kind of hope, a kind of worth,
the promise of passing on love and life
of a kind of warmth far beyond the hearth;
that great miracle of a small girl or a boy,
who will at a time either build or destroy.
Gert Strydom, 26 july 2013
When feelings unfold like a pocket knife,
they can be sharp
and cut deeply without a second thought,
the soul can warp
at mere words that are said indifferent,
or like a harp
the sounds of love and speech can be quite true,
can bring happiness in all that they do.
Satish Verma, 26 july 2013
It was coming up, the politics
like dirty sex
in tall Parthenium grass.
The panther was hiding on a steppingstone
watching the hot, field hockey
played with skulls of peers.
Mauled, the peach skin was
entertaining sunlight in
the metaphoric village.
Prisoners of false ceilings,
we sing the anthem with
the crowd of wolves.
Satish Verma
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