Satish Verma, 1 february 2020
In praise of body
like a bow,
shooting arrows of clemency.
But I have come to deny myself,
the nemesis.
There was no penitence.
Unacceptable, in the light of
broad-day murder
of democracy.
Freedom to arc was a personal
style, writing poetry
against the art
of manipulation.
I am ready to become
human, after inferno, started
by you, to burn
the story.
Mustapha Maaroufi, 31 january 2020
The sun escapes from the daytime tiredness
To fall asleep in the night bed
And at the dawn
The day wakes up
To embrace it
And take it for its new journey.
Satish Verma, 31 january 2020
I am not going to touch
the meaning―
of nativity for unknown
guests.
A cameo appearance of some
god, does not take away the
most recent fears
of death.
The ghosts have their own
defences against scars,
bruises and unstitched
bones.
Give me a piece of unleashed
poem, my odyssey
has begun in
earnest.
Satish Verma, 30 january 2020
On the mount
a broad-leaved tree was preparing
for self destruction.
It was too cold
under the sun.
A small Christmas tree
with its needle leaves
waits for the snow,
to draw a self-potrait
in bitter winter.
Snow fall makes it
gold, when rain comes
and my hand knives the moon.
Mustapha Maaroufi, 29 january 2020
For the wind
I will open my window
I am not inclining to the right side
There is a cough
A loss
As for the left side
I will remain waiting there
Under the green hope tree.
Satish Verma, 29 january 2020
A wine taster was
ready to begin the birth
of night.
A wrinkle displays
the absurd mediocrity
of the charter.
I will not play
in the hands of unknowable
I have my own map.
I am shedding,
my skin, my color. Only
a truncated god will speak for me.
Satish Verma, 27 january 2020
It was not mental,
when you said, ―
in solstice, the body
and the physics of ashes become
one, the duality is lost
and indentation removed.
This fall it was a freak
weather. The tangerines are
covered with accusing ice. The
insomnia has set in the trees.
No body was sleeping
in gray.
Do not forget the prayer.
Retroactivily you can be pardoned.
Satish Verma, 26 january 2020
The ambrosial ending
of the day. I was not sure
of myself. How would the
thumb mould the pen
in internal search
of cavities?
You are not going to live
hundred years. Falling from
the terrace, with a thud,
lying in the pool of blood, till you
find the celibate truth?
Between the dust and dawn
lies the dark. The oesophageal
reflux makes a hole
in each eye. Can you
read in the thick fog
of absent faces?
Satish Verma, 25 january 2020
It was never meant,
to be the triumph
of the death
in the night of the snowfall.
The silent fall of flakes,
covering the stains,
would start a conversation
about the truth of life.
A journey to unknow the evil starts.
Robt, 24 january 2020
Water exists in a triple state:
Solid, liquid, gas
At zero Celsius.
Even on the coldest day
Solid snow and ice quietly disappear
Into gaseous vapor.
The radiant energy of the sun
And time
Drive this transition
Until the solid ice is no more,
Disappeared.
But no,
It still exists in the invisible vapor.
Do not we, aqueous beings
-the waters of ancient seas
sloshing through our veins-
Exist at a triple point,
Slowly sublimating
Then suddenly gone,
Existing only in the hidden vapor
Of Time.
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