Satish Verma, 15 march 2018
Night was all black.
I could not find my
hands / half-dead─
velvety ribs. I want
to rub the spikes and─
toe the line of hurricane.
The naked eye, a-roving
will search for the moon
as the superstorm was─
poised for a landfall.
To receive the wrath─
the ants will find the─
watermark and move to
higher grounds. The sea
throws up the secret of unknown.
Satish Verma, 14 march 2018
Superstorm
outside. Inside a deep
ocean, thoughtless.
*
You want to know
the boundaries of scent.
A musk deer wonders.
*
After the death─
of hurricane, would you
come to see my hibiscus?
Satish Verma, 11 march 2018
Your skin was involved─
in recent string of shadows, throwing
the white shrouds on unknown
faces. The visibility
becomes a threat, plying like a black river
via stone links.
Your muscles twitch and
convulse. An invisible hand
writes the judgement. A silent
November looms large.
I will wait for the snow to
fall silently on the sun-dial.
Like silent shedding of petals
counting the dew drops on grass.
A tree of bones walks
from death to death. Me standing
on crossroads, on the moon’s path
trying to learn the mistakes.
Satish Verma, 10 march 2018
This road
does not lead to my home.
Do I ask the lake?
*
Tonight, the moon
shows a wrinkled face
and depression.
*
An untitled
poem, will find a blank
page of life.
Satish Verma, 9 march 2018
Last night a dream,
died in infancy, when you
were drawing a circle
of pain in rainbows.
The hurt of blind alleys,
and the rebounding image
of burnt-out candles in night.
The full moon will only enhance─
the burns. I do not want to talk
about the divine will of making
a baby, out of willing or unwilling
surrender. Lines are blurred.
You want to ask the moon─
Are you convinced, it was not
a rape? A butterfly is snuffed out
in your palm, you do not know.
Satish Verma, 8 march 2018
In twilight,
the noose tightens─
and shadows start walking
towards you; to reclaim
your anonymity─
and declare in deadpan manner:
the author is dead.
Your smallness goes
on sale. You are subjected
to scrutiny by the small print, but
the truth escapes from lidless eyes.
A private punishment.
There was blood on the knife.
Why did you write a
sanguinary poem for your savior today?
Satish Verma, 7 march 2018
In blood sport
you forget to die, disintegrating
though, cell by cell.
What an ambience─
of human nature?
You drag the carcass─
of mutations whole life.
Now, selling the virginity
for charity?
You build a castle─
of mud bricks as a tribute
to undying love─
for the poverty
of the saint, who had jumped
into the river.
Satish Verma, 6 march 2018
The neck pain was singled
out. Roll yourself down―
from the hills. The
figures were crying.
You cannot dismiss
the infamous past tense.
The butchered birthday―
of freedom of speech.
The underpaid stone cutters
of the quarry, and the
golddiggers crowding the street.
Whom will you give your hand?
In glass, the progeny-
grows, away from home,
from inheritance.
I stare in disbelief, unblinking.
Satish Verma, 5 march 2018
It was blue and
red. The rape.
What would you do in dark?
*
The bullet was
embedded in the spine.
Still you are walking,
straight!
*
You have become
a face, of terror.
Your eyes, eyes
tell it all.
Satish Verma, 4 march 2018
Why, why we keep on
weighing each other?
You were an anchor;
I was a feather.
*
The land fall!
There was no noise.
Tornado had come like
a revelation!
*
After the break,
you count the rings-
in heart wood.
A condensed torture!
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