Satish Verma, 21 september 2017
Exfoliated, I come to you,
to scratch the blighted
palace of the body, where
a god lived once.
Dervish, when did you stop
whirling? The tomb is gone,
the shroud tattered. I am
collecting the withered roses.
It rips open, the black fruit
showing the bleeding stone.
How did I believe, the tiniest
particle will create the universe.
The tree was felled scattering
the seeds. An unsure hand,
pulls on the leash and sets
the entrapped animal free.
Sztelak Marcin, 20 september 2017
Wena przybita do podłogi,
leżę obok, nie mogąc podnieść
szklanki. Z wkładką.
O kolorze herbaty parzonej
na zimno. Oraz brak cukru,
w górnych warstwach
ciężkawej atmosfery.
Żadnych wzlotów, tym bardziej
upadków, nawet w czeluście
parkietu, pomiędzy przyrosty
roczne.
I nie pomaga prześliczna karta
pocztowa. Pełna pozdrowień
z samego szczytu.
Drabiny pokarmowej.
Paweł Szkołut, 20 september 2017
In every moment
she is with you
a deep blue friend
the high flying swallow
a companion in all battles
the string endless in sound
faster than light or thought
carrying you up to the heights
pouring in you the primeval ocean
she – being sent and recognized
in the greatest silence
a floral handmaid
the sister
prayer
1983
Satish Verma, 18 september 2017
Dementia begins. The ending starts.
Death had many names;
The mountain owls. They fly in flocks
and take prey diving on rabbits or great
bustards. Have you seen the courtship
display of bustards? They are heavy birds. Fly,
but also run very fast.
Soaring flight of eagle. Keen sight and a massive
hooked bill. Hawk takes prey by surprise.
Falcon catches prey from above.
I think water. Don't cry. Your son was
drowned in a tank when he was three. Head
down. We pulled him out after half-an-hour.
Brain damaged. He babbles now, lives a vegetable.
Neat. Death had many faces. You want her.
It will not come on asking. I think flames. We
must lock the house, and come out on skywalk.
Satish Verma, 17 september 2017
Do not maneuver the
golden night.
Moon will rise in
defiance of dew.
*
This world will
not say a word.
The dialogue of moonlight
with sand will continue.
*
I throw a stick in
the river. I am going
back to my ancient
fear of Karma.
Satish Verma, 16 september 2017
An offence committed by you
asks for the absolutes.
I am paying the price.
Are you going to drink the white-
potion from the black cup? The tiger
had taken away the child. Now we will-
kill our god between the planets. The
goddess reveals herself as a nude.
The chemistry stalks. It leaves
behind the surprise and wet eyes.
You enter the blue city of kissing
names. There are no square spaces -
across the legs. Taps are dry and
ash collectors are moving around
to find the murderous sky.
Satish Verma, 15 september 2017
Between you and me
there was no sound.
In oneness, I reached
your peaks.
It was a naked bloom
of jasmines. I smell the
duality. Would you come
for a rendezvous?
Pure as a glacier fall,
the silver-dark of moonless
night, I was waiting
for the ripples.
The bells, blue bells, start
echoing the cries. It was
not a kill. The invisible
was executed.
Satish Verma, 14 september 2017
Aggressive posture of silence
sweeps the mind.
I preempt the drowning of septum
in calving ice.
The ostium ultimately opens
to spill over the therapy.
You go into the cave-
to pull out the new born thought.
The day runs again for bread-
and butter. There are
no holds barred. It
was an intact valve.
But the heart blew away
the soft feathers.
I cannot fly now.
Satish Verma, 13 september 2017
Bleeding the sea
For brown seaweeds.
I was trading the tides.
Talking me blind;
Kissing on my face,
O moon, you were reading
the dark earth.
To awaken me.
I prick my fingers to collect
The fractured thoughts.
The ospreys were expected-
To land for laying eggs.
I will seed the clouds,
To bring in rains, to
Wash the stains.
Elizabeth Vitale, 13 september 2017
On a broken old chair
In a dirty old room
With only one light
Only one light
To see my way
Only one light
To shine on me
Only one light
I can't understand
I can't hear why
Only one light
On a broken old chair
In a dirty old room
With only one light
Elizabeth Vitale
Poetry
Prose
Photography
Graphics
Video poems
Postcards
Diary
Books
Handmade
