Satish Verma, 23 february 2017
I was learning, how
not to catch you.
Called the cloud
hugging a hillside.
Can you climb on the road?
No, it said, I want to play with the moon.
So,
this was becoming,
without presence.
An epiphany? No it was a crying
theme, discovery of the self.
When the tremors came,
you were flung like a doll,
opening the earth
one breath long.
Swallows were eyeing the sky.
•
The hollow tree
traps the light and sends out
the blue pupils of yellow eyes.
I am still counting the limbs
under the boulders.
The landmass was moving asking names.
The big vulture was watching
the end of the feast,
for schizophrenics.
A bomb hidden in turban will
kill a saint. You say I should
call for the girls.
Why don't you wear the skullcap
to cover the beautiful mind
which will not kiss the fire?
Satish Verma, 22 february 2017
The questions hang like skin tags.
A broken mirror, stabs
during birth of time.
We have got to do it, save it
in its infancy, before it is submerged
along with the temple of fake gods: -
before it is plagiarized by the
polity. The wives were fattening
on art of running the state
from behind the curtains. Would
you like to sign on my skin?
Your death wish? I am washing
my sins today. It is bit cold
here in the blue lake of tears. Now
you can hold my arm for final plunge.
Satish Verma, 21 february 2017
They were decapitated
in winter.
To send forth again, fresh,
the green twigs of summer.
Trees of roadside.
My friends, I used to talk
to them in my morning walk.
Once I sat under
a wishing tree for a divine feel.
There were lots of colored threads
tied round the massive trunk.
I wanted to arrive in the neighbourhood
of absurd escapes of a
fake religion.
My footfalls on stairs were becoming
louder, lugging the wasted life.
It was time now.
To understand the deep shadows
of unanswered questions.
Satish Verma, 20 february 2017
That cameo was my secret grief.
He will make you sing,
the hooded moon.
Not a sacred thing
Kissing the toes of a traveller
for fecundity.
In doorway it was between
us and them for bargaining
for Dahlias.
Lips unkissed will call for
honey from bees.
Eyes will srarch for a candle.
In alien land of flames
and tumultuous desires,
the golden breasts will take revenge.
Satish Verma, 19 february 2017
Changing thoughts
were creating chaos in frenzy,
unabashed, following the stricken
prey, to reclaim
the violence of a stalker.
Was there any law of jungle?
Or rule of law in the midstream
of a formless prosthesis,
gaping void, throwing up
a primordial fear.
Becoming tired of looking at
the wastes around. No mystery
was left in life. How often you
will sit on the pyre to ignite the high
priests of knowledge?
The curved images of receding
years are disappearing. How long
you will wait,
how long?
Satish Verma, 18 february 2017
I am lifting
your blood-soaked shirt
giving the latitude to planet
which broke the law.
The elite
wants to know, why you were
still here, when steam was rising
in golden night?
An extended
grief overtakes the wind
in the flute. You become a free man
walking naked.
The gyres
were calibrating the magi.
An empty niche waits for a Buddha
to take the re-birth.
Satish Verma, 17 february 2017
Now I am used to
betrayals.
I don’t hit back
in the vanishing light.
Very frightening,
I will say.
Sightless bats hovering
round your head.
Have started playing
the game with the nettle.
I will take the stings
and give you back honey.
An intimate kiss of a
naked beetle.
Are you coming for the
last supper?
Satish Verma, 16 february 2017
I am pulling out from the committed
sin, cadaver walking,
digging the gold from the pit.
Footwears of dead men were
heaped into a pile when
god was praying.
Was it a perceived tragedy
of a man drawing doodles
to offset the sunset?
You were alone, dousing
the fire and shaping the clay. The
hamlet was less inclined to intercede.
Your flesh slips from my hands
for a rebirth. I was flying a kite.
I was dead before you were born again.
Satish Verma, 14 february 2017
A calling from zietgeist;
when a flute versus beast
starts a power play.
My world becomes wet.
Amorous,
when I watch a moth in your fist.
A split moon peels off
the cuticle, for a mega show of the
cone, shedding cruciform sword.
The white tiger leaps with
precision, spilling the milk container.
It was moonlight.
The baked smile now gathers
the teeth for a final bite.
The diamonds now quiver like a fear.
Satish Verma, 13 february 2017
Tell me, is it not pathetic
that we keep on drifting
away from our loved-ones as the
time beats us out.
You were in a marathon.
Did something go wrong? Why,
why did you run faster than others
to become a sole survivor of the massacre?
Life would want to know
your name, which you had wiped
out from every page of the book,
uncorrupting the painful cessation.
What was concealed
in between the words when you
went into the soul
to erase the bodyprint from the bed?
There was nothing left unsaid.
The death said, I will not come.
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