Gert Strydom, 12 april 2016
Far too quickly time rushes on
and the happy days of youth are gone
and the company of your love does disappear
and you are the only lonely one
Satish Verma, 12 april 2016
Do you need a sanitizer for contaminated hands?
They were busy in illustrating the ugly contours
of life.
Up and down you were out of joint,
and your feet were not fastened to the ground.
Untainted a shrill voice prepares to rise
from the sullen men
huddled on the floor,
for the sad demise of a grand master.
The green truth was nowhere to be seen.
People are getting down for a feast
to invoke peace for the departed soul.
I am miserable,
cannot blast the fake ceremony.
Year after year the doomed city performs a ritual
for the coronation of a new king.
The sky is divided by domes, towers, minarets
and tall turrets.
cannot see the moon clearly at night
I reject the old abstractions
draw the ink from the blood
and paint a tarantula.
Gert Strydom, 11 april 2016
Like any other person my hands are stained by Your blood
but every sin and my own will
and everything that can bring separation between us
are covered by Your wondrous blood.
Satish Verma, 11 april 2016
The way back it worked
the pretention,
the parthenogenesis.
Now we are lying
without any affair, in self-deception.
The belief has no walls.
The truth inside and the truth outside –
there is no placenta in between,
foetus dies in the womb.
Unpleading, immaculate, zen
bleeds in chips.
My god is lying dead.
My butterflies have gone,
perched on moon
I am looking for stars.
Gert Strydom, 10 april 2016
(after George Gordon, Lord Byron)
She has a kind of inner glow
that is reflected in her eyes
a kind of beauty that gods only can bestow
that is purer than the different hues of the skies
and wherever she goes people she does impress
with her sweet-hearted company,
with her cheery ways, how she flows in a dress
and yet her imperfections are many
but she has a quality that is lovely
that continually does stay with me
and she is so different
in the ways that brings to her grace
and comes over as innocent
in some of the expressions of her face.
[Reference: “She walks in beauty” by George Gordon, Lord Byron]
Satish Verma, 10 april 2016
Looked naïve, but he was
elevating himself on the heap of lights
unlearning the human commitment.
Hunger was his weapon
to level the uprising of underprivileged.
This monarch of darkness
picks up the best,
insists on low profiles.
We were searching fossils
under the rocks
to decipher the shadows of history.
Between the glory of hardened footprints,
we found the labels.
Contents unknown but enough to browse.
They were weightless
and soaring high.
But I was not able to survive
in jungle of praises.
You know, the world
has short memory.
Satish Verma, 9 april 2016
Perhaps you know,
that you do not know,
the moment of truth is here,
and we are at the cross roads.
Night is without a cloud
and crescent moon is questioning a star.
Ghost of strayed peace
has slided back in dark.
Pure chemistry of love is boiling.
Planting the tender flowers on lips
I find nothing. I think I will go
for a new lover.
Strawberry was your choice,
but I always craved blue berries.
Pulpy red and blue black were teeth apart.
Your eyes are unreadable,
a watery grave of pain.
Something impossible should happen
Poetry is waiting for symbiosis.
Gert Strydom, 8 april 2016
Where this world is but a grain of sand
in the enormity of endless space
while man struggles in a eternal race
to be more to achieve, to really live,
to love and be loved,
to matter to some one and to society,
in reality we are just actors on a stage
while the rest of the universe looks on
while the struggle through aeons rages
between the forces of the Divine
and the minions of hell
while destiny does leave no man free
from taking to a side
but yet the wave of time comes crashing
onto the shore of life
and like grains of sand we are swept along
when death does take dominion
and oblivion comes to whom and what we were,
to the hearts of our living descendants
when from life we are gone.
Satish Verma, 8 april 2016
After drawing a self-portrait,
I want you to believe
that I am not in it.
The style of rebellion cannot be judged by
blurbs only.
A chunk of refusal,
a narrow escape,
and thin veiled hysteria,
all go for a parody of exactness,
which had been really absent from our lives.
Can you find out
who is betraying whom?
where the tears are migrating?
And where the smiles have gone?
Instead of brutalizing,
I care for the tender torches
moving in the dark bush.
A precise definition is needed
for self-denial of molten lava
which moves like a river
but does not grab the heights.
Post Scriptum, 7 april 2016
Bez ciebie popełniam same głupstwa,
za które wkrótce przekonam się, czy odpowiem.
Po śmierci, zaszytej pod skórą jak obrzęk,
kończy się przygoda z życiem, natarczywie rwąc
naskórek jakby już chciało odejść - zastygnąć.
Przestał mi przeszkadzać lament
upartego organizmu, stał się rutyną,
wydychaną z dwutlenkiem węgla i cząsteczkami
duszy, ulatniającej się bez śladu.
Dobrze, że mam twoje wiersze. Kiedy je czytam,
słyszę jak każdym słowem wszeptujesz się w ciszę.
*
Without you I make all the wrong choices,
for wich I'm about to find my redemption
in death, stitched underneath the skin
lies end of life, rips it apart as if
in a rush to leave - to freeze.
I care for it no more, all this cry
of a stubborn organism had become a routine
exhaled with carbon dioxide and fractions of soul
fading away without any trail.
Im glad I have your poems. When reading them
I can feel your voice, whispering every word through silence.
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