Karen Adams, 17 february 2016
Być kobietą
Wcale nie jest takie proste
Palić za sobą wszystkie mosty
Wkraczać jako dziecko
W świat dorosłych
Być kobietą
Wciąż wertować kalendarze
I wykreślać grubą kreską
Najpiękniejsze z naszych marzeń
Być kobietą
Wcale nie jest takie proste
Mając w sercu zimę
Wciąż udając wiosnę
To be a woman
It is not that simple at all
Burn all bridges behind you
Enter as a child
Into the world of adults
To be a woman
Still flipping through calendars
And draw a thick line
The most beautiful of our dreams
To be a woman
It is not that simple at all
With winter in my heart
Still pretending to be spring
Satish Verma, 17 february 2016
The sludge rattles as you tilt on one side
heat and dust swirl around you.
The sun baked age drifts.
The book of life with greasy stains,
preserves a part of your history.
The earth moves on.
Suffering to filthy chatter,
this city was not your choice.
What were you doing,
with your innocent thoughts,
under naked aggression?
Confessions were not sufficient.
Seeking you were not,
then why you were counting the coins?
The last person defeats the death.
Deaf and dumb go in a tizzy.
The bipolars are puzzled.
Is that the answer to a revenge?
No body knows the genesis.
The fog deepens.
Clouds climb up the sky.
Satish Verma, 16 february 2016
Back and forth
back and forth
culture whores
were removing the skin tags
from armpits.
The private plateaus spurting
lemon grass juice.
Between kind questions
and cruel answers
I watch the heat rlsing.
Scanning the leukemic beach
the sex drenched hour
squirms with pubic pain.
Two round hills -
firm breasts tucked under white clouds
were weary of lip slaves.
Namaste sunset
I was waiting for you.
Satish Verma, 15 february 2016
No ending of the story. The loose thread hangs.
Journey again starts at the termination.
The smell is something of enigma.
I am again dissecting the body of a stale corpse.
Fever is rising with jokes Thin sheet covers
the ugly face with blisters.
A disconcerned person burns the phosphorus.
The darkness creates the ghosts of history,
two thousand years of knowledge.
Still the niceties of culture are to e observed
and firework started
to celebrate the end of an era.
Satish Verma, 14 february 2016
Like burning coals on the tongue
the words smoulder the ardour.
I cannot pursue a thought of untruth
for sake of remainin alive.
The water hole is dry, we turn back
from poetry and greens,
heading towards onother cul-de-sac.
A fear mocks at the face.
About being a human failure preparing
to admit the defeat.
Despair will decide the path!
I always adored a struggle for reality
calmly choosing the self-denial.
Secretly I weave a memory of moon rise
in pitch darkness.
Satish Verma, 13 february 2016
It was fear and anguish.
You were talking about evil. Returning
evil to evildoer. I touch your psyche.
I am not happy. Some thing is burning inside.
Dehumanizing the death? Betraying the muse of god?
The ending fo hidden mist and sick bedrooms,
I am counting the parameters. There is a moral pride
in humane slaughter and annexing the smile.
Sun is again coming under eclipse. Light is
growing fainter. I am again afraid of darkness.
Night of shadows and running midgets. They
prolong the agony. I turn towards the earth
for the impromptu music of life.
Satish Verma, 12 february 2016
Silent go the dead
on the moon,
to know the secret of its smile.
Did we know the ending of leads?
The dream within the thoughts?
Silent moves the trembling hand
to print its signature on the heart.
what is so tragic about life?
The memory of bruises or attachment?
We always talked about cleanliness
of language, of lending beauty to words,
when hate and anger brought on the
ugly nuances.
Somebody revises the text,
Tongue tastes the skin,
I start counting my failures
and my books.
Silent stands the mother
for the wayward son.
Satish Verma, 11 february 2016
Self-searching was most difficult for me
one by one the years had gone by.
Remaining taciturn I move inwardly,
try to read the verdict on the wall,
a suspended execution.
I slowly become blind.
A terrible blankness,
infiltrates into mind,
my hands tremble.
Cannot write the unwritten code,
civilized way of accepting the retreat.
The flawless life was a dream,
I wake up in anger, counting the failures.
How painful it is to realize
your revered one are becoming smaller than you.
Death does not swallow the pride
what is to forego and what not?
From moment to moment,
I squeeze the frightening truth.
Satish Verma, 10 february 2016
A heap of voices hails you, when you stop
in the tract.
The silence migrates to new depths
where silhouettes are created,
on the veil of solitude.
It was the flame of pride.
Only there was being,
Of non – being.
A load is lifted. a tender death smiles
I walk in the deep woods,
to collect my mother’s ashes.
She had a scented presence in the sunset.
I will weave a pattern,
of shooting stars in the black sky.
I may not go back
to the epitaph, for a goddess of first
and last war with my conscience.
The full text of infinite pain,
will remain a secret.
I never wanted to remain blameless.
The sneaking time will tell the truth.
Satish Verma, 9 february 2016
We always searched for the center,
the dark hole of a naked mind.
World moved in concentric rings,
like onion peels.
I scream at myself,
on the absurdity of finding,
A truth which had expired.
If the trees could talk in end,
and bail out
the saint of fallen apes
I will start measuring,
the deafness of a storm,
its eyes squinting
and whose deep genitalia,
had delivered a still birth.
Why should we mourn
for the unfolding disaster?
The loneliness and despair,
are not the big themes.
And no body cares to listen,
to the ripped confessions.
A purple patch appears on the green heart.
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