Satish Verma, 29 december 2015
Will not show my wounds, life extracts a price.
A heap of pain, squeezed into eyes
hits me with daily bread.
Draws the conflicts
and sets the fears free.
A half moon wipes my tears.
Destiny clings to dust
Phoenix is rising.
Ruthlessly, night causes pain
freedom is in peril.
The soul sings in a withering tone,
for the departing stars. Yellow,
youthful light of rising sun
burns the desires.
We hate the soaring choices
there is no end, no beginning.
My non-self opposing
the empty life, connects
the heart with contents of sorrow.
It fills up the nothingness.
I perceive a spring of forgotten grass,
engaged orchards and laughing fires
in the buds. Time for
the habitat to step in.
Gert Strydom, 28 december 2015
When the lightning did that night
flaming search the earth in blue-white branches,
mother did draw the curtains close.
On the porch I did see blue-white sparks running,
the rattle of some more thunder
did sound further away,
I could smell the fragrance of the rain
where fresh it did fume through the closed windows,
and early the power had been cut by the thunderstorm
and mother did open the Bible
at the light of a flaring candle
and did read of the rainbow
that comes after each rainstorm
and later the clouds were blown away,
while the doves did coo right through the night
and the moon did peep down from the heaven,
while I could see stars burning
as if they are beacons
that God had put into space.
Satish Verma, 28 december 2015
Questions are the answers
and answers are the questions.
They never die. The words
collect the dripping wounds.
Memories emmigrate to wasteland
and the city drowns in a lake.
Our infallible pride has no challenge
trust the precarious teeth.
Beyond eloquence life drifts
from unknown to unknown.
A fruitless search in a grey winter
of thinking trees. Tall,
beautiful, but faith has taken a U– turn.
The span of obscurity
reflects a twisted wisdom
burning the books of tomorrow.
The fear, depression
and brutal game of corruptible views
I deal with a non-story
of cultivated meditation.
The duality of hate
and love, bread and hunger.
I stand on a quicksand
to balance the beach
and find the missed links.
Satish Verma, 27 december 2015
Imitating the waves,
I try to end the attachment
touching the shores,
then moving away.
Search for eternity erases
the designs. Birth
and death cling together.
I let go the passion,
the deviation of fear.
There cannot be two lives.
When the illusion meets
the pain, truth laughs,
I forego my future,
tear the past and burn the present.
Failed life hangs on
the silence of sorrow.
Names don’t hold any charm
they come & go. Days
dropp like long coats
I search the night.
The desperate seeking
will not end the journey
It is there in the dark hole of the heart.
A pitless gloom.
I am afraid to be revealed.
Art of life is scissored,
Anniversary of flirtation
with death forgotten. We celebrate.
Gert Strydom, 27 december 2015
You are my darling, my wife,
the one with whom I walk through life,
the one that is mine, my inspiration and hope,
the one that holds me tight against her breast
and when you are right against me, it is as if I do behold myself
in your gaze and at times I am stripped from my own conceit,
when we do have deep conversations with each other and with God
and I do wish that which you are for me would never abate,
that each and every day will just bring bigger understanding of each other
as you have grown into to me and are a part of my flesh
and I do know you, do know what you are thinking even before you do talk
as you are my magic potion, the best part of my life and my healing,
you are the one that have ideals of what I can become,
the one that creates a place of peace for me in a world full of hatred.
Satish Verma, 26 december 2015
A view from the cause,
alters the landscape in you
I surrender to the earth,
the roots. Purifying the leaves.
I tell myself, this was not me,
my music. Still my skin
has the tattoos of pandemic deafness.
I am breathing through the lips.
My attachment to death
is a private affair
my voice lies in a lake.
The butterfly in a womb.
the psalms under the rocks.
Is it ending of death
or death of ending?
I go beyond the brink,
dropp the stone in water.
When the moon touches
my eyes, like a kiss
I start sharing the menu of night.
The rimless thoughts are hovering
like small birds. I listen
to their flappings.
Can we live without bargaining?
Do you know the price?
Gert Strydom, 24 december 2015
the shepherds did see
that night a strange star in the sky
where they tended their flocks roaming free
and flashing bright like lightning on the eye
an angel appeared in great glory
and afraid to die
they met the messenger from God
who brought good news to all mankind
and all men where brothers even the stranger
when the angel told them to find
a baby wrapped in clothes in a manger
who is Jesus Christ the saviour
and a multitude of angels did appear
while the song resounded on the ear:
“glory to God in the highest and on earth
peace to men on whom his favour does rest”
and the shepherds had great cheer at the birth
of the child who did love without self-interest
and round and round their flock did trot
where they had left them without care
to find the son of God and of man
in a stable round pots of earthenware
and so the world’s redemption began
while their great news they did share
and the world was different from before.
Satish Verma, 24 december 2015
Unfolding the dark night,
quarter moon shrinks
The bitterness of the day,
cave weird taste,
burning the tongue.
You didn’t want to live,
anymore. Roots lopsided,
starved. Age, language slashed,
mist rising. Names in the dust.
The ending was not there
sorrow burnt like candle
burning the meaningless words,
dreams, I hear the silent whispers
of wounds of faltering steps,
doubting the pain. Beyond
the age tales were endless.
Watching became a problem.
Nothing could be redeemed
by choice. I wanted
endless journey to find
the windows. long steps
towards immovable cliffs,
my own version of anonymity
and grace. Because glorification
has started the fear,
the escape and suffering.
Gert Strydom, 23 december 2015
Last night I dreamt of you,
waking up in sorrow
from a fitful sleep
while you slowly faded away
like the night
with the beginning of the new day
and there was rain pattering down,
with a fresh smell
almost like that of making love
with clouds milling in the sky above
and every now and then
a thunder cracked down
blazing with intense light
and I thought that your smell,
the warmth of your body
was still lingering,
was still here with me in the room
and I walked into the cold wet night
to bathe my face and body,
to get my head clear
and still you felt near.
Satish Verma, 23 december 2015
Non-eye vision penetrates.
The silent song trembles
I weave a pattern
to resolve the crisis
the escape to white
space was useless.
The ending of sorrow
was a movement on circuit
the center has started vanishing.
Thinking was preventing
the completeness of self.
A single flower is answer of nature.
The echo of pulsating memories.
the landscape is full of quotations.
No one reads. Denials
and evasions want more attention.
A new road enters the body
on the edge of a prayer
infinitely small, a handful of vowels
sailing in my mind,
give powerful eyes to faith.
The abstracted meaning
leaves a sweet taste in mouth.
I lay out a mud path for the reader.
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