Gert Strydom, 10 december 2015
I also wanted to see your beautiful fairies
and when you painted one it was a reality to me
but when it got a name
coincidence was a maybe
and that painting was my property
but when you did cut it up and burn it
I was upset, angry and you were impudent and stupid-cocky
and I totally astonished
and no other painting could match that one.
Satish Verma, 10 december 2015
Talking of existence and being,
amidst chaos and misery
my heart aches. In truth,
I become a shred of broken
life. Your integrity at a price,
anything for sale.
How easy we are degenerating,
absent-mindedly we clamour for antidotes.
At least death is not corrupt,
when it eats the age
without a mask.
Seeing without eyes
was a great achievement,
I thought. With no thoughts
I watched the immensity
of truth. My choice always had a wet eye.
When the thinking becomes zero,
I enter from smile to grief
your glance penetrates the wall.
I stumble again in light,
lung filling with verses,
untitled. A moon is going
to be eclipsed very soon.
The fall of a tender doctrine.
Gert Strydom, 9 december 2015
Maybe you do remember a field of maize
that stretches into the distance
where your father did take you by the hand
and at times did draw his fingers through your hair
where the memories do remain
in the thoughts of a child
from the cares of the world free
with hair blown into strings by the wind
but constantly you do live in a world of glass, steal and concrete
and forgotten are the days in the bright summer sun
but in our garden there is a flower
that looks like corn
where it comes out of the earth
and later does dazzle with amaryllis flowers.
Satish Verma, 9 december 2015
It comes rolling out
from the trees, a sliced moon
inside out, undressing. Pain
quietly walks away.
I wash out my battered dreams.
A spiritual rain drenches
the mind. A shaft of blue light
provokes to inherit the sky.
I hear the music, what is not there.
Anonymous creation,
unnamed, unsung, I am waiting
for a human touch.
I know we have killed all
the manners. Men are becoming roads,
disappearing in landslides.
In names we dedicate
our customs of beautiful past.
Note book narrates but
nobody writes on the wall.
Someone scatters the virgin
seeds like unspoken secrets.
A scream becomes a custom,
mining the unknown.
We will gather the wings
of fallen birds and portray
a non-being on the mirror.
Gert Strydom, 8 december 2015
The red arum lilies that I did bring to you
you pressed into the ground at the garden-flat
as if you wanted to forget me
and when we later did marry and live together
you found those flowers again,
did know of a better place for them
and pulled them one after the other out of the ground
and planted them at the palisades in a row.
Satish Verma, 8 december 2015
Death has been my partner,
my best friend.
Every day the fear,
greets me in my bed,
and body starts dying.
I join the play.
The sun clips the clouds,
my lungs fills with aroma.
A golden bird starts singing
on the swaying leaves of palm.
Death smears me with ideas,
larger than pain
before and after it was foggy.
I sleep, half-opened eyes,
watching over with face
to the window.
Life moves from grief to grief.
A tiny seed pulsates
in the crevice of mind,
I love a view like that.
One hundred moons
and a dying sun.
An immence contrast.
Whom shall I choose as a prologue?
I cannot tread the center
of unborn story. The clouds
are always crimson before
the night. Life has
a shadow of death – and a strange
relationship survives.
Gert Strydom, 7 december 2015
Would my words keep filling you with hope
and would you still stay true to me
although time passes in years
while your humanity feels sold out?
Would I still be able to trust you
and hold you tight
when the vortex of life wants to swallow me
and will we still be able to built a life together
when my career is falling apart
and the thunder of destiny does lash out around me
and I have lost every friend
and stand alone in the entire universe?
Or do you live in a world with hues of grey
while I still proof true to you?
Satish Verma, 7 december 2015
Turning me blue
blithe thoughts had come like snakes
wriggling, biting, leaving tooth marks.
I remained holding a dew drop
on the blade of grass.
Essence was untouched.
Night will change its dialect
after a casual death.
I contrive no more assemblage.
No condolence for the razed home.
The flames will leap again from words
to describe the inspiration, as the
sprouts break the earth.
When the logic ends
a kiss melts on the lips of fire.
The rainbow pierces the clouds
At the interface of sky.
Gert Strydom, 6 december 2015
When the front door does close behind you
and the house awaits me without a sound
when some of the furniture is missing
and does leave open space and no children do laugh
then I will try to forget you
and hear the dogs howling heart broken
but in my heart I will know
that something of our love is still hiding there
and I will keep longing
as if seeing you again
just depends on the next moment
but know that the goodbye
does remain the reality between us
without reconciliation between you and me.
Satish Verma, 6 december 2015
Who am I to know
the abstract silence
when you drink the moonlight all alone?
The black toes of a dying woman
haunt me in a stream
of white shrouds. A night
of shattering perceptions,
defaults and ignorance.
Time bomb was ticking.
It had been troubling me
the betrayals in night
mothering a vegetable past.
A single finger defines
the authority of future.
I traced the proud shadows of a god for,
a useless reference of illegible wisdom,
untold misery of green waves mirrored in sky.
For extracting death
from life at every step
I knew the answer.
Dying was not a private thing.
The truth and the path would die.
How you dreaded the closed doors?
The explicit fear of drowning
in beliefs with brothers of
sorrow and feet of clay.
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