Satish Verma, 27 august 2015
In ascending numbness
you can think clearly at night
and see the half-moon throwing
the silhouettes in dim light.
I suffer in my poems,
foretelling of a sinking flame
insulting the roots.
The rising failure, like visitation
of Icarus shooting from the surface
in pain. An answer without questions
erupts wearing a death-mask. Was
it a speculation of claustrophilia
carrying a prism? The marbled
globes are melting. The danger
was evident,
you can smell it.
Touché.
Gert Strydom, 26 august 2015
I wonder if time does exist outside our world
or does the gear-work of the universe just go on and on
with a own kind of aloofness
that stands loose from all earthly things?
Satish Verma, 26 august 2015
Beyond the self,
is the freedom, unchained dawn,
I am in a crowd of voices.
Lifted by songs,
a bruised truth becomes a rose.
Choice was limited,
I desired silence, middle path in night,
under the lunar ecstasy.
Nowhere to go
I searched for tranquility, peace and light.
Failing hopelessly.
Love migrates back to old memories.
White days are pruned,
I would say the mirror was wrong.
I did not choose my life.
Dream of final
release was extraordinary
grandeur of pink moon
hanging on the trees,
the divine shower.
Life did not alter the genes,
it shifted the flow.
Untitled monument was submerged.
Gert Strydom, 25 august 2015
How can I want to say unheard things
when they lie outside the comprehension of most people?
Although simplicity comes with the naked truth
most people are disillusioned and astounded
when words and sentences flash with an own reality
and some thoughts they do turn over and over
and there are borders between people
and also a kind of darkness
that does disguise holy secret meaning
and people do wonder what I am really saying
when they cannot even grasp or feel the simplicity.
Satish Verma, 25 august 2015
The spirit of hollow ideal
was not the thing,
I remained inconsolable.
Truth demanded endless pursuit.
The helplessness of the beaten days
was unfit for the night of terror.
The false paradigm could not ignite the flame.
The shadows collapsed
and thoughts walked in dark
into the trap.
Perfect splash of impulsive drive,
and movement of matter
created hallucinations.
and the conduct of freezing moments
had no parallel.
Cutting edge was evident.
How truth saved its pain,
of telling a heart
the death of a silent dream.
The vision went blind.
Faithful figures did not write the wrong texts.
Escape from territory was complete
and tracks were obliterated.
Gert Strydom, 24 august 2015
I want to shower you
with all the love I have got
to make certain that you will forget me not
and when the time of old age does come
that you will be the one to whom I come home,
Satish Verma, 24 august 2015
The cult
catches you
like a black hole.
You cannot scale the walls -
slide back
in a crucible.
Like fried insects
crisp and dry.
Witch-hunt starts.
Sky was blue
in eyes,
winds will divide the space.
Do you need a mediator
to read between the lines?
To cross the fence?
Who sucked me dry?
Who leeched me white?
Death holds me green!
Gert Strydom, 23 august 2015
When a person visits the remains of the age-old city Petra
then you see steps that go up into the heights
and it does lie beautiful almost untouched as on a painting
but when you do at that place stand still for just a mere moment
and look at the city that was chopped from stone
you do notice a kind of curse
when you do look at the altars of a forbidding god
and then you do notice that everything in that city
is aimed at the sun,
that those tombs, temples and banquet halls
is in honour of the prince of darkness
and then a person does wonder why humanity does rebel
against a God that with compassionate love
does try to visit each person
and in silence Petra is still witnessing of its awful history,
of people sacrificing their children
to stop the vengeance of an evil god.
Satish Verma, 23 august 2015
Beyond the thoughts,
nothing I mourned,
nameless death was writing its diktat.
The dirty epithets were accepted for collage.
Simply a prayer was needed
for a childless truth.
Rudimentary terms owned
a beautiful diction.
The ultimate pain makes you dumb.
Words lose the vision, you walk in a hollow city.
Now is the time to remember the movement of truth
in a jungle of drums.
Eyes must find out the old path.
Huge crowds collect at the door.
Human connections are at strain.
The questions are never answered flawlessly.
Life should not burn like coal,
but be a tree,
in praise of sky,
wind and earth.
Satish Verma, 22 august 2015
The enlightment drops words, things
I am at peace with the light,
the sand, the river.
The thought of non-being is subtle,
touches a cord.
Hours slip, silicon hardens.
Grains of truth move towards essence.
The thought of emptiness
was very powerful
I sit by myself, swallow a stunned voice.
My hands become white.
Inside of me was a book
holding a past. I hid nothing: my faultline.
It was a strange poverty.
I could not plug it,
a hole in memory.
The voices drip.
A moon-knife slices my room.
Far off a poem drifts, in blue nothingness.
The day was very ill
and night again humming
a tune of rising sun.
Poetry
Prose
Photography
Graphics
Video poems
Postcards
Diary
Books
Handmade
