Satish Verma, 12 march 2015
Did not make anything
out of himself. He was afraid
from depth to depth.
Muzzled lock had hidden the keys.
Shadow of door loomed large
on silence, now touching
nothingness.
Lips move without sound.
Eyes become dumb. Hands were misguided,
cannot hold the pen.
Mobs with fire bombs
waiting to ambush at night
ignite the cart. Nowhere to go now.
Golden leaves tout the era.
I am emptied of peace,
my vessel devoid of feverfew.
Gert Strydom, 11 march 2015
Eagerly I want to share my thoughts with you
of things far past just imagining,
of things that lay so deep in my heart
that I do not always know how to express them
and I want to tell you about the depth of my love for you,
and tell you of that which lays inside me
but it’s as if time passes far too quickly,
before I can share the essence with you
but do know this:
that our love which is so intense in my heart
brings holiness, nobleness and purity to every thought
and does go much deeper than mere meaning
and that I do struggle to find the words
for the unsaid things that our love does confess.
Satish Verma, 11 march 2015
My lips are black,
I am drunk
on the hemlock, proferred by you –
my life. I am still in love with pain.
What not, the trial
tried to break my resistance.
I will walk on my hands
paraplegic legs lifting my eyes.
Why did you want me to fake a death.
She was my lover, my shadow
always walking along with me.
So, you did not authored the article
on my demise in ravines
watching the son eclipse?
Extinct, headless, corpse of a
thin warrior, obliquely refers
to the pygmy moonrise.
Grey plaques in white mind
like snakeroots, glittering
in dark gulleys of time!
Satish Verma, 10 march 2015
It should not have happened
this way, or that way,
rendering breathing difficult
in the intense smoke of misunderstanding.
The granite wall between the doors!
You grope through a thicket of words
crossing the centuries of hate.
Sun, no sun settles for the hope
of a slain blankness, to properly
heave, a sigh after the childbirth of truth.
All the dead white bones, jutting out
from the ancestral incompleteness of
forgetfulness of man to accept gracefully
the suffering of neighbourhood. The very
feel of sharing a god.
You are what you are not
I am not, what I am.
Salvatore Ala, 9 march 2015
Tigris or Babylon or well-watered Eden,
Flowers tumbled over balustrades,
Leopard lilies sprang to the pads of their feet,
Hibiscus blossoms flared in damp sea air,
Miniature lemons orbit a space
In perception for the beauty of the singular
And the shadows of a brightening dusk.
From this terrace you can study the stars,
You can contemplate a meaning
In the shifting mirror of night’s tides.
The conjunction of the constellations
Culminates in a double star of vision:
Everything that changes stays the same—
The flower of the heavens has but one eye.
Gert Strydom, 9 march 2015
I see shadows everywhere,
one fallow me
but the rest
just image off the things in my life.
Still love fills me
and is now more than just
another thing leaving its mark
since it’s part of every word and deed.
Satish Verma, 9 march 2015
Watching from pin hole
lamps of baked clay.
Every thorn was in my flesh.
I was losing my voice
in crowd of maniacs.
Dragonflies climbing on worn leather.
Through cracked sunroof –
skull splinters into million heirlooms.
Fever climbs the feudals.
Why were you impatient with me?
I was narrating a shocking tale.
Frogs had acquired the land.
Plot was thickening every day.
Take me if you can, in the heavy shower
of meteorites in dark moonlight.
Satish Verma, 8 march 2015
Let me go first in the cave
to see the hollow-eyed, bird-face,
my ancestor, relic of reclusive
committment, eaten by hierarchical
grass, inch by inch.
Calories burn to free the bones
from the green pond, beached, skinned
and fished alive for a weird ritual
offering rice, flowers, tamarind and wheat.
Bald, hungry eyes were looking at approvingly.
I was searching unself papyrus,
to print the tale of agonising
travel of a small colossus, from
night to night to track a dragging sun
in mud and water.
O, groaning seed, you are the paradox.
Neither tree, nor root, only a promise
to destroy the fear. I will wait till the next
sun-eclipse, when you turn
outside into inside!
Satish Verma, 7 march 2015
It was past endurance.
Flattened rage went into shaking palsy.
He moved into sculptured dark
like false reason,
to defend the ankle-bone,
for sequential pain.
Every one seemed a fallible saint
wet eyed, sitting on extinct volcano,
between tickling bombs of flesh.
He imagined –
that he was evaporating,
from the eyebaths, steadily
for a spiral journey.
By way of fear,
he wanted to break monotony –
sitting upright in a lotus position
to reverse the clock, of hunger, of extreme failures -
choking on words, mixing
continents of hate.
Gert Strydom, 6 march 2015
Wild aloes, some proteas grow along the forest path,
some mushrooms are sprouting near to it
and doves sit cooing in trees as if in love,
the sky is hued with a deep blue
and a light wind rustles through the trees
like a new visitor coming to watch the picture perfect view
with the ocean lying far below, clearer than jade
your hand in mine, with sweet promises made.
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