Satish Verma, 19 september 2022
You were still thinking.
Thinking beyond thoughts―
the void, the space, the time.
A crush of relics was
piling up. Bloodshed and poverty
at hands, you do not want to talk.
The challenge of being or isness
persists. I go back to the
culture of ancient theology to
understand the divine arithmetic.
The numbers were increasing,
of gods, godmen and crimes.
No sermons. The autumn
will bring down the foliage―
green, red, brown
to yellow.
Satish Verma, 18 september 2022
What was your secret of―
cheating on me?
If you were an abstraction
like a moon in blue night,
how will you write
a poem, without paper and ink.
I was a word catcher,
of your language.
Cannot decipher my pain in―
my nativity.
Always had to live in the
family of longhorns, who
destroyed my sanctity.
You raised a tomb
of sun, after death squad
failed to kill me
and the dark fell.
Just before the dawn
I will meet you in deep lake of eyes.
Satish Verma, 17 september 2022
Being set on fire
my fantasy, my vision.
Something that should not have happened.
Latched to heritage―
the touch of faith brings
sharp harpoons.
Not easy to forget
an elegy I made for unknown.
Will you come to throw the dust?
Cannot punish you
for my sins. A humming bird
crashed this noon on my deck.
A square face peeps from behind the tears.
September had been always
harsh. This month I had decided
to falter.
Satish Verma, 16 september 2022
How far you will go―
with me,
in purple night.
Life will betray.
Death was honest.
Gods cheat.
Once perishable,
and obsolete.
You were chewing the same words.
Can I borrow
the sun from you for a while?
My moon was under a spell,
I will wear your smile.
Desire like toothache
was rising, tearing me apart.
I will drink only the potion
from your hands.
Satish Verma, 15 september 2022
Weird,
your hidden contours,
as true to yourself,
from unseen to seen.
Like a phoenix,
you are supposed to write
your own epitaph,
before jumping on a funeral pyre.
The bald eagles
like simple truth, give
you pain and hurts. I write
a poem for you― then
delete it.
A transitional encounter.
One of us was lying. There
was no eye of the moon.
In search of the silver bullets
to kill the werewolves
of our life.
Satish Verma, 13 september 2022
Sipping the light
from moon, playing with
dandelions, do you remember me?
Milky latex on your
hands, you squeeze the round
seeds, as if to become steady―
for a denial.
I will never know the―
difference between the twins.
Pain and ecstasy of loving the
thorns of rose hips.
Stay there, where you
were comfortable. Standing
on the edge of a steep rock
I am waiting for―
the fall.
Satish Verma, 12 september 2022
Taste of death, while
talking of stealthy footsteps
of bloodied religion.
Like a hedgehog you
curl up, stay quiet to let pass the god.
Not answering was your answer.
That was not a good
analogy if I kiss your hand
to ask a reed dance.
Part of you, walks in step
together― under the moon,
yet you cannot embrace your shadow.
It was full moon night. After
a long time I went out
to meet him. He was wearing a red cap.
Satish Verma, 11 september 2022
Not easy to write off life.
Let me go whole. Was it a striptease
of knowledge? Where are the saints?
My averted pains boil.
We are so small. Wingless. It is time to
pray. Is it a Tiananmen moment?
I got nothing in paying
the debt. But I come at par with the
god. I am going to live in a barn.
Satish Verma, 9 september 2022
Like canary
you flew into my arms.
Capturing the inevitable.
Vowels and consonants had
separated again.
Chasing the melting
glacier, you jump into the sea.
Moguls were trying to
reach out, blow-by-blow.
Moon like half-brother
was envious, of the grace of fall.
A baby fist was striking a blow
on the wall of doped womb.
I am preparing to receive
a gay courier of apocalypse.
Bones buried in ashes
were jutting out.
Death game begins.
Satish Verma, 8 september 2022
Again trying to forget
you, leaving behind the
loose ends in air. The descent
of Aerial begins.
A fairy― amongst the
gorgons. Like a soft poem
walking on burning coals.
I was always warning you.
Sometimes too much knowing
hurts. I want to become
ignorant of hovering dark clouds.
No light was the best option.
The stings, many of
them were closing in. The
cruel honey sticking to all
the toes. I cannot run.
Sowing the rounded seeds,
you don't get the poppies.
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