Gert Strydom, 29 july 2014
Around us the whispering rain falls
during a Cape winter
with the wind blowing gusty
shaking the windows in their frames.
Sometimes the sieving rain glitter
like pearls in your hair
in the bright candle light
and the heat of the fireplace
is like love that spreads out wider
as if you are throwing out a fragrant blanket
that is covering us
and everything else in the room
and the smell of the rain
penetrates everywhere
and do witness of a new beginning
with us both in it.
Gert Strydom, 29 july 2014
In the garden a honeybee spins urgently
around and around a flower,
white butterflies glide on the wind
when they come still nearer
but I am caught by your loveliness
are at times speechless
that someone so wonderful does love me
while you are busy planting small seedlings.
Satish Verma, 29 july 2014
In the valley of blasts
a row of jacarandas
tall, sweet smelling,
shed blue petals endlessly.
A colossus spread
on wounds of earth.
A small girl with pellets
in her belly
was searching her wounded mother.
Essense of sorrow
helps to find myself,
in defense of freedom.
In the city of death
an unbeliever like me
wants to find peace with God.
Satish Verma
Gert Strydom, 28 july 2014
Eagerly I want to go with you that I do love
to the South coast, to Margate, to Uvongo
but before we can start our journey
there is floodwater that sweeps the beach away,
days continue with the sun in its orbit
and nothing still stays untouched
and so it’s with my own conceit
where my body is already growing old
but love remains immortal in you
and to the march of time it has got no concern.
Gert Strydom, 28 july 2014
Eagerly I want to go with you that I do love
to the South coast, to Margate, to Uvongo
but before we can start our journey
there is floodwater that sweeps the beach away,
days continue with the sun in its orbit
and nothing still stays untouched
and so it’s with my own conceit
where my body is already growing old
but love remains immortal in you
and to the march of time it has got no concern.
Gert Strydom, 28 july 2014
(after Lord George Gordon Byron)
Love is far more than just lust or desire
it’s something that dwells in every thought,
burning with a kind of immortal fire
something that we do want and sometimes sought,
it’s even in solitude and devotion,
a kind of thing that truly makes us whole,
going much deeper than just emotion
bringing selfless glory to the human soul,
at times a never ending kind of goal.
Satish Verma, 28 july 2014
Burnt-out myths in the old city
are stitching the lips of people.
Pink walls smell like blood.
Priest is dumb, hoisting the headless
deity on throne. Marigolds
are soaked in flowing tears.
Innocent wheels riding against blast,
stand still to measure
the half-life of seizures.
Cult was spreading in place,
fingers and cells Dynasties inheriting
the bleached fathers.
The ages rot under the sculptors.
We walk on water, wordless, sightless
for the thin hope.
Satish Verma
mvvenkataraman, 27 july 2014
Work must be deeply loved
To do which, feel ever proud
For the money that you earn
Your body calories must burn
If work is highly tedious
It makes you studious
Work if you truly like
Your peace will hike
Do work more and more
Never call it damn bore
When you properly involve
All problems, it will solve
Work is a healthy outlet
From which, joy you get
If doing work you relish
It will destroy anguish
Work is a curing medicine
It brings robust health in
O- Work- You give relief
Solving monetary grief.
mvvenkataraman
Satish Verma, 27 july 2014
It is,
what do you not say
I read the dusk
on your eyes.
Unspoken words
hammering!
A timer,
quartz clock,
ball bearings, pellets
croissant of terror.
Suspicious of the lady
riding on crest
responsible,
for the happenings.
Fear,
hair raising,
turns back the centuries.
We lose,
ourselves!
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 26 july 2014
Born out of hate
condemned to fear from each other,
the race lives, the race dies.
The loser finds a quotient
to dig a mass grave
for innocent paeans.
My stains were bigger than you.
In no man’s land, a corpse
is lying unattended.
A terrorist strikes in the house
of god, who will not react
in the face of a massacre.
Death will not atone
the grief of a child,
whose mother did not come back.
Satish Verma
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