Satish Verma, 7 september 2022
We are afraid of each
other. You start packing
your majolica wares to move out
swiftly, not to return back.
The floor was dirty.
I walk barefoot on the sharp edges.
To ask the matriarch of pains―
mother earth, how long the
man should suffer?
A woodcutter does not
want to pursue his art. He
throws his axe far away and
starts meditating.
So much violence in our
lives. You slay a traveler
for telling his mind.
You were becoming jealous
of yourself. Start throwing
pepper in the eyes of moon.
Satish Verma, 6 september 2022
You drop
Your body and become. "I"
Howling will rise
from spinal curvature.
Wolf was running in circles.
The carnivore would
never smell the roach.
He wants only the pith.
You snare a parakeet
to share the pain. "I" became
"You" in a trap. Still knowing the self,
was important.
I burn in your prayer.
I am the sea, and I was
the setting sun.
The mother poppy cries
for the family.
How the sky will cover
the orange moon?
Satish Verma, 3 september 2022
Sitting on the border wall
and looking at the moon.
Back-and-forth,
Back-and-forth
China breaks in my dry eyes.
Clay into vitrified
ceramic asks for emigration
to the sea for final immersion,
to meet the creator.
I look for your face
in water, that haunts me
day and night. Would you ever
fill up the colors in the map of my pain?
More poems. How could you
stop them coming? My
every ache turns into a daffodil.
Satish Verma, 2 september 2022
The migratory ache,
one day for you, one day for
me, or lunar storm.
*
The realm takes shape
of impossible metaphysics,
I shall leave your arm.
*
I want to become
what I was in wind, water
and flame. Hold my words.
Satish Verma, 1 september 2022
Your poetry was
a hyphenated struggle
to become a blood stained city,
where I live to find
a Judas kiss.
No remorse, no panacea.
I don't feel the spark.
No belief tarnished in the
autistic approach of life.
You think the increasing
distance will heal the
hurts of cuddling under the moon
in flames?
What the numbers have
given to us. Hands have the
same fingers and thumbprints
were fake.
No mass wailing.
The wolves can laugh too.
Satish Verma, 31 august 2022
Privy to my crypt
O paragon!
I turn around in my ashes.
And take a rebirth.
Inextinguishable
was my desire―
of gravid pain. Life
opens a new book of
unmeanings.
Will not call you by
any other name.
I will set you free today.
Through discreet,
stenosis. I will move
in your veins till eternity.
A pure kill―
I vibrate to
catch the last glimpse of the ocean.
Satish Verma, 26 august 2022
The tiger in the woods
waits.
You play with blue tits
in backyard
hiding the insects.
I have become―
clean, absolutely empty
like a dry well.
Will you fill me with
brine?
You wear saffron
I go green.
Tell me how you dance
on the flames?
Satish Verma, 24 august 2022
Unnaming pro-lifers, I
was ready to imitate
the song of the ruins.
Rising like a phonex
from the spermaceti of flames,
a unisexual rage,
engulfs the smoke of burning homes.
I am painting you
black, O white god, your
devotees were coming in the nude.
Bend down angel; the eclectic
door was small and the beautiful
windows were closed.
No need to wait for
a lost moon. The godchild
had been laid to rest in scythe bed.
Come when you are
going to faint in the arms
of poems. I will stay for eternity.
Satish Verma, 22 august 2022
To understand the life
after the flames die, I will
meet you in conflict zone.
Do not come with a tag.
Marked for a kill
I overturn the dead body of a cobra
to find my image in the glazed
eyes. My willingness was gone.
In a loop, I do not want
to ask any questions. Cannot
you understand, what
I do not want to say?
The empty glass does
not lie. You did not climb
the silken hills to be in a mausoleum.
I will not make my tomb.
Satish Verma, 21 august 2022
Half your young age,
violence comes in choppers,
to avenge on the solemn moon―
for a long night.
It sucks, day and
night. The assassination
draws the blood tears, unwashed,
from the sunny plasma.
The crotch was saboteur.
Pure love had become
an echo of hemlock.
Your lips were blowing blue.
It was terrible trauma
of believing in your religion.
Truth will not rise―
from the dead.
The perfect U-turn.
A dead poem turns into
dew on your eyes.
I am singing again.
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