Ailill, 31 december 2013
Dreamed of a mourning dove's
call, 'who are you? Who? Who?'
Wind echoes through the trees.
mvvenkataraman, 30 december 2013
Always hope that you can do
Never hesitate, but make a try
Real power is had by you
You can achieve, don't cry
When is positive your view
One by one, all hurdles die
Fear is a serious ailment
Dear, it stops development
Tear comes via that experiment
Fear must be totally removed
Mind must be with guts filled
By cheer, our joy gets improved
Pessimism is by faith killed
Lives of great souls have proved
That one must be strong-willed.
mvvenkataraman
Gert Strydom, 30 december 2013
Daily we live in the marketplace of the world
where almost everything is for sale
and there we do find
things for our daily well-being,
the food we eat,
the clothes we wear,
the houses wherein we do dwell,
the jobs that we do labour at,
places where we do keep fit,
people that help to keep us healthy,
education and our knowledge of things
that does exist,
religion and the way that we do understand God
and in the cinemas and on television
a kind of tinned-in quick-fix comfort
for the soul.
Even the bodies of people,
weapons of war,
war itself
and politics
and at times even the lives
of men as soldiers
are traded
in the world where we do live
but I do recall a time
where the omnipotent God
did dwell among men as a man,
did lash out with His tongue and a whip
and did trade His very life
for the lives of everyone
to pay the wages of sin.
Satish Verma, 30 december 2013
Like an alligator tending her eggs
on tongue, death moves the life
on strength of charisma, overreaches
for requiem and then distributes the raw
moments in subterfuge, we play the game
to cheat each other without shame.
A red carpet is laid on white floor
of the wax house, making gold from
sun rays. The moon bleeds internally.
The rivals come face to face walking
on the ashes of ancestors, ungrieving for the
loss of sperms. Fertility will come in petri dishes
without the name of father. I am here,
obody, ready to unanswer any question.
My stains are becoming darker every day.
Satish Verma
Amin Rastar, 29 december 2013
Fill my empty cup with thine purple lip,
The taste likes me, it sets in me fire.
Let me now, let me now thy garments rip,
Beneath, thou hast more for me t'aspire!
Attack me! With spears in thine eie,
Attack me, with thy "Force" of desire;
Lead this "War" and retreat not! Be not shy!
Wound and kill and put this bed on fire!
What will become of a child early-weaned?
Wean him not, it's too early, he sure dies;
Feed me still of those well-shaped soft pies:
Those mountains which were with milk washt and cleaned;
Prithee, sink me in vastness of thine arms,
The taste likes me, if from thee come those harms..
Amin Rastar, 29 december 2013
Though we parted, and chose our way
Though will not come the joining day
I still can't bear thy tears,
I will not forget thy love, nay!
Amin Rastar, 29 december 2013
Shall I compare her to Rose and Lilly?
Nay, She is far purer and more fair,
Ye who call this intricate love silly
Know I about ye envious not care.
She is fairer then sun, whiter then moon,
Dark as night be those eies that this deny!
What will remain of me but ashes soon
As when I look into her blazing eye..
His indifference is thy woe, mine is thine,
But this will inhibit my heart no more;
I know neither no "either", nor no "or",
Thou hast to be at last and at best mine!
Amin Rastar, 29 december 2013
"Prithee it fits that thou stay".
But she says "It is my due way;
I shall go, I am to find love,
The 'who' that my heart he may move".
Is it due that thou me depart?
That thou break this lover's heart?
To tear thy lover's heart with darts?
She only smiles and then parts...
Amin Rastar, 29 december 2013
If I cannot utter that "I love thee",
Thinkst not 'tis for that my heart is cold,
What would the use of a love in words be,
When Love that's true cannot e'er be told?
Love that I cannot to her e'er say,
Love that my sorrowful heart doth host now,
Such a Love that I will ne'er betray,
Such a Love that she cannot e'er know.
Love that I cannot say and can't be heard,
Love, composed of "Thou dost not" but "I do";
Love that is more than merely a word,
Hard as rock, and this since ever I knew.
When looking at me laughing, others say:
"Can a man who is deep in love be so?"
To these I shall respond: I day by day,
Read "Love" as the story of my woe!
'Tis not easy for a man to smile,
While he knowth that his woe hath no ending,
When day by by he, himself doth beguile,
And this guile inwardly his heart rending.
How well said Byron in his song for love,
His sweet words what I list to say doth prove:
"My wounded soul, my bleeding breast,
Can patience preach thee into rest?
Alas! too late, I dearly know
That joy is harbinger of woe."
Satish Verma, 29 december 2013
Wrapped in explosives he was unready
for a bruise. A dive at a mound of torso
to unearth the archives of areolae.
Apnoea will come for arbitration
in clenched insinuation:
pull nipples to open the window of mind.
On the forehead a smear of vermilion
brings glare like a third eye.
Real fish in the green pond of envy.
Desiccation of spine excites the rhetoric
blurs the sea of swans. A lone tree
explodes into a spring, not just leaves of old flame.
Silver moon recognizes the battered hill.
A white wolf was cruising on the road
for appleblossoms.
Satish Verma
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