Gert Strydom, 3 september 2013
Most beautiful girl
I send a message to you
but no postal dove can get it to you
as life passes far too quickly
but the stars, the moon, the sun and the sky are witnesses
to the feelings that we have got for each other
and in seconds it has got to be with you
so that you can read it
and can give a nice lovely answer
to how perfect moments between us are.
My lips upon yours carry it
and in every gasp or breath,
in our heart beats the message is send
and it’s as if this moment can last eternally.
Gert Strydom, 3 september 2013
When the day is only just breaking
and the morning star has only just appeared
then I have got break my first bread
and start on the waiting journey
where the road is already yearning
for me to travel on
as if my footsteps
are already set on to it
but you have got to go along
and accompany me
so that I can daily,
sometimes hourly, tell you about my love
and the sun, the sky and the stars
can sparkle in your eyes.
Satish Verma, 3 september 2013
sulking penetrates in deep veins,
deliverer becomes bald,
jumps to his death in scorching sun,
a starfish inherits the costume of
skull and crossbones-
the cynosure tries to wear a crown
of hawthorn for the freedom of soul,
the bonds of pink capped dahlias, a version
of milky smiles, in a battle of withdrawls,
it was impossible to wrench the crumbling style,
the caterpillars were walking with iron shoes
never to become butterflies, the secret
of eggs will be buried in bitterness of separation,
I was drowning but for my faith for the river
flowing in my back yard.
Satish Verma
Gert Strydom, 2 september 2013
Somewhere I have lost my way in you
as if I am lost in you
and as if I can find no footpath leading to the outside,
I am trapped.
Your glances and the way that you do look
are constantly lingering in my heart
and I am caught in nights
even if you
are right here against me
and everything feels so genuine and true
as if I am meant
to constantly
go through life with you
as if I am to anchor my fingers, my humanity in you.
Gert Strydom, 2 september 2013
What value can I bring to you,
I that have nothing?
What can I find to penetrate as something true,
through the darkness around me?
When I see the heaven
shining in your glance
when you smile tenderly
with stars dancing in your eyes?
What can I find in this darkness
that is around me
that is honest, free of evil,
to show you the world
in the way that I do look at it,
as something genuinely actual that is without dishonesty?
Gert Strydom, 2 september 2013
My darling, with what will I compare you?
You that look to me much prettier
than all the other flowers?
The sun that rises in the mornings
are much redder than any flower
but it’s as if you do radiate my whole world,
as if your rays comes right out of your heart.
Even the evening flower, the rose or gazania
are all insignificant in your presence
as if they are only images of you
and in deference I must admit
that I can find nothing
to bind to your beauty.
Satish Verma, 2 september 2013
Sky overcast, moon was sad.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
Who killed the bird in morning rain?
Ashes were sent to the lake.
A hidden slaughterman did not die.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
The good old name now spells the doom.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
I will call you in pitch-dark night.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
Ascending gods have ruined my life.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
A child was stolen from a mother's bed.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 1 september 2013
A crooked slanting moon
shifts the eye
comes under the chaste tree
and washes the tainted
victory.
Wolves start howling
at the tomb of unknown martyr,
man-eaters recoil
on the sugar island
and talk about destinies,
A mourning crowd walks
repudiating the death;
one day nuances of an ode
will thaw the delta
in disbelief.
The Delphic attitude
of a translucent murder
narrates the wisdom of sadness
which cannot propel the
blood stained light.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 31 august 2013
prisoner of retribution,
he was buried under a salt lake,
elusive, his crotch,
not far from stings of wasps,
the blood spills,
he would wonder how to catch the truth
in black river,
wrapped in imperforated causes,
leaking with curses,
black conjugation of greeds,
with the grief unbuckling the grudges,
uncut wounds, festering under the skin,
the stink starts scything, he starts
folding the denials, in self praise
Satish Verma
Gert Strydom, 30 august 2013
Sometimes the august winds
abates at September
and the bells hang lifeless on the porch
while the silence echoes deep in you and me
but later when we are apart from each other
it’s to similar days that I do long,
to you with bells
that sometimes hangs ringing on the porch.
Poetry
Prose
Photography
Graphics
Video poems
Postcards
Diary
Books
Handmade
