Satish Verma, 1 june 2013
From the blank book can I
lift some questions for the lofty hopes
when I lost myself near the home?
The fear was darting inside the white sores.
Keys were lost for the answers
and truth fell castrated.
The magic was fading from the cusps
of designs, unconceived thoughts were
seeking proportionate punishments.
Congeniality drifted from the
architect of hominid species. A nameless
storm plays havoc. Humble peaks bow
before the unmeasured meteors. You
can shut the orphanage now; no
bombs are bound for the wet crypts.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 31 may 2013
It was a domestic pain,
when we came apart in boots and helmets.
Taking the shine away, moon gave up the fight
on lake, against the clouds, a sniper
intuitingly, started a homicidal blasting
to start the rains.
An ode to sepia needs scrutiny;
cuttlefish had a second thought. No faith
permits the slaughter of septa. Walls were squinting
to see better. A square root will find the squall,
between the breaths. Beyond arousal of oceans
a shaken, surreal, blast from a craven rifle.
Satish Verma
J. Pennington, 30 may 2013
I am once again caught weeping for unresolved quarrels with long ago loved lovers
I shudder to think, that in a blink, I might so easily be swept into the cyclonic winds of tearfulness.
I fear it’s just, a simple test of mental stimulation, inside my ocular precipitation.
My heart pushes images of unmourned passings and opens the undeleted files of agonized adorations across my mind’s monitor.
I honor her with droplets of salt ridden eye rain, I acknowledge the pain, by the moist tracks burning into my face.
They leave a trace of the hurt that I refused to feel and the torment caused by the heel of her unrepentant boot.
I know that it’s the root of this unforgiveness tree, I find growing in me, the tears that I cry inside provide fuel for it to grow.
I know that if I weep aloud, the tree withers and is disallowed to grow but I capture the pain in memory,
To avoid its repetition and etch its essence into my presence and present, refusing to keep it bound and bundled with the other ancient agonies in the past.
As I peruse the painful pack of impairment herded into my heart, crying is inevitable, an easily brought afterthought.
An outward representation of an inward painful sensation, that I wish to bring an end to, or pretend to not feel.
I repeal my innocent plea, realizing it was me, that opened the gate and left it agape like the chasm between heaven and earth.
For what it’s really worth, I need to spill tears because my real fear is there will be no space to placate the throbbing, and I'll be left to replace ache with sobbing and once again, I'll be caught weeping.
Geetima Baruah Sarma, 30 may 2013
The cold wind knocks,
And the dead leaves fall,
One after another,
And the tree stands revealed.
A song of sadness flows,
Through the solitary branches,
Feelings of loss and destitute,
Alas! No leaves to swing and smile.
The season has arrived again,
And solitude reigns all around,
I feel sad,
When I look at the fallen leaves.
The wide green leaves that,
Once adorned the huge tree,
Are now brown, scattered, lifeless,
As they lie beneath the bare tree.
[Published in ‘Buzzle’ on 30 May 2013]
Gert Strydom, 30 may 2013
Too many times back to war I have went,
have seeToo many times back to war I have went,
have seen civilian men become soldiers
to face destruction, injury and death,
where they had lost all hope, to the death
did not anymore care when out they went
had become machines called soldiers
had hated, feared duty as soldiers
to be dealing out much havoc and death
had felt if all life away from them went,
but out they went as soldiers to face death.n civilian men become soldiers
to face destruction, injury and death,
where they had lost all hope, to the death
did not anymore care when out they went
had become machines called soldiers
had hated, feared duty as soldiers
to be dealing out much havoc and death
had felt if all life away from them went,
but out they went as soldiers to face death.
Gert Strydom, 30 may 2013
(after Roy Campbell)
They praise there own elitist workmanship
then write a poem over and over again
until only their tinkered out words remain,
they praise there own elitist workmanship
then write a poem over and over again,
struggle along for more than sixty times,
abandon all love and poetics that rhymes,
then write a poem over and over again
struggle along for more than sixty times,
they despise a poet whose words do flow
while they struggle to complete every row,
struggle along for more than sixty times
they despise a poet whose words do flow
says that he types faster than they can write
does not even know the very day from night;
they despise a poet whose words do flow
says that he types faster than they can write
while the very words of other poets they copy,
are sheltered, from the rest of humanity,
says that he types faster than they can write
while the very words of other poets they copy,
they are fishes swimming in the tiniest pond,
are scared of the great world lying beyond;
while the very words of other poets they copy
they are fishes swimming in the tiniest pond,
their work is without any kind of profundity
and sometimes on them I have a kind of pity,
they are fishes swimming in the tiniest pond,
their work is without any kind of profundity,
they praise there own elitist workmanship,
they want others them as gods to worship,
their work is without any kind of profundity,
they praise there own elitist workmanship
then write a poem over and over again
until only their tinkered out words remain,
they praise there own elitist workmanship.
[References: “On some South African novelists” and “On the same” by Roy Campbell.]
Gert Strydom, 30 may 2013
I saw the moon reflected on the lake
many stars sparkled in the dark night sky
while far off fishing boats were passing by,
I saw it dancing on the ebbing wake
somewhat like a huge white shining cake
while a bright manmade light up high did fly,
I saw the moon
while we sat on bench from which paint did flake,
while stars glittered in your sparkling eye,
to find the right words, I did not have to try
as we kissed we both felt the earth shake;
I saw the moon…
Satish Verma, 30 may 2013
The Asperger syndrome: you will not speak,
you will not tell me about
fertilizer bomb. In a farmhouse blackwater
becomes a death chamber.
A toddler falls in a borewell,
you can still measure hypothermia,
the tilting of meteor saves the landfall,
stalking through the extended body.
What was the right thing in a chorus of protests
to underline the resilience of beaks and claws?
It bugs the space and diameters of arguments
about the sweep of corruption in integrities.
It is very difficult to stay being whole amidst
the broken shards of bones. The dreams were
set in stones and water was rising.
Satish Verma
Naykd Poet, 29 may 2013
Locked away in solitary confinement
Mental bars of personal consignment
Emotional pain brought to refinement
Product of a personality mis-alignment
Shunned by prejudicial societal bent
Defined as mental-illness’ invent
Wormed into darkness to prevent
Wrath of humanity’s discontent
Solace is given to comfort’s gain
Darkness the illuminating flame
Hidden by a life-time refrain
Behind bars a choice to remain
Naykd Poet, 29 may 2013
Change in location, major change in life
The outcome of agumented, mental strife
A change brewed with passage of time
And ceaseless conflict with a conflicted mind
Proponents to living in the Now
Don’t often express the guide to How
Leaving to chance just to knowWhen
A life-changing move is easiest to defend
Reflecting upon life’s traveled course
Can be a misleading, information source
The answer may lie with nature of the Snake
Shedding old skin: simply a living trait
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