Gert Strydom, 29 january 2013
At the end of night the morning star is still shining bright
and it’s as if the breeze sighs in the trees
while last bit of darkness cannot last,
is hanging over the earth like a shroud
and outside a animal sneaks past
while birds are twittering quiet loud.
With gleaming eyes it peeps through a window
and while I make some coffee it jumps in,
climbs on the sideboard, becomes part of a shadow
and lies stretched out when the day does begin.
Satish Verma, 29 january 2013
In the city of avatars
uncharitable names were cropping up
for wet and wild awards
scripted on lips of unreliable nights.
I wanted to quit archives
of headless soldiers and standing back
wanted to watch a river
of corpses flowing to morgue.
Another blast has killed a dozen
bystanders, who were shopping
for a white chador of peace
from blood-streaked owners.
Become a homosexual to catch up
the wave. Don’t tell, don’t give up.
The birthing of blue moon amidst white stars
will take place shortly
Satish Verma
Gert Strydom, 29 january 2013
At a crossroad just beyond the tunnel
of the Hartebeespoort dam
on a starry night
I notice a young woman next to road
and she is lovely
wears a blue dress
and a white jacket
while she is hitchhiking
and in the roof light of the BMW
she looks somewhat pale, so as if
she does not come into the sun
and her black strings of hair
hangs in waves down her shoulders
and the fragrance of almond blossoms
fills the car as she gets in
and after travelling a small distance
she urgently asks me to pull off the road
and we both do wait
until a car without lights does pass at speed
on the wrong side of the road
and without greeting the girl does disappear,
fades into the naught
and on the seat next to me lays a branch
with some white almond flowers on it.
Femi, 28 january 2013
The earth was violently shaking
And it threw out its hot burden
We went into a state of hysteria
All of us, running helter-skelter.
Entire family of friends and relatives
Is now particles of dust and ashes
Here is the very last of my wishes
To meet them again in that land of bliss.
Femi, 28 january 2013
What's wrong, my dear?
Shake off the blear
Release your fear
And come over here.
No need to stare
I'm going nowhere
Venus is in the air
Let's start the flare.
Lay your worries elsewhere
Hang your sadness over there
Let's wrestle in the palms of care
And let me have my fair share.
Gert Strydom, 28 january 2013
On the veranda the evening did suddenly come,
the twilight did turn to grey
before the stars broke out and filled the heaven
and slowly you fell asleep
while your eyes at times
like butterflies did flutter.
Your breath was hot against my cheek
while I carried you to the bedroom,
and just half-awake
in whispering words
you did further dream.
Gert Strydom, 28 january 2013
Outside the wind did blow
while the first blossoms of spring did appear
and I could swear
that there was a whispering,
a kind of message from you
and the stars glittered like your eyes
as if they like you
were looking at me in love.
Gert Strydom, 28 january 2013
While picking a rose
you are for moments astonished
in wonder over the colour,
the beauty and the soft fragrance
but a small thorn catches you,
leaves a small dot of blood at your wrist
and you cut off some more roses
that you do arrange
and push into a vase in the front room
and while you are caught thought-struck
you look lovely, you do look wonderful.
Satish Verma, 28 january 2013
Listening,
to inner voice,
peeling off the hurts,
hammered memories.
You dropp the answer
and throw back the question.
Something was totally amiss
Absence overtakes the presence.
The shadow was more frightening.
No movement,
A lull before a flash,
then explosion. The limbs will fly.
The ending of thought
or beginning of emptiness?
A green death starts thinking.
Satish Verma
E. de la Garza, 28 january 2013
Every eddy seeps into brokenness, wearing away the seams of morning
Pulling away the wear of night. Dreaming about hordes of twisted days
Penitent for a heart enslaved by desires burning the core, past senescent
Meanderings onto fetid cushions of corruption in backseats and coffin,
Hot ichor coursing in fetishes and groaning idols, searing away eyelids,
Splintering doors and burrowing into the Mother-- greedy children, still
Unable to pull away the labels scratching the mystery of consciousness
Welted with stripes and numbers-- heedless of dawn each one marches
Out of sync from every other toward a stunted horizon of meaningless
Privilege, borne like a tired story heard by patient listeners waiting until
Fresh ears have been bled of the unknowing, their innocence forgotten
Along with their inception before the light scoured the deadness off of
Darkness. Soon trickles provoke a gasp of wakefulness and futile flailing
Against the torrent of reminders, bobbing corpses of lost opportunities.
Poetry
Prose
Photography
Graphics
Video poems
Postcards
Diary
Books
Handmade
