Gert Strydom, 19 november 2012
When you came nearer some birds flew up
while the sun glittered on you dark hair
and at that moment I did not say a word
while small devils danced in your eyes
and the whole world around us was vague
while something deep was hidden in your dark eyes
and your presence brought great joy to me.
Gert Strydom, 19 november 2012
In my depths your dark eyes are searching
and you soft perfume goes to my head,
the moment lingers while some women chat,
your hand is in mine somewhat loving
and my other hand holds a crumpled handkerchief,
you smile suddenly somewhat caring
and we are like two characters in a movie scene.
Satish Verma, 19 november 2012
The particulate allegories
were tossed around.
The wheels had refused
to exit.
Unscathed, phrases
were erupting in pulses.
There was flame and ice
Inherent -
in the silicate of
wedded friendship.
Who was afraid of the bed
in heydays
of thorns down the roses?
An endless journey for the
bleeders in labyrinthine life
of yes and no.
Satish Verma
Geetima Baruah Sarma, 18 november 2012
A pleasant day 'twas,
That turned into tears,
Long drive, long journey,
A trip to a distant city.
Left home in the morning,
Dad at the wheel was driving,
Brothers asked me riddles,
I tried to solve the puzzles.
The sun reached overhead,
Sandwiches, sweets we shared,
As destination half-way remained,
A soul-stirring incident happened.
Suddenly the road turned wavy,
The car toppled topsy-turvy,
Rolling once, twice, thrice,
Our tender nerves froze like ice.
I closed my eyes in fear,
O God save us, an earnest prayer,
Then slowly opened my tearful eyes,
But just couldn't believe my eyes!
Our backs were on the ground,
With countless people all around,
Dad, brothers looked at me,
I heaved a long sigh faintly.
Gradually the crowd dispersed,
Our car lied with wheels upward,
The day in my memories remained,
I thanked God for our lives regained.
[Published in the e-magazine 'Fried Eye' on 1 September 2011]
Satish Verma, 18 november 2012
Coming face to face with hemlock
you are not able to rain in the animal
nd start climbing the temperamental tree.
Fathered by innocence of violence
on the name of war, when were you
going to kill? Your own progency?
Slice by slice I am collecting the
wrath of tinderbox, dry winds
and volcano for the sake of peace.
And I hear the night’s arrival
without moon, without stars.
The black needles will stitch the wounds of sun.
Satish Verma
Akasha, 17 november 2012
I know how it feels to go to the point of fear,
When you have to escape
The breaking point,
Fragmentation of mind
I’ve experienced torture
Of the worst kind
Of body and of mind.
Now the voice who tortures me is my own
Your hateful voice stopped a long time ago.
I cannot ever forget your words
I live by them.
Destroying my own world
Piece by piece
I rip myself apart
The voice in my head is never quiet
You put it there
Now it runs riot
Its never quiet.
I live my life by your words
Project disaster
I'm terrified of myself
Of this voice.
The ultimate weapon
Catalyst to my own demise.
I live by your words
I cry
I live by your words
I lost the will to try
I live by your words
I slowly die
I live by your words
I hide
I live by your words
I end my life.
Scott Clark, 17 november 2012
With dread abounding thus assemble the heirs
With all glee came the humbled Jealous.
Mixing their joy with fear they worshiped
The jealous god of whom they loved yet shrouded.
“Come to the Temple” was their cry of despair
“Come to the Temple of our god”
“Come and join his elite” they exclaimed,
“Come lest on you he trod!”
To take away guilt they provided the blame
Commanding to love but only those whom they name.
And what will bring glory and what will bring shame
And how the weak minded hoard there, playing their game.
Wiley words they spring up to the heavens as if god was impressed.
Yet in the lone closet of prayer they detest.
And focus on those who entertain best.
Ah, the Temple,
Poetic
Satish Verma, 17 november 2012
Why did you have to come in this world
to become a medical waste?
There was no urgency to dropp in
and then remain unnoticed,
with no symptoms of life.
Later scooped by a dumper
you are thrown on garbage.
Vertical hope becomes synonym
for a peak spewing lava.
A collage sits in my eyes.
Yet I wipe out tears of anonymity.
The night comes to hold me in black arms.
After the squall
there was the rain and
unrelenting moon.
Satish Verma
Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé, 17 november 2012
Loneliness, I remember you before Polonius’ talk of friendship in old verse,
final ellipsis in short taps and kicks, gusting metaphor extending itself, to think
of death early on, at once counterpoint and bargain end to life, as if to say
long marches were tedium, as Stein’s invitations to garden parties, as want
as insatiable, ripped off book covers, on the quarterdeck or bowsprit, to see
larger ships, castle view beyond Pont Neuf, its elbow of a park, where I read
something of 12 rue de l’Odéon, as concrete a place as Mary’s Avallon, a read
open as Sylvia Beach’s hand, firm shake, first kindness, like the first verse
sciolti da rima, where rhymes recede, caesurae percolating, as the poet sees
rather than hears his words, oblique, their cello and echo, Rodin’s Thinker
in a new tableau, left arm extended like a big wing, fast updraft, as if wanting
flight as escape, denouement, hurtling towards the poplar, rising obelisk to say
this is the way Marlowe wrote of undying dandelions and mirrors, to say
Milton’s Aegean isle was like any other mapped dot, as open an autumn read,
as dismal and removed and blank a slate and stare, singly at Artemis, and want
a new fabric, sky and land, less architrave and Phrygian cadence than verse,
that invention meant movement, a rotation clear of the drydock, of thinking
what virtue to make into a creed, what rendered scruple to surface and see
in the light of day, not to decorate or scaffold, but in burning, to truly see
and intend the words, creation for all its vagaries like a tremulous saying,
its memory, distinct tremor, of Hecht casting Yolek between soldiers, thinking
his lungs would give way, along with his tiny legs, all for one midnight read,
with Spenser asleep, as with the common nightingale, in Augustan verse,
the way Nani tasted cumin, garlic within Ríos’ albondigas, softly wanting
more chiftele in her soup, more celery, carrots and halved onions, to want
so desire is made clear, like agulha rice soaking in flavoured water, and seen
from outside the Oriel window where a boy swivels his orpharion, girl’s verse
rolled into a scroll, yellowed, tied with daisy chain and bow string, as if to say
I made this for weight and resistance and home, so read it the way I read
your every word, fistmele of thought and image, on our long walks, to think
life is but its own long wait, Tennyson searching for the Happy Isles, thinking
maybe a late sun after the rain, in Paris too, its Cubist book carts, same wanton
disregard, or just joie de vivre, like Frost in his seat, same street café, to read
the same tone and rest at line’s end, his road home through apple trees, seeing
Joyce in a make-believe Dublin, as filled with grain and mettle, as if to say
even this libretto, even this madrigal has emptied itself into portamenti, verse
of wanderlust; think Illinois sonata into Hemingway’s Seine, its wave of seers
and their want of love, hope for soft courage, one more ostinato today to say
read me to sleep, beyond this city’s noise and history, and meandering verse.
* This poem placed as runner-up in the Georgetown Review Magazine Contest. The title is an allusion to Hemingway’s poem, “[Blank Verse]”, written in Oak Park, 1916. Published in Trapeze the same year, the poem is made up of missing texts, evidenced only through the presence of punctuation marks and symbols.
Akasha, 16 november 2012
Stop injecting the clouds
The never ending turn of the wheel
The throw of the dice
The recurring earthquake beneath my feet
Stand me on the solid ground
Eyes focused
With hawk like precision
Bounding through life
Like a Roman candle
Set the sky alight
All the colours of the rainbow
Cascade from the sky
Falling embers glow
Just like fireflies
Who painted the sky
so beautiful
Streamed with glitter
It reminds me why
I don't just give in
And end this life.
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