Satish Verma, 30 stycznia 2020
On the mount
a broad-leaved tree was preparing
for self destruction.
It was too cold
under the sun.
A small Christmas tree
with its needle leaves
waits for the snow,
to draw a self-potrait
in bitter winter.
Snow fall makes it
gold, when rain comes
and my hand knives the moon.
Satish Verma, 29 stycznia 2020
A wine taster was
ready to begin the birth
of night.
A wrinkle displays
the absurd mediocrity
of the charter.
I will not play
in the hands of unknowable
I have my own map.
I am shedding,
my skin, my color. Only
a truncated god will speak for me.
Satish Verma, 27 stycznia 2020
It was not mental,
when you said, ―
in solstice, the body
and the physics of ashes become
one, the duality is lost
and indentation removed.
This fall it was a freak
weather. The tangerines are
covered with accusing ice. The
insomnia has set in the trees.
No body was sleeping
in gray.
Do not forget the prayer.
Retroactivily you can be pardoned.
Satish Verma, 26 stycznia 2020
The ambrosial ending
of the day. I was not sure
of myself. How would the
thumb mould the pen
in internal search
of cavities?
You are not going to live
hundred years. Falling from
the terrace, with a thud,
lying in the pool of blood, till you
find the celibate truth?
Between the dust and dawn
lies the dark. The oesophageal
reflux makes a hole
in each eye. Can you
read in the thick fog
of absent faces?
Satish Verma, 25 stycznia 2020
It was never meant,
to be the triumph
of the death
in the night of the snowfall.
The silent fall of flakes,
covering the stains,
would start a conversation
about the truth of life.
A journey to unknow the evil starts.
Satish Verma, 24 stycznia 2020
Moon in dying
on the icy bridge
as I stand in fog to hear the music
of hung verdict you are
not playing the carnal game
a threadbare dawn
still waits
for the liquid sun,
the moosewood is going to start a striptease
Satish Verma, 23 stycznia 2020
Leaning against the shadow
of self, starting the
monologue. With the fall
I don't want to think of the other.
The beasts.
I give a call, to someone
over there,
who will listen.
A systematic peel, opens
the doorless cage and
sets free the malignancy―
to spread. Now multiple argan
failure, stares at you,
celebrating the anniversary
of the rape.
We are made up of
charcoal, writing on the walls
with dark fingers―
name of the victim.
Satish Verma, 22 stycznia 2020
I take me,
in the whirlpool of bridges
for a nonprofit.
Gathering on rocks
begins. Moonlight reads
quickly, the faces.
I would not give you
my speech, my blindness.
Become mute like the call of
a mountain.
A broken cry will save
the poetry, the river,
the sea.
An old adage brings
the solace.
Somewhere a truth sings.
Satish Verma, 21 stycznia 2020
I catch the sadness
of gray woods. Stone by
stone, gathering the twilight
of fall.
Would you walk with me,
my fallen peaks,
to witness the cold and wet
dark?
A deep silence sings
in my inside. I scoop
out the golden hole of
pain.
The endless pathway,
where, you will find my
immortal verse kissing the
white snow.
Satish Verma, 20 stycznia 2020
Howling wind!
Why were you gathering the―
dead leaves, sweeping
the desolate white road?
A bleak and dismal emptiness
in-between, the
no man's land.
Thousand eyes watch the tiny flurries.
The perfect peace,
descends.
From moon's navel,
falls the golden bloom.
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