Satish Verma, 30 października 2019
I will not elaborate,
what I mean.
You have to dig out the treasure.
The puzzle was not new.
The memorial will be
buried in the sand.
A bloodbath will give―
the final touch to the
ground, less savoury now of inhumanity.
We celebrate the anniversary
to forget the world's
conflicts, man made.
Will you come in the
dark? The snipers are watching
out for the sparks of mercy.
Satish Verma, 29 października 2019
The credibility
of an apple
becoming an icon.
It draws first
blood, when you―
were sleeping.
It still matters:
thinking of milt
but sinking your ferry.
There was no epilogue.
A midsummer night.
I will forget
your name.
Standing in a
queue, you should not
punish yourself
becoming unmatched.
Satish Verma, 28 października 2019
A breast bomb,
makes a sudden lunge-
disfiguring the landscape
till your body was pulled out.
Your choices were very few.
Either you walk straight
or become a leaf of grass.
It will not work. A swift―
withdrawl from the controversial
marriage with ferocity,
as naked as moon. How
about the aspirant refusing
to sit for engraving in gold?
The salt bearers were coming
to act like gods.
Satish Verma, 27 października 2019
To blunt the offence
of beautiful pain
you stopped remaining good.
This was a perverse phenomenon
wearing the straight jacket
you try to become
a beast.
The glowing eyes will
send the message to dispose off
the headless body of
a marbled saint.
Someone has taken off
the eyes. You will need
a transplant of religion.
I am very unhappy.
Satish Verma, 26 października 2019
How difficult it was to
remain a simple truth,
as passive grass
with no frills.
I was ready to talk
heart to heart.
You cannot stand all the ink,
writing, simple verse, furtively.
What was eating you up,
I asked the milkweed.
"On this summer, monarchs
were not coming to breed"
it said.
I felt the unease. Grappled with the
amount of pain, at tiny thoughts.
The scale and brutality
of the times, the throats slit open.
Like a clam you shut up.
Satish Verma, 25 października 2019
After sitting in dark
through the black smiles,
you cannot stand the light.
The bloodshed, inclusive
of measuring the purity of intent,
celebrating the arrival―
and departure, ignoring the passage.
The road smells the spot, and feeds the rags.
These leaps and bounds
land you at the dead end. No trees
no leaves. Where you will go now?
How you hate yourself, now
beheading the roses. The cloud forest, where
you will find a new carnivore.
Satish Verma, 24 października 2019
In the humid night
there was a circularity
of rhythmic chirping of the crickets.
Suddenly there is a lull.
Everything stops in the tracks.
Then a chorus rises―
building up to crescendo.
You become easily distracted
being sole surviving species―
not defending you flaws.
Then your mind shrinks.
You would like to hide
the emptiness, but
the psyche impales you.
The baby moon starts
transliterating the great―
silence on your lips.
Satish Verma, 23 października 2019
Pushed aside and
sequestered, like a
frieze, you hang on a wall.
From grape to grapefruit
the journey was tedious.
When you start reading the mind,
the crisis deepens.
Cannabis? Like psychoactive;
the anger rises against hyper―
male identity. A gender
based disorder. It kills
scores of cuckoos. Who will
give now, a mating call?
A prison-break. You set
free all the songs and
release the inmates of conscience.
Satish Verma, 22 października 2019
It is over. The curtain falls.
I have come to settle―
my account with the waning moon.
Will call you later,
when the dawn breaks
and sun spells out the light.
The water has receded―
on the beach, leaving some
empty shells, hollowed fish
and upturned paper boats.
I move around the small pool,
left by the angry sea.
You will start commenting
on my poems. I wanted to read
your handwritten notes to know―
how your mind works.
I will not meet you again.
Satish Verma, 21 października 2019
There was a scream,
a howl. Something, somebody
had scuttled the platter.
You stop and frisk yourself,
and as if the red ants had
started coming out from your
eyes.
It wets the script. An apparition.
A dove flutters in the chest. A
fantasy, like you leave your body.
A window opens, shuts. Opens, shuts.
One vestigial flicker of the miasma
unsettles, the tree culture,
The undersides of the tongue becomes blue.
Do you know, you read
from the back side of the brain?
Have you heard the hindsight?
Yes, sometimes, means no.
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