Yes
Untie the knot, patriarch,
the broken kiss was
intimidating.
The backhoe picks up the
devil, it was within you
when you were casting stone
at the fear.
The pagan was covered
with leaves
raw and pailful;
belief in a thought
was not working,
think, man think.
The system,
the birth of rebirth of sorrow
was the tragedy.
The shaper,
I am, still wandering
to find the words.
Satish Verma
* After reading the massacare of 57 people in southern island of Mindanao, Philippines on 23rd Nov 09
poem by Satish Verma
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Untie The Knot
Like a pair of open wings, you bind me,
To a world, I helped you build around me,
Our gilded cage has turned into a prison cell,
Like a dream when it dies becomes an empty shell.
Untie the knot, the hold over me
you got
Untie the knot, the hold over me
you got
Like a slave who's bound in chains, a broken man,
Like a pain no one could ever understand
That's the spark that lights the fire deep inside
As long as you ain't no blue
in my sky,
Untie the knot, the hold over
me you got
Untie the knot, the hold over
me that you got
Set me free from these chains,
The time has come to
rearrange our destiny
Untie the knot, the knot,
Untie the knot, untie, untie, set me free, set me free.
song performed by by Bad Company
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Democracy
With stoicism writ on face
I invite the chisels
for giving birth to a dialogue
between me and the shaper.
Where did the things go wrong
in making the life a simple page
to write a beautiful poem?
Buddha give me a bo-tree or an interlocutor
who invents skin, teeth and eyes
of a failing system. The command
has gone to unknown robots. They were
manipulating the atrophied
limbs of high-tech generation
who do not know the pathless love
when we walk into the moon,
Satish Verma
poem by Satish Verma
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Chronicity
I was keeping a vigil in holy town
on a water cut. Lucy, Lucy did you have
a dirty mind?
This luciferina, will not tell the truth.
Venus and Venus flytrap had a
parallel birth.
And I was facing the dismembered tragedy
of freedom, unblooded in alien land
of unthinkable prayers.
Where the country will carry my pilgrimage
of fears and apprehensions? I thought,
and therefore I disappeared.
In convoy of great ideas, the escort was
a beautiful god, who went to sleep
when assault came.
Satish Verma
poem by Satish Verma
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The Tango
Lips tremble
like sentinels
when legs burn like candles
whole night,
in the pocket a grenade explodes;
a girl gets raped in broad day light
to receive a compensation
under a leaky roof of frozen hunger:
the emptiness in bed
stirs a grain, a deemed birth of catastrophe
one classical tragedy begins
a lighthouse shuts when the ship sinks,
let us go on the bank to find the needles –
to start a dialogue with the moon,
when the tide comes
it will throw some heroes
SATISH VERMA
poem by Satish Verma
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Harvesting
Unsown peaks of fear
under aggression.
I ask you to make a choice
between I and inventing yourself.
I will not abandon the tree:
the animal, renunciation.
The belief and emptiness
will find symbols of foreverness.
Ephemeral colors;
Leaves will fall one day.
Someone was translating
the text of confidence.
One day,
the miracle shakes the cosmos
sap climbs up in darkness.
poem by Satish Verma
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Of Burning
From here to you
a legacy of dust was deepening.
I was reading a lot
between the dots.
You will get another master
I will get another pain.
In the maze of tunnels
a fear of fall snips.
A window becomes a man
unbuttoning the skin.
A body starts scratching
a secret.
The earthly sense warns
of a whiff of a stranger,
at the door in dark.
Like a ripe tear
I will not betray the eye -
in this grey hour.
Satish Verma
poem by Satish Verma
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The world we see that seems so insane is the result of a belief system that is not working. To perceive the world differently, we must be willing to change our belief system, let the past slip away, expand our sense of now, and dissolve the fear in our minds.
quote by William James
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Retrieve The Moon
He did not depart
or reached anywhere,
and did not realize himself.
When words could not find the meaning,
where the man will go?
He thought he did not believe in ‘why’,
the limits of purpose,
dictating the sentence.
Stones were still floating on the sea
and he was standing on a shipwreck.
Thinking and unthinking do not solve the mystery
of human turnings,
the malignancy of artificial intelligence.
A rebirth of enlightment can take over?
The objectivity becomes the subject.
You trot on the grass
to retrieve the moon,
fallen midnight.
poem by Satish Verma
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Stone Catchers
The vertical thought had
jumped on the moon
without any qualms.
Do you think, the dreams
will sell to man
these butterflies.
The ants were waiting
for the death of the lamb
wandering in the neighbour’s field.
O God, how long we will
drink this potion
of the stone catchers?
poem by Satish Verma
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Give Me
They were burned alive.
Most cherished to me,
betraying the functionality of a system,
interstitial asphyxiation took place.
In the garb of a garlanded saint
a gun booms.
The death is rolled from tongue to tongue.
flying limbs get strung on trees.
A faith was in flames,
somebody leapt from the inferno
with folded hands, to melt into a stone
reaching nowhere.
Non-particles were becoming visible
parting the sky.
Nostalgia was possessed with belief of non-believers,
a thought without a thinker.
I am taking liberty, O God
give me something to live!
poem by Satish Verma
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Happenings
A transient smile lights up a moonless
landscape, catalyzing the woes of
labour of hot arguments. A fragile
peace prevails. When the plot thickens
let me count the bodies in the domain
of a wasted god.
Meanwhile I will get an interim sunless
day to find the mystery of believers.
A bridge had ultimately collapsed.
In the panic room, no image filters.
You continue to draw the nudes of goddesses
and distance yourself from the rubble of axes.
Battle-scarred earth throws up
a severed head of a patriarch
who refused to open his eyes.
Satish Verma
poem by Satish Verma
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One Simple Day
For honour killing
twilight adulates an abstract faith.
Tainted?
Now that mouth was shut
and butterfly was pinned,
will you grow the marigolds?
The empty book was not breathing
in a crowd of words.
The bitter meaning had flown away.
The mountain will cry now
in the absence of birds.
Trees were shedding their leaves.
Satish Verma
poem by Satish Verma
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The Retreat
The heritage. Storm of violence
in our chromosomes: perverts the senses.
Spooky fear of burnt houses, broken limbs,
utterly committing as witness of silent
unbuilding, as the future defies the
stunt of withdrawl.
Not for tomorrow, the mother weeps
for the exiled trespassers on dead sea.
Drowned corridor of sinking ship. The explosions,
feathers destroying the direction of winds.
Life picks up the rags of pride, of ‘me’.
Terror waits on the lips of sorrow
like an obsessive maniac, ready to jump.
Some candle, bring me some light.
poem by Satish Verma
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Strange
All night November,
I was searching the vulnerable
lips after loosing you.
Now fingerless hands
were moving the sun-dial
away from light.
The shroud was heavy,
I would not breathe.
Give me a blue moon before dawn.
You cannot engage in
sudden withdrawl. I will
come back for a kiss.
The paper that leaves a wound,
I will not sign for the bread.
My hands had stopped trembling.
Satish Verma
poem by Satish Verma
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Philippines, my Philippines my Native Land
a land scattered magnificently unique harbor its crystal
beauty of shore, up roaring its kaleidoscopic mountainous
ranges, nestle its forested slope of river and stream, the
home of the biggest eagle of the world, where a hundred
of hundreds of instinct colorful bird’s cliffs in the one of the
most beautiful scenery of the island facing the marvelous
ocean of the Pacific blues, even a millions of years can’t
fathom the great work of creation of the Philippines island
a light year waited the star to see this wonderful
masterpiece viewed, as the clouds formation witness every
history; the archipelago’s of Luzon, Visayas and Mindanao
lay the beginning of every wish to seat in the crown of the
orient sea, anchored with 1,107 islands bounded 966
kilometers off the southern coast of Asia and 106 kilometers
below Taiwan and 24 kilometers above Borneo, beneath
the West lies the South China Sea, cluster with Celebes and
Sulu seas and as the West traffic path the Pacific ocean, the
blue ocean glimpse its breeze as it is remember the oozing
power of the universe
Ethno linguistic people, a hundred ten as they represent 16%
of the Philippines 73 millions wants to access, the culturally
rich custom and tradition of thy very diverse people living in the
Asian continent, has captivated the influence of Western
visitors of the land; its enculturation, leads the genuine tradition
of mixing and fixing the masculine of strength, to gain and
remain the old practices of the people, the Hellenistic of the
Philippines reach to its pinnacle to survive until, the age of
cybernetic conquer the space
Philippines my dear, Philippines land of the free, fighter
of the orient sea and the wisdom of the Malayan race, witness
the challenge of this millennium and go where the end
has to begin…Mabuhay! Philippines
poem by Antonio Liao
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It Is Not The Backhoe
what caused all the miseries of those
who were massacred
what is the symbol? it is not the backhoe
it is not even the driver of the backhoe
it is not the armalite
neither the bullets
it is that man who denies that he was there
it is not the impunity
it is those who used impunity, those who used the backhoe
those who used the drivers and the soldiers
it is those who use them all
up there
those who voted for them
finally
those who get the money
those who do not do anything
those who simply watch
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Aubrurn Dawn
I believe, I had not arrived
when you were arbitrating
between naked steel and the truth.
Violence were you. I was watching
the burning pyres in a row. Small hands
were collecting the ashes,
casting glances on the falcons.
Why reincarnation of the reaper again and again
arching the helpless life in terror?
Half-filled cups of tears are spilled
on the marbled smoke.
We made the truce with slaughter
in moonlight pitying the survivors in sun.
The face watching from the window disappears.
An auburn dawn wakes with swollen eyes.
I might find a lost child of the empty womb –
wandering in wilderness of three dimensional sorrow.
O mother! somewhere the roots are waiting!
poem by Satish Verma
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Everyone Is A Hurting Child
There are many remarkable women
That the boundary of historical years
Has prevented me from meeting.
I have often been near tears
Reading the fragments of Sappho,
Or merely gazing at a photograph
Of Emily Dickinson.
When I was a young boy,
I remember reading the Bell Jar
And seeing pictures of Sylvia Plath,
I thought she was so beautiful,
Nearly as beautiful as her amazing words
That brought both fear and sorrow
To my tiny beating teenage heart.
She was dead in 1963,
A year before my birth,
I still hoped there was some way
To love and rescue her!
Now, as the years unwind
Through broken relationships and dark nights,
I’ve come to realize, everyone is a hurting child
And that I’ve made more women sad than sweetly smile.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
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Blameless?
Rebirth of an anxiety,
of an abstract thought,
takes on the impossible of something
left between false and true.
Out of spite some body was betraying the life.
A bodiless lie becomes an imposter
beats the truth and walks away.
You, dumbfounded, discover a malignancy
in the roots of a crying tree.
The soil bacteria were taking over the grains.
The price of the sick crop, the insects,
the greed of the state, where the normal
man will go. The comets and the crabs
are circling the island. Scratch the prophecy,
and every man was turning against himself.
poem by Satish Verma
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We Will Scream Together
Managing his guilts to seduce the nocturnes
he left the gray area, surging
with a wandering death on the
half broken stairs –
before a closed gate was put on the pages,
he was trembling like toothed quaking aspen.
The grief of the scarred face,
in a serious midnight syndrome of
invisible slit throat in a long journey manifested
above the waves. Tree was calling again
for immoralism of flowers, quashing
his life.
The brave violence survives the mutilated
dreams.For once the mirror has won
again the onslaught of fingers.
Satish Verma
poem by Satish Verma
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