plasma Screen
It was an absent answer. Terror
was one abyss in unhindered
waking of eternity in being. The passions rise
between downpour of black rings on the terraces,
was nonstop a parade of excuses and pretentions, no
body was taking the responsibility of the war lost, and
we nod in unison. Hunger drives the wedge. This
is a city of moonless sky where the headcount
never stops.
Warriors sit down under the volts opening red
eyes, the trade gets a bad name, rubbers
win the coin. Yellow metal gleams around arms,
a wound becomes a talisman, you start collecting
the awards from severed hands.
Satish Verma
*On watching a massive blaze of gas depot at Jaipur (India) unebbed for 3 days.
poem by Satish Verma
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Related quotes
Jaipur – The City Of Magnificence And Past Glory
Jaipur – the city of magnificence and past glory
Jaipur – the city of gorgeous palaces, each of which has an interesting story.
Jaipur – the city of royals, and an epitome of class and aristocracy
Jaipur – the city for History enthusiasts, and also for those who are Polo crazy.
Jaipur – the marvelous capital of India’s desert kingdom of Rajasthan
A perfectly modern city that retains its touch with the past with aplomb and élan.
Sanity
Being alone,
writing poetry
to meet the infinity
on paper.
The words will not come
to me. I am trying
to catch the moment.
One by one-
I light the candles,
watching you slithering.
A transient truce
with my hands.
Collecting the broken
light years. Enter
into the eyes. O river. The hunger
to trap you is increasing.
poem by Satish Verma
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Splitting
Touched by moon, I pick up
a black rose,
to return the debt.
Very high
the fire, returns in my eyes.
I start burning in your arms.
The parting,
crawls in the bed
I cannot speak nor cry.
Why it had to happen
after sunset,
when the leafless tree was waiting?
Satish Verma
poem by Satish Verma
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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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Recapitulation
Let us talk today
of crazed times,
so that the trade of
ethical falls runs.
When dawn breaks
on the stunned silence
of moon, I start unfolding
the black sun.
Ah, a poetry wound
aches my world, knee deep
in blue veins, to find
the lost river of tears.
Give me a song, a word
a phrase, to grow old.
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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Travelling To Moon
Blood and bones
become qualification
watching and being watched.
Eyes in introspection
incubation
waking the black dawn.
Anguished
blank stares, after dispossession
collapse on the hills in confusion –
umpteen times. Ontogeny
repeats filial love
after parental loss.
Monofloral we stay,
you cannot do anything
except to collect the honey.
Shot in the face, my name.
The next tragedy
begins at home!
Break the cutlery
there is no water,
frogs will not jump today.
SATISH VERMA
poem by Satish Verma
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Homecoming
The yellow beaked vultures were waiting.
A cloth bag contains the bleached
remains; his father.
Impeccable gift unmasked.
After the inferno, hydrants went dry. The guilt survives
the dispossession, pondering over the black dew
now covering the pink roses.
The illusion persists. Master is coming home.
jug was empty. A miracle will start
the kitchen. An infant cries in the backyard.
The windows were sleeping. Let the sun
stand outside. A yellow moon at night will
open the door.
Satish Verma
poem by Satish Verma
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Burnt Out Words
Tryst with nano was like burning in hell.
Headless body of truth,
turning into invisible particles
flaunts an absent God.
The mist envelops a rag picker –
sleeping on the payment.
Hunger fresh grown will be served,
when sun rises.
Indelible ink an yellow pages
bearing the burden of unborn grief
inherits this globe, the ashes
of burnt out words.
poem by Satish Verma
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Return Of The Poet
It is autumn
grapes are bleeding.
The orange color
seeps into your eyes.
Will you shut the green lids?
You,
start reading backward.
Atavistic instinct
to dig up the severed hands?
Your house,
died
in the flower bed.
Seeds were crying.
poem by Satish Verma
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Returning
You come home, sitting on my shoulders.
I bid you farewell at door. Death tiptoes in dark
before looking at the bare hands. A new concept of
ending comes out from crozier. Uncoiling has stopped.
In loincloth a truth unravels the mystery of cells. A
warm transparency. You walk around objectively,
returning the gifts to birds, bees and aspens. It
was time not to put up excuses. The wings are tired
and wind was falling.
Let the dance of nothingness start!
Satish Verma
poem by Satish Verma
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Artful Pincers
A terror of alikeness looms
like stricken birds, incenerated in split seconds.
You smell the burning flesh in an air blitz.
Nearing endgame a conceptual hate
is jettisioned in sky. You start collecting
the fragments of life.
Words start jumping. You refuse to accept
more than the want. And yet a finite
listening was absent. And the secret kennel
in the dead child fails to sprout. The toys
and dreams lie unattended on birthday
of the nation. A monogamous judge ascends
to heaven.
Any durable peace on the way? Unruffled
you are still in freezing water. The boat
is half-submerged and tears are burning
the deck. No wrinkles. The fish nod
their fins for the final plunge.
poem by Satish Verma
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Return On D-day
Why deceptive retrieve
in a wheelchair
for the fallen?
Was it not a sheer
wrong message
of a space anxiety?
The aboriginal name
was dead in a traffic. What
a choice to breathe its
last in a city of buried
monuments? Vision of inner
city affiliates,
taking questions for
the first time. You
become only a body after the death.
A white rose waits
for a blue sea. The black moon
hovers around the old man.
poem by Satish Verma
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Naïve Innocence
O pink horse, O timeless sun,
run on my body, run. Black magic
had pierced the needles into my heart.
Lying on nails to wrest a superearth
from amnesty, I start bandaging the bruised
ethos of my native conscience –
on the spike of a violence, refusing
to give up my home to fire, tending
the voiceless flora of a virgin rock.
The questions stand up, against
the black walls of silence. The blue birds
are going to fly in white desert.
Satish Verma
poem by Satish Verma
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Weeping God
When the very soul dies,
death does not need a label,
living with death becomes a ritual.
Craving for the kiss of time,
under the shadows of moments,
you are not you in the expanse of false pretentions.
I will be watching myself.
Questioning the validity of dying without the sun
night will not forget.
It pours the suffering, anguish and hurt.
The duality of black and white,
drives you to despair.
Poem was alive,
when it was not written.
Core of your being,
trembles on the name of limbs atrophied.
You were too close to the destiny,
which was always on the wrong side.
For the sake of innocence,
your truth remained crippled,
your bronze god weeping.
poem by Satish Verma
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Abandoned
the punctuations
start crumbling
a soldier
falls to coyotes
this was their space
a moon was sitting
in waiting room
inhabiting war at
a defining moment
it was a fatal attack from
the guards impersonal
ripping through the passions
to hold or not to hold
the fruit – end was near
Satish Verma
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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Deadpan
The night calling. I start
the search for survivors.
A loquacious day shuns
the clouds.
A black hole. I move in circles.
A star was going down in an
abyss. To think, was a taboo subject.
A naivete' towards perceiving.
You can keep your eyes open
and not discern any frame.
A hand will not find another
hand in neighbourhood.
There was less sexism without
the chair. The paradox was no -
body wanted to discuss the
markers of malignancy.
The house was up for the sale
deleted from the manuscript.
poem by Satish Verma
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The Forked Tongues
The family evolved from
virtue to virtual image.
I wanted to exhume the body of truth.
Half-way we went to the moon,
half-naked was the bluff.
No choosing, no judging helped.
I saw the fear in eyes.
You found the inside was out
behind the words overnight.
The fountains were dressed up in neon,
something new was in air,
the forked tongues were hissing an arrival.
Cupped mirrors were reflecting the lure
of the city. Thirst was absent.
It was hunger in the heart.
You face had a bleak shade
Darkness? I hide my scent.
Snakes were visible in the bush!
poem by Satish Verma
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Vibrations
The battlelines were drawn.
While drinking the sun
I set myself ablaze
A hooded dilemma
of his kindness
starts boiling in chaotic dissonance.
A backlash stops a self-search.
Who am I and why do I belong
in the spinning of descent.
There were flames in every home
and biting dust of the moon.
Where the man will go.
The birth’s print and death’s answer
had the bidding game.
I was standing in the middle.
Satish Verma
poem by Satish Verma
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