Falling
Something impossible would happen.
Truth was too much to operate,
life was easy with fakes.
Neither mortal pain, nor needles
would mend the wounds. The chasm
was deepening. And I stitch the orange lights
with the kisses of green tears.
For the punishment of disjointed commitments,
I dream of the killings
standing on the corpse of faith. The
obscene slogans raise the dust,
of hate crimes. The color of the race
was spreading, on bellies, on stones.
The night will bring spiralling comets
in the sky, burning and emptying
the pure.
SATISH VERMA
poem by Satish Verma
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Unstitching
Do not take a vow of silence.
Death will find its home.
The circus has taken over
the needles.Who will stitch
the wounds of earth. A man
walks into sunset carrying
a bowl of tears. The sit-in
was going to resist a poem
of life. Would you unrobe
your identity in public one day?
Always I am punctuated at night
by a yellow moon standing
in my window. A nude goddess
is going to mourn the death of a thought.
poem by Satish Verma
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Face Of Truth
It hurts, the abstract isolation of life
emptying of self.
The infection
of water in the sun.
A nameless pain annihilates
the ascending desires.
I want no more
traffic of dreams.
Only discovery of Being.
Where the city had gone from the mirror
of my poems?
Streets had the color
of a wrinkled maid.
And new dictionary had new words
of an obscene vernacular.
I wanted my stack, my lake.
Surface exploded into nothingness.
The lake boiled in the heat of eternity.
A part of the evening was cool,
participating in the festivities
of homing birds.
It took a whole night
to see the face of truth!
poem by Satish Verma
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Poetry
The flesh was putting up a brave dialogue.
I was willing to play the game.
Stunned, shocked, pleasantly sore
basking in heat of silk throat,
I asked the needles to go ahead
and stitch the wounds without loss of blood.
Wasps were waiting to light the candles,
so that they can attack the pink skin.
The fruit bats were hanging upside down;
time for fellatio. A boundary was submerged
in deluge of anger. It was a white night
for an ice cream cone. God bless the queen.
Satish Verma
poem by Satish Verma
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Turbulence
A night out with mosquitoes for a sharp
comment of urgency to end the war after a decapitated
unnamed flesh of words found six inches short
I can write only poems This very ordinary life appears
to be worthless
without vocabulary unsemantic between us I am
enslaved alive going beyond the stings in my
heart I try to find my voice burning inside a never
gone pain do you hear me I am very lonely in the
jungle of falls Am I descending
infarcts are spreading the paresis inability
to raise the finger fear of manuscript I am
never was there in cloudless desert the starless
night moonless sky it is very dark Out
of emptiness comes an explosion Is it a new creation
Satish Verma
poem by Satish Verma
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Dying To Live
Eight kisses of death and I am alive
My chest is still bleeding
Come brother, come,
stitch my wounds.
Whom shall we believe, rebirth
or life after death?
Both are study of wasteland.
To speak through angels is difficult these
days and prayer has run
out its charm.
I want to swim with octopus
again,
to test its suckered tentacles.
The envy of ocean cannot stop me.
Tonight the burning candle is going to live.
poem by Satish Verma
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Vaporization
Death denial of candlelit vigil for a fallen harbor
brought the climate change for a flag which flew
at half-staff. The noose was tightening around the
open-hearted blossoms. A dead sea has started
selling its salt to land sharks.
These days I am becoming introvert. The needles
have become blind, cannot stitch the god given
sores, the private tears of a soldier wounded
at home by the hands of a friend. Missed abortion
of a truth.
I thought of lies inside her lips, my solid
mate who set my skin blue after I drank her
proffered drink of hemlock. I stripped to the
bones for a glow of death which comes when
you give away your life for a pink sun.
Satish Verma
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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I Am Smile With Tears
He felt very guilty
while defending himself. Being nothing
in the times, he became so dangerous
for himself that the buttons were lost for
patriarchal connectedness.
The faces had become the permanent masks.
Now what?
Flutes lie broken in bottom of the pond,
stones had committed suicide.
A window lets in darkness.
I love the pace of history walking on the back
of alligators. It does not die.
I am emptying the urn, again and again
to write poems on the flyleaves of life.
Pure pain. I am smile with tears. My
knees carrying the amputated leg. A big
throw on the trash. I am thirsty,
not hungry. My hands reach for a strip.
poem by Satish Verma
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Nestlings
Coming face to face with hemlock
you are not able to rain in the animal
and 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.
poem by Satish Verma
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Mockingbirds
Have-beens went into fury.
Like silkworms, after the shock
spinning the myths around them.
Then the gossip will turn towards
the words, locked in extra
sensory awakening.
The gametes move in a chasm,
needling the pastoral scorn.
From the barrel of a gun flows the religion.
Spreading the thighs and baking
the sweet croissants. Will the honey
heal the wounds?
Of centuries? Moon god to moon god
under the swaying palms
man still cannot bring the house in order.
poem by Satish Verma
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Drought In Riverbed
A randon creation
convulsed by grief.
Death of a pendant was not able
to recall the cleavage.
Kosher scream, the grandchildren
will not know the fakes of
reality show,
pure as honey, then the
scratching starts: look the tiger
was sitting on the branch.
Miracles will happen again
when the prince manipulates
the throne.
The dust melts in the local crowd.
Amid droughts there was a rivalary
to pick up the left over grains in field
between urchins and squirrels!
poem by Satish Verma
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Love & Pain
Perhaps you know,
that you do not know,
the moment of truth is here,
and we are at the cross roads.
Night is without a cloud
and crescent moon is questioning a star.
Ghost of strayed peace
has slided back in dark.
Pure chemistry of love is boiling.
Planting the tender flowers on lips
I find nothing. I think I will go
for a new lover.
Strawberry was your choice,
but I always craved blue berries.
Pulpy red and blue black were teeth apart.
Your eyes are unreadable,
a watery grave of pain.
Something impossible should happen
Poetry is waiting for symbiosis.
poem by Satish Verma
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Erected In My Pain
Life gives you a sudden shock,
with ugly scars of mutilated truth.
Arriving becomes a failure,
a tilted faith.
Your eyes were blank but
you were seeing through
your hundred wounds,
spinning in the import.
Continuity of lies starts again.
From post to post
a sting was preoccupied,
fed on odium.
I had an indestructible desire
to set the throat free
from the obtrusive rust.
Love was not enough
a little bit burning on tongue was needed.
Polity has ruined
the green valleys
quietness cries in vain.
Fear in the mirror strikes.
I begin to run towards the sun
erected in my pain.
Times alter the image.
The cosmic bend is trapped.
poem by Satish Verma
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Shame And Fear
Between the yellow moon
and black stones
pours the river of mourning
in maze of silent night.
At the top of the world –
blue eyes were buried live,
under the incense of palaces.
They stood, unmoved in the corridors of metal tracks.
Mowed down with concrete,
lights had gone from the windows.
Unlit walls returned the legends.
Dictators deferred the hanging -
Of truth. Decided to live in glass house
for sometime. Lilies were growing between the graves.
A green dagger was splitting open the wounds
of mirrors in shame and fear.
poem by Satish Verma
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Collective Death
I am talking to me
in a muffled tone.
Unhinged, cutting myself.
Murder was shaping. Cheating
oneself. What was the arguement
to concede the religion -
of a no-god? The actuality
of present time? Black magic
was turning human beings into stones.
Amid unrest someone claims
the obscenity of truth.
The torture becomes fearless.
Paired needless stitch the unhealing
wounds. I have left the home
to find the black-hole.
poem by Satish Verma
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Chemistry
In twilight of pain
I blink for a dot
to punctuate the intelligence.
My incoherence brings the unseen.
I stay at a vowel
to see the truth.
Immenseness versus depth,
in shoals of turbulent life.
Where do I hide my vessel?
A lure of the exotic death
does not bring the peach color
to reveal the light on earth.
An inverted blankness prints
the words of green bruises,
where the falls meet.
poem by Satish Verma
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Milkweed
Mundane indulgence for a prlonged state
of agony in truth of fake lies and synthetic tears,
bloated rendition of angels; the hate crawls
out from the ruins of time. I crave for the musical
instruments left in the room. The song was inside
the winds, became untouchable in obscene
display of naked screams, the freedom of
stones to kill the
black roses for rivals. Somebody stages a
comeback for toppling the victor. A viper
is thrown at you in dark to deliver a message!
poem by Satish Verma
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Dissection
It was haemolysed
the homeless night.
Flagellation will bring out the truth.
The bloody kerchief
was thrown on a crowd.
A new comet was sighted.
Dust and ice were
near the tears.
Sun was rising.
Something fell
in the lake. Death was going
to be celebrated.
Flesh has emptied
the juices. Now
bones will laugh.
poem by Satish Verma
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Voice
And I lay still and snow dust
is burning my skin.
Snow dust is burning to me,
burning never burning out
Orange
Orange
a grey moon.
And I am becoming strings
strings of violas
guitars
violoncellos;
Strings of all
string instruments
when they are searing me
starting to sear me
like orange
like orange
and before I become
voice
before voice I become
vocal strings,
snow dust is burning my skin,
snow dust
orange
burning me,
burning out.
Translated from Macedonian by: Zorica Petkoska
poem by Afrodita Nikolova
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Raging Moon
Homecoming under the moon
devoid of pain.
When did the clock turned back?
You are becoming a child.
My journey opens
in a dark wound.
A promise to walk blindfolded,
when only the footfalls are audible.
The distance between the homes
was increasing.
Your own shadow becomes a stranger:
mystery of defining the life.
Living among cannibals,
aides ready to drag your carcass
unfolding your truth
falling in dust.
Satish Verma
poem by Satish Verma
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