10 December, 2016

No Acrimony

You decline to speak―
to listen―
to see
like a meditating Buddha.

Like a sunflower
with moon seeds,
ready to explode at sunset.

neck, hanged from a tree
to tell the tale―
that you were violated.

This was the principle of
cosmic order. Poor god
waits for the world
to show the rage.

I wake up the tree.
Leaves fall like unspoken words
from the decaying oak.

Satish Verma

For Pythia

In suddenness, I will
write a poem for you.

You had stopped at the
outset, like a black moon
opening up perfervidly.

Remote from the oneness
of life, a flame leapt up
to ignite the process of birth―
without perceiving.

Come let's meet at the
navel of the destiny.
I had the penchant of
burning myself.

You, who would never be
visible, I will dust all the mirrors
to find out.

Waiting for the festival to begin.

Satish Verma

09 December, 2016

A Black Speech

Refusing to be
A wound will stay awake.

Mired in bitter controversy,
the captain said―
the war was not a deliberate act of
atoning for the soul.

That prevents the sun
to come out after a long night.

You walk in the light years,
gaunt and dazed,
in pain of hunger. The words
hang in shame.

A city fails, for
another voice of verse,
in favour of renunciation.

Satish Verma

The Hymn Of Love

opens, ejects the scream.

Oh, my god.
The ink spilled
on the sheet, hiding the code.

The scared veins
of pure honey, wets the lips―
of gills. There is no salt.

The water explodes
bursting the dam. No spine was
worth of robbery.

Golden nuggets
are displayed now. Would you
bargain the uphill?

The nightmares begin again.

Satish Verma

08 December, 2016

See My Hands

Overreaching for chemical signs
and word for word,
you want to move on-
without parents.

This was only a poetic
idea, that no weapon will
be used for execution.

Not offering an apology,
we were dissecting the ethics
of violence and war.

A chilling reminder, you are
going to starve the definitions.
But no clarity was visible.

I am becoming bones
and taut nerves.Only eyes
were looking ahead of the tempest.

Roofs were melting.
You want to hit the sky.

Satish Verma


the sexuality
of clock.

Time moves
the hands, of past,
the present.

The future
belongs to no one.
This poem, cosmos.

Satish Verma

07 December, 2016


A near cult glows/ on faces―
for harvesting peace,
saluting each other, without flame.

I have come so far
though you did not want the winds to move.

A new theme was
developing. The first wicket has fallen.
The collective suicide
will follow.

Invoking the sun, you stay in shadows,
without qualms to hear
the swish of swords.

The phenomenalist,
strides confidingly to read your mind.
Heart cries―

Satish Verma