27 April, 2017

No Reason

Collecting more luggage
while moving on.

The hostages were left behind.

A chilling reminder.
Travel light.
Snow was not going to melt.

Water was rising in the eyes. They look hazy―
the church, the mosque,
the temple.

Violence. It was inside you.

You were walking in sleep
inattentive of mines.

As if you will walk through the fire―
ball unharmed.

Satish Verma

Beyond Imagination

A truth a day
was not sufficient.
There were many snakes.

The tree will speak
under the sky.
You will need solitude.

You see what
you want to see.
Eyes don't tell the real.

The silky way
you want to hold
the poems of moon.

Satish Verma

26 April, 2017

Yawning

What organicity!
Moon was coming down
on me. A visual alacrity,
accepting the surrender.

Journey to dead phrases
begins. Revivalism?
You dig out the extinct remains,
the forbidden Anemone, daughter
of Mars.

Come once, to my side,
to receive my fervor,
making me timeless.

Desires were ace runners.
Mind picks up the cobalt blue
of your eyes.

Now you go blank―
against the cult. The thumb
was set lower than the forefinger.
It will not pull the trigger.


Satish Verma

Slow Melting

Trap unplugged,
There was a hairy assault,
when you started playing
the sitar of three strings.

Though fearless, you
forget, it was evil, when
you flew towards
the sun, to pay homage.

Your god had failed. I am
counting the winters. No body
was left whole. Piecemeal
you collect the remains of burned outs.

In Bay of Pigs you stand
alone amidst the scars
of invasion. A river upturned,
an ocean dried, there was left no ship.

Satish Verma

25 April, 2017

Some Thinking Space

Asking for privacy, a
green snake becomes deviant,
and turns lunatic.

Lunacy demands innovation―
like atavism, returning
to primitiveness.

The fear becomes
your enemy. Instinct develops
to kill, to slay.

Again a beheading, you
wash your hands
with the blood of a god.

And dedicate your
life to a goddess of bodypiercing
crime, soaring high.

Satish Verma

Not Your Doings

A solemn moon
talking to hills,
plunged in pain of tainted love.

I steer quietly out
of this queasiness, did't want
to accept the risqué.

A spider was climbing
on a wall to weave
a sticky web for a baby face.

Like an aspen leaf
you tremble in even a slight
breeze of a beautiful thought.

The garden lizard
changes the color. Who was responsible
for the ruins of temples
and mosques?

Let me talk to the god, the god
standing at my door
engaging the harvest moon.

Satish Verma

24 April, 2017

In Restraint

Of many gods,
I chose the rock-cut Buddha.
At night we would talk daily.

Like at talkathon―
I will accept his grace,
to follow my inner voice.

I will narrate about the
walking giants, silent birds,
and weeping Ashokas.

In togetherness we had
separated with hate in
aloneness.

The love bites don't
excite anymore. The religion
of sex and―

religion of war have
become one. I will not
recite any adage now.

Satish Verma