31 May, 2016

Echos In September

Under a sickle moon,
the effect was colossal.
The mute words
were floating like vespae.

There was no―
promised nest of paper.
You cannot land
without ink.

The grey beard starts
weaving a web of
lies. Larvae will―
feed on blessed water.

Very warm, very hollow.
The globe turns. You stand
on the surface,
cannot fathom out the human mind.

Satish Verma

30 May, 2016

What September

the September moon
was sending poems
in quick succession.

Life had come to a grinding halt.

The walls,
wait to end the race of
stings. The heat was
a dirty yellow.

You will witness the fall of a titan.

The genome of red
wine grape was
similar to a forgotten
verse, after the―

rage of ageing cells of a sage.

Satish Verma

29 May, 2016


This September. It is
going to be very quiet.

I am trying to caress
the mimosa, which
always said,

The spontaneous probe
will start the construct in love
of philosophy to mimic
the animal plus
the femineity.

A clock was moving
without hands. Time was up
but legs were amputated.
How will you walk
towards your truth?

Satish Verma

28 May, 2016


Uncannily sanguine,
wounded by biting gnats―
you return home.

You would call the
family for a final―
drink and
drown the moon.

You have come very
far from the inviting
shores in deep sea―

to be sucked into the
whirlpool of silence―
to end the sounds.

You will not put the
bread upside down. Who
will provide the priceless again?

A small saga of unheard renegade?

Satish Verma

27 May, 2016

Eaten By White Ants

Downy mildew,
blinks. The sun
will not come back
to rein in its own might.

The temple gold,
has come for sale―
in bazaar.
On the balcony, stand
bystanders to witness the free fall.

The black door,
plays hide-and-seek
with light.
Green eyes will now
bargain for hips.

Satish Verma

26 May, 2016

I Will Not Be Silent

Overlooks the juvenility.
The shrinking genitals.
It was the militancy.
The freedom, brought
about by the guns.
Now indiscreetly firing at the sky.

This deadpan delivery
of the shut doors. Economy
has failed the toads,
the croaking minions. A raw
poem speaks now
for the unopened coffins.

The run, the run of the
century begins. Some one was
running, non-stop, from
sleep to sleep, away from the sexual
assaults, from rapes, from

Satish Verma

25 May, 2016

Smoke Signals

A severed hand, after
the blast, working on a script
writes about the
musicality of blood.

Blood of moon and trees;
of poems and bees,
contributing to making
of republics of grass.

The roots know the secret
of god and grief of humanity.
The sound ot truth resonates
with the art of dying.

Between the sun-and moon―
under the sky sleeps a
shimmering axe.

Satish Verma

24 May, 2016

Of Land And Ills

The dancing paper,
humilates the pen.
A stunning defeat for morality.

In splendid withdrawl,
the eyelids bear the violence
of soil.

A broken pride
will get back at you.
Step aside. Let the soul read the dewdrop.

The moon meets the
earthen lamp, to understand
the hymns of rag-pickers.

The religion drinks
the aroma of holy vice. Was
there any truth of a beast?

Satish Verma

22 May, 2016

Voiceless Assaults

You are waiting
amid fears. The fretting
does not end.

At where,
the road ends? To find a blue star
where do we go?

The house was
sleeping in fog. Inside the
dome, hooves, quiver.

I have to become
mute. Time was black,
my song blue.

A pure crime.
The vultures come in
cloaks to take away the lamb.

Satish Verma

18 May, 2016

Fading Glory

You want to cover your
amnesia. Death
has no other color.

How far you will go
to retrieve
the sensibility?

Time does not sit idly.
Undeniably your foe―
poisoning the well.

Sky was overcast and
sends misty rain.
Have the heart-leaves and moon-seeds.

The history concedes.
Molybdenum was god,
initiating life on earth.

Satish Verma

15 May, 2016

For The Skin And Eyes

Not confessional.
Without reading the body
there was no room.

My fever rises
in limbs.
Giving me a double vision.

This was not my age.
Out of place, I
call for limestone.

The sea and
moon will make a castle
on the waves.

Whom do you call
careless? I was writing
the verse on blood paper.

Satish Verma

14 May, 2016

No Carnage

A house without doors
I was living
in fog.

The infamous review
will tell about the
fallen words from the roof.

There was no history,
no culture of

I only exhaled
the grief of centuries
shielding the ankle's pain.

There had been no
perfect picture of the
dancing god in nude.

A blue face swims.
I draw the map of the smell
of cinders.

Satish Verma

13 May, 2016

World Moves On

The ethical dilemma,
and chaste abscenity,
were the game changers.

Vowel syncope was making it easier.

Let the most vulnerable
lie still. A pseudowar of words
is going to start.

A blast of vocabulary,
some smothering of smells,
will make the jaws, drop soundlessly.

And many would not
breath easily. It was catastrophe.

The language convulses.
In jungle of gatherings
there was no pond.

I was still searching, the inflection.
The creative touch.

Satish Verma

12 May, 2016

A Nonarrival

Munitions in place
you were ready
to strike.

What you wanted to
find out, I had
found in my poems.

It was the dark night―
that becomes ink.
I am writing in black letters.

What was the
obsessive cult of
fingertips, holding the pen?

Sometimes you look
at you, when
you were not you.

Satish Verma

11 May, 2016

Once On Earth Day

Returning to the ragpicker
like a lone fly
of love triangle, said― were you
writing a letter to confess your love?

Like a glue sniffer, I
am stuck with you.
O brown earth, raw
wounds heal …

When I sing a blade
of grass, when I sit
under moon, holding your
hills for comfort.

My head nestling on
your heaving breast, while
I sleep without―
a dream.

It was devastating to eat
you. Your cauldron, bubbling.
Someone wants to pay
back your sun, your moon.

Satish Verma

10 May, 2016

A Bold Step

Yes it would remain
incomplete, my story―
my poem.

The henna speaks today
against unadulterated lies,
against the rage of
losing path.

No more the wrens
will sing, till the clouds don't send
apologia for not
sending the rains―

of blueberries. If I
were you I will turn the
bees into butterflies.

Satish Verma

08 May, 2016


Shredding begins.
One by one all the leaves fall, like disrobing.

The words hang around, the naked soul.
You have to catch
the essence.

Deep in the sea―
lies the earth like pain. It
rises― when you prod―

to recover the intensity.
The center and tangent,
both, cry.

Perception comes, when
you break the ―
giant silence, searching for a poem.

Satish Verma

07 May, 2016

Fading Faces

Widening the scope
you want to remain
at center stage.

Thinking starts, battling
the ghosts. Doubt remains alive.

A broken beer bottle, at your throat.
You suffer the fall
of humankind.

The acid burns. You wire the
clouds. Tears will not flow.
This is not the end.

Turn the page. Why you
need the signs?

Those pale, staring eyes, unclosed.
Not sufficient?
Can you read the red line?

Was it not an oblique cut,
where the sand was lifted?

Satish Verma

06 May, 2016


Gold fringed, the hood
strikes. You are bound
to throne.

It was unnatural to
demolish the ancient shrine.
God will not show his face.

And what about the dew
collecting on grass leaves,
when you were crying?

The kids won't cry now.
The hunger has put
them to sleep.

It was the dead end
now. You are melting in
great walls.

Satish Verma

05 May, 2016

The Spillover

Not a dog day―
after snapping. In
fatigues, you get a parole
to start sowing sunflowers.

A butterfly skips,
the roundabout and lands
on your lips―

after spending entire
life from flower-to-flower
from bush-to-bush.

I was a witness to history
in making. There was
no togetherness. Will you
believe that?

I am a flame now. All
night I will burn,
to read the explosions―
reaching the bottom of fear.

Satish Verma

04 May, 2016

Balancing Act

Collecting the dirt,
a speechless drama unfolds.

Now you can hear the―
wails of buried amnesia.

You can touch now the footsteps
where the activist fell.

The gift of bleeds coming
from the saddened past;

the space was expanding―
to accommodate missed abortions.

My limbs giveaway gathering,
the blackberries of moon.

Satish Verma

03 May, 2016

Counting The Steps

When saline drowns the lips,
my words tremble.

Almost I stumble upon
the fish house spilling the vertebrates.

I had given them, the name
to the swirling limbless thoughts.

One by one they come on the edge
and blow the ashes, towards me.

You always dream of a procession
of dead bodies under the window.

In the little study, you are
afraid of leaning walls.

And you say you were responsible
and to be held accountable.

Satish Verma

01 May, 2016

Empathy With Tattered Cape

Weep every don.
All the translations were fake.

The yellow peaks do not burn the
sky, now at sunrise.

I am forgetting myself―
in the gathering of my foes.

The pilgrim's path is now dirty.
You cannot transcend the―

dead remains of ancestry. In
the hutment, that was the end of view.

Nightblindness. I cannot fathom
out the saint descending a great depth.

From beastkinds I swim back
to save an unborn epic.

Satish Verma