RESURRECTION

There were two shades of truth.
All the facts were true
and all the facts were wrong.
Reality was always drowning in a shapeless pit,
confusion reigned between two statements, because
import was nil and walking
amidst ruins was painful.

Worthless conflicts hover in the night.
Exchanging the dialogues with death start in vain.
I go back to my fire and burn my thoughts.
The world around me is adjourned,
sine die for the sake of peace.
I became what I am.

You wait for a whole life to tell the truth,
and then die for it.
My god was crazy.
He did’t ask me for a prayer because he was me,
and there lies the absolute.
For umpteen times I felt the need of,
resurrection from the dead lies.

Satish Verma

THE KISS ……………….

Words were unable to explain
the darkness of unholy marriage,
of terror with chrysanthemum.
And bullet did not know the target
it flew on command to kill the smell of a man.

My song now hangs like a dirty laundry
on the wall of peace.
Death of green eyes, must come in few days.
The lamps will mourn for the light.

I wonder sometimes, when time comes
How I will kiss the death
And how death will embrace me.

Satish Verma

THE TERRAIN

It was always painful to remember the suicide
of a painter,
who was drawing the landscape
of hunger.
Polishing his art of pretention.
The time whistled past his window
without punctuation.

The terrain was tough, deepened by
requiem, the tears dried up
on the cheeks of chastity.

Script without drum and hue
of glowing eyes,
cracked lips
of us and our instruments of tragedy.

Satish Verma

LISTEN ………………………..

When you were searching an answer in
questions,
the end started near the beginning.
And you were still walking alone in the
unbridled tempest.

Lesser the light, stronger was the urge
to move in darkness.
Dirty landscape generated the brilliant stars,

Legs atrophied, frozen looks, I was watching
a strange phenomenon.
The spirit was drinking its own fountain.
Here is my toast to the march of time
Kids are refusing to write on dotted
lines
already the death was tasting the dust.

Satish Verma

WAKING UP

In dark I perceive soundless steps
shifting restlessly
rustling of clothes.
gentle tapping on the window
a shadow floats.

I don’t know if I was moving myself
trampling sleep.
Persistent insomnia sometimes creates
strange images.
Heart will toss the words in silence
and I will lit the blue flame in stillness.

That skimpy memory of a half-burned
corpse in a smoked room
haunts me. I carry the imprint of
violence in nerves, throbbing.
A riot of bright color in bougainvillaea
will wake me up in the morning.

Satish Verma

EUTHANASIA

I was not ready
when the gift arrived.
Today I cannot share my laugh,
my tears
with you.

The debt of ashes
was climbing up.
Clouds outside,
clouds inside.
My room was full of friends.
Wind was coming in,
wind was going out.
And I was trying to convince them
about euthanasia.

What was I dreaming? Mutation versus creation?
Botox? Somebody removing the wrinkles?
Augmenting the breasts with implants?
Black insanity?
Death was another name of birth?

Now I was transfixed:
Love birds were feeding their kids!

Satish Verma

FAILED GOD

Without pretension I try to dissect the truth
with a leap of faith,
which was a whole of me
and no outside fable.
The part ambition and part failure,
become a lump in the throat.
An intense enquiry starts with a shudder.

A crystal depth spills in cosmos, the words scream
you die for a chaste language.
The clarity of wing’s span,
and the purity of essence.
Yet life repeats some relevant,
questions of unknown,
of livid pain and sorrow.

As preamble to witness
a sad demise of a vision,
shock of abandonment
of a dream of future intellect,
the valley of clouds suffers a set back.
The ambition collapses like a failed god.

Satish Verma

CULTURAL DRIFT

For unwashed beliefs,
and semi –truths, someone wins
a half-bread and claims immortality.
I am ashamed to witness a filthy event,
life’s descent into a can.
The quiet is broken in myriad,
fragments of noisy confessions.

One day older I become today,
harvesting the sorrow.
Laughter did not work.
On the swollen lips of poverty and dirt.
The primal need sprouts again
and again in the spaces,
between frightening steps.
Each day, one more song dies.

When death starts writing
poems on the wall
you are frightened and want to fly out.
The image-making was not sufficient,
grief had erased all the jottings.
The cultural drift was overwhelming.

Satish Verma

NATIVE TOUCH

Repetition of same thought blurs the mind
invalidates the knot,
wholeness cracks,
and a tremendous force unleashes
the insult to integrity.
This is how the time has ripened.
Perpetual, malignant oozing from pores.

Fear enters in our voice,
we start hurling stones
on the icon.
And then, the nemesis takes over.
A dimpled moon tumbles down the tree,
and wolves start howling.
Now conflicts will make the holes in the sky.

Your loneliness is more frightening,
than the dark words.
Unfeeling the light, the sounds.
You craved for the native touch,
which was not coming.
This moment you are me,
brushing against the pshyche.
I am setting you free.

Satish Verma

SLAUGHTERED DREAMS

It rained last night,
dampness giving a tumultuous pleasure
the day before, town was burning.
Weeping ashoka laden with smudges,
and sky was crimson red,
You could not avoid this heat and dust,
love and hate; sharing the cooling winds.

The patterns are changing,
what to redeem, what not.
Trampled by death everywhere,
frightened words go for a dignified fall.
We are trading our bruises for moorings.
A happy notebook is blasted,
and motif goes into exile.

World moves in circle
it will touch you again
A strange divinity puts you in oblivion.
The spirit walks some steps with you,
and then disappears.
My grass burns in front of me.
This had been a festival of slaughtered dreams.

Satish Verma

RAGING DEBATE

Totality of your wholeself is condemned
life extracts the price.
You must follow on the dotted line,
transporting the truth.
Not striking the shadows
spirit must prepare for,
the funeral of unwritten code.

Insignificant desires on your side
of life were whimpering,
the testosterone is going very low,
and the will to put the signature is gone.
We spit furitively to raise the questions,
to find the new answers.
And the water did not know how to explode.

Looking beyond the emptiness,
like the bit of softness between the grass and sky,
fills the eyes.
Gaping wounds had stunned for a long time.
An epitome of healing had failed.
Non-existence was the crucial point,
for the raging debate.

Satish Verma

STAIRS

In the shell lies the eye of a dark sea
I call for a boat in delirium.
Waves drown the hunger of a climax.
I do not know where all the gulls have gone?

Time slips like flesh between the knuckles
and an extra pain of your separation.
I am shipwrecked on the slopes of whispers
and don’t want to have a second death.

Looking back at the years
as a sentence in exile,
I never reached the home.
Ultimately you need the hunchback to
climb the stairs.

Satish Verma

MOMENT OF TRUTH

An ultimate lie becomes a reality in life,
Like slit in the throat of a lamb in a meadow.

A wounded ego scrambles
for an explanation,
which is not coming.

Who can stop this verdict of a non-trial?
The tragic nonending of a conflict
between doubt and inherited faith?

You search for a perfect rhythm in
a turbulent crowd,
search for a silence in a flaming torch,
in the moment of truth,
when an entity is disintegrating.

Satish Verma

DECAYED CENTURY

One by one kites were alighting on the roof top.
Door were banging and a smell was rising
like the anger of a house.
It was sobbing morning in frenzy
before the sunrise, when every instrument
was asleep and god was shut in the shrine.

Splinters had pierced the innocent chests
and blood ran on the stones.
A beautiful day for the suicide bomber.
Pain wore an illuminated crown.

On tower of violence and brutal death
birds are waiting for a feast of tender flesh
from the shattered limbs.

Quietly rises the sun on a decayed century.

Satish Verma

BEYOND YOU

Why do I always remember the time
of departure?
The parting maze of tears?
I accept another day that will never be
the same.
I will carry the cadaver of sin,
the crime of silence, amidst the dancing
dunes.

Who will go after the barbs of rays?
Father, go slowly in the sea.
I am closing the windows now, take
care of the clock
and potter’s wheel.
The cruel age is harping on the new
designs.

My epilogue is short with love of
death which does not go beyond you.

Satish Verma

HALF BY HALF

Half the night for you
half the night for me
in between,
when we are going to light our lamps?

A clock is ticking away
time elopes with stars.
When the gametes meet
a spark will chuckle in dark.

Tonight I am going to open my wrists
throwing the lines in water.
Take care of the lineage
flesh eaters are moving.

A pink rose looks at me
like moon in a honeycomb.
It was bittersweet, hurting, kissing
the thorn in my thumb.

Satish Verma

AVALANCHE

A hand wipes away the dried tears,
chemistry working.
Somebody puts a hand on the globe,
gives a strong twist.
Flesh helps to forget the agony.
I squeeze the heart,
smell of pain wafting through the pores.

Despair and solitude maintained contact with me
I go blank, cease thinking,
graze melancholy.
Listen to humming of bees in the ears.
Scrawl a note on existence,
of a dropp which started an avalanche.

Talking of sensual divinity
and neutral attachment
a river moves on bald terrain.
Somewhere the water in the eyes dries up.
The salt remains, burns the cold prayers.
The hawks move in a swift dive.

Satish Verma

HALF – BEING

Between a calm and a thunder,
I amputate my days, from the mediocre life of mindless alienation.
I bemoan for sanctity.
Man remains innocent of,
another man’s melody.
I get frightened.
Birds are suddenly falling from the sky.

Where the heart denies
a heart, a perfect rhythm,
mind bares a wound.
History does not repeat the truth.
Blank shadows break the windows
and I collect the ashes,
from the burnt plots and ruined homes.

Sometimes you pretend to kill,
an argument deliberately
to know the depth of the answer.
The turmoil of half-being;
the unhappiness of fulfillment,
the transformation of a death into peace,
was it in harmony?

Satish Verma

MAN’S DESTINY

Fear overtakes the desire to happiness,
death is an accident:
it will happen for lesser reasons.
The meaning inside the meaning.
Delay in perception was
due to, surge between despair,
and hope, between touch and go.

A transparency in truth,
is always rejected for sorrow.
Center of life was sweet.
Needs courage to go for,
a conscious death of a script.
Your existence shudders amidst,
the roar of pretentions.
I adore the bloodless coup.

The solitude becomes my timeless strength of morality
of enormous silence.
Mind suffers a smouldering fire.
The longing for the other side,
of the man’s destiny and will.
To choose was not the will for abandonment.

Satish Verma

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.

Satish Verma

NIHILITY

Dust to dust the soul,
moves in a confined circle
to preserve a death.
The struggle of a truth to find,
the space between the fact and fiction.
Time comes to breathe in nihility,
questioning the infidelity of violence.

I do not want to avoid the revolution within
let me use the knife to cut,
the moments into filaments of sparks.
I wanted to restrain myself,
from committing the act of accepting the pain.


The first truth remains the last truth.
Winds of change cannot erase it.
Right side of knowledge,
and wrong side of fact were always in conflict.
The sweet-smelling mask was baffled,
crippling the mind.
I craved only nothingness.

Satish Verma

QUICKSAND

After the death, mediocre paperweights rule
on the pages of life.
The leading light will wander in ruins for
centuries.
Hot winds spray the sparking dust on
smooth posts,
desert picks up the artist trapped in confusion
I pray for the rains.

Give me a chance. I want to replay the
forgotten script.
Can you spread a blanket on the wounds
that were not mine?
Nobody gives a call. They were overshooting
the quicksand.

Satish Verma

HOME WHICH NEVER WAS..........

Faceless fear leaps from the book
I close the chapter.
My ancestors start hovering about my
head
What did I achieve?
Glorified stones and shining plaques
adorn the garden,
round and round my spirit soars. Are
You listening?
Two things always haunted me. Space
and voices. I searched
my atlas and traced my home which
never was.
Nothing will alter my hurt. I am
afraid to lose my soft eye,
roving smell and final judgement.

Satish Verma

SMASH THE BOOK

Today I am drunk with pain due to fragility
of reason.
Ungrateful city has defeated me.
I do not want any help
One piercing of morality is sufficient
to kill the portrait.

I have promised myself to commit my
hunger for a flame
which should burn probing the pickled
bones.

the kindness is tied to a smell of terrible
prophecies.
First pray for sanity and then smash
the book.
I will be trembling throughout the night.

Satish Verma

DARTING FEAR

Here again we are standing against
the wall of silence,
time has made us partners of sorrow.
Merchants of terror have spread their
wares
on the road. I was only a name.

Hundreds of miles fear was darting
no body knows who will become unfaithful.
Prayer demands subjugation.

Life sucks the laughter, we want to
go back to childhood,
shut the eyes and recite the hymns of
history,
when prophets were roaming in
neighbourhood.

Satish Verma

AWAKENING

I am writing off all the symbols,
will not wait for the judgement
and cross the boundaries.

I am not you,
I am not him,
a blemished soul
it wants to be set free.

Conjugating fever at large
colliding, colliding with guts of needles.

Tasting ambrosia of pain,
oedipus asking for another name.

I am offloading the ancient guilt
give me some time.

I do not want any clouds to follow me,
my words are scented with streaks of blood
and shine when only the cinders arrive.

Satish Verma

ANTIMATTER

Solitary moon makes a silent ascent,
penetrates into blue sky.
Night is cool, careless,
throws long shadows.
Undulating wind unfurls a tree.
My thoughts are pinned down to a nostalgia,
unbutton a grief.
Even the death has a charm.

Into every choice there is a hollowed one self-center,
anxiety begins, makes a crouching trail.
It is the untouchable, stillness, which hurts.
Passon for survival softens the blow.
I become moment of truth filled with anguish.

Another life begins with swooping dawn,
the soul sprints out of the emptiness,
darting on the brink of darkness.
The sun seeks the windy arms,
the innocent side of the world.
Soon the day will ride on antimatter.

Satish Verma

STUFFED SILENCE

Winds define the path now, in order not to submit
the discovery of another guilt.
The glory stumbles.
Before the altar, man becomes a souvenir.
Mechanically you walk like a robot, proud and erect,
cannot commit suicide.

Secret of discovering a faith was, not to kill yourself.
Shivering in awakened reality,
you grope with cauterized vision,
to resolve the conflict.
The revelation does not come.
Unchained freedom will come late,
when you become the destiny.

Everseeking a revolution, brain will find a false excuse.
The archives do not give a clue,
not exactly the circumstances,
but history collected the dirt.
Concepts could not bring out,
transformation of a prejudiced spirit.
fear and stuffed silence had the answer.

Satish Verma

SLASHED WOUND

In the silence of a nameless night, the moon invades
to bring out secret tears,
a perfect sky quivers.
The smell of human flesh flies,
and the spirit swirls down the history,
your hands seize little gods to get the answers.

How long this meditation on self destruction will continue?
Because of ending, decapitated faith loses eloquence.
The myth of eternal happiness slits the eyes.
Your blood drips from myriad capillaries -
And a new proverb commands the winds.

It opens to world like a slashed wound, your ruined life.
What was the mortal question of body to the soul?
Living for the day was very painful,
insistence on past was contradictory,
transparency had no consolation.
Absurdity of fog was there to stay.

Satish Verma

UNREPLIED

Question of me,
vanquishing the existence, arises again,
At times life repeats the horror.
Insufficiency of a heart builds an orphanage,
I play the game, then flounder.
Poison is spreading -
the myth of absurdity overtakes,
truth breaks into splinters

Me and my dialogues with life speak of celebration
in vitro. Taking off the camouflage.
The body prints the friction,
but the descent of dark
and other questions remain unreplied.
The soul suffers in a hole.

All the pretty meanings,
become meaningless when time abstracts,
the stone prevails upon the daisies,
sin and desire go for a reward.
The door does not open,
I put aside the beholder
and give a voice to dead tongue.

Satish Verma