MY CHILDREN OF SORROW

It was there all the time
the core fear, my inadequacy.
Tonight I will let go off the fire
and become a non-moving time.

When you come home for the arousal,
under the lids, you will find giant tears
frozen into a lake of no return.
Watch your steps and walk gingerly.

My unlocked door always welcomes
the incendiary past, pure happenings.
To return the clothes worn by the truth
on the night of gang rape.

It does not go, my nameless agony.
My children of sorrow, where will
they go? The scars?
I scan the sky.

Satish Verma

LEGEND WITHERS

I do not display, but am.
Where the heart lies.
In truth. I try to discover the centre
of sorrow and bliss.
Life has not given
me full text of death.
The shadows are larger than reals.

You will not remember me
in endless night.
I am going on a long journey
to find out what is death of a name
the death of a prayer,
and ending of self.
The naked helices of truth are blazing.

Death of a dawn
some thing dies in me.
I don’t grieve.
The frozen pain melts,
legend withers.
The shadow is liberated from image.
The sadness leaves the fingerprints on my face.

Satish Verma

CONNECT THE PROPHETS

Outside me was a howling light
tracing a path.
Ending the struggle
of abstract thoughts.
The night was full of hidden flares.
The day was a luxury,
full of exclusiveness.
We must not cry.

The wounds turned up
like fireflies in dark.
I groped in my inner expanse to know what was not.
My fears were agitating.
Perhaps the unknown was unfolding
a sad chapter.

Time always turned back.
I joined the circle of heels.

Ultimately the crowd thins out.
The soul strips to the bone.
The void heals the grief,
and the twisted roots,
connect the prophets.

Satish Verma

SECOND-HAND EVENT

Movement spurts the truth-
an endless journey.
The constant search for beliefs creates confusion.
Craving and wanting
generates more conflicts.
The meaningless life drifts.
Can you go beyond your dreams,
beyond your yearnings?

I wanted to disagree with death
the ultimate truth.
Life had many connotations,
there was no deliverance from reflections.
No freedom from trepidation
ego was the last refuge.
The ending of self
did’t take you to liberation.

Urremitting flow of time
awakens your soul.
Stillness of thoughts opens
the muted doors of meditation.
It suddenly transports you to the otherness.
You are not your name.
The indulgence to self
becomes a second-hand event.

Satish Verma

EASY TO FORGET

Somewhere the truth lies still and frozen
why can’t we measure ourselves?
Measure the unseen depth?
Not for gain, not for bliss.
For inner tranquility, moving into the time
where living and dead meet.

The silhouette of cicrcling hawk was frightening
the Sun was wilting
and I had entered into a lonely sky.
The flash of insight burned my thoughts.
I must count my gifts.
Time was ruining my creases.

Here was a naked truth
unclothed by time
beyond the innocence of age.
You were walking on the planks of emptiness,
inviting death.
Was it so easy to die?
Easy to forget the unforgetful?
Your loaded years falling away?

Satish Verma

FOUND YOURSELF

A parallel pain walks with you
when you split into space and time.
You were too shy to die, to feel
the anguish and bliss of death.
Something inside you springs
into a tree for a half-life.
The search for the meaning of life
takes roots in calamities.

They get back at you, the paranoids
on the horizon line, where the galaxy
meets the paradox, the void, the fear.
Any physical possibility generates the sparks.
The realization takes you back in mud and grass
outside the body to rest in peace.
The formless listening, seeing without objects
furthers hyperesthesia.

You have found yourself in emptiness!

Satish Verma

DYING BEAUTIFULLY

I stay connected out of the body,
with fireworks,
to widen the relativity,
to read the language of fear.
Death of a tree was mourned
by leaves in shadow.
The dew lies awake crying.

The town was disappearing
without a dialogue
with past, we were digging our heritage.
In search of roots
life was killing the tomorrow.
You an answer seeking
which was not yet born.
Over the mind
an ancient prayer floats.

The house was on fire
the words cannot cover the flaming body.
It was dying beautifully.
The space between the memories
will shrink and we will destroy
the ugly calender.

Satish Verma

THE NIRVANA

Tracing the primordial culture of truth
in its oneness, we find the ultimate answer.
Still the negative effect prevails
increasing the confusion.
Existence in now, has a travesty of truth.
Can we breakaway from our past?

Can we exist between right and wrong?
Between good and evil?
Between truth and fiction?
How many faces has reality?
The Self amalgamates the formulations
provides the mind with the safe exits.


The visualization
was not a happening, not actuality
an escape from pain & reality?
The thoughts were always disturbing
creating a false identity.
Thoughtless self had no movement.
Was that the nirvana?
The final moksha?

Satish Verma

INTENSE POETRY

Breaking the path
by random steps, you move,
and thoughts make a ritual dance.
In a wingless flight,
a cosmic gloom envelops you.
You try to stop the dark tremors,
Yet you don’t feel safe in a crowd.

Life has changed
it does not touch the younder.
The brain does not work,
and memory is not authentic.
Emotions are bruised,
and time is becoming ruthless.
Knowledge explodes the myths,
and hurls the naked truths.

In a corner of my heart, a song dies
I refuse to listen, I decline to see,
a world crumbling before my eyes.
My unbeliefs engage,
the intense poetry,
of my turbulent mind,
to understand the virulent pain.

Satish Verma

SMASHING THE ROAD SIGNS

My garden cries for no reason.
Kindness melts into a rain
of twisted petals. And that is it.
Alone I whisper the translucent words,
watching the death of dreams, living fossils.
The sun bakes the seeds.

The essence will not heal,
this bandaged soul,
the conceptual death of a thought.
This fear is like a curled snake.
Must I abandon the path? I know,
I will not forgive me, at this dim joint.
I must move.

I do not know, what to think,
how to catch, the poetry of night.
The light blinks on my eyes.
I walk in the shadows of sounds,
smashing the road signs.

Satish Verma

A HERMIT

Over the lake
moon was hounded out
from the dark clouds
into the defying blues.

The thick orbit hauled up the debris
of falling stars.
I was watching the crowd of centuries
piling up in history.


Global heat was settling
on the flutings
to start a black magic
of secret fear.

A hermit sitting on a glacier
melts into a cave.
God knows how the stunned
colossus will stand up.

Satish Verma

HOLDING MY TOES

An evening primrose glides,
on my rough hands.
I pluck a laugh from the lips,
of a parched face.
It knows the meaning of death,
kissing the pink eyes.
Of the lost fidelity
and the innocence of the dying sun.

How to tell myself,
you are not coming.
Gradually the house,
will go back to its still air.
The white ants,
will draw a pattern
on the stale books.
The traffic of private tears,
will begin to move.

The truth is a happening,
with all the little gods.
I demand nothing,
only pink rose buds, of early winter.
There is no one to know,
that weeping grass,
keeps me touching,
holding my toes.

Satish Verma

CHASTE WORDS

How to begin
the journey of truth?
it was moving away from all paths.
No concrete answers were there,
questions loomed large,
a moaning confusion reigned.
I moved inward,
to open the door,
I had to talk to my poems.

A beautiful truth,
hangs on my thoughts disempowering.
Engaging the years, of twisted happenings.
It cannot be rude, must be palpable,
must be soft, like cactus bloom.
Never turning,
away from heat.

This repetition of reality,
always helps,
I may not listen to the voice,
of the other side of faith.
But the chaste words,
surround me with dignity.

Satish Verma

DESERTED WASTELAND

Life invades the truth.
Who cares?
The night was thin,
my eyes will search for stars.
Now pain travels,
backward from a smile?
A myth unfolds the terror,
of infinite tomorrows,
an escape from the eternity?

We will die,
only in our separate truths,
united by untruths.
Picking our poisonous arrows,
worshipping our griefs,
an invisible hand unclothes our past.
I ask myself was it the spectre,
fear of extinction?

Death will not shout,
it comes quietly.
Death by cancer or cirrhosis,
it comes sailing.
We were already dying,
without our clones
like a deserted wasteland,
with lethal seeds.

Satish Verma

A HANDFUL OF VICTORIES

Where death
and exotica meet,
life stands naked
in midst of our sacred hymns,
Shadow fighting is not actuality.
An essay on truth fades.
Someday I will pull down the curtain.

At the end of the road, death waits,
apologizing for coming unannounced.
A white cloud drifts in our arms.
The deep sorrow walks with us
and the empty home,
now belongs to moonlight.

In nothingness our achievement claims.
A handful of victories,
tossing here and there.
The empty words transport
the dark lies.
The truth lies bleeding,
and we flee,
from our predictions.

Satish Verma

NOWHERE IN SIGHT

I will cross the twilight zone
to meet you in zero space
negating the fear.

The mauled city
strikes the dumb sky
in unilateral war.

Coming from a bleeding torso
a scream agitates the dolls
playing with pebbles.

Flaming death will not leave footprints
Violence was not coming to stop.
It had many faces.

The very existence had no meaning.
Darkness, was coming down the hills.
Can you bring some flowers?

Sun was nowhere in sight?

Satish Verma

FEATURELESS AND WHITE

This night of the long vigil
has betrayed my soul.
Columns of smoke arise
from the landscape of shrines.
There is no need now,
to sing the praise of oblique wars.
Truth has made
a big dent in my heart.

The tears of the bronze statue won’t stop,
they are mixed with blood.
Its pain for pain hurts the flesh.
Orphaned kids move in a circle,
their parched lips in silent prayer.
Remains of bread crumbs strewn on road.

The stench rises from the trash.
A face swims,
of our demolished culture.
Even the vultures are gone.
The dead and living start talking.
Tainted blood flows in dead veins.
Featureless & white.

Satish Verma

I WAS ALWAYS ANGRY

Whole world hides
in your liquid eyes,
I need to return to my consciousness,
to change my verse.
The dry air has wiped out the beautiful words
sitting on the edge, of a meaning
I write a new song.

Discovering your forgotten self,
was a pain,
I always avoided.
Years touched me softly,
on the temples in vain.
Dumb I was with grief, threading a pile of memories,
to know my other self.

Somewhere a god smiles on me.
God of my mud & water,
wide open like a father,
who never died.
The moon slaughters my clouds.
I was always angry,
with my odd appearance.

Satish Verma

FATIGUE OF WASTED YEARS

The wheels find,
the track on my body,
why do I shiver & tremble?
The night gives me the depth,
a grim reminder of realism.
The consortium of thorns,
the splinters float in my eyes.

The dignified seizure,
takes hold of your body
your mind writhes,
under the surface.
You hold head in agony.
Waking is more painful.
Is it worth that?
The biography celebrates,
the death of a god.

The negative virtue and,
upright truth clash,
in midst of worst weather.
The red tongue gives,
the hot sermons.
Fatigue of wasted years,
weigh heavily on my arms.

Satish Verma

A HYBRID OF MAN

Confessional truth
is not my aggressive ego,
it is my fault.
The resolution of my conflicts with time,
the smell of the broken limbs,
my head in hoisted fever,
my eyes searching for a cloud.

The ultimate otherness,
of an idea baffles me.
Charity creates the misery,
you seek a window,
not the sky.
Looking for the gods,
enjoying the sweet depression,
of a pseudo-hurt.

I wanted the sanctity of a tree,
full of fragrant bloom.
To break the spell of hot arguments,
the fire of ideals,
projects self worship.
Town meets casually to select
a hybrid of man,
and a beast.

Satish Verma

UNFOG THE SKY

A stand-off between grass and moon
marginalized the perfume of night.
I was standing to read the graffiti
written by light and shade.

The planted kiss, the embrace, the trembling
legs have bricked in the trapped saint.
Where were the stars leading you
for the journey to the end of the bruises?

Some coarse absence of winged thoughts
had continued presence. It was blankness
without emotion, without movement. Can
you think without the past, without the future?

Step-by-step the malice, the lie within
the lie unfolds. Gives a deliberate shock
of self knowledge. I count the bonfires on
the hills. Coming up to unfog the sky.

Satish Verma

CATCH THE SUNSET

A lifetime with a classic pain,
does not give me peace or freedom.
Blind ideas scream,
breaking the antique silence.
Becoming was not,
the ending of desire,
or senile decay of lips.

You were destroyed,
by your weird dreams.
Silver spoon,
seldom became the bread of poor.
Sweated and smashed,
I picked up green
sprigs of sorrow.
It was a gift of sun and water.

Waiting for my turn
to catch the sunset
and the new moon together.
I wanted a life as a leaf,
drifting out on the hill,
touching the stillness of the thing,
the emptiness.

Satish Verma

FROM DEATH TO DEATH

What do I do with the words?
They hurt, they flourish without thoughts,
destroying the civilities.
The sky cannot hold the conflict.
The strange friction
of the image blurs the colors.
Love has become a cauldron.

A tough question
tries to penetrate in my skin.
I come out of my body,
peeling off the conflicts
from the timeless silence.
The voices of doom hang on the trees.
Somewhere the tears
turn into watermark.

Not afraid of afterlife
I am ready
from death to death.
Another autumn
will take away all my greens,
water & grace.
But primordial smile
has a history of matching a face,
with the dead.

Satish Verma

WINDOWS ARE NOT SUPPORTING

In the culture of self, and wilting idol
who was going to interpret the truth?
To resolve the inner conflicts
of an ailing mind?
I tell no one my validity,
my loss, and my sudden realization,
of a dying aura.

Give me a poem, a childhood, a dream
I wanted to live,
without maligning a mirror.
Without a cold-blooded
murder of truths.
Life was becoming a waiting in blackness for an
audience with god.

A thought sits whole life
on a ruined model of a truth,
trying to get freedom from the
celebrated events of greed and hate.
Windows are not supporting the light.
Time for the greens
to make a decision.

Satish Verma

CELEBRATING MY DEFEAT

Skylit my bright atrium,
pumps the future.
Which becomes the today
righting the wrongs.
I want to go back
to my ancient furrows,
hibernate and sleep.
Let the life bloom on dead words.

In vitro a tiny face smiles.
Pink petalled
a crooked moon goes up in the sky.
Tangled thoughts resume
the search perceiving
the depth of the subway.
The waves splash on the rocks madly.

Celebrating my defeat,
I burn my books.
Cannot follow any path.
Lonely I trace
my truth in sands.
Wind communicates the disaster.
Still my hands
break the branches,
snap the thorns, bleeding.

Satish Verma

UNLEARNING

Everybody was in hurry to unpack
the sins and reshuffle the names
of burns, by taking a holy dip
in mauve lake. I wanted to defang them.
Acid attack had the inversion effect
on the expressions.

It was an obscene vision
unrolling the infant
for bleeding an opponent. The procession
moved on. Details never came out.
Only the flaming bodies, loud thuds
and the screaming virgins.

This was unlucky for the hutments,
fragile poles crumbled down, unspeakable
emptiness on the faces. Something has
to be unlearnt. Too much pain of
the knowledge. Ectopic pregnancy?

Satish Verma

HELIX NOW UNCOILS

The pain of the night,
flows in the blood.
I move in the sun, hot & bruised.
From palace to hut,
clock moves backward in time.
The children of love are
going nowhere.

Space in space,
flame in flame
void fills the entire darkness.
The mutation was incomplete.
Unpetaled, roses are scattered.
The fruits of
impeccable perception went awry.
Helix now uncoils giving pain.

Futile strength wavers and the apex burns.
A glint throws the outlines in tizzy.
Sharp stings spread the venom.
A breathless anguish,
conjectures a dream of death.

Satish Verma

A CUCKOO SINGS

Rain, come again,
full of promise & truth.
0Endless onslaughts on my garden
have damaged the trees of light,
destroying my butterflies in dark.
Death was my private thing,
moon, come again.

Deep in my throat
a cuckoo sings for a queen of darkness,
to invite the mists & clouds,
I cannot speak for now.
Ancient history is repeating the story.
At dawn the shadows are gone.

From unknown to unknown
a thought moves
impinging the landmarks.
I pick up the nameless pebbles.
Time crashes, death and life play a game,
memories wear the grey
costumes of fear & pain.

Satish Verma

SHADOWS ARE THINNING

No one owned the tears,
a tale of frozen pain,
prayed in dark,
making the silence harder to hear.
A classic fire scalds the monument of life.
A patch of grief here
and there, lets out the mystery.

A reclusive self
between window and moon,
unfeels the broken clouds,
bangs the sky.
Suffering the obscenities of the inverted earth,
life propels you to go empty hands
in your domain.

Shadows are thinning.
Waning moon crawls slowly
somebody said, catch me if you can,
my being.
The world never understood,
went on digging the holes
in the hearts,
burning the boots.

Satish Verma

IN THE INTERMITTENT LOVE

The eerie exodus of rage
from crashing domes,
was the collective wisdom.
A complete thought,
walked with me like a shadow.
The long journey
for truth demanded clarity.
Life had not been fair,
path of death was endless.

The body poem from the sad
and gentle portrait crossed the line,
became a sculpture.
My silver verse died.
I was courting a white washed city.
The book of sorrow levitates,
Someday I will face the artist.

Sleepwalking I start.
Waking to your name
history was unmade.
My breath went heavier,
and my steps emptier.
The metaphors did’t kiss,
my innovations.
In the intermittent love,
hate was the topic.

Satish Verma

THE VACANT FRAME

Self – immolating silence
softens the pain, an art of solitude.
Evening drifts to come closer to moon.
Night is summer washed.
Small stars are trembling
on blue waves.
The night climbs down
from the brown hill.

Agony of life filters
in your eyes.
Unspoiled tears leave a trail of liberation.
Sorrow was insipid in your dark book.
Possessing a blue surge,
a nothingness bloomed
into a smile.

Space fills the dreams,
coarse picture and empty memories.
The vacant frame holds only the waiting.
Centre was gone.
The boundaries have captured
the colorless fragments of thought,
dry bones.

Satish Verma