Vast And Near

To shut the methane,
you sent―
the barbs. The brutal
assault against the thimbles.

I will not send the
edict for withdrawl.
Even the river
was thirsty.

The freaks were
jumping on the fence.
An interrupted moon
was wary of them.

I will draw a
sand painting to heal
the man on the
beach.

The air smells
like an egg. As you
run, the mist
fills your eyes.

Satish Verma

Disconnection

Move on. O city, you
were not worth of
living any more,
sleeping on your tusks.

I will not assume
any other new name―
when the hurricane
finally arrives.

It will not go. You
can keep scratching
for whole life.
Your psoriatic scalp.

The attempt to
commit suicide was
worthless. Nobody
will write a note.

I will not invite
the white moon to―
break the fast,
after the bloodbath.

Satish Verma

I Will Write A Poem

He used to tread lightly as if
walking on concrete, barefoot―
to capture the apologetic
colours of rainbow in lake.

A spinning top, he wanted
to float on water and touch
the soft contours in depth―
wrestling with waves.

A dark sky was hovering
around. Something was rising
from the black hills, as if
on fire. I had never seen before―

the golden moon, rising. Two
song birds darting to and fro
as if in great agony to save
the nestlings from the lynx.

Satish Verma

Beyond The Stars

Coming from the dark―
to deceptive bloodletting.
The light was my father.

That eternal moment
of pine cone―
to become the third eye.

The ancient memory
becomes vandalized. I
still treat it with respect.

The unclaimed truth was
yours. I wanted to retrieve
the spoken word.

Incongruously brazen
was your thrust, exhorting
me to drown.

Satish Verma

By Any Reckoning

A young grasshopper lands
on the paper, I was writing upon,
making a chirping sound―
and starts reading the poem.

It was an exceptional treat
for the eyes. Shutting the storm
window, I will watch the rain―
pounding on the frame,
to recall the visitor―

which was behaving like a
celtic Druid, in meditation, to see
the future of mankind.

Not sure, the bent legs, will
ever lift the body and
propel it to move.

The mayhem was thin, but I
declared― the poetry
was not for insects.

Satish Verma

On The Death Of A Friend

Unsung:
how it was, you died
wearing your shoes? The
jesamins will meet you―
in the backyard.

The stains are unwashable;
like pomegranates bursting
open on my chest. The
screams still run after me.

How do I get you midway―
in anonymity. I never wanted
you to go, my make-believer.
It was not homozygosity.

Your face swims like
a dragonfly on the interface
of tears. There was no re-entry
in the frame of life.

Satish Verma

Infinity Of Aching

Leaker had started
the invasion of the lake.
The house blinks every night.

Was there any civility
for boats to collect―
the skeletons from the bed?

The dust dances in my
empty home. From where―
the ashes of wounds had come?

There was fear of unknown.
I was afraid of the fear.
I am burning your address.

I see an apparition. A
branded witch. I don't care.
Death was always my friend.


Satish Verma

Another Mistake

Training your voice, you
had come around to open―
the door of the miasma.

The departure stretched
very long. Strange blinkers
were holding the light.

A cunning God would
not let you die―
in the trenches of syllables.

The moon would withdraw
from the humming night―
for a face-lifting.

One blind sun, hurts
the path, where I had
laid the marigolds.

Satish Verma

It Was No Magic

When you would be absent,
O Druid, I will know you better.
Time leaps my watch―
I have become blind.

It was not enough to
read― that was not written yet.
I am coming down the mountain
to meet the dust.

Life was not very kind to me.
Too much undoings had given
me a white sheet to―
write the names of fugitives.

I sweep the floor, I wash
the black earth and shut―
the windows. Too much knowing
had made me a dwarf.

Satish Verma

An Elegy

The abundance spills on my
torn shirt, when I was
gathering your voice.

The affiliated sore
begins to fester in your face―
after flying a kite.

It blurs, when you give
a speech, manipulating the lives
of innocent bystanders.

When you were heaving the numbers,
I was holding on the poems, like coins
not your paper thoughts.

Being blind was not becoming
a Buddha in the garden.
Suicides were increasing every day.

Satish Verma

Killing Yourself

It was a flame in the drizzle:
a golden peacock.
I was trying to understand
the Adam and Eve.

Between X and Y, my
heliograph stood in the foliage of words.
The hetero factor was generating heat.

The mitochondrial Eve will
search the land where the seeds were
dispersed. The swinger was still
active in the dark.

You have missed the bomb.
The laser-fed boom landed―
in the crotch of death.
The black dust covered the grave.

Satish Verma

Where Dreams Live

Despite the great divide
a dialogue must ensue, between
earth and sky.

This was a climacteric change, when
you cannot land on your feet,
after the rainfall.

The criminal assaults, rapes
and homicides, bring the species
on boil. The books are our god.

You cannot start a group
conflict, skirting the question
of mining the gold.

The void within widens, you
will not tell my dreams. For each
star I had picked up a soul.

Satish Verma

Kidnapped

Lamenting, what not to―
think. Condemned to burn
the words daily.

The dwindling values tear open
the sit-ins of faith. I was
not ready to become a stone.

A busy vessel sends daily, the
blood to remote memories.
I look askance at the falling peaks.

A dog star following the
heels of master with blinders. No
straight vision. Time was the
mystery of the clock.

The moon is nowhere
in sight. I was starving
for a cardinal pain.

Satish Verma

From The Edge

You were becoming more prone
to violence, confronting
the moon. Heat was rising.

Like a mongrel, twirling
round and round in dirt,
to sit in.

It was very dangerous, the
racial thought of eliminating
oneself in the mainstream.

A morphogenic change
was visible. Why were you
shrinking in horror?

The group pain was getting
a hold of me. I am not
sure, what I will do now.

Satish Verma

Picking Up The Threads

No attachment with the
alma mater. You have
eaten away all the grass.
Bounteous breast was empty.

Like a nun, dropping
the robes, the moon was rising.
Would you meet her in dark?

The night wanted to come
and sit in your lap.
Let us play with cowries.

You know my life was
never in the hands of god.
I was a walking tree.

So simple were the means
of death. Nobody knew
who was me.

Satish Verma

From The Streetlamp

Hits you in the face,
disseminating the chivalry
of fragile connotation.

A virtue slips away from―
your hands, when you think
what is a pain.

Then the poem starts
writing about the pen
which had no ink.

You need courage to―
smash the mirror which
was telling the truth.

And the complexity of
relationship comes, to the fore, when
the belief was stronger than love.

Satish Verma

The Raging Storm

A scavenger fails to thrive
in upward mobility.
The emotion becomes a virtual,
collects all the garbage
and becomes negative.

There are only varied questions
of different shades, and
no appropriate answer.

A fantasy remonstrates with the diminutive moon.

Stone pelting becomes a daily
ritual with the song. There
was no music in the language.

Scarves were few. And it
was very cold―
out in the chilled dark.

Satish Verma

Influenced By Lingua Franca

Be precise, I would say.
The definition was changing― of the sand,
in our eyes.

Who was going to judge the
translation of sex? There was no man, no woman
in terms of misery.

The nights were deluged.
Days dry. My grains refuse to grow under―
the timeless sun.

The mother tongue is
laced with fluid endurance. I stand in
a storm, breathless.

The absent death
mocks at the living dead. How many times
you will go to the river?

Satish Verma

Great Defiance

A smear campaign starts
against the ladder, which permits―
the ascension, but leaves the spaces in between,
of dark. You stand still.

The hunger becomes the mouth―
of rags. I will come and collect
some numbers.

It was useless to hunker―
after the game. The fear will ultimately
start a monologue.

On bees, I will build a
synopsis. The sleuth always falters
when the moon hides.

A canned script draws the
scorn. The player had become grey―
in dark.

A bunch of mushrooms,
like tall girls, standing
in wind, gossiping.

Satish Verma

Great Withdrawl

The urgency to bite the bullet
was uncalled for.
I could wait for eternity.

From night to night
a candle burns to understand
the repentance of a fakir.

Self-denial, you would say
was an act of renegade,
who deserted the throne.

The title of the book
misleads. Touch me inside
the pages. You will find blankness.

Read my hands. Full of―
blisters, after digging out the
truth from my failures.

Satish Verma

Sound Bites

The plaques were being
attached to the wall. You would not be able
to go for refusal. The right to say no
was inherent in yes.

Accepting the exorcism and self―
flagellation, exonerates you from the guilt of
giving away; which was not yours. How
can you claim that you are your own master?

You tie a knot on the thread, hang it
on the weeping tree, throw back your head,
and wipe out all the questions, I wrote
on your forehead.

Peace― it will be mine.
 

Satish Verma