Sparks In Woods
Some depth,
my thoughts never touched,
the moonlight fades on my window.
The vague gratification,
falls silently on my mind.
Pausing on relativity,
I open the door to eternity.
Vast loneliness of qualms,
like the cult of dancing doubts
where was the choice?
I felt guilty at the fall of truth.
Black grass was not my doing.
My blood dripped
on every count, on every tear.
I don’t need questions anymore.
Give me landmarks.
Darkness was for me.
I will walk relentlessly
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poem by Satish Verma
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Red And White
blemish of the needle in eye spreads:
do you still see the moon in the hills,
outstripping the aura of midnight?
resilient, waiting for a renaissance, for
a finger on the lips in dark, to read the
symptoms, feeling floral in wilderness,
the reclining Buddha will speak now,
on stillbirth of a truth in valley of lies,
telling them the god was sleeping
in sorrows of world, the spider looks like a
man’s face, moving with large belly on the
dried corpses of hapless ants, the art of
dying, without pain, when the plane was
diving, splitting into two, unconscious of
pins and butterballs, in the mouth of mantis
poem by Satish Verma
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Eclampsia
A catheter leaks,
quality of hearing suffers.
A tethered song sears on blue flames.
The actual, displaces the pain
truth becomes non-pigmented.
In space you move noisily
waking the birds.
Tomorrow will come with writhing cries-
bounties of past.
Not myself, himself, yourself.
The new experiments in womb
remained fruitless.
A malformed, distorted progeny was born
on payments without glory.
Masses were swelling without self knowing.
Thinker was silent. Philosopher was dumb.
Architect had the thumbs amputated.
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poem by Satish Verma
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Fireflies
A pagan will search for antiparticles
after a collective wrong:
some tantric will throw up the smoke rings
before the poean starts.
Come, stand beside me,
sadness is going to find me again
on the oak tree. A hairy spirit climbs up
to give a call of a touch wood for a voyager.
The viscera has been packed for the
final verdict of a forensic lab.
Now I have nowhere to go
between myself and truth.
It might not end, the poor conversation
between life and death.
The eyemask saves the guilt of sleepless
nights at old punctuations. Makes
the words ferocious for the lamenting cause.
From tree to tree the fireflies swing.
poem by Satish Verma
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Humming Night
The enlightment drops words, things
I am at peace with the light,
the sand, the river.
The thought of non-being is subtle,
touches a cord.
Hours slip, silicon hardens.
Grains of truth move towards essence.
The thought of emptiness
was very powerful
I sit by myself, swallow a stunned voice.
My hands become white.
Inside of me was a book
holding a past. I hid nothing: my faultline.
It was a strange poverty.
I could not plug it,
a hole in memory.
The voices drip.
A moon-knife slices my room.
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poem by Satish Verma
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Anchored Briefly
While melting-down he was going to cheat
the death. So be it, bribing the inevitable.
In search of me, you and self, life was
coming to an end. Standing on sharp edge
he wanted to go back to beginning of era,
to try again his fear against coarse future,
to be versed in or not to cease, to yield
to the butchering-ground for salvation.
He did not want to pick up the droppings
now with butterfingers. Let there be a revolt
against the buyers of wallets. Gods have
left the caves and crowds are thinned out.
Prayerwheels are broken. Sky was overcast.
The morality heaves out of bush and steps
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poem by Satish Verma
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In A Tent Village
you walk on wodden legs
a lump in breast, though benign
but kids are abducted from wombs;
a road map is spread on the dirty mat
for finding the missing link,
while a solid-fuel missile was ready
to be launched
scarlet lips for décor,
unwanted hairs on chin popping out,
archipelago of hawks in brain:
the vulnerable, tending their wounds, hiding
in tunnels of shame; I like black berries
in sleep, cannot listen my own voice,
have become blind for my own hands
dried stigmas of crocus will color my
obscene poverty orange-yellow, slum
rain, no place to sit, old memories are coming back
I am unstuck from a wheelchair
poem by Satish Verma
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Confessional Truth
Liquefied version of pain has started working.
human material constructs
a floating emotion at last.
One by one I rediscover
the children of sorrow
among the ruins of ancient prayers.
The fear lurks
under the trees,
under the stones.
I can read it,
unwashed stillness of a revolution.
It was real yesterday,
but collapsed on the rim of today.
My wrinkled faith gets
ready for a proliferation of rites.
The land suffers.
My solitude remains unmeasured.
In despair I latch on to
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poem by Satish Verma
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Life Demands One Thing
The brain will not cease.
Agitation explores
the hypocrisy of paths.
My myths burned, I spinned and tipped
over the inverted truths.
Again I skip the swamps.
Body becomes a frozen lake.
Take off the mask now, tree is flowering
solitary shade is beginning to enlarge.
It is arrival time.
For you it is difficult geometry.
The stolen dreams collapse at your door.
Exhausted, you are grateful to defeatism.
The moth eaten rags cover the polarities of words.
Faceless fear is ready to strike.
Your eyes are filled
with civilized tears.
The weaning from wings was difficult.
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poem by Satish Verma
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Genesis
The sludge rattles as you tilt on one side
heat and dust swirl around you.
The sun baked age drifts.
The book of life with greasy stains,
preserves a part of your history.
The earth moves on.
Suffering to filthy chatter,
this city was not your choice.
What were you doing,
with your innocent thoughts,
under naked aggression?
Confessions were not sufficient.
Seeking you were not,
then why you were counting the coins?
The last person defeats the death.
Deaf and dumb go in a tizzy.
The bipolars are puzzled.
Is that the answer to a revenge?
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poem by Satish Verma
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