Savage Fire
Does not penetrate,
it brushes superficially.
Repeating me, from dot to dot, it leaps.
The ego performs swift impulses
blasting the constellations of simple arithmetic.
Blue sky gives a second thought,
strange colors appear.
Love has changed the skyline
and labels are fading.
Virginal truth has lost its burning print.
It flaunts and swears like a theater.
Bedecked, larger than reality,
second hand puppets rule the master.
Empty vessel pours out faith.
The city walks at dawn,
night lives in metaphors.
Gritty myths disturb the neighbourhood,
salvaging comforts from rumours.
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poem by Satish Verma
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The Ink Did Not Stop
Sitting on the heap of debris
I decided to move one day.
The rain did not stop
I was walking alone.
It was a cruel time, my toes caught
in bad thaw. I was working on a bawling
theme of comatose words, a pottery of sorts.
In fact the fear had not saved me.
The sun did not stop
I was thinking alone.
A prosaic neighbourhood had acquired
weapons, I was inattentive. My wounds
always bled in hooting night.
A flute it seems talked to me.
The moon did not stop
I was weeping alone.
Terrible, terrible it was to abandon
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poem by Satish Verma
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The Spirit
How long will it go
this hurricane?
Let me go, open the sails
and put the boat on high sea.
Water is deep and blue, wind is strong
and I want to do it again
Tonight I will break the vow of moon
and bring it down.
Who knows where I land
the school of sharks
or turbulent isle
the body will be lowered to feed the hungry waves.
I was used to upheavals
up and down, up and down
and slept on pillow of clouds
who will wash the mirror today.
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poem by Satish Verma
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Aubrurn Dawn
I believe, I had not arrived
when you were arbitrating
between naked steel and the truth.
Violence were you. I was watching
the burning pyres in a row. Small hands
were collecting the ashes,
casting glances on the falcons.
Why reincarnation of the reaper again and again
arching the helpless life in terror?
Half-filled cups of tears are spilled
on the marbled smoke.
We made the truce with slaughter
in moonlight pitying the survivors in sun.
The face watching from the window disappears.
An auburn dawn wakes with swollen eyes.
I might find a lost child of the empty womb –
wandering in wilderness of three dimensional sorrow.
O mother! somewhere the roots are waiting!
poem by Satish Verma
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Papyrus
Let me go first in the cave
to see the hollow-eyed, bird-face,
my ancestor, relic of reclusive
committment, eaten by hierarchical
grass, inch by inch.
Calories burn to free the bones
from the green pond, beached, skinned
and fished alive for a weird ritual
offering rice, flowers, tamarind and wheat.
Bald, hungry eyes were looking at approvingly.
I was searching unself papyrus,
to print the tale of agonising
travel of a small colossus, from
night to night to track a dragging sun
in mud and water.
O, groaning seed, you are the paradox.
Neither tree, nor root, only a promise
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poem by Satish Verma
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When Night Weeps
Neither in sleep nor wake
I hear, a wingless fall, out of the clouds
with a thud and splash on the lake.
An injured word flutters to the beach
wanting to fly back to its flock, syntax.
Sick of my circling thoughts
I choke on sounds of ducking gravel.
My sea was green under the sun
though I never cared for the craft.
My gift had been gift of pain.
Land opens like a mouth, in awe.
So much cruelty was never seen before.
Anger and greed, lust and beast
blooming in veins of man.
One perfect excuse to kill a day.
Goodness was death, foresight for
crusted ambition You in dark and
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poem by Satish Verma
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Fall Of A Tender Doctrine
Talking of existence and being,
amidst chaos and misery
my heart aches. In truth,
I become a shred of broken
life. Your integrity at a price,
anything for sale.
How easy we are degenerating,
absent-mindedly we clamour for antidotes.
At least death is not corrupt,
when it eats the age
without a mask.
Seeing without eyes
was a great achievement,
I thought. With no thoughts
I watched the immensity
of truth. My choice always had a wet eye.
When the thinking becomes zero,
I enter from smile to grief
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poem by Satish Verma
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Living Legend
The flame will not die.
I pursue the path of smoke
the virtue of suffering
gives the pure light.
The book knows my inside truth
and tells no one. I weep for the swallows,
I could not feed.
I lay one white
stone for each death.
You will scatter my ashes,
in the abandoned land
where silence walks
and words lie like microcosm
of contemporary hunger.
Life was a cupful of tears.
The voices always spilled challenging
the fidelity of flowing water.
The living legend turns in grave,
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poem by Satish Verma
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Without Bargaining
A view from the cause,
alters the landscape in you
I surrender to the earth,
the roots. Purifying the leaves.
I tell myself, this was not me,
my music. Still my skin
has the tattoos of pandemic deafness.
I am breathing through the lips.
My attachment to death
is a private affair
my voice lies in a lake.
The butterfly in a womb.
the psalms under the rocks.
Is it ending of death
or death of ending?
I go beyond the brink,
dropp the stone in water.
When the moon touches
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poem by Satish Verma
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Without Qualms
He resumed walking with the sun
propelled in river of fire of blunt red
and striking yellow to resonate with the pain of her,
who sleeps on the thighs of a temple tree.
The vibrations still follow the echo of forgiveness,
a shadow of palm rises on white wounds.
The snoring of blood letting winds break the
bones crisply, on the jealous shores.
Where was the need of sharp edges to slice
the heart? The words spilled on the table
like blood curdling bats. The candle light
turns black with a guilt.
Small gods are weeping inside the tear
scorched eyes. Somebody prays for the fallen
monuments of tongues and bullet killed bells
of tributes. Stars started hiding their faces.
poem by Satish Verma
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