Stripping to the Bones

Now me, now not,
a thought is always there.
My genes navigate on collapsing walls,
words, dark mind, broken dreams.
But thought is always there.
I hold on firmly to sounds,
voices, tongues,
the thought is always there.

Brain goes into a nameless friction,
of aimless voyage
I rediscover the myth and abandon the zone of thoughts.
Distance becomes a wailing music.
Sitting between the flesh and bones
I recognise the relic of a window.

Let us dropp the years,
become timeless, empty and hollow.
Egocentric wind violates the lungs.
We cannot sing in praise of earth.

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poem by Satish Verma
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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.

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poem by Satish Verma
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plasma Screen

It was an absent answer. Terror
was one abyss in unhindered
waking of eternity in being. The passions rise
between downpour of black rings on the terraces,
was nonstop a parade of excuses and pretentions, no
body was taking the responsibility of the war lost, and
we nod in unison. Hunger drives the wedge. This
is a city of moonless sky where the headcount
never stops.

Warriors sit down under the volts opening red
eyes, the trade gets a bad name, rubbers
win the coin. Yellow metal gleams around arms,

a wound becomes a talisman, you start collecting
the awards from severed hands.

Satish Verma

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poem by Satish Verma
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Paper Nest

Dementia begins. The ending starts.
Death had many names;
The mountain owls. They fly in flocks
and take prey diving on rabbits or great
bustards. Have you seen the courtship
display of bustards? They are heavy birds. Fly,
but also run very fast.

Soaring flight of eagle. Keen sight and a massive
hooked bill. Hawk takes prey by surprise.
Falcon catches prey from above.

I think water. Don't cry. Your son was
drowned in a tank when he was three. Head
down. We pulled him out after half-an-hour.
Brain damaged. He babbles now, lives a vegetable.

Neat. Death had many faces. You want her.
It will not come on asking. I think flames. We
must lock the house, and come out on skywalk.

poem by Satish Verma
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Turbulence

A night out with mosquitoes for a sharp
comment of urgency to end the war after a decapitated
unnamed flesh of words found six inches short
I can write only poems This very ordinary life appears
to be worthless

without vocabulary unsemantic between us I am
enslaved alive going beyond the stings in my
heart I try to find my voice burning inside a never
gone pain do you hear me I am very lonely in the
jungle of falls Am I descending

infarcts are spreading the paresis inability
to raise the finger fear of manuscript I am
never was there in cloudless desert the starless
night moonless sky it is very dark Out
of emptiness comes an explosion Is it a new creation

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poem by Satish Verma
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Last Flowers

A hero demands affection, the heat
for a surrogate role
of a saviour of oppressed.
Deafness increases
towards the integrity of a failed man.

To become something after impotence
with implicit metaphysical rags
worn in chains of blind silence.
It was all, molesting the parting hour,
or nothing, obscuring the pressing hope.

The game continues to bluff the speechless
for casting a spell on innocent vision.
Essence and rose want to separate,
no sensual dive in the sea of
silken love with blackened hands.

The other forehead has a smear of blood.
My fingers move in tender wrongs, you

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poem by Satish Verma
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Revocation

A grandson sails through the century
jumps into the chair of grandfather
and revokes the death penalty
for the iconoclast who refuses to be alive.

A truth should be deemed again
to find the mystery of death.
Between man and divinity
lies the fiction
which no body wants to write off.

Green goes the sea in full moon
the earth has a debt to pay.
Sometimes you walk a long distance
to know when the sun will rise.

Unchanged remains the odor of wind.
The chest feels the punch
fetching the burden of roaring sounds
in the domain of soundless solitude.

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poem by Satish Verma
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Shifting Sands

Using me,
I take a refuge in desire.
‘Seeing act’ strangulates.
I suffer in the mists of defeat,
there is no evidence.
One attachment catches the conflict.
The fading light of moon burns my pillow,
transcripts impenetrable theme.

Conceiving a problem
in the shifting sands, life seeks
a view of words and enjoys the discreet
meaningless movement.
We play the game again & again,
feed our egos. Study the sorrow
and give charity to the torn flags
of pride and hunger.

The fear does not end,
the looking does not stop.

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poem by Satish Verma
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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.

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poem by Satish Verma
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Guiled ‘me’...

That is how I injured myself
desiring the right thing,
extracting the reason from charity.
I will now pluck off the rage, the silence,
the exotica from the frozen valley.
Words will become my foes swimming in your eyes.

I was listening to your questions
without becoming a witness; I was my own answer.
The time was revengeful. Show was over.
We were losing the relevance
and guests had departed.
We were becoming the walls of a glass house.

I dread my conscience, a terrible roaring in mind.
Does not allow me to sleep. Values were insulting me.
Falling like an old wall-paper; truth went unnoticed.
Peacocks were dying daily.
I am going to lose myself in the night
of a moonless sky.

poem by Satish Verma
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