16 January, 2017

Asking Yourself

Exploring yourself― 
with an ornate dagger,
to find the missing link.

My integrity was at
stake. From where did―
you start?

Bring the steel from
the sea, and loneliness
from the storm.

The beige sunset
would dare to go ahead
of the red moon.

Will you threaten a
small reply? The lips were
in the state of siege.

I will meet you
one day at distant dangers.
How far you will go with me?

Satish Verma

Without Curse

The animals are―
in solid fear,
of man.

Fauna was in distress,
delivering the offspring―
to unnamed creator.

Earthworms were
regrouping to start burrowing
under the mausoleums.

Stoicism would find
a new house. The mutiny had
collapsed in good weather.

Of winter and summer,
You know the discipline of
winds, when birds sing.

Satish Verma

15 January, 2017

Out Of Way

I do not know,
If it was a religious assault―
to meet god,
face to face―
when my poem was burning.

One tooth broken―
I cannot speak properly. But
my eyes will show my angst,
my unretrieved light
from a tunnel.

Who will find the sun, when
night was sick? And grievers
had gone to dig up a grave?

There was a meaningless pain,
in waiting. The poem was dead.

Day you are in, day you
are out. It was a beauty
to hear nothing.

Satish Verma

Coming Out In Dark

Starting a crush,
on the baby face moon.
Only half-sinned
by staying quiet.

Think straight.
If you don't spell out,
you will snap―
like the fallen blue angel.

Falling in arms. Space
was small. Ars poetica―
faulted. You feel―
luggage was heavy.

For a griever, it was
a long walk. In trance a
city lifts your pyre.
You refuse to burn alive.

Calling names in sleep.

Satish Verma

14 January, 2017


A circle,
will not become complete,
without a center.

The peripheries
cannot be defined.

Why should we
become prisoners
of small gods?

The hope―
is a gift of unknown.

Take it.

Satish Verma

Listening To Night

Walk warily.
You are in crisis zone.
Moon will not rise today.


A bare phenomenon
of shedding the
fears in dark.


Now you will confront
to take revenge.


Like nocturnal
flight of a bat, to find
the mate on plum.


Hangs a tale of
a squirrel, waiting
for a Buddha.

Satish Verma

13 January, 2017


Where will you go
when you are not right,
not wrong?

And train will not stop
at your station. You
have to wait till sunrise.

Half-mist, half-moon―
and the glass houses.
The rocks refuse to fly.

The consecrated dawn
on a silent street whispers.
The city was dead.

I sleep after the naked
assault. The black shirts
and the white shirts have no answer.

Satish Verma