Poetry of Satish Verma

Satish Verma

For Whom the Moon Spills?                                        

It was a sane apology,
for not forgetting you.
Concealing your tears,
you come to land
in my poems.

You are crazy―
trying to teach bloodless affinity
with milkweed butterflies.

I think of not anyone else,
when I am thoughtless.
You creep into my veins like
cobra love.

The scream remains trapped
between sharp teeth.
I eject the mercy of venom.

And I step down as
trooper of Magenta.

You throw me the rope to cross the river.


Quotes fail to wake on―
neat thinking. Truth
was going to a trial.

I will speak less
for ultimate, what we are
heading for. I was―
my own god.

At the start of the poem
you will find a swastika.
With curved arms, I was rowing a boat
under the moon.

A nose dive of a
shooting star still haunts me.
Where were you, when the
sky was burning ?

A sacred prayer binds us both
waiting for an angel
to tie us apart. We will
watch, but go blind.

The hunger keeps the fire going.

Blue Games

I think not,
I am. Still blindfolded
carrying the rusted shovel
on my shoulder.

The old rage
refuses to die. What is that gene
which makes you shudder ?
And you lie like a beached whale !

The eccentric words
wrap you up again and embrace
the moon for taking revenge.

Very little arsenal
was left in my blue-veined
arms. Nobody wins in our
daily war.

Some hidden wounds will
surfaces at night. I
come out in dark, cruising
the lanes to find my poem.

Drunk Like Black Stones  

Drop the million
stars. Don't you go high
in the air. Sky will
do some scandals.

And there was a deeper
meaning. Can you read
between the lines drawn on
the forehead of a blank face ?
A sad man's dilemma ?

You know what I don't
know. It was upon me to
prove the guilt of mirror. Overnight
it was raining on roses.

So simple but enigmatic.
So many buddhas for many
questions. I will move inwardly
to find you in the jungle of bluebells.

History repeats.
I fall in your autumn.

I will Not Forego

Walk like me
on burning coals.
You will taste a moon.

A misty link
of inner planet, flaunts
the projectile, going straight
for the sun.

So you believe in
incredible rebirth of darkness
after full moon ?

No standoff of this kind
will continue , if the
nightingale returns unveiled.

Infantile ache
spurs again the honeysuckle.
It was red sky after
the sunset.

Pray not crunch
with muffled scream.
There was a rose without thorns.