Lame sunrises and midday sunsets
Fangs in words and perils in laughters
Sweet archs of smiling fires and silky shouts in talking forests
I come from the bitter of cobstones paved down the coalfield
Broken lutes and snoring cork oaks
Freckles of lipstick and suckles of martinis
A bosom of pounds, a pavilion of dangling beryls and a breech of honeycombs
I come from the lust of the chaste lass
White moths and black mushrooms
Coffins of treasures amid covens of night mayors
Whispers of thunders and creaks of ant-steps
I come from the stones in the chicken's gizzard
Shards of fate and vials of morphine
Ponds of rheum and fogs of cold incense
A stew of scimitars, a brandise of stone and the heathenry of whitesmiths
I come from the furs in the abattoir
Sonnets in pools of ink and grace in quills of peacocks
Sequels of black weresheep and bugles of lean shepards
A wit of one accord and a grit of a myriad taut
I come from furnace that boils the molten poetry soup
Categories:
coalfield, identity, meaningful, mirror, symbolism,
Form: Free verse
It was one-off.
I will not punish myself
again for brazen, stone writing,
girding the aneurism, after
a long siege.
An entire night was lost
in repairing the blue vase.
You want to cut off the coalfield.
The gloom plunges deep. A
swallow tweets for a passerby.
In the heart of darkness,there was
the fire, a purple flame, ready
to suckle the unborn sun.
the grass breaks the rock.
I pray for the burns.
Satish Verma
Categories:
coalfield, art,
Form: ABC