The Pain of Too Much Tenderness...

Where you'd gently tease me and heartily laugh

At the many idiosyncrasies which so define me,

I would savor with delight all of the oddities

Which comprise the uniqueness of your beauty.

Where you would accept playful ridicule gracefully

But question the motive behind random kindness,

I would shower you with unexpected gestures of care

That I may bask in the radiance of your happiness.

Where you would perhaps forget and disregard

The utterances emanating from my mind and heart,

I would hang on your each and every word –

With bittersweet joy to recall them when we’re apart.

Where you would facilely place aside that which I

So thoughtfully offered you to nurture your soul,

I would stretch my imagination and comfort

To attentively experience all that makes you whole.

Where you would ask me not to shed my tears

Lest they summon your own grief which you dread,

I would patiently receive your tears and embrace you

Until there were no more tears for your heart to shed.

Where you would veil your heart’s need for love

In the face of social norms and public scrutiny,

I’d openly declare the pain of too much tenderness

Lest the anguish of tomorrow’s separation be our destiny.

– Sanjay Verma

A Rainy Afternoon in Berkeley

Raindrops trickle down quivering leaves,

Splattering onto the stone slaps stepping downhill.

Intermittent trickles hum yet louder

‘til their hum alights into a thunderous roar.

The shower descends thicker,

Laying heavy the musty gray of

Winter’s first brisk bite.

A wailing Sufi,

Rhythmic hands clapping in accompaniment,

Imploring his Allah for salvation –

Hypnotic chants, rhythmic claps, longing cries

Breathing life into the still silence,

Permeating the stolid cracks and crevices,

Rekindling dormant yearnings

And setting them ablaze

With an inferno of passionate please

That his heart may be prickled by thistles

And in this sultry torment

Be awakened to ecstasy.

Hardened shells shall be shattered

To behold the young, milky, fruit within.

The wailing Sufi cries out in rapture,

A burning bosom crackling,

Hardened shells cracking at seams,

The milky nectar slithering, oozing…

Ablaze, the heart cries out in pain

Foolishly clinging to burning, shattering walls…

Grasping at nothingness it surrenders.

Tormented into submission by burning thorns

The longing heart channels the nectar

That it may flow freely through –

And quench the thirst of kindled yearnings.

– Sanjay Verma

c. November 23, 1998

Recent photo. 

Healing Hands

Healing Hands

In the punishing sunless sky above
Dreary clouds over the garden hover.
Subduing the captive landscape below
Deafening thunder has all seek cover.

Heavy rain upon fragile petals falls,
Tender and weary, they endure the weight.
Hoping for a pardon from the downpour
Their aging spirits are rendered sedate.

Stepping outside and into the nurs’ry,
The Gardener with His sharp shears does prune.
Tenderly cradling His bud He returns,
And swiftly brings indoors the gentle bloom.

Until respite from the rain is granted
The downpour does weary spirits bemuse.
When the flower into the hearth is brought,
Only His healing hands fatefully choose.

– Sanjay Verma
c. July 2, 2001