I stay connected out of the body, with fireworks, to widen the relativity, to read the language of fear. Death of a tree was mourned by leaves in shadow. The dew lies awake crying.
The town was disappearing without a dialogue with past, we were digging our heritage. In search of roots life was killing the tomorrow. You an answer seeking which was not yet born. Over the mind an ancient prayer floats.
The house was on fire the words cannot cover the flaming body. It was dying beautifully. The space between the memories will shrink and we will destroy the ugly calender.
Satish Verma is ferociously original. You feel resentment, outrage and violence, cannot pin it down but wonderfully spin your brain. Satish has the greatest sensibility which sweetly exploits the delicacies of human conflicts. You are taken aback. This is magic, profoundly soulful. In a lone, long journey Satish Verma is still discovering himself. Beaten, betrayed, felled, he comes back with fierce velocity. His childhood was traumatized by India’s partition. Terror, violence and death were witnessed which built the morals of poet. Becoming defiantly recluse Satish Verma pursued his value based life on the path of truth. Teaching Botany for 35 years he was writing poetry, privately and solemnly and published twelve collections. Worked silently with social causes. His scions, doctors and engineers are living in USA. He chose to live back in his beloved country and resides in Ajmer (INDIA) with his spouse Kanta running the Charitable Holistic Institute of SEWA MANDIR FOUNDATION. He can also be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org. 5-A ii, Mayoor Colony, Alwar Gate, Ajmer – 305007 INDIA Mobile +91 9829071468
What implorations do they trace? These crooked legs in convulsion These crawly things in deathly grace What feeling evoke, what compulsion? The crushed mass on concrete floor In pasty death mocks my wisdom Should I act, or do I ignore
Shall we go like innocents with heavy breathing in the pool of blood to find the inner-connectivity of a boldly beautiful death? In the open pit of an ancient gold mine? There was a loss of hidden dance, in the
I remember the day that they stopped the clock, The day they told me your time had been bought, “We’ll make him comfortable”…those dreaded words, If there’s a “comfortable” way to die it’s absurd! I’d armed myself with so many
An old boar squirrel has made a home in the tall skinny house across the street. he must think himself lucky to have the space. I watch him build his treasury on the jade kitchen linoleum dark nuts arranged like