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
metaphysical impulse ensues through the flames of resistance shun its existence etched beneath the tapestry of loosened conclaves alone in desperation in the night heavy sounds of cosmic illumination in temples of fire reaching ever higher on point locked in
As I walked back to my house, i heard a stranger that passed me by mumbling numbly to himself about why a sidewalk will never unfold itself near the end of a routine and then become a fretwork of shadows.
It’s those sultry days that sooth my soul, In the searing heat, empty like after birth we would bath, Fear of appearing odd, the taste of the sweet waters, Oblivious of each other’s different destiny, Our foggy minds leading the
As the tram runs on the rails, Weather bitten houses emerge telling tales, Revolutionaries’ urge for freedom, Idealism in poetry and fiction, Reminiscent of immortal singers, Dancers in their grace, Tears trickle down in claustrophobia; yearning for a home which
It was midnight moon cruising in the bedroom. I step aside in the depressed window, watch the overwhelming spillover. I listen, then do not listen to alien voices of bipolar beings, speaking Aryan, artfully in cryptic signs crunching the bones.