Immensity of deviation was exploding. Abruptly my frail frame collapsed. I did not know the answers. I was lost in my inner sanctum, full of hollow escapes.
The ugly ‘ism’ was devastating. Not in, not out. I was blowing up in a burnt out moon, pure as sin, prodding, writhing, stuck in tar, melting in hot sun.
As a projection of inner violence, a psychopath shoots an innocent on the temple, forsaken, revengeful. No qualms for grazing the godhood, the voice of sanity remains sitting on a toad stool.
The fairy rings are growing larger and larger, sanaria shrinking. Epileptic paranoia overpowering outside, I am sick, but relentless, the shadow disappears in valley, down the memory. I let go the blurred spirit, in a fit of rage, standing alone.
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
There once was an imp whose appearance was vain, his behavior was foolish, even his speech and imposing mannerisms were maimed! From those eastern cannibalistic lands afar he and his kind had once been blessed, indentured to serve the superlative
The unwed moon rowing like a swan on blue lake after making love to silence. Dignified shadows walk on black beach gathering white heels. Only lunatics will sing in shapeless lines. Who cares for a sequence? The milk of love