You said it was a sin to trade for the hunger. I was looking into your eyes, something was amiss, tears had become stones. How long your breast was carrying this despair? You said it was a crime to hold the grief.
I was looking at the sky, vultures have gone. But pugmarks of hyenas are very distinct around the house. I am saving the chocolates for winter kidnapping the heart. You said it was an irony to sing a heart-breaking song!
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
Sitting between the knees, I am being bathed by intense anxiety and fear of harsh light. A canopy of doubts confronts the dignity versus anarchy for a watchman who will not dare open- the vault of truth. A fatal ire
You’ve kept my heart’s dynamite aflame You know I can never be the same since your charming kiss did my heart tame. What words can describe your beauty’s fame? No smile can contend with yours’ my dame. It sends sorrow
A missile in the home, what they have done? You are on flames. A red smoke rises from bottomless hole. Memory slumps. A glow in pain washed cells, calls the mirror. Instead, grave diggers arrive. This was the manufactured truth