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
I mused at the turn of event at the scene The landscape is replicate with the shapes and color not in harmony with what nature would have loved to create given his craftsmanship This was a human configuration to give
All the things I never said before really doesn’t matter much anymore the world is changing me like never before like a ghost in the thick of fog…well truth is stranger than fiction just like a fire burning somewhere out
loggerhead turtles drawn to the moon become distracted, lured by airport beacons to die in strange terrain here in day’s dry whiteness lizards endlessly pause, and bats caper through clustering dusks of vines and lemons drawn from solar cells water
It’s a strange relation that we share, Strangest of them, but we dare To look at each other in the eyes And tell our hearts all those lies. But we have no promises to keep, No selfish meanings to reap.
It was burning again like goldenrods in drift valley of ethnic hate. You start climbing down deeper in fear holding tight your identity. The anguish of ruined home under the shadows of bribed hands, runs on the bodies of pilgrims