Silently you went to disappear in blue – alone or unalone – I was watching a moth on the burning lamp in night way scrawled flat as death’s signature on the heap of broken wings, between space and time an extra dimension,
the position of a point from void to center of chaos, life extracts the measurement,
a smile lost the lips a vision, eyes – outside body, the soul scribbles mist and crumbs of age.
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 email@example.com. 5-A ii, Mayoor Colony, Alwar Gate, Ajmer – 305007 INDIA Mobile +91 9829071468
As a result of abundant endowment, A state in nature, ensured of security A stage of impasse had we reached, Below which a formidable breech, The means of effectiveness without, Our primitive tools of war betrayed. Despite the valour we
If I forget spring, bruise my face with grass to meld with soil in prescience of later ritual. If I forget summer, drip on my tongue the blood of fresh berries, and the insolent taste of mint. If I forget
Our age is a deciduous tree, sheds yellow desires every year makes room for new ones in the spring of opportunity. Some desires resemble oak leaves, cramped and brown- still cling in mothers’ bosoms like our plans, albums, possessions. Alas,
We will all live to a ripe old age. If not here, then probably over there… If not over there, then defiantly someplace else…. The mind is everywhere at once…. Experiences vary…. When I die in one place the others