About satishverma

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 kantasatish@gmail.com. 5-A ii, Mayoor Colony, Alwar Gate, Ajmer – 305007 INDIA

It Was Time

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Did you know
what was the time?
O, watchmaker,
trapped in your own shadow,
you were yourself a fugitive.

Leaky ethics.
Standing on the edge of
sunken earth, you were facing
an inevitable fall.
Do not take a flight, O time.

Walk with me. I did’t want
to lead you. Why were you
holding on to chaste buds. Birds
were gone. The gravitational
pull will find the targets.

Ah, the molested
intelligence, now wants, no compensation.

Something To Grieve

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Facing an imminent
onslaught of apparitions, I
wanted an excuse,
to write a poem.

Staying raw,
in this dark, can I see your particle
face? Drop by drop you
moved away. Between –

you and me was a blue
lake. Shall I undo your
percussive existence, brutalizing
the wings, the peaks?

An Aryan pride? Why
not we walk back home
hand in hand, under the black
sky and a summer moon.

Step By Step

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Are you questioning yourself
between right and wrong?
Moon was watching


A cuckoo sings
somberly. In a rainy morn.
Why were you not coming
for undoing a sin?


The evenings are
listless. Nothing to do,
nothing to brood.
Immaculate dying.

The Massacre

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Arrange the foot-candles
for candela. I am not
going on back foot.
Moon was not burning tonight.

The real darkness descends.
You brace yourself
for a crude assault.
Clouds are thinning out.

You wanted to remove
yourself from the Eros.
Was it not egregious when,
someone is shot when he was sitting quietly?

An amorous saint? Will
you be able to separate-
sex from the violence? He was-
a jester, just acting in a movie.

The Withering Blossoms

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The guile demands
some apology,
from raw stings.

Flirting with illegibility:
Mercurially hot,
there was a preempt strike.

The monsoon comes late.
You would wait for the
wet encounter.

Not seedy one;
dragging a green wound.
Ending sine die.

The white salt
on the lips will speak-
the telltale marks, of crude assault.

Who will surrender
in the end, I will
find out, covering my eyes.


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A shirtless detachment,
will speak
for the dead,
attaining peace!


Knowing oneself,
I was told,
was a very ardent
effort. I don’t know.


I float the words, on
lake. One day they
will reach you without rhyme.


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A relative lie,
becomes the truth.
Will you meet me, on the
cobbled street, where the gospels
are cowering in terror;
to find the style.

Becoming; to be a void. As if
I was not there. Unpetaled,
the ovary will ask
the bees to land immediately
on open mouths.

From the veiled moon,
comes a stifled cry.
Do not collect the peaches.


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Beyond dreams,
a wise lake, watching my absurdity,
of playing with the tyranny
of absolute. And I am trying
to remember, who had said,
that the core victim was me;
in simile,
to a drowning boat.

I remained,
a small seed, still
waiting till eternity to find a
thread of light, which should reach
the depth of the dust, the stone
the water, awakening me to
send my radical, going down,
down into the evasive words.


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A haunted moon,
sauntered into the woods,
slogging again and again
to pass the gender test.

There was a fear of
abduction. Orange
and blue, where it ought to have
been absolutely white.

I don’t think She can
become a He, shedding
the robes, crossing the time
zones, in hurry.

A moon should
behave in a celestial manner
becoming a fluid lover
to kiss in dark.

In Deep Conversation

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a hunt will start,

a freak. A zipless encounter
without a knife.

I am not going
to lose a blue peacock.
Light will not come.

Into the dark recess
I had planted
a time bomb

in the womb.
Give me a blight,
if you want.

Yet I am going
to sail, combing
the moon.