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

The Signs

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This music was insane.
Do not pluck the wounded apples
of conjugal extraction.

The volatility was increasing.
Shades of blue were
sharpening. The intrusive moon

will decide the fate of
fossilized fracture. The death
came by the back door.

The rough edges are to
be smothered, after a back
encounter. The saint was ready.

The anxiety overwhelms. You
try to find a small window
to bring in the song bird.

Empty Dreams

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After the civil war in temples
a wodden god
with broken nose, was walking
with a stick.

Half-way to home
he wanted to turn back
and meet his shadow
in the lake.

A mountain goat climbs
down the rocks to become
a martyr. Leaps into a dark
stream clinging to the veil.

A blue pine takes a bath
in the summer rain. A
midnight moon will call the spirits
to dance for gamblers.

In Totality

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The riot was within.
Not getting along with social
revolution you would lie
on purple patch without seeking
any privy.

Who were the barbarians
which were going to release
the brutal pattern of bloodshed
during sunset on
the lake?

A mistrial will dispatch
the violence and you will drop
dead on the dirt path leading
to bed of roses. A theme will
wait for the signing of the book.

Someone punched you in solar
plexus. You said, I don’t
die daily to live.


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The silence of the road
intends to pause the observer’s speed.
Unchanged continuity
had a cubic quality.

Presenting yourself to lick salt
before molestation.
The sanctity
stands violated.

The horror thing looms
large, neatly dressed
dancing in your boots.
The path ends at a tree.

You misprint the name
of a tormentor.
Man becomes a beast
in a love triangle.


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You miss the words and numbers.
The gameplan gets ascention. The
podium was high.
And so was your head.

Swallowed by the winds
unable to reach the end of journey.
Were you not thinking?
Was it a treason to withdraw –

from the frills? In love scare
there were other things to do,
in the storm,
like collecting the thorns.

You step outside the dark and
feel the limbs of light,
altering the script to become
a miracle.


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The padded words
perdured the fall of factuality
into the gaping maw of untruth.

The barriers start
crumbling for stilts
but the alley leads to a jungle of tales.

The manipulation walks
on the frozen lake of eyes.
Blue shadows move underneath to-

find the door. You spend
whole life to locate the dock.
The old sea and man drift in dark.

Only a seagull flies
in morning fog to trace
the sun, halted in clouds.

A Love Theme

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Dusting a rose
dissecting a heart. There was wilder-
ness in the woods.

I cannot touch you
O, wood sage
you were so ephemeral.

Your hands were
knitting a bright wound in the air.
Where was the moon?

Not a kiss,
the prodigal sun
wants a death wish of a canary.

The snow on the
eyes. I wished I had
met you earlier.


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Building your space,
you were dying daily
invading the acoustics.

How the continence
was going to help-
living with scars of explosions?

Mutating into a full-fledged
saintliners, an inner conflict
becomes a profile.

Crawling to a stone
a crayon draws a cell
without incendiary rhetoric?

Decoding an icon
becomes a daily ritual. From
where will come the write?

Smoking The Mirror

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Talking to bougainvilleas,
one day I will cut my tongue.
Why the beautiful bracts were
protecting the trivial seeds?

The flowers started clicking
to deliver a white god to a black
temple. Human shield was to
avenge the enemy beyond the infinity.

Below the ashes what were you
trying to find out in dark?
The cancer? It was eating away
the vitals of an orphaned fruit.

The predator had become the
prey, drawing the sheet of
blood on the moon. The birds
were leaving the tree.

A Torn Page

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A hundred pounds bite.
It was a matter of faith
with copperhead.

A maddening silence
dodging the window,
where the moon sits.

The peril will always stay
reneging, of the big space
for next victim.

Quaint feeling persists.
Of shearing the clouds
to knit a bright Venus.

The eventual escape.
To be the name
on a bloodied sword.