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. Satish Verma has published seven volumes of poetry in English and four in Hindi, translated three books of Ravindra Nath Tagore in Hindi. He lives in Ajmer [INDIA] where he runs a charitable holistic institute called SEWA MANDIR FOUNDATION.
A nebula rises unfazed after fission:
after a fractured debate, greed crouching on
the wrinkled noses of rugged bouncers.
In remote history someone was burning itself out.
A black eye surges forward, sings an ode to
championship. Ankles swell up. Veins become
jelly. The thyme is absent. Stink bellows on
your faces. The green pond becomes red; tragedy of wounds.
Speaker in bloody silence quotes the black sun
out of despair. Everything was in disarray.
In mating of souls flesh flew in rage;
a pink river swamped the inmates of tomorrow.
Enough! Time marches on the dead leaves of sorrow.
My candle burns at both ends. Alien moons
keep a watch. Bloodlines are obliterating. We
seek the graves of unknown soldiers!
Satish Verma
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
FIGHTERS AT LARGE
A nebula rises unfazed after fission:
after a fractured debate, greed crouching on
the wrinkled noses of rugged bouncers.
In remote history someone was burning itself out.
A black eye surges forward, sings an ode to
championship. Ankles swell up. Veins become
jelly. The thyme is absent. Stink bellows on
your faces. The green pond becomes red; tragedy of wounds.
Speaker in bloody silence quotes the black sun
out of despair. Everything was in disarray.
In mating of souls flesh flew in rage;
a pink river swamped the inmates of tomorrow.
Enough! Time marches on the dead leaves of sorrow.
My candle burns at both ends. Alien moons
keep a watch. Bloodlines are obliterating. We
seek the graves of unknown soldiers!
Satish Verma
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*PLASMA SCREEN
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HOMECOMING
By: Satish Verma | 17/12/2009 | PoetryThe yellow beaked vultures were waiting. A cloth bag contains the bleached remains; his father. Impeccable gift unmasked. After the inferno, hydrants went dry. The guilt survives the dispossession, pondering over the black dew now covering the pink roses.
THE TROUBLED FAITH
By: Satish Verma | 17/12/2009 | PoetryThat vertical sink loaded with cargo fraught, with pools of blackened blood burned me.
SUN’S INHERITANCE
By: Satish Verma | 16/12/2009 | PoetryThis was a raw thing. A paranoid template for AK-47 rifles. The homemade bombs were planted on the roadside. A very explosive blend of a fedayeen. You cannot take it anymore this jihad. In everyday life inside comes out in the graveyard. It drizzles, the fake beliefs.
EXPORTING
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A MONUMENT
By: Satish Verma | 16/12/2009 | PoetryWanting to feel your breath in this room, in half-light, my hands opened the window to let him in, the green moon.
EXPORTING
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RETURNING
By: Satish Verma | 14/12/2009 | PoetryYou come home, sitting on my shoulders. I bid you farewell at door. Death tiptoes in dark before looking at the bare hands. A new concept of ending comes out from crozier. Uncoiling has stopped. In loincloth a truth unravels the mystery of cells. A warm transparency. You walk around objectively, returning the gifts to birds, bees and aspens. It was time not to put up excuses. The wings are tired and wind was falling.