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.
That fake encounter
takes place everyday amidst peels of darkness
and terror strikes you when you were
looking for the healing torch.
Clutching the old rags of history
I sit on the pyramid of bones:
somewhere the sanity puts up a metaphore
in the abyss of ashes.
I travel with untouchables to unburden
the past; between us we throw the questions
to escape from the sizzling heat of truth,
lifting the lids of time.
Cause will suffer, the answers linger
pure as glittering lies. The purple
guilt smells of a dying flute.
Satish Verma
------------------------------------------
SONG OF BLUE
That fake encounter
takes place everyday amidst peels of darkness
and terror strikes you when you were
looking for the healing torch.
Clutching the old rags of history
I sit on the pyramid of bones:
somewhere the sanity puts up a metaphore
in the abyss of ashes.
I travel with untouchables to unburden
the past; between us we throw the questions
to escape from the sizzling heat of truth,
lifting the lids of time.
Cause will suffer, the answers linger
pure as glittering lies. The purple
guilt smells of a dying flute.
Satish Verma
------------------------------------------
SONG OF BLUE
That fake encounter
takes place everyday amidst peels of darkness
and terror strikes you when you were
looking for the healing torch.
Clutching the old rags of history
I sit on the pyramid of bones:
somewhere the sanity puts up a metaphore
in the abyss of ashes.
I travel with untouchables to unburden
the past; between us we throw the questions
to escape from the sizzling heat of truth,
lifting the lids of time.
Cause will suffer, the answers linger
pure as glittering lies. The purple
guilt smells of a dying flute.
Satish Verma
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THE GOODBYE
By: Satish Verma | 24/11/2009A marble calm under the shaky gaze was parsing the human pain. I would lift the calculated grief from folded earth.
AWARENESS
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THE FROST
By: Satish Verma | 23/11/2009to release the hostages of unknown fears. The menacing fog was towering over statements. Everything was turning into coal and the smoke was streaming from the oasis.
THE GOODBYE
By: Satish Verma | 24/11/2009 | PoetryA marble calm under the shaky gaze was parsing the human pain. I would lift the calculated grief from folded earth.
AWARENESS
By: Satish Verma | 24/11/2009 | PoetryA fragile pistillum sways to conceal the sperms in pestle. Unilaterally fired salvos were increasing. After the dig, bodies in the debris were popping up daily.
ARTFUL PINCERS
By: Satish Verma | 24/11/2009 | PoetryA terror of alikeness looms like stricken birds, incenerated in split seconds. You smell the burning flesh in an air blitz. Nearing endgame a conceptual hate is jettisioned in sky. You start collecting the fragments of life.
A TUMULTUOUS WELCOME
By: Satish Verma | 23/11/2009 | PoetryPredicament of deficit bombs. Motivated artillary. It is incursion of sterling thieving, of sisyphean pain. The plaques were becoming honorable. The spoon bills landing on dry lake.
A TUMULTUOUS WELCOME
By: Satish Verma | 23/11/2009 | PoetryPredicament of deficit bombs. Motivated artillary. It is incursion of sterling thieving, of sisyphean pain. The plaques were becoming honorable. The spoon bills landing on dry lake.
A TUMULTUOUS WELCOME
By: Satish Verma | 23/11/2009 | PoetryPredicament of deficit bombs. Motivated artillary. It is incursion of sterling thieving, of sisyphean pain. The plaques were becoming honorable. The spoon bills landing on dry lake.
THE FROST
By: Satish Verma | 23/11/2009 | Poetryto release the hostages of unknown fears. The menacing fog was towering over statements. Everything was turning into coal and the smoke was streaming from the oasis.
SHELLING UNCOUNTED
By: Satish Verma | 23/11/2009 | Poetryattitude. The creepers were trapped in the impatient blind-catchers.Unforgettable waiting for the flamed silence was from night till dawn. The sun will peep discreetly.