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.
The seizure,
volatile it was,
the way to tell, for the things
he did not want to say.
You suffer silently.
Coming to boiling point,
for the starkness of the torture.
The abridged wholeness was empty.
Only howling remained.
Can you measure the pain?
The depth of the wound?
Start the dialogue with the unseen?
The flame protected in the folds
of a primeval skill,
now singes the clarity.
Between you and I no space was left.
Satish Verma
-----------------------------------------
WHAT CONCLUSION WAS LEFT?
The seizure,
volatile it was,
the way to tell, for the things
he did not want to say.
You suffer silently.
Coming to boiling point,
for the starkness of the torture.
The abridged wholeness was empty.
Only howling remained.
Can you measure the pain?
The depth of the wound?
Start the dialogue with the unseen?
The flame protected in the folds
of a primeval skill,
now singes the clarity.
Between you and I no space was left.
Satish Verma
-----------------------------------------------------------
WHAT CONCLUSION WAS LEFT?
The seizure,
volatile it was,
the way to tell, for the things
he did not want to say.
You suffer silently.
Coming to boiling point,
for the starkness of the torture.
The abridged wholeness was empty.
Only howling remained.
Can you measure the pain?
The depth of the wound?
Start the dialogue with the unseen?
The flame protected in the folds
of a primeval skill,
now singes the clarity.
Between you and I no space was left.
Satish Verma
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A SICK UNCERTAINTY
By: Satish Verma | 22/11/2009The terror burns the bed. You don’t get a wink of sleep. Between bubble and sky, wrapped up afterlife aches. You wear the blindness, then slide in grey fog. The hypocrisy and violence will wolk side by side.
PRIZEFIGHT
By: Satish Verma | 22/11/2009Down rushing stillness croons. Someone is going to outwit the night.
ENUNCIATION
By: Satish Verma | 22/11/2009geyser basins, mutated restraint. The crow was taking a bath in milk, to show that it has no venom. Or rather no controversy
MY TABOO
By: Satish Verma | 21/11/2009In the night, wisteria emanates a hungry cry. Though wind had announced sun has not kept the promise.
MEDALS AND AWARDS
By: Satish Verma | 21/11/2009Tonight a visual poem will come alive on a dirty screen of life. Words were written like mercy on the hands.
CROSSING
By: Satish Verma | 21/11/2009am not getting the signals of fire, sparks or flames. Only smoke on the mirror. It was becoming a murder, discarding the clay, terracotta, color in Indian summer. A sensuous dance begins, on the mobiles. The portfolio contains the numbers of streets for total annihilation so the visual footprints will disappear. The mathematical progress of genes halts. Million fingers will write history of wailing waves, frightened
BLUE SKY
By: Satish Verma | 20/11/2009The naked darkness will nurse the roses to rest on the barrel of a gun. Civil war will start any day.
REMEMBRANCE
By: Satish Verma | 20/11/2009A sexual abuse of a quaint flower aborts the fruit. This year we will go hungry.
PRIZEFIGHT
By: Satish Verma | 22/11/2009 | PoetryDown rushing stillness croons. Someone is going to outwit the night.
ENUNCIATION
By: Satish Verma | 22/11/2009 | Poetrygeyser basins, mutated restraint. The crow was taking a bath in milk, to show that it has no venom. Or rather no controversy
MY TABOO
By: Satish Verma | 21/11/2009 | PoetryIn the night, wisteria emanates a hungry cry. Though wind had announced sun has not kept the promise.
MEDALS AND AWARDS
By: Satish Verma | 21/11/2009 | PoetryTonight a visual poem will come alive on a dirty screen of life. Words were written like mercy on the hands.
CROSSING
By: Satish Verma | 21/11/2009 | Poetryam not getting the signals of fire, sparks or flames. Only smoke on the mirror. It was becoming a murder, discarding the clay, terracotta, color in Indian summer. A sensuous dance begins, on the mobiles. The portfolio contains the numbers of streets for total annihilation so the visual footprints will disappear. The mathematical progress of genes halts. Million fingers will write history of wailing waves, frightened
BLUE SKY
By: Satish Verma | 20/11/2009 | PoetryThe naked darkness will nurse the roses to rest on the barrel of a gun. Civil war will start any day.
REMEMBRANCE
By: Satish Verma | 20/11/2009 | PoetryA sexual abuse of a quaint flower aborts the fruit. This year we will go hungry.