Biography of Satish Verma
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 firstname.lastname@example.org.
5-A ii, Mayoor Colony, Alwar Gate, Ajmer – 305007 INDIA Mobile +91 9829071468
Satish Verma's Works:
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Satish Verma Poems
Loss Of Identity
It was chillingly true. You walked out─ of the soot, without leaving any footprints.
After the moon it was an unkempt night. I wanted to kill the narrative
When you release the words, your curled fingers burst into flame.
The black holes ringed the galaxy. Tainted moon, was in tow.
Breaking the path by random steps, you move, and thoughts make a ritual dance. In a wingless flight,
Polarity hits you at face, Thoughts. Move inversely. The deed, words, slogans divide the eternity of time. No hygienic patience. Persons coming from channels only.
When you were learning how to kill, somebody was beheading my faith.
a pervasive bareness walks like an honest lie on the road to truth the bone white marble god oversees the planet green’s woes
Pushed by troubled waters on the periphery; dream interrupted, you start coloring your nails differently.
A brisling terror tormenting the kelp. Give me a lamenting mast
A restive moon went on skirmishing with─ the palm leaves in dark.
A moon interrupted; riles the social class. A native sense comes of age.
Happy Valley Of Stings
I don’t fake the pain pain was me. A grafted rose opens up along the road rage.
A heap of voices hails you, when you stop in the tract. The silence migrates to new depths where silhouettes are created,
And everyday we talk about the sinister designs
of semilunar nights to rob us of our days
when the sleep was far away chasing the sleep
and the crumbeled continuity of a tale lay unpeeled.
How to highlight the dates on our calenders?
You keep forgetting even the years
when your forefathers left.
And deep in the green grass the names were wiped out.