There was thunder in the hut
teeth clattered under the ground.
Handcuffed you walk in inequality
to qualify for hanging till dead.
the hunt begins after sunset
under cracked moon, blindfolded clouds
start visiting volitionlessly:
Young days start with a nostalgia
for a lost freedom
Anxiety was the prime suspect.
A thirsty town fails, harvesting the moon,
and turns into a vast lake of tears.
They were fighting for their right to remain
poor and hungry. It was a fractured
A dumb copy of me.
You were done for.
Sometimes the design goes awry.
Beyond the gaze there is a time zone
of rumored agitation
when you cannot sleep.
You open your eyes quietly to complain.
Twilight song of a cuckoo
taps the window softly.
Gothic tree and drooping sky
humble my thoughts.
Do not knock out the water from the eyes,
each dropp is temple
each dropp is death.
Coming out of the cemetry,
Faith, does not tell you the truth.
Becomes chaste innocence,
What I don't see, I
see. I will go where I don't reach.
The human failing shines.
I was trying to mend
my mutilated poems without you.
Sometimes a nimble hand hurts.
In reality― you were
in a ring of fire. I had been
left with no claim on you.
Your failure had become mine.
Anxiety was touching the mime
I cannot hold a reality.
We were playing with each other.
Grey air. I will come to myself, igniting
the fire. When will be ground reality known?
Standing on the cusp of pain.
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 email@example.com.
5-A ii, Mayoor Colony, Alwar Gate, Ajmer – 305007 INDIA Mobile +91 9829071468
Turns me on
I will write a poem.
Delirious moon had
picked me up from under the skin.
The safety pin was broken,
now a crowd will disrobe me.
Everytime when my pain makes you cry
oranges are not meant for the sale.
A collegium will stich up the wound.
Once upon a caste the country will go.
• On reading Orange Crush of Simone Muench.