Satish Verma Poems

It was never meant,
to be the triumph
of the death
...

The ambrosial ending
of the day. I was not sure
of myself. How would the
thumb mould the pen
...

It was not mental,
when you said, ―
in solstice, the body
and the physics of ashes become
...

A wine taster was
ready to begin the birth
of night.
...

On the mount
a broad-leaved tree was preparing
for self destruction.
It was too cold
...

I am not going to touch
the meaning―
of nativity for unknown
guests.
...

In praise of body
like a bow,
shooting arrows of clemency.
But I have come to deny myself,
...

In moments of hubris,
of artificial hip,
the most unknowable thing was
the blood thought.
...

The fat moon
rises, when the bland earth
gives a call.
...

A mentalist does not feel
secure, when you start
jaywalking in the empty street.
...