Posted by: tsopr | April 13, 2010

Satish Verma, Indian Poet

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 reclusive 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.

                               Featured Poetry of Satish Verma


Vexed at a long sit in,
after collision
we will meet at a canal
in the watery grave.
You believed in philosophy of giving
I would apologize for the slaughter of babies.

Pink dolls
I wished to know why they were thrown
on a bank of the river.
The maroon red water
wanted to snub the lawmakers.
Step out from bloody arm badges,

there was no hope to count
the death toll. Abandoned lies
the face of god in mud.
Paper name for the dead child
paper name for the living father.


Will you tell me what it was
the unknown of the known?
When you step into the eyes of strangers
you start talking without uttering a single word.

Give me back the body,
of dark pink matter
to understand the god’s will.
He was sitting in field of sugarcane.

The petrol burns with hate
in the necks of panthers.
Tiger, tiger I look at my son coming back
after encounter.

The bleeding revolution has overturned
tomorrow. Nobody knows where we are heading.
The babies flick like tender candles
inside the saints.


Spurred the kerosene
to burn the logistics.
I had moved on untrodden snow
of tanned gifts.

There was no tomorrow for me,
living from moment to moment.
The warships
had moved into positions.

Adoring the monotheism, I still
loved many angels, you were
making many moons for me.
Breathless I was running after gold rings.

Terrible, the bell breaks my ankle
and the anklets emit the trembling
moons. Let us go out on the lake
I have many scores to settle.


It was thawing
the golden amber.
Red butterfly flew out
and sat on my lips.

Buttons were lying,
no milk was left in pools.
The hungry moons
were going back.

In a web of deceit
fly was the truth.
Whom you would like to help,
Predator or insect?


Wearing a skin
where flesh had melted
in blankness.

The moon was sitting
on window
parting the curtains

The sunset
accepts the death
as final verdict

Small scholars
will find out the pain
of molesting.

Estrogen untamed
on street
rises in arches.


It was inheritance
of age
before the mirrors
for the language of windows.

The high rise buildings
always cast a pall of gloom, earth seems to slide
and I cannot reach the sky.

I want to say
what I did not want to say.
The lake has gone in a siege
till infinity.

Wrap me a sharp knife
I will cut my tongue today
to offer to goddess of shame.
The light has gone away from my heart.


In the dust storm
a discarded moon
sat in my lap.

Then internal rhythm
Amorphic I would not find the music

of words translated into a kiss.
Gold started weeping
in my hands.

The clouds will rest
after committing a sin,
of letting out the sun.


Driving green fire
out of melodies.
It was not make-believe
not mannerism
but smell of autopsy.
A pseudo-elegy starts
at burial site.

Frugality of dust
first decides to go to god
and then die.
Race, religion, tribe
and their foot-soldiers
had become red

for lupines. It feels like
fire of hell. I am drunk
and I am burning.


You toppled the invisible
burning the unburied buttons
joining the history of names.

Will I be able to communicate
with straw to find out the age
of the un-arrived seeds?

There is too much violence in
green blood. The broken tooth
bled to death of a truth. The

oratory was becoming a weapon
to break your mirrors. Will there
ever be peace to flying guests?

A service should be rendered
to the poem who burned like a
candlelight in the stormy night.


Among the crania, clouds allowed
a variation of sky. The hominids
stood up and started a stride, with
long steps towards noxious future.

The cobalt was emitting radiation
turning you black, melting your bones,
suppressing the marrow. On the thigh
climbs the holocaust.

A child in polythene, O golden god
you have killed the man by giving him
the gifts. The sand-pit, I am buried
alive in it before I understood.

Of stones, a voice was rising. Do
we address the deep water disappearing
fast in the mind? A projectile to
be worshipped?

Copyright © 2010 Satish Verma


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