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Satish Collection

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.

 

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Becoming fiercly personal 
with no physical contact, 
the crescent moon 
ultimately occults the Venus. 

The grazer now turns into 
fugitive. Was not the knower, 
was not the known. 

No past, no future, you 
move with your eyes down 
to deny the assault, the flirtation. 

Your silence was 
unthinkable. I will bring home 
the dead. Light is gone. The 
slapper sleeps. 

In emotional agony I 
start prowling for the body.

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A streak of sin was 
always there, when I looked 
at you in brief encounters. 

Cathartic. 
I would not kiss the 
eyes of a viper. 

The giver was insane. 
A bane of togetherness.You 
were getting pheromones all the time. 

Parenting was difficult. 
Now as the holy month starts. 
You were always near the moon. 

In golden sunset, 
I will prepare my elegy. 
The flames were always green. 

With the relapse of grief, 
drums sounded loud.

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Snakebitten 
you raise your hand: 
not to strike back, 
but to salute the pain. 

Weaving the aurora of stainless performance 
of inevitable. 

Not going to change my path. 

Gazing through years, 
the fog, the hurts. 

You were flame-born 
in strong winds. 
Father of woods, 
the hunger was very faithful.

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What happens when 
you stop thinking? 
Reaching near the god 
or becoming a stone? 

It was not enough even, 
when you go in coma. 
A shrine of dazzling failures. 

The animosity, the politics 
of violence.I cannot remain 
untouched.Wounds would 
never heal. 

All fever.I am not alive. 
of the marvels of religion. 
I ask you to go away.This 
Friday another Christ will die. 

Becoming whole.Was it 
possible today amidst the 
unbecoming of human beings?

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Is raining. Since night. 
You have no claim on 
dry lips. Wry stance. The 
city walks slowly. Wasted 
faces. You want to kill 
the words, the profanities. 
Want to unwrap the knife. 

I don't need any flowers. 
Always making faces. Too 
Many boats in the sea of eyes. 
Rowing, arowing. I am 
Afraid. The fast currents. And 
then my shirt becomes stained. 
Dirty words. 

You reach the bottom. The 
terrible depth. Digging up 
my body. Even my hands 
become shovels. Slowly 
I erase my name on the sand. 
The sea has divided us.

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Genus Viola. 
Which gender you want it 
to belong? 
Pansy was most effeminate. 

The tender touch. 
It reaches you inside. You 
start trembling 
like aspen, ready to fall. 

Full breasted, a 
crimson moon will spill 
the buttermilk for 
a rosarian. 

It was hot, very hot 
for the quivering pearls of pistons; 
for merciless decapitation.

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Pupil was on parole. 
You abandon the inexhaustible 
patience with increasing distance. 
Everything was fading 
when you look back. 

The things, always return. 
Like you did not carry a bundle 
of postcards written 
by your father, while emptying 
the house. 
His carved signature is still 
printed in my brain. 

Now my grand daughter saves 
the e mails sent by me. The woes 
of a pilgrim. A neutral passage 
with no feel. Some day a glitch 
will wipe out the treasure. 

We have changed the costumes. 
The inside has raw palisades.

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Less of charity 
was needed, when you sleep 
till dawn. 

The spirit of the tree 
comes down to 
wake up the sage. 

It spills the light 
for a troubled window 
cracked by hail. 

A drenched house 
of words 
becomes pale, page by page. 

I do not know 
how to tell the story 
of two bats which flew without wings.

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I want to shake them off, 
the weird thoughts, 
like a swarm of bees, 
buzzing, whining, aimed at nothing. 
Want to write me off? 

Loneliness.I 
observe the hands of a watch, 
looks like they are not moving. 
Time stands still. 
Waits for me to move. 

An atavistic ache.Again I view the world. 
Everybody is making a sound without bending. 
With dreams dead, I step into emptiness, 
barefoot, to feel the earth. 

Not going to quit, 
free to kill my ghost, 
I move into sunlight.

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A city burns. 
The child carries the father 
on his head. 

The museum of skulls. 
Nudes had blue veins 
and scars on thighs. 

The names were inherited. 
Gettysburg water 
refuses to mend the bones. 

Ah, daisies are throwing 
up the seeds in despair. 
Civilization has come very far. 

Progeny of death 
were searching the mother 
of all sins.

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Night melts into tears 
day sums up the pain. 
A fear stalks the flute, 
and darkness falls on the drapes. 
I was a lake 
and I was the sun. 

I held you on to my breast. 
Give me your fangs 
and give me your venom. 
I was blue and I am the death. 

Centuries of wounds 
and million of scars. 
Silence of sky 
and lull in the clouds. 
I am the fire 
and I am the gale.

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Unstable like a mercury 
drop, when you hold 
a pen, hiding your 
icy thoughts. 

Like an archer, ready 
to abandon the bow, without 
shooting at the target. 

The bull's eye was a 
blue rose, sitting in the dark 
niche, afraid of light. 

In synesthesia, of 
nights assault, you fume 
and sizzle, when the dew 
drops hit you. 

You will not give the name 
of slayer, who killed you with a smile.

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