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In Summer Fall
Folder:
Satish Verma The words are flying
away, enigmatically. There was a
family of god. Is the end drawing near?
Half- way you are talking
about sequences. Oceans are on fire.
A weak voice cries. I don't want to die
Who will call from the future?
The night will dance for the solar eclipse.
Don't touch me. I will not melt.
I cannot define your style.
I cannot define your style. I can applaud it (and I do); I praise it, admire it, envy it at times, study it closely when I read your poems, and I let its verbal power wash over me like a great and refreshing seabreeze. But I cannot say what exactly it is. So if you have a name for it, or if it follows a particular pattern or school of verse styles, please tell me. But . . . more than anything else I might request here . . . please do not change it.
J-Called