Poems by Sanjeev Sethi

Sanjeev Sethi


A clip on this worn-out catalog.
Stipple of your sneeze
on that frayed vade mecum
gentrifies my gesundheit.
Contigently you call someone
who is chitchatting with me.
Unknown to you your breath
braids its balm in the anonymity
of my environs. When barbels
of such energy bristle,
I’m coerced into believing
you prevail in the vicinage.

The Tutti

Hedgerows of harmony
prod blooms of the past
to spice up our present.


Whenever essentia of love
acquires lifeblood,
our footstone gets a facelift.

Post-mortem: Third Book

There were no flashbulbs.
Blizzard of mikes
didn’t bird-dog me.
I, pressed for editorial space.
We do not cover poetry,
welted my within.

This was something
I had heard.
Like death of
a worn-out loved one,
when it struck
it hit with haste.

Good happened on its own.
The not so good too.
What was I pleughing?


She has been with me for twenty years or so.
Trapeze of time has complected us. Sharing
is an accessory. I’m not sure how much my
maid clocks, she has legitimacy of listeners.
Repetend enables me to improve my diction.
Last evening I informed her of how in six
days my poems were in as many venues. To
cue her cognitivity I keyed the world map.
“Participate in *Crorepati na, you will win?”
She lisped.

*Indian version: Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?

Wrong number

Scattershot archetypes pushed me
to a spot, urging me
for recipes to restore
my sense of self.
Who drafted our decal,
truncation of toujours?

Immersed in your duende
I misprized
the shape I saw myself in:
small-heartedness it fostered,
chinaneries I was forced to forge.
My yes to fitfulness.

To exist one has to erase.