Poetry: Sanjeev Sethi

* Author of the Month *

Sanjeev Sethi

Sanjeev Sethi is the author of three books of poetry. His most recent collection is This Summer and That Summer (Bloomsbury, 2015). His poems are in venues around the world: A Restricted View From Under The Hedge, M58, Morphrog 16, London Grip, The Journal, Ink Sweat & Tears, The Broadkill Review, After the Pause, Stickman Review, Unlikely Stories Mark V, Mad Swirl, Communion Arts Journal, and elsewhere. He lives in Mumbai, India.

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Dialectics

I wanted the stopwatch of togetherness to standstill 

on trestle of never felt sensations, like a concordance  

of new thought. Have I collected what I canvassed

for? Not even the tussie-mussie, never from the one 

I expected it. Tendrils from your side bulge into my

colonnade. I like their chutzpa, their deftness at dibs. 

Your deeds are demarches to make me guilty for  

what is mine. Thank you for homing in.

Lightsomeness

When I slipped on crown of a seraph

there was no confrontation. Snafus

emerged when the human coat was

robed. What matters is the sentiency

score. Justifications are perception

altering techniques. When instinct

maps trajectories pathways intersect

effortlessly.

Merry-go-round

When sweet-tempered couples drift into

verbal duels, when exigencies overtake

ethicality I find myself in burrow of your

being. Everydayness of it reverberates, 

clue why stories of betrayal find compan-

ions. Template of trust is agreed upon by

believers and nonbelievers. When the latter

chart their course, the former  realize their

folly. The squads aren’t fixed. Circumstance

decrees  who beams which strut.

Biog

Intertextuality of our ideas meet

on a spotless page to indite a

collaborative effort of strange

rhythms and sudden refrains.

Images and idioms speak our

accent. We coach ourselves to

ignore the commentators. In an

ecosystem of unequal genii, we

are happy to exist. To be is to

bloom. The rest is contextual.

This was first published in Spirit Fire Review.

Gap

My fortunes of a fugleman aren’t mine. I

follow you with ferocity accredited to canines.

You crawl lines of sand on my being. Is it

mixed with stickum?

I move from pole to pole. Internal antiphonies

urge me fine-tune myself. This township of

trees is another pneuma. At the witching hour

sometimes I hear a howl.

This was first published in Morphrog 14.

Maturescence

There is verbal gore. Kris

of words slit our skin.

Lesions as raw as another’s

revenge look back at us.

Carmine flood of feelings

sinuate over the napery.

But there is no burn.

The hood of sapience

cushions us, vulneraries

come by and by.

  

This was first published in Pyrokinection.

Setu, June 2018