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.


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.


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


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.


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.


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.


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.

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