Sanjeev Sethi


Burrs of our bond are on hold, wired
to gash us in our unguarded whirls.
The tease of tribology waits
to test our wordless treaty.

The edginess of either-or option
stir and in a way soften us.
Logomachies are for those
with little or lots of love.


This business of birthdays
isn’t the apotheosis
of joy. This jockeying
to be happy is irksome.

Twenty seven minutes?
I will try some turducken
sip a chilled Tom Collins,
maybe two. The cleaver
will be off : for 364 days.


I am peeved when poems look like poems. It is the same
with people. Treacle gets to me. I am good with gruffness
if that heart has a beat. It is discomforting to decode ciphers
in spaces of peradventure. Comfort lies in contextual certitudes.
I turn to switch words when my circuit needs uncluttering.
In this haze, curlicues of desire shine to your capriciousness.
Time for emotional eboulement is over. The road is ready.



Happiness has hierarchies
death is democratic.


Words are never said.
You're always told.


Never buy expensive diaries.
You will rarely use them.


Don't love too much
love correctly.


Empathy without experience
is climax without coitus.


Poetry is born
of unsettled scuffles.


Surfeit never satisfies,
it enlarges the exactness.


If you raise your voice too much
you will be co-opted or killed.


Money insulates
wealth secludes.


Hands skitter on an oiled body
as moonshine moves the mind.

The recently released This Summer and That Summer, (Bloomsbury) is Sanjeev Sethi’s third book of poems. His work has appeared or is to appear in a large number of journals. He lives in Mumbai, India.
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