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: The Broadkill Review, After the Pause, Unlikely Stories Mark V, All Roads Will Take You Home, The Piker Press, Stickman Review, Ann Arbor Review, Neologism Poetry Journal, London Grip, Morphrog 16, Communion Arts Journal, Otoliths, and elsewhere. He lives in Mumbai, India.
Quietly a poem is keyed.
There is no hurrah
As a rule
this or that journal
across the plat
will pick it up.
stepwells of unrest
pushes me to its belly.
The noggin holds this
jalopy’s gear box.
When tellurian parleys are candy-coated
and cloying it is best to sift the stimulus.
That accomplished, welcome the company.
An adventitious brush with a polemologist
at the courtroom for his divorce petition
has me in a ludic trim. But I park a stay on
my tee-hee and censure the speculations.
Professional brief and the personal are at
variance. Is the inverse true? What about
skewing by the commentariat?
Political parties are in the pursuit of turf wars.
They aren’t philanthropic outfits. Behind their
gimmick of goodness is the prospect of harvest
at the hustings. Seeking virtuosity in such a set-
up is witlessness. The dodge of living is driven
by mutation. Belle époque led to WWI, Jim
Crowism drafted the 44th American president.
The mahatma unshackled a two-hundred-year
yoke. Refinement is time-consuming. In short
order snarls will die down. Trenchermen will
When imbued in imperfections
it is lame to locate
earthlings in arete.
Your renderings aerosol-like
penetrate my ruggedness.
acquittance and alliance.
Bond of skin
is a haptic shorthand,
glibber than braille
but as gifted.
When need for
paragon is peripheral,
it all stabilizes.
To be likeable sans motive
is goodness, all else is a
transactional step on trestle
table of existence. When
steeped in downheartedness
He hoists us, three sheets to
the wind due to hubris He
Cozing with you I surmised
you aren’t interested in my
interstices, lisp, and lies.
there is me, only me.
I must sit in with
monologues to self:
altercate with myself.