Sanjeev Sethi

Knock About

In brio of white heat

we miss memorializing

the portion is dwindling.

When patterns unfold

realization dawns:

we are spear carriers

of our sagas.

If we see ourselves

as viatores

on prolonged sallies,

proprietorial instincts

will be clipped.

This will foster

greater equitability.


A flurry of footloose word-armies,

unleashed in makeshift assemblies,

impress at first blush. On jelling

for gravitas, one realizes, empty

words leave us unfurnished.

The familiarity of promise is like

an earworm. Takeoff on truism?

I wish I could urge them to hustle

with a new hook, bunko with a buss.

Lure me with unusual lies.


The Net makes it handy to clear

one’s history

yesteryears aren’t that yielding.

Shirttailed conversations

sometimes leave us

with souvenirs

unlike pleasantries

indulged in over pick-me-ups.

Conscious of his wife’s condition

the inevitability of her withdrawal

from public life,

the gifted actor who has more bombs

than boffs

pegged on erroneous choices spoke against

the high man on the totem pole

in a telly interview.

Sanjeev Sethi © 2021


On his forty-fourth, I am the first

ever to wish him, not his mate,

not his mother, nor his son or siblings.

In his cloche, there never was any cake.

No potlatch on his red-letter day.

His dreams subvocalize his failings,

fantasies are mute expressions

of potent fears. Somewhere in him

there is a bomb whose button he cannot find.

Even the robes he borrows have cuts bigger

than the foxholes, he longs for.


A prinker engages with temporal superficies. This

is a middling slip-up in tourbillion of earthly spice.

Why niggle? There are myriad graver misdeeds.

Each has to charter an internal codification identi-

fying with their whatness.

Whether in heather, ebony, or ivory the exogenous

heads our selection. Someone may be a posthumous

baby but no-one is born days after the demise of his

or her birth mother. All this as polemics of equality

are as old as Methuselah.

Sanjeev Sethi © 2021