Poems by Rishi Dastidar

Sky streets


The Friday robots issue sincere mechanical apologies
that the light pillars show has been delayed,
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and you will now have to wait to see the streets below
you in the air above you. Whilst we wait for the floating

ice crystals to get into mirror formation, so they can
lift the sodium glow upwards, we would like to point

out that the rumours going round the community:
that we are arrowing astral images of your souls

into our databanks in preparation to colonise
your emotions – that our algorithms will unweave hearts –

are untrue. 


We assure you. 
We reassure you. 
We are sure of you.


Return your gaze to the sky.
Until we can fire the patterns into order, lift your

heads up. Shut your eyes. Imagine the sun is sinking. 
Let this free colour-burn show play out. There. Happier?


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Wire acrobats
after Calder


A sketch made with pliers
is a votive for us, makes
you and me pliable.

Wire gets under our skin.
Follow the line – it yields
to the sculpted circus.

Our labours are acrobatic.
Let’s mine each other for joy,
so ore becomes us.

Being mesmerised is at
the core of our metallic,
narrowband rapture.

I’ll sign you in solder.
We are wired for glory.

About the poet

Rishi Dastidar’s poetry has been published by the Financial Times, Tate Modern and the Southbank Centre amongst many others, and was most recently in Ten: The New Wave (Bloodaxe, 2014). He is a consulting editor at The Rialto magazine, a member of Malika’s Poetry Kitchen, and also serves as a trustee of Spread The Word.

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