Set against the backdrop of the 2014 Scottish referendum, Monsoon on the Fingers of God continues an ongoing exploration of forms and improvisation on styles, rhythm/taal, and raagic moods in an examination of identity, history and human migrations.

“Reading Sasenarine Persaud’s newest collection, Monsoon on the Fingers of God, is like stepping inside a clock and running a thumb along each gear and dial in order to better understand time. […] Persaud somehow balances righteous anger with grief and heartbreak in each poem, dodging deftly from era to era to demonstrate just how closely history repeats itself. After reading this book, readers will not return to their own cities in their own present moments unchanged.”
—World Literature Today

“Throughout the collection, language and imagery glint off of each other, a dizzying Ferris wheel of taste, touch, and sound . . . Monsoon on the Fingers of God is an intricate dance between inclination and emotion, a palimpsest of migration in which several layers shine through. Along with the poet, the reader finds that their worldview has shifted, their way of looking at the world much brighter after the deluge.”
–India Currents

“The thoughts and insights in the poems are that of a very perceptive, educated, and skilled writer who knows his subjects and who seem to have spent a significant amount of time perfecting his writing. No doubt, this work is a voice of tranquility and unmistakable originality. The writer is applauded for the extraordinary collection…”
—Indo-Caribbean Diaspora News

Praise for Love in a Time of Technology:

“[T]he poet’s mastery of the English language is underwritten by ancestral histories and myths. Love is age-old and universal . . . Persaud is a poet of precise language, of the finely-honed meaning . . .”
—Wasafiri

“Persaud’s poems are spiced with the imagery of his ancestral India–Hindu gods, rituals, lavish epics, and seductive flowers . . . Persaud seems both haunted and inspired by the notion that America shelters so few who have any true ancestral claim to the place . . . Reading Persaud’s verse, it’s hard not to feel, and in any way be heartened by, the sense that each one of us is, in one way or another, an exile.”
—Bostonia