Poems by Driktso

A fragmented home repertoire

Mirrors chipped of their silver with time;

past corrupted of its truth by gas lighters;

books torn off their pages by angered preteens;

and our lives furling and unfurling, all the same

like fresh blooming daisies and touch me nots.

Momola’s chupa bereft of its shine with age;

radios and transistors bleeding of mustard radium;

wooden doors that warp during monsoon;

my body contracting and releasing, yet the more

gnawing on enough churpi to dislocate my jaw.

Ceramic plates that crack inside the microwave;

tin boxes stored in the kitchen cupboard all dented;

threads of thick old tsuktu at home coming out loose;

your spine that bends and twists, that with every

heart break dissolves in air, leaving you amorphous.

Neon jackets making heads turn in crowded places;

lather smudged over dry and cracked hands;

mother’s old purses restored and acknowledged;

our bodies that heal from every cut and fracture,

turning away from vaccines and wincing in pain.



I am lonesome as a sore thumb sticking out,

a wine bottle depleted of its bloody content.

Sometimes I feel worn out like the hand woven

carpet in my room from refugee centre-

it sits there on the floor idle all its white tassels

turned into a colour one cannot specify, only say

that it is far removed from what it was and

should have been. Like my soul discoloured and out of shape

and I sit like the emptied wine bottle on my dresser;

a belt fallen short in length and expired muesli.

But you pick out the dried cranberries and share it

among your siblings.

The carpet that has lost its edges to rambunctious

nibbling giant Time rats speaks to me in every brush

of its bristle on my naked sole.

All our lives we hoard groceries for the pantry;

time after time like the people we meet.

But we lie on as carpets that wear and tear with time.

Getting discoloured with every wash and dry cleaning

Thinning with every brush and vacuum.

Newer televisions are installed every year,

fresher vegetable every three days

but the carpet stays and the carpet remembers.

The carpet rolls and lies flat like me;

people have come and they have left.

But I stay with me and even if you have nibbled every

edge and thread of me. I can’t throw myself out –

I stay

I stay after the show’s over honey.

I fucking stay.



Panting chests and flowing fluids,

melt into one another

and perform Karmamudra.

Flow into each other and break free –

all senses resonate with your universe;

all senses burn with anguish;

all senses quiver with sensation;

all senses are drawn by your breath.

There was a surge tonight.

They told me –

Aaju bhakkano phutyo;

making your body shiver in delight.

Float on a boat you painted over a river

and row yourself down the river.

Then leave your body

and walk to your inner self.

Icy gale slicing your cheeks;

deaf pines sway in your rhythm;

and flow into a rivulet;

bend and break upon a boulder.

About the poet: Driktso (she/her) is currently pursuing her Bachelors in English Literature from her computer but is enrolled as a student at Delhi University. She has aided people in their book-writing journey. And hopes to write and publish a book of poetry someday, titled, “Why I don’t like People and 100 other Poems.” Driktso deems that poetry, like self hatred, comes untaught to us.

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