top of page

Poems by Driktso


To Stay or Not to Stay

I am lonesome sore thumbs sticking out,

a wine bottle depleted of its bloody content.

Sometimes I feel worn out like the handwoven

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 edge 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 we 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;

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

Volatile Hearts

Panting chests and flowing fluids

melt into one another

and perform Karmamudra

Flow into each other and break

free -

all senses resonate with your


all senses burn with anguish;

all senses quiver with sensation;

all senses are drawn by your


There was a surge tonight.

They told me -

Aaju bhakkano phutyo;

making your body shiver in delight.

Floating on a body you painted over a


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.

The 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


And our lives furling and unfurling,

all the same like fresh blooming daisies and


Momola’s chupa bereft of its shine with age;

radios and transistors bleeding of mustard


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


tin boxes stored in the kitchen cupboard all


threads of thick old suktu at home coming out


your spine that bends and twists,

that with every

heartbreak dissolves in air,

leaving you amorphous

Neon jackets making heads turn in crowded


lather smudged over dry and cracked hands;

mother’s old purses restored and


our bodies that heal from every cut and


turning away from vaccines and wincing in




bottom of page