Poem by Shiksha Dheda : If I Were Happy

If I Were Happy

If I were happy I'd
start this morning saying
'I thank you God for most this amazing'
And not be lamenting on
'Mushrooms' as much.

I would be living with the motto
'Do not go gentle into that good night',
not living with the paranoia of
'When I have fears that I may cease to be'.
I would write sweet, aimless letters

and title them 'This is just to say',
rather than trying to get people's attention
by 'Not waving, but drowning'.
I would be counting all the ways

'How do I love thee' rather than pondering on
'La Belle Dame Sans Merci'.
I would be hopeful of the future
and say 'Because I could not stop for death'
thus beautifying that experience too...
Time passes me by as I am looking in 'The Mirror'.
and having 'sessions of sweet silent thought'.
I wouldn't dare to tell my friends that 
'The world is too much with us',
and would rather say
'To me, fair friend you can never be old'
I would not be thinking of
'An Irish airman foresees his death' and regret
'The road not taken',
but be defiant and say 'And Death shall have no dominion'.

I would laugh like 'The Old Folks Laugh' and tell all
that I've wronged: 'If you don't stay bitter for too long'.
I would look forward to 'The good morrow'.
If I were happy I would have enough sympathy
to 'Lament for a dead cow' and partake in 
the 'Remembrance' of 'The wild swans at Coole'

I would laugh at 'My parents kept me from children who 
were rough', debating the possibilities of a 'Snake'

And maybe, just maybe I could prevent our generation
from becoming 'Hollow Men'. 
If only I were happy,
and words weren't my only solace.

First featured on Visual verse: December 2020

Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Shiksha Dheda

3 poems from Shiksha Dheda :”Is the Door Locked?” “Refugee” & “the Find”

Is the door locked?

Checking the locked doors once.
Washing the dirty dishes.
Checking the locked doors once again.
Washing the linen.
Washing the linen once again.
Washing the dishes once again.

Checking to see if the windows are shut.
Checking to see if the taps are closed.
Checking to see if the windows are shut.
Checking to see if the taps are closed.
Checking the locked doors.

Counting the steps from one room to the next.
Is the door locked?
Oh no! I must count again.
2. 3. Are the windows shut closed? Completely closed?
I am sure that I locked the door.
Let me check once more.

Checking the locked doors once.
Checking the locked doors once again.

Also appeared in Brave Voices Magazine January 2021 link: https://bravevoicesmagazine.org/2021/01/12/a-poem-by-shiksha-dheda/amp/?


I hide from the darkness of the world,
trying to find some comfort between the
letters that I memorize.
Words of affirmation.
Words that make me feel normal.
Less strange at the least.

I embrace the sterility of the walls inside.
Sheltering myself from the rainbow of outside.

I tune into the white noise inside,
Having grown tired of their sensationalistic music.

I lay covered by my cold,
hiding from their warmth.

I am struggling to breathe now.
My own air suffocating me.
My own coldness burning me.
My own noise bleeding through my ears.
My own letters mocking me for my strangeness.

I open the doors.
I open my doors.
To the outside.
To their outside.
To them.
I have been rejected
-left desolate-
-rendered homeless-
by myself.
I am now their refugee.

Also published in Visual Verse January 2021: https://visualverse.org/submissions/refugee-dheda/

The find

I do not know how it started.

On Monday, the glass just seemed a little dirtier than usual.

On Tuesday, the speck of dust on the carpet appeared to be
slightly larger than the day before.

On Wednesday, the photographs hanging on the hall in the
drawing room seemed a little less straight than it had on Tuesday.

On Thursday, all the curtains that had any red colour had to be altered because everyone knows that red equals blood and blood is always bad.

On Friday, I steamed and bleached down all the cutlery and crockery at home before I could use those filthy things again.

On Saturday, all my laundry was washed thrice at 95 degrees and were made to dry indoors, as the air outside must be unhealthy and dangerous.

And on Sunday, well Sunday was peaceful, a conventional day for rest-
but wait…what is this I see?

All the days of the week have been engraved on my hands in the
form of tiny red cracks and spots: guess I just have to wash them out now.
And who knows? Maybe I will wash so hard and for so long a time that
I might just find some relief.
Some peace.

Also published in Ghost Heart Literary Magazine March 2021 here is the link: https://www.ghostheartliteraryjournal.com/the-find-by-shiksha-s-dheda

Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Shiksha Dheda

Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Shiksha Dheda

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is image-5.png

Shiksha Dheda uses poetry(mostly) to express her OCD and depression roller-coaster ventures. Sometimes, she dabbles in photography, painting, and baking lopsided layered cakes. 
Her work has been featured (on/forthcoming) in Off Menu Press, The Daily Drunk, The Kalahari Review, Brave Voices, Anti-heroin Chic, Versification, and elsewhere. Twitter: @ShikshaWrites

2 poems by Shiksha Dheda : Old Things & If I Ever

Old things

I tried new things
but the carcass of the old things
took up too
much space

If I ever

If I ever wonder within the realms of fantasy, 
the sombreness of your voice 
will beckon me back to reality.
If I ever get lost in the sheets of disillusionment,
the gentleness of your touch
will waken sleeping hope.
If I ever roam around helplessly in the endless maze
of life’s predicaments, the exuberance
of your smile will brighten the dark road;
guiding me back home.
But if I ever forget you:
you are;
let the unsung hymn that you kindle in
the depths of your bosom
sing loudly to my silence.
For I
-being blinded by reality-
-spurned by fantasy-
will grope onto each 
rhythm-less and clumsy note and 
find my way back.
To you.

Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Shiksha Dheda