top of page

NaPoWriMo'23 TTT x PoemsIndia : Women In Love

To be a woman and to be in love is exhausting by Antara Vashistha

To be a woman

and to be in love

is exhausting

So imagine

when the two elements combine,

You become a coalescence

Of dreams and disappointments

perusing through dictionaries

and the World Wide Web

to craft a language in

which you will love-

It cannot be like your mother-

A presence not so discerning,

You would not settle for

Mere remarks or grunts of annoyance

Or cut fruits in form of apologies,


You will not be your father,

Who at sixty still barely communicates,

You will not be a teacher

Sweeping up fetishes or fantasies,

It is not your job to educate

On the verses of kindness and support,

You would not be a child,

Nor parent or a colleague,

Rather a friend

Forever wondering

How should I presume.

As a Woman in love,

I often

Become the old lady

Who lives round the neighborhood,

Bold in her stance and voice

Yet forever desolate


To the apparition of her own existence.


I am one of Plath’s protagonists

Sitting under a green fig tree,

Manuevering master plans

To love like a man,

To love without falling

Or surrendering my potential

Scheming ways to

Love as I am,

While being what I can


I surrender my senses

Picking up lessons on love

From those who sustain me,

As a woman in love,

I love like my city,

Tracing histories and geographies,

I love like a bookmark

Marking memories to come back to,

I love like the air,

Encompassing in my presence,

I love like the color lavender,

I love like a sunflower,

A storyteller,

And a stalker,

My language becomes fraught


Self-built metaphors and somewhat cliched ideas,

I borrow and steal phrases

From those who loved me before

And those who will

Love me someday,

As a woman in love,

I love like a warrior

And I love like a worrier,

I love in gratitude and cognizance,

Demanding nothing less,

Perhaps a little bit more.

A woman writes differently when she is in love by Sehar

A woman writes differently when

she is in love.

Her words sprout

into herbs, distinct shrubs;

small pots smelling

of teakwood and cinnamon.

Men becoming seeds; growing into flowers,

into daisies.

Paper transforming into soil,

baked, bare-skinned

and sunburnt;

people drunk in love

exploring its textured territories.

Sandcastles, hand fetish. Their fingers dug deep into it.

And one day

She isn't anymore,

and all of it is now

simply dry air,

sandpaper-thin breath, dirty laundry,

and spoiled lettuce.

Stale, Rotten, Forgotten.

Almost a thing of the past.

These hands;

her same hands left dry, empty.

And the paper reeking of




And that is where she starts burying them.


176 views0 comments

Related Posts

See All
bottom of page