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Best Poems Written by Ridhi Bhutani

Below are the all-time best Ridhi Bhutani poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Unstained Soul

I saw her a milky complexion and a voluptuous frame , she had a name but no surname noone gave her a surname .

I found her similar less incommon a saree she had draped in an impious commotion to look like what she had to look like .

Little choice did she had to hide the wonders of her skin which were not wonders to her , the brightness of her smile nd her cleavage were unholy to them to her , it was mere piece of flesh scotched and held tight without any pocession she was never touched with admiration but only exploitation.

They scorn at her as she is relegated but forget to question her origin before grabbing her , forgot which caste did she uphold because for them she was not a piece of art but a Harlot , her beauty was perhaps sold .
Her feminsm staked for the pleasure of a night nd she cried , she cried not of the pain it gave her but about every remark of unholy and stained sexuality which slapped in her nightmares of open eyes maybe she too complained but her complaints sucked in by mouths of holy men .

But wait , last night she too saw a dream of all holy men where she was also one of them no less was she revered wearing a saree washed with dignity this time .

Her speech as a monologue of her aspirations and not melancholy of compulsory sex . Her lips now echoing the eulogy of her power , they stained her skin but couldn't reach her heart .

Maybe she wants to be a doctor , an actor , a choreographer a singer or a poet but no one asked her . Her demeanour no more sluggish say hello to the newborn priggish her prefix is not just a prostitute , her life is much more than bodily servitude .

No less than a pandit she is a sensational prelude so the next time you see a prostitute just smile at her not for her stained sexuality but for her soul’s individuality because her soul remains
Unstained .

By : Ridhi bhutani ( herfingerwings)

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Trans Measurement , Mathematical Interpretation of Genderqueer

He, She, they, them, their or choices .
I wonder if your world is round or maybe not because probably your mind is cubical , you are a dice, it is as similar as the dice given as an example of cube , a cube which is closed , has defined corners and one measurement perhaps it would have been better if we could deter to these bold and times old Indian fonts of sterotyped examples and ask for more pentagons and circles which were queer , just like me . 
You love explaining area and mensuration with examples of a gender entangled bangle , a match box that dosent match me , and an unwise dice but little did you realise that you have yourself become a box of typical undynamic identities , closed and formalised with prejudiced formulas of measurement .
So I want to switch your camera from portrait view to a panoramic view to notice that I am a decagon , difficult to the vocabulary of a polygon and unacceptable to the category of human.

Maybe I know that now you are old enough and you've learned about this queer trans decagon like me but still when you hear about polygons and humans , your answers are straight line segments of triangles & squares and straight people whose gender binary is fair , well unfair to the notions of identity which remains undefined for not just me but also you swinging between choices of being extremely feminine on some days and masculine on others . 
You see the problem with this arrangement is confusion of building a glass wall of hatred for people we find strange to our little knowledge of normal ,  so we assume them to be an abnormal comfort smelter , stone pelter , destined to give us a discomforting experience of flawed birth , flawed to our little knowledge of what's correct . 
Them , their , he , She , her aren't identities but preferred pronouns which is a very basic question out of our mean  calculative binary syllabus , but a question  meant to be inculcated in our cubical boxed syllabus because earth is round and endless and so are my choices .

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Dogs and Discourse

My metaphor came to me this morning , used his tail to smash my face thrice to tell me that it's 8:30 nd I can't avoid my class , to tell me it's 8:30 nd i have to clean his poop nd the mess I've made out of my life . Next he licks my face with love and later licks his butt to make his hooman realise how love can be treacherous . 
 
Everytime watch an instagram video of a golden retriever getting spa , my dog stares me right through the corridor to tell me how he hates having a bath ,
 to tell me how it's not ohkay to come across some random charm on instagram nd venture upon it . 

Next he sleeps after staring for a while telling me how he doesn't really give a  to my teenage identity crisis and how no one really cares abt my inferiority complex and the only person who can uninstall instagram or install self love is me and definitely not him because next hi snores loudly to approve my thought .

I ask him why he rotates like tornadoes and acts abnormal everytime I come home , to this he decides to not reply but rather give me a lesson next day , as this time he continous to sleeps peacefully at my arrival making me worry if he's keeping fine , 
right then he says , it's beautiful how we all enjoy being alone and listening to our silence and ourselves sometimes , 

 being lifeless or writing lifeless poetry was beautiful but it helped none , and if  lifeless poetry soon replaced good morning , then there are chances of it becoming real .
To this I ask him  , is the same doggo who used to poop at the corners of the house and bark in front of the mirrors?  , to which he replies are you the girl listening bole churhiyan at 2 am and reciting your poems in front of the mirrors ? .
I Smiled and replied yes , he smiled nd waived his tail and licked my face this time not licking his butt .

Today I see him sitting on the sofa exactly at the same place where I do , today he didn't bring the ball back to me when I thew it , today I saw him being rude to other dogs and especially cats , oh no not cats , he dosen't like them around , just like his hooman he hates arrogant species .
 Today I saw him being jimmy , not jimmy the dog , jimmy the loyal breed , jimmy the playful boy , jimmu the charmer , jimmy who's sweet to everyone . 
He came to me sang a song  and lied down in a gross manner with his legs in the air telling me there's so much more to him then what I see in instagram dog videos how his golden hair has lices in it too . 
He tells me how us humans are so much more than HOOMANS , how we are not always friendly to bulls at times dogs either .
 How we can do so much more than loving , how love doesn't depend on the person but rather the capacity to love a burger , a human , a dog or all of them at the same time . 
How the dialogues given to doggos in instagram videos are not really what they want to say , maybe some of them are camera conscious but act for food .
Maybe I am not a poet , maybe you are not a photographer maybe both of us are saving money to become novelists , maybe dogs are acting in dog videos to create discourse of how they are worthy of loving and how they are so much more than just  loyalty and protection  just like us humans becoming our ambition day by day to tell how we are so much more than just alive . 

By : Ridhi Bhutani 
(HERFINGERWINGS)

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Indian Solar System

(TW : Abusive marriage )

So we are here in this garden less green than the ones you promised .

Oh you say this ?
you the girl with eyes browner than the skin , 5 feet of womanhood , 7 inches of literature .( says the man who plays the man)
How I wish I could revisit those 5 inches !
(Says the girl who plays the wife , who could revolve around the world but revolved around this holy fire less holy more fire )
You , weren't you my partner satellite moon ? Or were you another mercury ?
I thought you were sugar , you'd mix in hot water when I'd make tea for you but Alas !
You were always mercury , meant to vapourize and

then suddenly enter my body to cause sleep disorders and nervous breakdowns .
So I have a question paper like the ones they give in schools to fool children .
1)Is this my monologue like every other or will you reply ?
2)Are you dead or you pretend to be ?
3)Can I your wife play dead ?
and if I play dead , will you make food for chotu and manage the laundry ?
4)Can wives play dead or become "Plutos" , leaving the solar system with its fireball and mercury leaving no trace of cool winds and dwarfism ?
I have a last questions to ask , like Neil Armstrong had for moon .
5)Did the moon turn out to be what he expected or did he find craters ?
If he found craters I would travel to the past in a time machine or my washing machine and tell him that he was lucky to find craters on the moon , I never found a moon except for karvachauth , the festival they make us celebrate to see the real moon and then see the mercury that appeared like moon but wasn't .
Though I am not allowed to answer you back but let me open ,
ans) I , Sarla , the wife of a man who is just a man wasn't lucky enough to find a moon when I was sent away from my brown and blue earth with grasslands green and sky as blue as lapis lazuli
I wish I could play dead or
extremely volatile like you do but there are clothes to wash ,
lies to be recited in the ears of children when they ask for stories .
How I wish I could recite them poems from literature but Alas !
I am Sarla and I am just 5 feet tall , tall enough to remain invisible in this solar system .

#Tragedy #Society #Struggle

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Your Love Is Monumental

Today is an another wobbly morning where I have opened my eyes to collect my pieces and recollect the transient peace of last night  which soon gave it's way to  a tentative traumatising earthquake and perhaps this morning I found myself lying in the epicentre of breakage , placed perfectly in the centre or our bed to fill the space occupied by you during the transient peace of last night . 
Today is an another wobbly morning and I have rubber my eyes and I finally saw you , beautiful as you were , beautiful as you are , beautiful as you will be . I feel you are somewhat monumental , you love is monumental , monumental to this earthquake that shook us both but broke me , your highness stands tall , brave , unruptured , magnificent and historic , you are not affected by earthquakes because you are too old and too strong to break into pieces , I am new to this business of handling earthquakes with historic love monuments like you . 

So today is another normal day , I have forgotten this earthquake between us and now I slightly shifted to the other side of the bed , I noticed your breakages , darling you too have breakages in you , forced love inscriptions and patriarchal letters you too have been ravaged maybe this is experience but you too are affected by this earthquake as I put my hands on your monumental skin I notice painted wounds so fresh yet so beautifuly  old too , I see you have been gazed , praised and misused by many but I notice you are peacefuly placed here in front of me sleeping in my memory , did you rebuilt yourself in my memory ? 

So here I am shifting completely towards you near this epicentre again to make and break myself into your  archaeologist to explore you as much as I can , I am not like those professionaly perfect guides you met earlier , I am your archaeologist and you are my passion not a business of benifit . 

So the next time I'll dive deeper and deeper into your exploration an paste a warning board on you that any further mark of touch would be a direct offence to this government called me.

Today is the aftermath of this earthquake and you are still monumental but this time magnificent in my memory and warning board of no degradation , regardless of public misuse , you are mine  .

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The Poem of Jovial Death

My Death might be some beautiful evening of 8th January , 2018 whence I will have heart brimming of contentment and a tummy brimming of snacks .
My death might be bed time stories to your young mates who will burst out in laughter saying 'hey , your grandpa was kinda cool' , breaking all the generation gaps and captioned cracks of boredom , that day I shall be the star of a young night , maybe not a permanent one but surely the star of the night which won't ever grow too old.
Die as if your death were to be a bed time story , a coffee partner , a light joke or a karaoke of early 90's , said a man at his deathbed at ninety , unemotional and unmoved of any heart stroke which wasn't as loud as an aged phart.
Amidst the easy conversations of diseases and diabetes there is a faulty concept of " sorrow is the new cool " says the modern fool . Heartbreak heat is
8 the twerky beat and vaguely judged and surrendered sadness is the depression 2.0 .
Death to us might be an easy succumb to struggle you find strong , stronger than your trekking adventures and passport stamps . Death to us might be a lonely night of cigarettes and victimisation and pitifull stories that would just remain an instagram story for 2 days unlike that of our grandparents .
So dear trendy death , please visit my door when I am done giving all the love that the world desired and not when I wrongly thought I didn't get the love I desired .

Knock my door like a neighbouring child known yet anonymous and not like a part time lover who just gave me life lesson nd I thought it was a suicidal fuss .

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Evergreen Winds Like Us

The emotion that thrives between us both is an unpredictable weather welcoming two winds to strike against each other to fetch storm on some days , rains on the other .
With the warmth of the fiction caused by mountains you have crossed to reach here let me hit you with the dew I have carried in years of silence I have never enjoyed .
Striking against each other , 
we'd rather roll into each other and become one rain , promising to hold one another even when we fall or rise above to fall again .

For winds , are seasonal and many but we've found each other above a sea we both love crossing , a sea yet undiscovered , a sea which with itself carries a story that no one heard but us .
As you touch the no wind zones inside my soul , you didn't run  , you stayed still to discover the possibility of forces to allow the settled dust stand once again   out of those empty spaces . 
As for you , you were so full of others that you lacked yourself , as I have brought dew with me , my blows would take you back to what you were to make you stronger than winds that surround you to make you a wind , that's evergreen and not seasonal
Because seasonal winds fetch the storm not the rain
 for seasonal love fetches body and not the soul .
For rain and soul are a said to be a cycle in hindu mythology my grandpa said 
Like rain we shall break many times and travel to the ground and once we're thirsty for each other again we shall reach beyond what they can measure to become clouds that they shall look upon to , incarnation of souls , hard to decipher and harder to trace . 

Now this is where we've reached , at the radius of a cycle of rain, rebirth of soul , a conjuction and a chorus .

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Mondays Are Not Meant For Miseries

I walked into new rooms and realised my love for gardens , hiding under verdant bushes and seeking my mates hiding from me and how I always ended up seeking for the right people and hiding in the right space meant for me , making a familiar move with an innocent face , belonging to me .
And a thunder clap of 5 years would push me into the firy teenage and  you would want to hear about how I now seek the wrong people and hide in the wrong spaces , No . 

Let stories be stories especially the ones which involve misery let them be narrated on Friday evenings and not Mondays  , so that just like a fresh flop movie we watch it once to never watch it ever again for the sake of not repeating a mistake .
Let the eulogies , epics , morals and inspirations be spoken as a stand up poetry , I say stand up poetry so just like stand up comedy you subscribe to it in the lifetube so let these be preserved for Monday mornings so that just like a block buster movie we wait for the house to get empty nd then watch it realising that our wait was worth and how wonderful the plot was . 

Now let us for a minute shut our eyes deeply trying to visualise a stranger who crossed paths with us and we end up not remembering the face but rather remembering the judgement we made , how at the snap of a finger we created a glass wall against an enemy that might snatch the bag , stab in the stomach push from the back or pull from the front . 
So I stare at this passerby enemy who is my landscape enemy I say landscape because hey , landscape was the only thing I could draw without knowledge of drawing nd enemy was all I could draw without the Knowledge of my stranger as stranger and no enemy .


So he comes near me nd then nearer nd then suddenly he says "Madam your zip is open " and highly ashamed, sweating and regretting I check my pants and he comes near again bring a hand near my back toooooooo , (slowly amazement)  pat my back and say , I was taking about your bag , you might lose your money like that.

And still , still carrying the back of miserable Monday and not accepting the merit of this stranger I say , (stammering ) wwwwhy wwwere you sssstaring at my bag like that and he answers because maybe if I look into your eyes you'd call it staring and maybe you'd think that I'll snatch the bag , stab in the stomach push from the back or pull from the front andddd it's Monday morning and last night I heard a stand up poetry saying Mondays are not meant for miseries   .

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Of Family Photos

It takes a life to know the people who are closest to you. 
Being close doesn't let you show your internal demons because the goal is to become a collective happiness. 
A collective happiness, containing little coloured parts of everyone, made of dining table, flower vase, family photo, pressure cooker and new LED TV. 
But what about the remaining parts of self ? 
Can you use a family photo to feel good about yourself on all days ? 
To be able to face your family without hiding in the quilt, on the road outside your house or your favourite song. 
There are no places to hide from from your own shadow. 
Shadows are not black these days. 
Shadows look a lot like a life you left behind but it did not leave you. 
Will the life left behind ever leave you ? 
There are times your own skin becomes your enemy. You grow hatred like hair for too long, one day you start liking it.
Until someone enters from outside the room to tell you how, the world outside the room 
Is capable of dealing with hatred and hair 
until it grows again.
It will grow again. 
Everytime.

Details | Ridhi Bhutani Poem

Lyrics of My Minute Long Silence

I believe our words fail us, it's the music. 
Always the music. 
My birth was musical. 
My father heard drum rolls and gun shots when I was born, my mother heard Shehnai, my Grandpa heard acceptance of war stories he would narrate in future. 
For me, I heard their voices. 
Since then,
 I've been hearing voices. 
All the voices except mine. 
If you hear my voice for 30 seconds, you will only hear common voices that don't belong to me, Like I'll say I'm fine, 
I'll say I'm living.
If you hear me speaking for more than 40 seconds, 
You might start hearing the undertones of my voice.

You might start smelling a rebellion,
 but a soft one,
 the one which sounds like an apology sealed with courage of a 20 year old who wants to change the world. 
If you hear me speaking for more than 50 seconds, 
You might start hearing my silence 
My silence has more voice than any other sound bite on planet earth. 
My silence can slam doors and bring down tyranny but it prefers brooding in a safe space, 
I call it Solitude, I mean escape. 
My silence can break years of oppression and bring equality in 60 seconds 
but I'm not sure if anyone will hear it. 
So I gulp my own voice during dinner table conversations when someone asks about my political opinion.  
On days when I don't believe in this world,
 I let the tape of my silence fill the room with all the meanings I've been searching for all my life