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Best Poems Written by Bidisha P. Kashyap

Below are the all-time best Bidisha P. Kashyap poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Details | Bidisha P. Kashyap Poem

Where to find me when I die


  Inbetween the blues
  of a freckled April sky,
  weaving verses in a language
  that only a dead can decipher.
  I will write about spring and
  daisies blooming by my grave
  and hope will visit me when
  I will stop breathing.
  But I will be happy to see her,
  for atleast she remembered me
  even if I lack a heartbeat.

   Alongside each stroke of paint
   upon my sister's priceless canvases
   I hide as shadows, dressed in greys.
   For all my life I have been a dark
   metaphor,
   fragile to touch, heavy to wear -
   but art finds it's immortality
   and the universe, now
   takes my sister's face 
   and pleads for my greys to stay.

   Upon those lazy satin folds
   where my lilac perfume still linger,
   where my philosophies hide
   which I often recite to calm my 
   stubborn heart 
   and where I have realised 
   that love does not always leave you
   heartbroken -
   love leaves you in poetries,
   which will taste like honey 
   in peoples mouth 
   except for yours.

Copyright © Bidisha P. Kashyap | Year Posted 2020



Details | Bidisha P. Kashyap Poem

Things we should start romanticizing

• rainfall - the blue summer sky making up her mind/you riding your bike from your university to your dorm/wind in your hair, you smile as it plants kisses on your cheek/there has been always something bittersweet about the winds before rainfalls - they always remind you of moments which you die to cling on to, but they slip away from your fingers/you hurry as the sky turns dark/ a few little drops tap on your shoulder as you pedal faster/either slipping away with those memories or dreading to get your library books drenched in the rain but you are happy that you finally reached your dorm/ the rain get heavy as you race up the stairs/a set of keys jingle as you unlock the door/ the smell of the moist Earth enfolds you/an hour later you hold your warm coffee mug in against your cold palm as you sit on your couch/ your plants sit happily on your window pane while your cat purrs softly under your blanket/ it's the little things that makes life beautiful. 

• making tea - winter sunbeams laced with goodbyes gaze over your shoulder/ you sit on the floor of your balcony watching the birds return to their homes/ there is a knock on the door soon/ you smile know that it is your lover coming back home from a really long day/ he sits by the kitchen table, playing with your cat/ walking into the kitchen you greet him with a soft kiss on his cheek as the town clock sings it's 6 p.m. song/smiling to yourself you warm up the water on the stove/ the lavender flavoured tea leaves lingers around your kitchen/someone told you once how they associated lavenders with loneliness/but right now as you look around, all you can see is tufts of love and laughter clinging onto every corner of your little apartment/ you pour the tea to your little ceramic tea cups/ soft acoustics play on the radio as you sit with your lover/ the noises of the city suddenly seem so distant/ you are here, you are loved, you are holding on to hope - this is enough. 

• journaling - the leather end if your journal pressed against your velvet blanket/another sunset ended on a bright note/the first signs of spring smiles through the fresh cheery blossom buds that bloom gracefully next to your house/ you decide to write about everything that made you smile today/ that kind stranger who gave you a flower/that old lady at the park who said your dress was pretty/those little kids you saw playing with the old man who lives down the street/ your neighbour's little puppy/the fountain of wrinkles by the corner of your best friend's eyes as she smiles on your little ice-cream date/the sound of your sister's laughter upon face-time this morning/you pen down words laced with beauty at its rarest form and wish to be atleast a little pretty like your words - unknown to the fact that you are much more prettier than all those metaphors that crosses your way. 

• overthinking - the satin sheets enfold around your fading silhouette/phases of the moon which keeps your secrets/that piece of paper where you scribbled all the reasons why you fell in love with your best friend/ that same piece of paper which now serves as your ashtray/the scarf of your college girlfriend, which she left on your nightstand three winters back/ your coffee stained old white tee that you sleep in every night/ you have come across many endings - some are beautiful, some are not, some are bittersweet, while some leaves you numb/yet you refuse to let go of your past and let them play on your head like the residues of your favorite lullaby/ all you need to know that life is more than just the three songs you play on repeat/ for darling you are worth every sunrise. you are worth every grey sky. 

• yourself - loose beige shirts tucked in checkered trousers/ loose curls of your hair falling softly on your shoulders/ altering colours of the November sky and you falling in love with yourself in every moment in between/ that windchime which hangs by your window pane/that blue journal where you wrote poems for your high school sweetheart/ the smell of roasted coffee and train rides to art galleries with your lover/the smell of oranges making you smile as you sit by the riverside watching the sunset/candlelight dinners and your black silk dress/ walking hand in hand with your date down the rain washed streets/ your soft yellow blanket and the mixtape your best friend made for you/ humming to your cat as she falls asleep on your lap/ you have made it through another day and i am so proud of you. 

Copyright © Bidisha P. Kashyap | Year Posted 2020

Details | Bidisha P. Kashyap Poem

Exulansis

Exulansis

I am twenty two winters, six heartbreaks, infinite breakdowns and two (near) deaths old. 

1. My skin is nothing less than a graveyard of ink upon which every man i loved is allowed to leave a trace behind. A set of initials clutter my wrist, then follows the navy blue scarf with a knot which is still tight enough to cease a heartbeat, a cigarette for the one who taught me the "art" of healing and a small infinity that the canvas itself is afraid to be a victim of. 

2. My tongue only recalls the taste of burning eulogies that I recite to myself to bed. On the verge of dawn my silhouette starts to wither with the smoke fumes that escape my ice cold lips. Then the daylight breaks and I wish to die, again. But here I am bleeding verses in every language I can grasp you in, wiping my tears with the sleeve of my sweater and laughing in between as I choke on my sobs. 

3. I still seek for that faint residues of cigarettes and chocolates upon every stranger I kiss to relive my regret, again and again. I reach out to all the "flaws" that don't make them you and perfect them with one single word - mine. This darkness I am feeding myself to escape from your absence feeds on me instead. I am cold and you are not here. Again. 

4. I am afraid to show people the world I create with my ink, mainly because I don't want them to know that beneath these flesh and bones all I am left with are trigger warnings and a heart which feels guilty everytime it beats. Sometimes I wonder whether silence would  have been this loney if I never raised my walls high. But I know I have fall alone, for  love cannot live here. It won't survive in the world I give birth to. 


Exulansis -n. the tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it.

Copyright © Bidisha P. Kashyap | Year Posted 2020

Details | Bidisha P. Kashyap Poem

The art of drowning

??n??? ?? ²°°². 
??? ? 5.
?????? ? n????.
the last ray of the winter sun kisses my freckles 
while I watch my elder sister rubbing her ink stained arms
alongwith a few streaks of blood,
hissing with teary eyes
"Poetry is for dead lovers. 
 Never make the mistake of even tasting art.
It is a sin. You will end in ruins."


????n? ?? ²°°8. 
??? ? ¹¹. 
?????? ? ??????.
my sister wakes up screaming one night.
standing by her door I watch my mother shush-ing her 
she screams, shivers and then
she breakdowns.
after an hour, my mother tucks her in.
walking up to me she whispers,
"Maybe this is why natural disasters have human names-
But listen to me child,
take care of your sister for maa okay."


?????? ?? ²°¹5. 
??? ? ¹8.
?????? ? ????.
my lover breaks the silence,
shoving his hands to his pocket he asks how was I-
"My heart's a mess, what else is new?"
the pink sky sighs
as the dandelions alongside my sister's grave keeps me company.
Here lies Ankita-
daughter, sister, friend, lover
"-and a poet that became a poem."
i add.


???? ?? ²°¹?. 
??? ? ²².
?????? ? ?????n.
"my lover says taste like a sinner
and yes I admit I have tasted poetry
so forgive me maa,
for I have sinned."
She looks at me-
scared, worried and disgusted.
"But my love, poetry is for the dead!"
Pouring another bottle of whisky in my coffee cup,
I look at my (now) frightened mother
"Whisky burns your throat,
but love burns your heart
.
.
.
and Maa, I have been dead for so long."

Copyright © Bidisha P. Kashyap | Year Posted 2020