Poetry On Women In English

Naari shakti ka deewana hone k naate “poetry on women in english” ko pesh karte hue ruthaaashiq ko bahut khushi ho rahi hai. Humari audience na sirf “strength of a woman poem” ko read kar rahi hai, saath hi ese hi content ko bhej bhi rahi hai. Emotional hona hi stree tatva kehlata hai. Samaaj me, rishte me toh bhavna saraahne stree ka maan aur mahatva jaruri hai, lekin khudme jo bhavna hai, wo sarahne ke liye bhi aurat ke jazbaat ko samajna utna hi jaruri hai. English words me bhi jo writer ne inn bhavnaao ko vyakt kiya hai, umeed hai Rutha Aashiq ki tarah aapko bhi acha lagega.

A Tale Of Surrogacy

There was complete silence in the room. Arthak said, “Don’t you remember you are still my wife? You should do this for me as it’s your duty.” Unwilling to even talk, Khanak replied, “I am your wife just on papers and for you, I’m not more than a tissue paper. Even now you wish to use and throw me.” To which Arthak put forth a deal saying, “I will pay for your service and that shall help you in raising your daughters.” She broke down and asked, Oh, my daughters! Is it? How much am I going to be paid for this noble deed and will that amount be sufficient to raise my daughters, get them educated and settled, do you really think so?“ She continued, “Why only me, any other woman can do this task for you?” Arthak heaved a deep sigh and replied, “Well, because I don’t want any random woman to bear my child, I have a class, you know. Furthermore, I trust you, I know you.

Khanak then asked him to enter a contract with her to which he initially refused but later the greed of a son got him to sanction the contract papers. The only condition he kept was his second wife (Vrushali) shouldn’t come to know about this unless the baby was born. Khanak accepted the proposal as she decided to trust her fate one last time.

The following nights smuggled the sleep from her eyes and gifted the tears of past painful memories to Khanak. The way Arthak used to force himself on her every night, multiple times as a punishment for bearing girls, taunted her, tortured her by making her starve, humiliated her in front of his friends, hit their daughters to relieve his exasperations and there is no end to the list. Some marks on her body were still prominent which never let her forget the past. A bit of her flimsy soul was stuck in the thorns of the past, every time she endeavored to move ahead stronger, it would cause her soul to tear a bit more.

Next week, Arthak, Vrushali, and khanak went to meet the gynecologist to commence the process of surrogacy. Since Vrushali’s uterus was not fit to bear the weight of a fetus, they were suggested to go for surrogacy. The treatment started, Khanak was pregnant once again but this time she wasn’t the biological mother. It was Vrushali’s and Arthak’s baby breathing in Khanak’s womb. Khanak accepted the proposal as she decided to trust her fate one last time.

The following nights smuggled the sleep from her eyes and gifted the tears of past painful memories to Khanak. The way Arthak used to force himself on her every night, multiple times as a punishment for bearing girls, taunted her, tortured her by making her starve, humiliated her in front of his friends, hit their daughters to relieve his exasperations and there is no end to the list. Some marks on her body were still prominent which never let her forget the past. A bit of her flimsy soul was stuck in the thorns of the past, every time she endeavored to move ahead stronger, it would cause her soul to tear a bit more.

Next week, Arthak, Vrushali, and khanak went to meet the gynecologist to commence the process of surrogacy. Since Vrushali’s uterus was not fit to bear the weight of a fetus, they were suggested to go for surrogacy..The treatment started, Khanak was pregnant once again but this time she wasn’t the biological mother. It was Vrushali’s and Arthak’s baby breathing in Khanak’s womb. Arthak and Vrushali took proper care of not only Khanak but also her daughters for those nine months. Those days were like gold-plated coins for her which were actually of no value from within but they glazed from outside.

Khanak was not able to understand whether she lost or gained something. She had got numb many years ago thus was unable to feel anything.

Vrushali took a month’s span to be back to her senses in a proper way. She was confused. The son she had in her arms did not felt like her own as she did not bear it in her womb and the added responsibility of raising such a child as a single parent got her petrified and in a dilemma.

The cherry on the cake was when Khanak disclosed the secret contract to Vrushali between her and Arthak which they had entered into, a year ago, as per to which khanak was to be given away 3/4th portion of Arthak’s property if a baby boy was born about which Vrushali was kept in the dark until now. Unwillingly, Vrushali had to abide by the clauses of the contract.

Vrushali anyways got attached to the baby after a few months and never married again as marriage had left the ugliest of scars on her heart. She strived hard to raise a gentleman, unlike her husband.

Khanak on the other side got engrossed in raising her daughters as strong independent women unlike her, vulnerable and uneducated. Vrushali, khanak, and their children never met each other ever after.

Now, the question is who was the real tissue paper of the story?? Khanak who was used by Arthak to bear his child, Arthak himself who was just let to stay alive to father a son but couldn’t gain the pleasure of raising him and feed his false pride, or Vrushali who married an already married man in the hope that she would bear a son and greed to enjoy his wealth all her life but when Arathak came to know that she can’t, he took such a big decision pertaining to both of them I.e. of choosing the surrogate mother and transferring more than half of the property to khanak without her consent or the baby who was born not out of love but out of greed, ego and false pride and societal pressures.

A Minor Mother

The petals of her helpless womb unfolded gradually,
Accelerated the piercing cramps that rattled each nerve intensively,
She bit off her lips, scratched her face, her eyes bled and her face got paled,
The beasts burdened her with something weighing beyond her capacity, thus she failed,
She lost the battle of life while birthing the result of their crime,
Being still a budding flower looking at her newborn bud she smiled for the last time.

S O L D I E R

S-Selfless, steel-souls on the courtyard of death securing the roots of their motherland.

O-On duty endlessly vanishing the difference between the day and night.

L- leveraging the safety of their countrymen by mortgaging their own family life.

D-Discipline is their forte, sacrifice their dreams so that the citizens can fulfill theirs.

I-India being the shoulders and they are like the five stars proudly resting on them.

E-Epitome of patriotism, every painful roar echoes ‘BHARAT MATA KI JAY’ on the Indian borders.

R-Ride on the back of death with the shroud of martyrdom around their head & forehead marked with the pious sand of motherland.

The Web Of My Thoughts

Once I stayed awake for long on my cozy bed,
Creases multiplied that night on the sheets that were spread,
as the forthcoming day was to bring a result,
maybe in my favor or to make it thoroughly difficult.

I just rolled and twisted, tore and prayed,
nothing helped me through the worries that played,
at last, I lied straight on my back staring at the roof upright,
It seemed like a blank paper someone missed to write.

Then my eyes captured a scene on the wall, that guided me,
then corner where the roof and the wall coincided,
as if the almighty had produced a documentary,
just to calm my agonizing heart through his artistry.

I saw a spider weaving its web, so thick and dense,
It seemed as if he got stuck in his net he himself built,
Like the web of my own spooky thoughts and emotions,
Were curbing my peace and pushing me down in anxiety’s silt.

Some words suddenly surfaced on the roof, ‘tensed be the culprit, not the victim’,
Taken aback I tried to calm myself and faith got restored, in the supreme,
on my cradling lashes, sweet dreams started to lean,
and the justice did happen as it should have been.

Eyes

No mirror or camera designed by man can ever compete with the eyes, a masterpiece created by the Almighty that reflects and captures the most amazing pictures of what they behold.

“Poetry on women in english” padhte padhte kya aapke andar bhi ek alag womanhood ki feeling aa gayi hai? Baat sirf jazbaat ko feel karne ki nahi. Khudke andar bhi wo saari cheeze samaai hai usae jaanch karne ki hoti hai. Rutha Aashiq wahi karta hai. Khud ke jazbaat me kahaaniya jod leta hai toh logo ke shabd isliye maangta h k khudki kahaani me bhi kuch badal kar sake.

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Flying Fighters

My pen bows to you in gratitude,
To lay the petals of my ink in your honor.
The patriotism that flows through your veins,
Deserves a myriad salute, oh starlings.

The cologne of your blood & perspiration,
Has scented the pious winds of this nation.
The hard-core discipline & wisdom you weave,
Have enveloped us with the sheets of salvation.

When you wide open the wings of your courage as an eagle,
And the vigilant eyes where sleep rarely snuggles.
When you Interlace the threads of your hardships & struggle,
Even our tiniest cloud, for the enemy, is impossible to smuggle.

Fat salary packages and high standard of living,
No prerequisite is more precious than one’s life.
The sense of patriotism that your hearts have been engraved with,
And love for the fellow countrymen that makes you strive.

When the citizens get wrapped under multiple shields,
You stand upfront bravely in the bloody battlefields.
Hail to the heroic womb that bears such warriors,
Hail to the lion-hearts who raise such steels.

Happiness

Reasons to smile and laugh are infinite,
Ways to spread happiness are endless,
Gaining and giving are the two sides to it,
More lucent is the giving side of happiness.

The more you give, the more shall you gain,
Spreading among others helps shrink your pain,
It is a bird having multiple hues in her wings,
Some feel it within, some discern in worldly things.

The smile of a beggar seeing the first slice of bread,
The joy of a farmer when the rainy sheets spread,
Father’s eyes at the first glance of her married daughter,
Mother welcoming her soldier son with happy tears and laughter.

Priceless happiness often comes without any price,
Caging happiness is like trying to hold a piece of ice,
The stars abducted from other’s sky can never be luminous,
Fruits grown on the grave of other’s happiness eventually turn poisonous.

The Moon

O Moon, the lover of the utmost dark,
the calmest borrower of the spark,
my pen would fall short of its inky glaze,
words would gasp singing your unending praise.

When you hide behind the murky clouds and peep,
like an arc, replicating a smile, enchanting and deep,
when you pull off that cloudy veil to reveal your charming face,
you seem like a gift of angels tied with the elegance of the starry lace.

You seem like a mirror designed by the supreme dangling on the walls of the sky,
so that oceans and rivers, behold their captivating beauty, flowing by,
a black spot on the face of the mirror itself, he wisely placed,
so that even the flowing foams don’t radiate arrogance when immensely praised.

The silhouette of the passerine when you portray in reflection,
sky seems to be the canvas of Lord, no painter could sketch with perfection,
an autograph of nature, logophiles endeavor to embellish their tales and rhymes,
the rhythmic stardust of glory, musicians loves to adorn their chimes.

You are the listener of the lonesome hearts in grief that pound,
the witness of the darkest secrets in the chest of Earth buried & bound,
worth worshipping, the magnetic puller of sleepy waves,
caressing with moonlight, the breathless, you soothe the agonizing graves.

Malnourished Nourisher

O vagrant white cotton balls,
Oh, crystal clear rainy beads,
Have you been abducted by the sun?
Or playing a prank on the dying seeds?

With pale faces and dullness in the eyes,
My famishing cattle gaze at the skies,
My lustrous green farms have begun to crumble,
With thirsty dried throat, they loudly rustle.

It’s not just a pool of seeds and soil,
I bleed and sweat to keep them fertile,
I burn my skin under the scorching sun,
To make sure you fetch your butter and bun.

I toil hard in the dusk and dawn,
In the attempt to satiate a million appetite,
Yet the rusted plate of desires and hopes,
Groans in pain empty every single night.

These cracked feet and wounded palms,
Seek fair returns for my wishful farms,
I desire not to be the owner of thrones,
Don’t force me to drown in the dark sea of loans.

When every breath is burdened with the ordeal,
When death appears to be an easy deal,
When my soul denies an extra second of life,
I place my head on the cruel suicidal knife.

Bag Of A Soldier

Sitting alongside the bonfire,
amidst the fields of snow.
Where he had never been prior,
melting within, acted to be strong though.

It was his first time far from where his cottage stayed,
from the grasses and sand of his small village.
His land where his baby footprints still jumped and played,
to uphold the vows, he took in school through the Indian pledge.

Sitting away from the crowd, privacy he sought,
to unpack the boxes that he had brought.
That contained his uniforms, neatly pressed,
along with the requisites to get decked up & dressed.

He found a small box, a mini tiffin,
Bearing sweets, he loved since he had no teeth within,
The aroma of pure love of his old mother,
fused with the winds of unfriendly weather.

He found a tiny doll, as he dug further
so that he could hug it when he missed his daughter.
A paper bearing the cologne of his wife, he opened,
with rhymes of love and ink of tears which was dampened.

The last thing with shivering hands and teary eyes,
he found in the bag that rode on him through deserts and ice,
was an idol of Lord Ganesha, he cried & held close to his heart,
put by his father to hold him intact; never let him fall apart.

I Love You

Can you count the stars,
Leaning on my chest,
Enjoying my melodious heartbeats, in my arm’s arrest,
Staying up all night, cuddling and borrowing my laps to rest.

Can you be the sunshine,
To whom I’d open my eyes each day,
My twilight, that’d caress the creases on my forehead that lay,
Fading the umbra cast by the eclipses of life, to lit up my way.

Can you be my calm sea,
A mirror in which like the moon I’d behold my reflection in glee,
Who’d control the quakes deep within that keeps hurting me,
The mild waves that’d cradle my soul like a leaf, flimsy.

Can you be my love,
a journey that is to be chosen over and over again,
Paths of which my soul would love to scale in autumn, spring, and rain.
final destination for my heart In every birth I gain.

Can you be my candle,
That’d spread the light of love just to enlighten my vicinity,
The flames of which can burn the wounds of my destiny,
That’d gracefully melt in the warmth of my love until eternity.

Can you be my poem,
where my emotions would lie, interlaced with the strings of bliss & pain,
the words of which would be read by me over and over again,
even after I get lost in nothingness, the essence of which remains.

Can you be the one,
Who’d wish to share your beats and breaths with me,
Who’d wish to be the soulmate of my soul in love with thee,
Who’d readily come along, in my grave, to accompany?

Damsel In Distress

The era of damsels in distress,
is too old-fashioned to survive,
life of girls is now a cactus of mess,
she crowns herself with thorns with great pride.

The pebbles that our society throws,
getting slipperier with rules as she grows,
so that she stumbles upon and rolls over,
her feet play with each of them as a means to acupuncture.

Damsels today have worn the cloak of lionesses,
battling with grace, splitting the situation that distresses,
times, when she needed a masculine backup, have been left far behind,
she is the backbone at home and work, has got the world inclined.

The only thing she needs is respect, love, care & appreciation,
the weapons of self-defense and sword of education,
icy camphor of willpower with ignited flames of aspiration,
she is the dark horse of the race on the boots of determination.

Dard and sad wale content depressing and downwards laane wale lagte hai. Lekin Rutha Aashiq ka maan na hai, hum uss dard ke limitations ko agar paar kare toh har situation aapko kahi na kahi grow karke hi jayegi. “Poem for a strong woman” share karke aurat ke kisse toh bataana hi hai. Saath hi saath ye bhi yaad rakhna hai ki “strength of a woman poem” se hum apne rishto me kya dekhte hai aur usme kya parivartan ki taiyari rakhte hai.

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Self- Appreciation

I am the scintillator of my own path,
Most beautiful blossom of my own Garth,
My soul enlightens the darkness of melancholy,
My heart holds the tiara of thorns so gracefully.

My intentions are pure & pious I know it very well,
So what if consequences get an evil hearth to dwell.
Seeds of hard work I sow may not fruit dulcet success,
But I love the roots that still bind with the soil of mess.

I may not be the prettiest dove to behold in the lake,
But I can swim through victoriously each turbulent quake,
I don’t wear the flamboyant feathers of fake hospitality,
While bearing a body of evasiveness and artificiality.

I have never chewed the gum of truth and spat ugly lies,
My heart is not ornamented with the gilt of false pride & prejudice.
I may be not much successful if perceived through the world’s lens,
But I am proud that my journey is not stained with fraudulence.

I may not be the person you’d feel to shower your blessings,
But I am surely not a soul to own somebody’s curse,
I may have hurt people unintentionally or defying my belongings,
But I have not abducted anybody’s wealth of peace or trust.

Cherish The Childhood

The plethora of innocence,
Eyes radiating pure love,
Smiles capturing heavens,
Blessings to Earth from above.

Precious gift of parenthood,
We crave and always wish for,
The essence of humanhood,
Are Children, we behold & adore.

The eyes that gleam with truth,
The hands too tiny to hold tools,
Are the fruitful future, nation’s youth,
Not on working sites, but to be in schools.

Fingers to be taught to handle pencils,
Not hammers, luggage, or utensils,
Little feet to hop & jump, play & learn.
Not to be bided, married, or forced to earn.

Harsh touch of machines & gadgets,
Is toxic for childhood, one of the biggest threats,
Treating with love & attention, it needs to be cherished,
Not an object to be flaunted, as a matter of pride and prestige.

Childhood is not to be hurt by being biased & partial,
Instead, to be gifted with the smiles of freedom & equality,
To be served with the same sky to realize its potential,
To be taught to respect each other’s differences & embrace humanity.

If plucked, a flower, before it fully blooms,
The dulcet fragrance, would it cease to spread,
If denied the right to playgrounds & classrooms,
Citizens, least productive, a nation shall breed.

Seeking the weapons of education & knowledge,
Be equipped with the tools of wisdom & courage,
Agitating firmly against, child labor & child marriage,
Child molestation is to be eradicated completely, let’s pledge.

My First Poetry

Wild waves of some emotions unsorted emerged,
cyclones of my own thoughts got my heart submerged,
some feelings surreptitious, I buried deep within,
neither to the Earth nor belonged to the skies, I wandered in between.

I had a world inside me, restless to merge,
every declining breath, giving birth to a new surge,
my heart burst and vehemence gushed out,
I sowed the seeds of words on white soil, to see my first poem sprout.

Though it was not that up to the mark,
it lacked the essence, the elegance, the spark,
but that was the first time I bent my emotions ashy dark,
arrayed them articulating my multi-colored poetic arc.

I left my school, bid adieu to my college, my university,
left foes and friends, fair welled my village, my city,
I even changed like a snake, layers of my original personality,
time went by, the traveler just couldn’t drop the baggage of poetry.

The vagrant clouds of my thoughts, feelings, and emotions,
that flow across my mind, with my soul in a vacuum they snuggle,
I sculpt them with iridescent metaphors into interlocking pieces,
put them together, my poems are a sorted jigsaw puzzle.

The wind of my poems scatter the vocabs decent & familiar,
so not only the pro, the feel could be pecked even by a casual reader,
the laces of lessons with which I adorn each of my verses,
wait for a thirsty soul to be unlaced, turn into a blessing, the curses.

“Poetry on women in english” ka ye collection aapko acha laga ho toh comment jarur kare. Aapke khudke koi collection hai, jisme “strength of a woman poem” ke jazbaat ho toh hume send kare. Rutha Aashiq “poem for a strong woman” ke liye always eager rehta hai. Aurat ke paaso ko padhne me, darshane me, rutha aashiq k jazbaat ki samaj harbaar grow karti gayi hai.

Writer:- Reshma kausar Mohideen

Insta Handle : sword_of_word_86