Poems and Other Myths:

A collection of spoken word poetry by women from Asia.


Divya Dureja


My hands wrap around your waist, your neck,

the delicate base of your warm neck.

I've been swept,

off my feet,

into a meadow

of flowers and sunsets.

Your scent

reminds me

of rosewood and limerence.

I feel blessed.

Your gentle kisses,

Leave me armour less.


You notice a movement far away

and you break out of our secret nest.

The conversation between our lips

The troubled wrinkles on your forehead

is disrupted

by this unrest.

Your lips curl.

don't unfurl.

You say we are being watched.

We must be.

It's evident.

We are not.

I protest.

Another kiss. Another armour shed.

nestles its way to your face,

Not convinced, still.

Your arms, they retreat.


your neck,

your soft neck.

The distance you've put between our breaths

shows you're a little afraid

a little too aware.

"We are Criminals"

these words

escape you

in a single breath.

I can't fathom what you've said.

The question leaves my lips

faster than I could process.

"We're what?"


Then I Process.


So, I laugh a little laugh.

And tell her, this is daft.

These kisses aren't ammunitions.

Her words are absurd.

Whom could they hurt?

"But we are criminals in your country. This country."

She blurts.

Unperturbed and upset.

A paradox, her face presents.


A maybe-spotted-kiss could unearth so much fear!

silence was all that we could hear.

Our heavy hearts began to feel light

Startled, I was.

Startled, I am.

An undercurrent of THEIR win,

I could hear in my ears.

In the moment though,

The car remained stationary,

but our hearts changed gear.

This silence veered onwards

with the touch of our hands.

by fingers tracing

the arch of each other's smile.

We whispered sweet nothings.

And forgot where we were.

Gentle kisses

consumed our time

Making us forget, that this World, is unkind.


There's a vat I saw lying around unattended,

It looked like it had become tired of holding air.

Bruises of similar shapes and uncertified trade,

Marked the base of the vase in the corner.

Probably of slaughters and cuts,

the knife holds memories

fresh and numb.

Recently stabbed to make a perfect dish,

Of once a breathing swimming free fish.

Somewhere in the room,

there lay a comb,

that caressed the hair

often tugged at with force,

in the name of love

and all that's submissively holed.

The dinner table,

the dining chairs,

Begin to look

like heavy sticks

Slapped against sodden flesh.

The sound of alarm,

separated from the tik-tok

of every passing hour,

is shushed by hands,

picking up broken glasses.

Doors get heavier to push.

And Windows seem like converging nooks.

The thing about oppression is that

it stays in the things

used by the oppressed.