About Me

My name is Aman (pronounced uh-mun). I am an Indian-American poet from Artesia, CA. As the child of immigrants, I am untraditional in my approach. If there’s a rule, I break it. If there’s a boundary, I push. If there’s a pen or a microphone in front of me, I am my most powerful and unapologetic self. I graduated from UCLA in 2014 with a degree in Creative Writing, and have since immersed myself into written and performance poetry, competing in venues and slams across the country. 

I am a National Poetry Slam finalist, a member of the 2016 & 2017 Hollywood (DPL) Slam Team, and a teaching artist in Los Angeles and Long Beach county. My writing is heavily tied to my work as an educator, activist, and intersectional feminist, pushing the envelope in my dissection of personal and political identity. My work has been featured on All Def Poetry, The Huffington Post, Vibe, and Button Poetry. If you are interested in booking me for a performance or workshop, please fill out the booking form and I will be in touch!

- Aman K. Batra

The Latest

I would put my photo first, but their love is more important. I’m a good third wheel; they’re an excellent wing couple. I play Drake off my phone in the subway station, they encourage my romance with Jon Snow at a GOT bar. They make room for me under tiny umbrellas. I make room for better examples of love. When we’re not in Chicago getting drunk off spiked seltzer water, we’re living in an apartment together with dead flowers and an ever growing amazon cart. The love here is precious, and my singledom is looking especially tall. Celebrate it with me, pretty white flowers n all!!!
Meet my one and only. I’ve been too depressed to care about a consistent feed. I’m in Chicago, thinking about how my dog has gotten me through everything. I have an “aesthetic” and it’s not necessarily a “post ur dog whenever u want” aesthetic, so it is wrong. I have a wrong aesthetic that doesn’t make room for my sweet pumpkin patch of a chiweenie. I am changing, drastically, and for the better. Saturday morning, I walked through the door and wiped the tears off of Coco’s furry little face. I said, “why are you crying bubba?” and he blinked twice. That means allergies. What am I doing here, really? I hate Instagram. I like it sometimes but I hate it a lot more than I like it lately. It’s just not the spot when you have nameless demons. Well, one of them is Existential Millennial Angst so we can go with Ema. The rest can be named after GOT characters for funsies. When I check my apps in the morning, it goes: messages, email, twitter. Twitter informs and induces laughters all at once. Email reminds me that I have a career. Dope. I take (some unnecessary) pride in knowing that if this app were to crash, I’d still make all my money. I’ve made myself invisible, pretty much everywhere, except for a stage. Those 50 minutes are mine. Ours, if you’re in the room to share light with me. I wake, most frequently, to messages from mom checking in on me. Then there are the friendship threads that I will never delete and GOT group chats I might have to bc I am running out of storage space. There are messages from men whose numbers I have yet to save, a disappearing boy I’ve cried too many tears over, and oh Coco knows this. There are organizers asking for forms and “is there anything else you need?” There is my mother, again and again, and y’all, I am lucky for the people in my life. I am lucky for Coco and his golden fur all over my clothes. I am lucky for Instagram too. It can be a beautiful platform when you’re ready to grow. I don’t know how I got so deep into this, the depression, and the caption too. It’s all coming to a close. Maybe I should have left it at “my one and only.” That was the intent– that I love my fucking dog and he hates all the boys who have hurt me.
Manspreading looks better on me
On this here #worldpoetryday, I’m reflecting on what it means to be a “working woman.” I’m thinking about the different forms of “work” that are often overlooked or unseen. To work is to function, despite everything telling you not to. Work is in the body, the heart, the page. To work is to labor. To commit. To work is to accept your condition and pour into it. To wake up every morning and collect yourself, get ready, affirm your place, is to put in work before the work even begins. To be a prime source of love, the love you give others and the love you give yourself, is to make all this work look easy. Come celebrate with me that everyday / something has tried to kill me / and has failed” — Lucille Clifton, heavily inspiring this work. #poetry #womenshistorymonth
I’ve been processing this for days. Hours at the philly airport reading articles and scrolling through tweets. Struggling to find words. Today, I came across a sketch I drew of my grandfather in January, during the week of his passing. He was born in Lahore, Pakistan. He was an educator. Above all, he was compassionate and his heart would be with the Muslim community if he were here today. I’m not much of drawer, but I figured I’d add to this journal doodle. I am working towards some kind of healing. To all those affected by the Christchurch mosque shootings, I am sending healing your way. I was finally able to find some more words, too. Swipe left to read. . . . . . . #christchurch #newzealandshooting #xenophobia #islamophobia #endwhitesupremacy #sikh
I took to Twitter to display my outrage. Everyone’s back on IG like nothing happened and I am here to tell you that my girl Mercury is still plotting. The retrograde is March 5-28*
I say this and all he hears is *im gonna chop ur dick off* perpetually single?? I THINK SO 🌹
the white people next to me don’t ask before removing the extra chair from my table / my midnight a shield / the brown girl in line for coffee looks my way and smiles / my midnight a magnet / cowards leave me alone / the brave come closer / the brave ask which shade / the brave wear the silk night too / one part poison / two parts caution / a recipe for dark / it doesn’t take much to fear me / takes less to love me / and still / of everything bolder than blood / I am the most soft . . . . . . . #IWD2019 #internationalwomensday #womenwhowrite #woc #writing #poetry #browngirlbloggers
My poet life is a constant battle of rereading old poems and cringing, and deciding at some point, that my newer material is worth sharing. By “newer” I mean this has only been collecting dust for a year, but we’ve entered another women’s month and my mom will always inspire my work. Her kahaani is infinity tied to mine. 📖🌞 . . . . . . . #poetry #poetcommunity #writing #womensmonth #womenwhowrite #feminism #woc #wocvoices #kaur #writersofindia #punjab #indianwriters #browngirlbloggers
Pay bills with poetry too!! Y’all can tell the aunties at the gurdwara that I’ve successfully turned my “hobby” into a career full of integrity, joy, and endless possibility. I’m signed to an agency. I teach workshops on vulnerability and poetry. I perform at colleges/universities across the country and yes, I get paid to do all of this. Today, I am relishing in the fact that I make a living off of what I’d do for free. I feel so lucky, but it is also a blessing I’ve earned and work hard to keep. A blessing I will one day nourish to a fullness beyond my wildest dreams. . . . *gurdwara: temple/place of worship . . . from the @fightevilwithpoetry anthology book release. #amankbatra #poetry #womenwhowrite #indianwriters #girlboss #writer #browngirlbloggers
Alexa, play Forrest Gump . . . . . . . . . #poetry #writing #love #lovepoem #writer #womenwhowrite #instapoetry #poetsofig #woc #feminist #intersectionalfeminist #amankbatra #branding #indian #browngirlbloggers #fightevilwithpoetry #menaintshit ✨✨ . . . after spending the majority of 2018 posting little to nothing on my ig feed, ya girl is dedicating some necessary time to growing/branding. or at the very least, posting. that means more poems, videos, photos, stories. more from my shows and published work. more mental health advocacy. more brown girl glory. more vulnerability. more transparency. more of what means the most to me. I’ve focused on getting myself where I need to be professionally and it’s time for my online visibility to reflect that. I often create, consume, and keep everything I’ve learned/produced to myself. this inclination to withhold and protect, to deny myself full creative expression, has played a major hand in my ongoing battles with anxiety/depression. to counter this, 2019 will be the year of sharing, of opening myself back up. thanks so much to those who have been here. bc of your consistent support, I’m ready to bloom all over again!

Videos

 

Chapbooks

 
Combo Pack
sold out
Combo Pack
15.00

In my debut collection of poetry, I explore themes of love, identity, and culture. Both of these books go hand in hand (pun intended), and serve as reflections of my healing through the written word.

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Stolen Thing
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Stolen Thing
10.00

The telling of my hyphenated identity. Each poem highlights ways in which white supremacy, anti-blackness, or xenophobia present themselves in simple forms — a concert, a 4th of July celebration, conversations with my mother, and more.

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Dripping Love
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Dripping Love
10.00

Dripping Love is the continual exploration of a romantic relationship, documenting the unfolding the ways in which I rise and fall in love. This is some of my rawest and most vulnerable work, it has never been shared on social media before.

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