Waiting

My sleep has left with you;

Waiting on the isolated shore,

I am all alone drunk with remorse;

In the moonless night,

My thoughts, lost in the dark blue sea,

I dream of your nimble form,

Floating on the tranquil water;

I wait and I watch for the waves,

I wait for you to drown in my arms

Anita Bacha

Illustration/photography/anitabacha

moonless night

NOSTALGIA

O mystic traveler!

As a warm gentle waft,

You’re in thro’ the secret doors of my alcove;

Snuggled under the red satin quilt,

In gentle strokes you caressed

My thirsty body;

Whispering musical words,

In the naked voice of silence,

You stole my soul,

Left behind a sorrowful corpse.

Anita Bacha

Fistful of Sand IMG_7643

Sing a Song 

O! My foolish little bird!
Why are you perched on this desolate twig?
The leaves have yellowed and fallen,
The leaves have drifted away;
Your feathers as soft as pain,
Your silence drowns in rain;
O! My foolish little bird,
What love do you seek?

Anita Bacha


 
 
 
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SPRING FRISKIES

The fall forays my garden as a sorceress,

The sky covering the morning sun with thick dimness;
Broom sweeps, leaves and flowers fly off in a maelstrom,
 Cold downpours freeze the subterranean thunderstorm;
Birds flee up in the skies with a scream;
Trout hide under the stones of the stream;
I look full of hope, my love, at the radiance in the horizon;
No matter the rain, the cold, the melancholy of the autumn season,
Whatever the absence, the long days of waiting, the starless nights,
Whatever the tears, the suffering and the frights,
I wait, mad lover that I am, for your return in spring;
 Pining for the promised kisses, the delirious frolics in the field,   
 I dream of the elating scent of the rose on your tanned skin,
 Of poppies, crushing on your mouth my stolen longing.
Anita Bacha

https://m.facebook.com/Ani.Bacha/

The Apple of My Eye 

 The Apple of My Eye

I am reposting this poem and a short story ‘The Scent of a Woman’ which I wrote for my mom, after I read the post ‘Cancer’ on Word press. A very moving story, it left me flabbergasted for days. Cancer is definitely a killer disease, so is ‘stroke’. I was nine years old when my world collapsed. My mother had a stroke; it left her a living vegetable for the rest of her pathetic life. She died after years of suffering at the age of 42.I still wonder how I grew up without her tender care.

 

The Apple of My Eye

She was walking on the beach,

A long skirt hiding her knees;

Dotted with tiny blue florets,

A white linen blouse flattened her bosom,

Prude,

She never wore a swimsuit;

 

Immaculate as the sunset,

Pretty as a picture,

Mysterious as the sea,

Smiling to herself,

Poetic, in love, sweet,

A dreamer,

She fell in love only once,

People said,

The blessed day was her wedding day;

 

A long trail of footsteps,

She left,

Printed in the moist sand;

In joyous innocence,

Behind her I walked,

Placing my steps,

One by one in her wake,

She was the apple of my eye!

She was my mother!

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

 

 

 

The Scent of a Woman

 

 After the Second World War, there was a shortage of food stuffs in the island. In those years, Mauritius was a colony under the British rule.

Nonetheless, our family did not feel the immediate pangs or the aftermath of the war, as we were quite well off. My mother, I fondly remember, splashed herself with Yardley Eau de Cologne every morning after her tub bath. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen and, I could follow her around the whale of a house that we had, sniffing her perfume like a little dog.

My father was a whole sale merchant and he was bringing home our share of ration rice. It was our basic food and also the basic food of the whole population of some 500,000 heads.

 A hard, little, yellowish pearl, unpolished and unrefined, my mother told me that this grain of rice came in its husk during the war. In those days called ‘le temps margoze’ (the sour gourd days) by the local people, the women folk had to pound the rice in a mortar to separate the husk from the rice. They used to call it ‘di riz pousse femme’ (the rice that drives women away) because it was a real nightmare for women to pound the rice.

We were fortunate, I gather, because we did not have to pound the rice. But once a week, in a ceremonial manner, my mother sat on a small wooden bench; surrounded by the maid servants, they would busy themselves at cleaning the rice. The rice was placed on large aluminium trays in small heaps. It was winnowed and then the grit was separated from the grain. In a small tin, my mother kept the small black pebbles to throw away and in her lap, the broken rice to feed the birds.

Close to her, on a smaller bench, I sat down to be with her. I felt like a big girl because I could pick out the stones from the broken rice in her heap. The foreign traders were crooks, my mom told me; they added pebbles to the grains of rice to cheat on the weight.

After she had finished and filled a big iron container with the clean rice, I had the liberty to hide my head in the warm and loving lap of my mother. I breathed in the intimate scent of a woman interlaced with the perfume of eau de cologne and the smell of ration rice.

Years after she passed away, this scent still filled my whole being with the sweet memory of my mother.

 

Anita Bacha     

http://poetryofanitabacha.com     

 🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

KRISHNA

 

KRISHNA, one of the many gods of Hinduism, is the embodiment of charismatic love, immaculate beauty, celestial joy and eternal youth. He is an incarnation of VISHNU, the Preserver in the triad of Gods Brahma Vishnu and Maheswara.

KRISHNA is so beautiful that he is often referred to as a doll. Many can’t make out from his overwhelmingly refined looks whether he is a man or a woman. Also known as being the perfect union between man and woman or between God and his devotee, he embodies the pleasure, emotion and everlasting rapture that is derived from love making.

In every incarnation, VISHNU meets up, adores and caresses his beloved wife LAKSHMI, the goddess of wealth, beauty, prosperity and knowledge. In His incarnation as KRISHNA, he finds LAKSHMI as his beloved RADHA, the embodiment of the perfect woman and lover.

KRISHNA is also known as the flute player. His enchanting music is known to make his devotees crazily fall in love with him.

KRISNA opens the heart to the pleasure of love. Wherever KRISHNA is installed, love beckons, love sings and dances; the soul is uplifted to celestial summit.

KRISNA is also known by other adorable names- Murali Gopala (the flute player), Chitchor (the stealer of hearts), and SRI (God), Shyama.

It is believed that if we see a statue of KRISHNA, we touch him, and we love him, we must take him and keep him.

‘Those who worship gods, become gods; those who worship ancestors become ancestors; those who worship the elements master the elements; and THOSE WHO WORSHIP ME GAIN ME!’- Bhagavad Gita 9.25

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ODE TO MY BELOVED

You are born again and again

Like a flame in my heart, my Beloved!

My eyes marvel and rejoice at your sight

In the darkness you are my light!

In the void your voice is rapturous music

When you are with me nothing is amiss

Every droplet of rain is a cup of bliss

Every thorn is a budding lotus flower

Every woe is over and done forever!

 

http://poetryofanitabacha.com/