THE SOCKS

In coils, like two cotton balls,
Coated with dust,
From under my bed
A brush stroke brought out the socks;

Forgotten,
Abandoned,
Consciously or unconsciously,
The socks you left behind;

Sad, blue,
Filled with bitterness,
The stare blank,
The socks,
I caught in my trembling hands,
Gave me a lump in my throat;

The socks recalled your being there,
Curled against me in my bed;
It was not a dream!

The socks made me a little scared,
Fear the idea that you will never come back,
To warm my bed,
To cover me with delicious cuddles;

The socks made me chuckle too,
Giggle at the idea that I had never seen such large feet,
Such big toes, teasingly tickling my feet;

The socks revived in me the great happiness,
These senseless moments,
When we both laughed like kids,
Happy to be together,
Pleased that we had met,
Pleased that we were in love!

– Anita Bacha –

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ON THE QUAY OF FAREWELL

On the quay of farewell,

In a covetous embrace

You gave me your heart;

On the quay of farewell,

You wiped my tears with your lips,

You offered me your eyes;

On the quay of farewell,

You spoke to me about your suffering,

You wanted my mouth to feel your fading breath;

On the quay of farewell,

You wanted me to remember your desires,

Your thirst and your hunger in-satiate;

On the quay of farewell,

You fumbled for the tenderness and sweetness that are in me,

That you will never find in another;

On the quay of farewell,

You hugged me tight in your arms,

You wanted to keep me forever;

On the quay of farewell,

Heavy as a winter coat,

The separation bent you into two

And,

You shouted my name ‘Ani!’

Anita Bacha

http://poetryofanitabacha.com/

 

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INK

Inspired by Manache Poetry’s Next Awakening, I have written the second and last half of this poem.

The first half was complete but followed a systematic writer’s ( or lover’s) block. One sentence “do not let go of my hand” was all I needed to dip the nib of my pen in the ink pot of the vast ocean of  Love and write…

INK

In chaos, my world collapses,

My pen drops,

A wound on my ring finger,

Betrayed …

By my sister,

An ironic wasteland is my heart,

Dumped …

Love loses its eulogy,

Fragmented…

In a puzzle chemistry,

Poets run out of verses

Tumbled…

Face down in infamy;

Suddenly,

Loose petals of words,

Fall in cascades,

Cover my lifeless body,

Awakened…

From the torpor

Of self imposed penalty,

Wet…

Under the mosquito net,

Stained…

My bed linen,

With ink from your pen !

Anita Bacha

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RICHARD PARKER THE MAN CHILD

I WROTE THIS POEM FOR A YOUNG MAN I MET IN RAJASTHAN IN 2013. HIS NAME WAS NOT ‘RICHARD PARKER’..I GAVE HIM THIS PET NAME…HIS REAL NAME WAS ANKIT…A MAN CHILD…

Through your eyes of sweet folly,

I found, on a summer holiday,

A wonderland!

A whirlpool of magical delights!

In the woods, birds ‘nests full with mint candies,

French nougat and jelly babies;

Hanging from the branches of the banyan tree,

Strands of spaghetti;

In the singing brook, enticing chocolate wafers!

When, at the seaside, you laughed heartily

Amused that the sand tickled your toes,

Wildly happy that the waves licked your bare skin

And, with bursting joy you yelled,

I discovered a man child,

Yielding, warm, whimsical,

Aspiring to impossible dreams!

 You built castles on the wet sand,

Sketched with seawater our portrait,

 Ordering the sun not to set,

Time to suspend its flight!

You weaved seaweeds in my hair

Bedecking seashells in the gray strands,

Claiming that they were golden threads

That I was your queen,

The Queen of Arabian Nights!

At dusk, in the howling sea of Pereybere

Your body drifting close to mine listlessly

 Clasping my hand tightly

Richard Parker you made a sacred vow

“The falling star in the sky, see?”

“I will catch it and put it in your hand of my Ani!”

Then why did you leave so unceremoniously?

Anita Bacha

(Pereybere Mauritius 2015)

About PETER PAN, THE BOY WHO WOULD NOT GROW UP… IS A CHARACTER CREATED BT THE SCOTTISH NOVELIST AND PLAYWRIGHT, J.M.BARRIE.

About PETER PAN, THE MOVIE WAS MADE BY THE ARAB MILLIONAIRE LIVING IN LONDON. HIS SON DODI FELL IN LOVE WITH PRINCESS DIANA,THE PRINCESS OF WALES. THEY BOTH DIED IN A TERRIBLE CAR ACCIDENT IN 1994.DODI, WHO WAS A BACHELOR SAW IN DIANA,HIS SOUL MATE..ONE OF THE GREATEST LOVE STORIES OF OUR TIMES.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

LAND OF PREDILECTION

India my land of predilection

You enthrall my soul

A miracle, a benediction

Secret love lived and untold

Memories garnish my aging heart

As I stand on death’s threshold

A spiritual guru who guided my script art

A man who inspired the pen I hold

Land of saints, gods and statues

Disparity, fun, marvel and the unexplained

I carved an image of human values

On the whore, the poor and the betrayed

In my exquisite five stars’ hotel room

I lit an incense stick and I meditate

My life has been an exploration of the gloom

That shrouds the ignorant and the illiterate

My experience of books

Of novels and poems celebrating love

Leaves me insatiate and bleaks my looks

In pages only I find the meaning of ‘love’

Anita Bacha©

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WAITING FOR YOUR LETTER

I am waiting for your letter, my friend

For me, this is not the end

I did not want to let you go

But people say you are a gigolo

Scorned, ridiculized your only true friend

I will wait for your letter till the end

Morning come, I open my letter box

I see, sleeping, a little fox

He opens an eye, yawns lazily

No letter for me, my buddy

I walk up and down the road

Never getting bored

An eye I keep on the postman

I am waiting for your letter, my friend

 As luck would have it I smile at passers-by

Deep within I want to yell and cry

Remember our laughs and cries

To-day the same emotions arise

You have been exceptionally kind

To an old woman but never mind

One day you will remember, my friend

Sitting by her bedside, holding her hand

I am waiting for your letter, my friend

 Jot down a few words with your writer’s pen

Here, in Crouch End, I watch the autumn leaves all alone

No laptop, no Skype, no phone

I am waiting for your letter, my friend

I will wait for your letter till the end…

Anita Bacha©

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FLEUR ADORABLE DU SOLEIL LEVANT

Je caresse avec mes yeux

Ta beauté éclatante

J’inspire ton impudicité

Désorienté comme une abeille

Ivre de ton parfum

Secrètement, je baise tes plis opulents

D’autres abeilles jalousement je vois

Grégaire autour de toi

Assoiffé de ton nectar

Comme je voudrais te cacher

Cacher ta nudité

T’envelopper dans mes bras

Te garder tel un trésor

Te garder telle une perle en coquille

Mais hélas!

Soupirant insensé que je suis

Voluptueuse, tu te donnes

Sauvagement au premier venu

Allègre de plaisir

Insouciante du lendemain

Ne s’occuper de rien

 

ANITA BACHA

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Illustration/Artiste/Francis Apied