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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Love

Love is also fire

but a cool fire

Yet we have to burn in it 

because it also purifies

It burns only to purify 

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Processed with MOLDIV

The dross burns

leaving pure gold 

  • OSHO 

 

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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Processed with MOLDIV

 

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

consecration-d-francis-apied

Illustration/Artiste/Francis Apied

AUTUMN

The fall comes in my garden as a sorceress

The sky covering the morning sun with a 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

Linger for the promised kisses, the delirious frolics in the field   

I dream of the elating scent of the rose on your tanned skin

I dream of poppies crushing on your mouth my stolen longing

Anita Bacha

Illustration/Photography Anita Bacha

 

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A LEAF OF YOUR TREE

A LEAF OF YOUR TREE

Of your tree so mighty

I am a leaf so green and tiny

Neither an apple nor a fig

I hold on to a twig

In winter I shiver and I freeze

In summer I sway in the breeze

Drenched in torrential rain

I cry in grief and pain

Scalded in the burning sun

I shrivel and I shun

A creeper I long to mime

My arms enlacing you

Heavenly heights to climb

My soul enrobing you

Anita Bacha

Illustration/Artist/Francis Apied

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