Book signing

The past is your lesson

The present is your gift

The future is your poetry

Anita Bacha

My poetry book SOUL POETRY was yet another opportunity for me to travel and discover the reading world.

It’s incredible and worthy to note that books have a precious place in the heart of the millennial, our audience today and tomorrow.

At the Kuala Lumpur International Book Fair 2018, I realized that it’s a great joy to witness readers, young and old,buying and investing in our words, in our poetry.

poetryofanitabacha.com

A Poem

Anita Bacha

In the deep silence of twilight,

I hear the screech of your pen on my heart;

Tears flow from my eyes,

Because I know you carve this poem for me;

Your fingers, speckled with ink,

Sketch words of love on my body,

Caress my lips thirsty of your kisses,

Paint my hair the colour of dawn

Anita Bacha

Illustration/Photography/AnitaBacha

View original post

Reflections

Image

Anita Bacha

REFLECTIONS

THE EXPIRED THONGS

I embarked on a spiritual journey last spring and headed towards an ashram in search of self enquiry. My destination was India, a country known for its vast spiritual heritage. I carried in my luggage the minimal personal effects including a pair of old thongs. This search for the Truth of Oneself will, in my mind, be restrictive on personal wants and needs.

Two days after I had rambled around in my old thongs, I noticed that part of the right sole was coming off; I brought it closer to my eyes to have a microscopic view of the damage; I then perceived that there was another problem; the strap which run from between the big toe and the second toe to the right side of the sandal was threading off and thinning. I sadly told myself that the thongs had expired due to old age…

View original post 505 more words

Dawn of a New Tomorrow

Anita Bacha

Come to me, my love

A dawn announces a new tomorrow,

Break off your fetters of pain and sorrow,

Wipe the tears from your searing eyes,

Dawn clears to-day with a swipe,

Come to me,

Come to me, my love,

The sun burns out,

Plunges in the arms of the sea to die,

The mountain lifts on her toes to hug the sky,

The repudiate lover holds on helplessly,

As dawn covers her cries cruelly,

Come to me, my love,

Let us spread our wings and fly

Anita Bacha

Illustrative/Photography/AnitaBacha

View original post

Dawn of a New Tomorrow

Come to me, my love

A dawn announces a new tomorrow,

Break off your fetters of pain and sorrow,

Wipe the tears from your searing eyes,

Dawn clears to-day with a swipe,

Come to me,

Come to me, my love,

The sun burns out,

Plunges in the arms of the sea to die,

The mountain lifts on her toes to hug the sky,

The repudiate lover holds on helplessly,

As dawn covers her cries cruelly,

Come to me, my love,

Let us spread our wings and fly

Anita Bacha

Illustrative/Photography/AnitaBacha

I wish I were

Anita Bacha

I wish I were the letters that drop from your fountain pen,

And, splotch the virgin white sheet of paper,

The fountain pen that you fondly hold in your hand

And, shape the words exposing your unleash passion,

I wish I were the ink smudged hand on which you rest your chin,

When you contemplate on the forlorn night for inspiration,

The maladroit stroke of ink that brushes your cheek

And, leaves a blue bite mark like a possessive lover,

I wish I were the notebook that hoards your precious poems

And, you hide in secret under your pillow when you sleep,

The pillow that stanchly guards the secrets of your dream life

And, sings you to slumber when night tide engulfs poets and lexis.

Anita Bacha

View original post

I wish I were

I wish I were the letters that drop from your fountain pen,

And, splotch the virgin white sheet of paper,

The fountain pen that you fondly hold in your hand

And, shape the words exposing your unleash passion,

I wish I were the ink smudged hand on which you rest your chin,

When you contemplate on the forlorn night for inspiration,

The maladroit stroke of ink that brushes your cheek

And, leaves a blue bite mark like a possessive lover,

I wish I were the notebook that hoards your precious poems

And, you hide in secret under your pillow when you sleep,

The pillow that stanchly guards the secrets of your dream life

And, sings you to slumber when night tide engulfs poets and lexis.

Anita Bacha