LITTLE FLOWER IN A FURROW

 I was passing by,
One morning,
 A little flower in a furrow
 I saw, peeping at me;
Soft lavender color,
Tender and fragile,
 Flaunting four tiny petals,
A miniscule golden ball,
Her belly button;
Mesmerized, I watched,
Wondered,
Chuckled;
I wanted to touch her,
With my moistened lips,
Caress her glossy folds;
To-morrow!
I cried out and hurried my steps;
Following sunrise,
The furrow was barren,
My eyes wept for her;
In a puddle,
Pale, on her tummy,
 Lifeless and floppy,
The little flower
Floated in rain water;
 Queen for a day, memorable forever,
She won the heart of a joker.

Anita Bacha

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

 

Words

Words,

Precious psychic words,

Fly me to my love!

Words,

Iridescent,

Powerful, mighty eagles,

Fly me to my love!

Up and above,

Valleys and mountain tops,

Oceans and lands,

Fly me to my love!

Touch him,

Kiss him,

Fondle him,

Squeeze him!

Words,

Awesome,

Divine words,

Fly me to my love!

Pierce his heart,

Conquer his soul,

Possess him,

Enchant him,

Make him my own!

Words,

Infinite,

Invisible atoms of my soul,

Fly me to my love!

Words,

Resounding,

Screeching,

Ejaculating in joyous delight,

Fly me to my love!

Anita Bacha©

Excerpt from my book ‘SOUL POETRY-INSPIRATIONAL POEMS, VERSES & QUOTES

 

 

 

The Night of Shiva in Mauritius

 

In spiritual life, each aspirant seeks and appeases his spiritual hunger according to his belief, taste or talent. 

Grand Bassin, dotingly called ‘Ganga Talao’, is a Crater Lake situate in a secluded mountain area in the South of Mauritius. Nestled deep in the core recess of the heart of the island, Grand Bassin is recognized as a sacred lake and a replica of the Holy Ganges by the Hindu populace.  Every year, thousands of pilgrims from the four corners of the island converge to its precincts; they collect the sacred water of the lake, to offer to Lord Shiva, on the occasion of Maha Shivratree or ‘The Night of Shiva’. This year, the Night of Shiva is celebrated on 24 February. Zealous pilgrims from the north, the east and the west have started to trek to the south since Friday last, blessed by the intermittent drizzles of the rainy season.

 

ODE TO SHIVA

 

Graceful, gorgeous white skinned Lord!

You wear the moon on your head,

You are the elixir of life,

Remover of pain and suffering;

 

Immutable, powerful three-eyed Lord!

You are the embodiment of light,

Bestower of joy and ecstasy,

Destroyer of darkness and ignorance;

 

My song is a prayer to you,

My dance is worship to you,

My body is your temple,

My soul belongs to you!

Anita Bacha

Illustration/Photography/ Anita Bacha

Illustration Video/ Courtesy of Flying Freaks Aerial Cinematography

 

img_4513

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     

 🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

IF

IF

If I were a flower for the joy of being a flower,

A leaf for being a leaf;

If I were a stem;

If I were a leaf and a stem to dress up a flower;

If I were a flower that you will place on your heart;

If I were all sleek and purple petals,

Petals to cover the nudity of a flower;

If I were a flower that you will place on your heart;

If I were the eyelids for the delight of being the eyelids,

The lashes for being the lashes;

If I were the eyes;

If I were the eyelids and the lashes to cover your eyes;

If I were a teardrop,

A teardrop running down a cheek,

A teardrop that loses itself in the lips;

If I were the lips that caress a flower;

If I were the lips and you were a flower!

Anita Bacha

 

Processed with MOLDIV