The Butterfly and the Rose

He hurried down the hill, the playful butterfly,

Thirsting for his queen, the morning rose;

She turned her face, shunned the fickle lover,

The rose;

Fluttered the butterfly closer,

Tenderly to woo the rose,

Beg for mercy,

To caress once more her silken blossom,

Languorously to cradle in her folds;

Aloof she stood in the rising sun, the rose;

In the vanity of her solitude,

Frigid, in the pervasive warmth that arose,

Naked, deceived and betrayed,

Indignant by the deep humiliation,

The Queen of flowers, the rose!

Her magnificent crimson petals, she had shed,

Her strong, splendid green leaves had fallen,

Her sharp, shielding thorns were gone,

Lost in the wilderness her alluring perfume;

One time the butterfly stroke her,

Forever he touched her soul!

Anita Bacha

http://poetryofanitabacha.com/

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THE MANGO SEASON

I think of you all the time,

But I think of you more in the mango season;
I think of you when I eat ripe mangoes,
Peeled with a sharp knife,
Sliced, mixed with raw sea salt and fresh red chilies,
Like you eat ripe mangoes in Ceylon;

I think of your visit every mango season,
My thrill when you arrived at the airport,
The unleashed love in your hugs,
The gifts of delicacies and fine lingerie,
And you, my obsession,
And your panic attacks, your bouts of depression,
Your tears and your snorts;
I’d cook for you, I’d brew your tea, and I’d warm water for your bath,
I was so overwhelmed to have you in the mango season,
Every ripe mango was a feast too juicy,
Every moment, an eternity,
A promise of unbound happiness,
Counting the days deemed pointless;

When you confessed your love for my best friend,
The mango season crashed to an end,
We’d roll over the top of mango trees,
We’d swim in a punch of thick, sticky mango sap,
We’d come out naked and sad,
As you walked away from me, my hand you forego,
I loved you so much; I had to let you go;

I wait for the mango season every year,
I wait for memories that linger,
For ripe mangoes as sweet as love and petting,
Added salt and chili sarcastically begetting
Grief and pain,
Corollaries of an amorous adventure again
Anita Bacha

http://poetryofanitabacha.com/

The Rose and the Fox

It was in the year 2011; I had a work session in Paris.
By sheer chance, I met a young German woman. Her name was Rose. She had every reason to bear such a lovely, adorable name. We shared many ‘likes’- FaceBook, writing, reading and Indian food. Over a hot and spicy vegetarian meal, she confided in me that she was in love with an Indian guy. Unfortunately, the feelings were not reciprocal. The Indian guy, she told me, was the fox in the tale of St. Exupery. This is how the story unfolds-
“Once, a fox came down a valley of roses;
He approached a rose and gently whispered to her –
You are the most beautiful rose in the world!
The rose replied – No, sir! You are mistaken!
We are all of equal beauty!
The fox, blinded with love, went on his knees and mumbled inaudibly –
 No! You are the most beautiful of all!
The fox was so very deeply in love.
 In the whole valley covered with thousands of roses,
He had eye for only one rose; His chosen one!’
End of story”
I noticed big, salty tears running down the rosy cheeks of Rose and falling in her plate.
 Rose! You’re crying! I exclaimed.
 No! It’s the gravy! It’s too hot! She lied, wiping her tears. Anyways, she added woefully, I am not the rose of the fox. His rose is the most beautiful rose in the valley!
I nearly choked with unexpressed sadness but was unable to console her. I promised her from the core bottom of my heart that she will, one day, find her fox too. We parted.
As I strolled down Place de la Republique, these comforting thoughts crossed my mind –
Women are fragrant roses in the valley of God;
For every rose there is a fox down the valley 
Who loves her more than anything in the whole world

http://poetryofanitabacha.com/

 

If I Could 

My poem ‘If I Could ‘translated and recited in Nowegian by my sweet granddaughter YANA at the launching of Soul Poetry on Sunday 13 December 2015 at the Gymkhana Club Mauritius. The birth of a poetess…
Hvis Jeg Kunne
Hvis jeg kunne gått over havet,

Ville jeg krysset verden for å tørke dine tårer,

Hvis jeg kunne slått ned et fjell,

Ville jeg bygget deg et hjem av sten,

Hvis jeg kunne dratt tilbake i tid,

Ville jeg bragt deg en giftering,

Hvis jeg kunne dødd og blitt født igjen,

Hvis jeg kunne stanset tiden,

Hvis jeg kunne holdt deg i mine armer i all evighet,

Hvis jeg kunne stanset mitt hjerte fra å elske deg,

Men jeg kan ikke gå over havet,

Jeg kan ikke slå ned et fjell,

Jeg kan ikke skru tiden tilbake,

Jeg kan ikke dø og bli født igjen,

Jeg kan ikke gifte meg med deg,

Alt jeg kan..,

Jeg kan gråte med deg,

Be at vårt forhold aldri tar slutt,

Be at vi ikke søker hverandre,

Be at vi lever i hverandre

www.poetryofanitabacha.com