Author: Anita Bacha

THE CRYING SLIPPERS

Disconsolate

My legs weak and trembling

I wake up at the break of dawn

The cigarette butts in the ashtray

The lingering stench of marijuana

Laced with the scent of Indian perfumed oil

My wits are missing you

My feet slid sloppily in the slippers

The bunny rabbits offered to you last Easter

I stifle a cry of joy

You have come back, I rejoice

Alas! No!

Forgotten

Left behind clumsily

In front of our wedding bed

The slippers are cold and wet

The slippers are crying

Howling your brutal departure

Bare footed

Your rush to catch the first boat

Away from me

Away from reality

The crying slippers add to my grief

 To the great void in my life

I cannot manage to fill

Void

Emptiness

My heart is in my flames

Put off the fire

Settle the scores

The crying slippers will join

Your razor…

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©

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.

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 ran to catch a fistful of sand,
Where unaware,
Your bare feet had trodden;
A fistful of sand, to treasure;
Somewhere,
A dream had broken.
Anita Bacha

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

In chaos, my world collapses,

My pen drops,

A wound on my ring finger,

Betrayed …

By my lover,

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,

Out of nowhere,

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

Writer’s note -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…