How to tell you, What is softer than the skin of a baby, Softer than the feel of snow, Softer than the petals of a rose, How to tell you, Nothing is softer than your hand, Lying under my cheek, When I sleep; How to tell you, What is a hand without warmth, Or warmth without a hand, Or a 🌹without petals, Or petals without a 🌹, Or me without you,or you without me.
Photo credit: Anita Bacha.
This is the third poem entitled ‘How to tell you’ that I have penned down. I thought my readers would be confused to read (3) in the title. Enjoy! The picture was shot by me at the wedding of my friend, the groom,in Rajasthan. His hand decorated with henna in the picture. I am using the picture to illustrate my poem. There is no connection between the poem and the picture.
Going down High Street,Olympia, My heart overflows with nostalgia; On tree tops, I behold, Blossoms of green and gold; At the London Book Fair, Writers and poets fare; In the pages of each book, I delve and I look, Your name is engraved, By the invisible hand of God.
Sad to learn that the world greatest book event, the London Book Fair 2020 is cancelled. I have been visiting the fair stoically for the last five years to exhibit my poetry book and this is where I met the publisher of my debut children’s book The Princess and the Crow in 2016. I was craving to see my book on the shelves of Austin Macauley London. As we say in French ‘l’homme propose, Dieu dispose!’ I, however, salute the decision of the Reeds Exhibition to cancel the event.Better safe than sorry. I look forward to the London Book Fair 2021 with added zeal and ‘ si Dieu le veut’ with a brand new book.
Sunday lunch in a friendly bistro, On the outskirts of Brussels; A hanging smell of blubber, Roast, mash and stew, A man in an old over-coat, Others in woollies and stoles, Silently bent on their plates, In their eyes, hope twinkles and smiles, Shafts of sunlight Break through closed windows, Heralds the onset of spring; Like man, Nature too is keen on change. A new coat, cheerful and light, A scarf painted with colors, beautiful and bright.
Photo Credit: Anita Bacha.
I lived in Belgium for some time, more particularly,in Brussels for work and in Linkebeek with family and friends. I love the Belgian people both the French and the Flemish. I adore the food. I have left a piece of my heart in Belgium and I entertain the sincere wish of going back one day when the Spring breaks through.
Couldn’t be happier to be featured as one of the authors in the newly published book of Her Place. My debut poetry book Soul Poetry is my pride. I believe we all writers feel the same about our first published book. It’s a first born, the apple of our eyes.To cut a long story short, the American writer and poet Dana Vilandre spotted my book on Amazon and…hold your breath…the stories I were posting on WordPress! She fell in love with my writing and I was chosen as one of the 33 women to be featured in Her World. Beauty, thy name is Woman!
Her Place, Any Region, introduces you to Her World, Creative Collections. Enjoy a literary journey through the experiences, hearts, and minds of 33 women from around the world. Compiled in one single readable book, view life from the eyes of phenomenal female artists and authors in the form of photography, song lyrics, book excerpts, personal life experiences, prose, and poetry. We hope you enjoy this incredibly broad spectrum with which these stories are written, bringing women together to share a glimpse into each other’s lives, during a time unifying the population of women is more important than ever
Her olive color skin, her long flowing black hair,
Her cute oval face and sweet, crying voice,
Her fragrance, vetiver interlaced with wild musk,
Tore my heart apart as I let go of her linen camisole;
She is my mother!
Locked in her arms, I snuggle, forgetful of the world,
Throwing my legs and arms in gleeful abandon,
Languidly I open my eyes,
Her loving, sky blue gaze,
Her porcelain white skin glowing in the sun light,
Her golden curls dancing around her pretty face,
Her perfume, carnation interlaced with red rose,
Fill my heart as I bury my head in her silken stole,
She is my mother!
Mother is the one who renounced me,
Mother is the one who found me,
Mother always will be
I am sharing this poem that I wrote a decade ago when I was Head of the Central Authority for Inter-country Adoption , set up by The Hague Conference , in Mauritius. Strange are the ways of God, I found.Not every bud becomes a flower; not every daughter becomes a mother.Anita Bacha.