Your name I’ve painted, In henna on my palm; As days and night spent, Your name is a blessed psalm; Your name I’ve tattooed, In ink on my heart too; Time and tide may pass, Your name will forever last. Anita Bacha
Take me with you, To a land where white flowers, Bloom in the night, Where moths freely die in the light, As I bloom and I die in your favors, Take me with you, Keep me close to you, As the scent of white flowers, Invigorates the breath of lovers, And I write with the ink of your eyes, These petals of poetry, Chaste as white flowers in the night. Anita Bacha
May this waiting draw to a close, my love! That very soon we are united at last, In a mad and passionate hug; My heart shall beat with your heart, Away our tears shall flow in abundant joy, Shall wet our parched lips of the grief, Of the pain of thirsting desires; That blessed under a starry night sky, Your breath shall melt with my breath, My eyes bathe in the clear pond of your gaze; Swept into the furrows of time and space, We forget the world, the universe, the Creator himself, We forget the intense longing, We forget the slow suffering, That shall exist for us only our guiltless love! Anita Bacha
The Socks In coils like two cotton balls Coated with dust From under my bed A brush stroke brought out the socks! Forgotten Abandoned Consciously or unconsciously The socks you left behind Sad, blue Filled with bitterness The stare blank The socks I caught in my trembling hands Gave me a lump in my throat The socks recalled your being there Curled against me in my bed It was not a dream! The socks made me a little scared Fear the idea that you will never come back To warm my bed To cover me with delicious cuddles The socks made me chuckle too Giggle at the idea that I had never seen such large feet Such big toes, teasingly tickling my feet The socks revived in me the great happiness These senseless moments When we both laughed like kids Happy to be together Pleased that we had met Pleased that we were in love!
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.
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.