Tag: Love

White Flowers in the Night


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

Contemplation

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

Pure Love 💕

The Socks

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!

Anita Bacha

The socks

Le Visiteur

Assis sur une chaise haute,
Grand,beau et silencieux,
Il tirait sur sa derniere cigarette:

 La pandémie battait son plein,

Il est arrivé tôt ce matin-là,

Il posa sur la table un sac des ravitaillements ;

Assis sur une chaise haute,

Grand, beau et silencieux,

Il tirait sur sa dernière cigarette ;

 Petite,

 Elle atteignait la hauteur de son front ;

 Le contour délicat de ses yeux,

Une minuscule fossette dans le menton

Et, ses narines sensuelles la captivaient ;

 Elle chassa amèrement

L’envie folle de serrer la tête de l’homme,

Contre son sein ,

De couvrir son visage basané des baisers ;

Elle aussi avait fait la guerre,

Mais la guerre de la vie ;

 Langoureuse,

Elle chercha longtemps dans son regard,

Un signe,

Une suspicion d’amour,

Rien, un vide,

Autrefois, il a connu l’amour,

L’amour qui trahit et qui fait mal,

L’amour qui tue,

Et il mourrait doucement ;

Elle mourrait aussi à force de l’aimer,

Incapable de déclarer son amour

A un homme sans âme.

Anita Bacha

Photo by Thau00eds Silva on Pexels.com

Waiting for Spring

The fall forays my garden as a sorceress,

The sky covering the morning sun with thick dimness;

Broom sweeps, leaves and flowers fly off in a maelstrom,

Cold downpours freeze the subterranean thunderstorm;

Birds flee up in the skies with a scream;

Trout hide under the stones of the stream;

I look full of hope, my love, at the radiance in the horizon;

No matter the rain, the cold, the melancholy of the autumn season,

Whatever the absence, the long days of waiting, the starless nights,

Whatever the tears, the suffering and the frights,

I wait, mad lover that I am, for your return in spring;

Pining for the promised kisses, the delirious frolics in the field,

I dream of the elating scent of the rose on your tanned skin,

Of poppies, crushing on your mouth my stolen longing.

Anita Bacha

Spring

I Promise You

My love, I promise you my ink,

My heart bleeds of words I think,

Of impossible love and pain,

My tears flow incessantly as rain,

Eroded a painting of sea and sand,

Dreams of escape to a green island;

My love, I promise you my ink,

As long as my breath doesn’t sink,

Blood flows in my veins,

A song in my memory remains.

Anita Bacha

Photo credit @anitabacha

How to tell you (3)


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.

Anita Bacha

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.

My birth mother and my adoptive mother

My Birth Mother and My Adoptive Mother.

Her shiny brown eyes like ripe tamarind pulp,

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,

I yawn,

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 Is

Mother always will be

Anita Bacha

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.

Illustrative photography: Anita Bacha.