The Other Side Of Paradise – A Love Poem by Anita Bacha


God only knows,

She saw your smile in the crescent of the moon,

She saw your tears sashaying her window screen,

Or was it raining on a full moon night;

God only knows,

She was madly in love with the idea of you,

The scent of  henna on her beloved’s hand,

Breathed the perfume of rose in the desert sand;

God only knows,

How far this traveler had run around the globe,

She saw your footprints in a puddle of water,

She saw your fingers running in her tangled hair,

Or was it the rustling of the mimosa leaves;

God only knows,

She was intoxicated by the words falling from your lips,

She let you feast on her riches and her body,

She let you steal her soul,

She lost herself in you and she came to be you;

God only knows,

She heard her beseeching voice in the haboob,

Or was it the cry of a lamb in the arid dunes,

God only knows.

Anita Bacha 

Dear friends and readers, The Other Side of Paradise, is one of the poems that you will find in Part 2 of my poetry book INK, Echo of life and love (2019).

Hope you enjoy the before taste.

Happy reading 

Anita Bacha

The Scent of a Woman

After the Second World War, there was a shortage of food stuffs in the Island. In those years, Mauritius was a colony under the British rule.

Nonetheless, our family did not feel the immediate pangs or the aftermath of the war as we were quite well off. My mother, I fondly remember, splashed herself with Yardley Eau de Cologne every morning after her tub bath. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen and I could follow her around the whale of a house that we had, sniffing her perfume like a little dog.

My father was a whole sale merchant and he was bringing home our share of ration rice. It was our basic food and also the basic food of the whole population of some 500,000 heads.

A hard, little, yellowish pearl, unpolished and unrefined, my mother told me that this grain of rice came in its husk during the war. In those days called ‘le temps margoze’ (the sour gourd days) by the local people, the women folk had to pound the rice in a mortar to separate the husk from the rice. They used to call it ‘du riz pousse femme’ (the rice that drive women away) because it was a real nightmare for women to pound the rice.

We were fortunate, I gather, because we did not have to pound the rice. But once in a week, in a ceremonial manner my mother sat a small wooden bench and surrounded by the maid servants, they would busy themselves at cleaning the rice. The rice was placed on large aluminum trays in small heaps. It was winnowed and then the grit was separated from the grain. In a small tin, my mother kept the small black stones to throw away and in her lap, the broken rice to feed the birds.

Close to her, on a smaller bench, I sat down to be with her. I felt like a big girl because I could pick out the stones and the broken rice from her heap.

After she had finished and filled a big iron container with the clean rice, I had the liberty to bury my head in the warm and loving lap of my mother. I breathed in the intimate scent of a woman interlaced with the perfume of eau de cologne and the smell of ration rice.

Years after, this scent still filled my whole being with the sweet memory of my mother.

Anita Bacha

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

Celebrating Mother’s Day – Footprints -A Poem by Anita Bacha

Happy Mother’s Day!
Sharing a poem dedicated to my mother who passed at the age of 42 after a long illness of innumerable years.


FOOTPRINTS

She was walking on the beach
A long skirt hiding her knees
Dotted with tiny blue florets
A white linen blouse flattened her bosom
Prude,
She never wore a bathing suit

Immaculate as the sunset
Pretty as a picture
Mysterious as the sea
Smiling to herself
Poetic, in love, sweet,
A dreamer
She fell in love only once
People said
The blessed day was her wedding day

A long trail of foot steps
She left
Printed in the moist sand
In joyous innocence
Behind her I walked
Placing my steps
One by one in her wake
She was the apple of my eye!
She was my mother! She is my inspiration!

Anita Bacha

Published in my book SOUL POETRY (2015) under the title ‘The Apple of My Eye’.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Soul-Poetry-Inspirational-Verses-Quotes-ebook/dp/B0794SD2BH/ref=mp_s_a_1_1?keywords=soul+anita+bacha&qid=1653829246&sr=8-1

Thank you for reading

Anita Bacha

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