Tag: Poetry

True to His Word

True to his word,

He was there, in the park,

Waiting for her,

She halted, looked around,

His words echoed in her ears,

In the morning gentle zephyr,

‘I will be there!’

‘I will be there for you!’

He cried out,

Last time they met and parted;

Stoic, handsome and shy,

Greener against the blue sky,

He smiled under its vast parasol;

The sight of him warmed her heart;

They talked,

They had so much to say to each other;

Then they fell into a deep silence,

It was not love,

It was not happiness,

It was a soul connection.

Anita Bacha

A tree

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

Happy Mother’s Day

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


THE APPLE OF MY EYE

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!
Anita Bacha

Excerpt from my poetry book SOUL POETRY

The Sea

Listen to the lament of the forlorn sea,
She is calling your name!
Listen to the rhythm of her beating waves,
She is calling your name!
Listen to the sea,
Listen to her beseeching vow,
She is missing you!
She misses your body,
Floating frivolously like seaweed,
Dancing and curving her waves,
She misses your smell,
Deliciously and fondly fading with hers,
She wants to tenderly hold you,
And, never let you go,
Engulf you in the nudity of her waves,
Deep into the profundity of her bewitching charm,
Rocking you once again in her arms

Santa Paula, Goa January 2020

Anita Bacha

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