Soudainement, sans avertissement,
Notre beau pays, Ile Maurice, est pris d’assaut,
Un ennemi mortel paraît, on n’est sait d’où,
Il s’attaque à nous,
Il est minuscule mais malin,
Il s’appelle Corona, il est là,
Invisible mais invincible,
Il ne choisit pas, voyons,
Noir, blanc, jaune, marron,
Homme, femme, jeune ou vieux,
Riche, pauvre, vaillant, peureux,
Il s’attaque à tous,
Confinement solitaire,
Couvre-feu sanitaire,
À la maison, pour se taire,
Un peuple uni sortira vainqueur.
Anita Bacha
Spirit of the Forest,
You marvel me,
You scare me,
In the deepness of your folds,
I love to venture,
Gliding in your moist leaves,
Play hide and seek.
Anita Bacha
With a magic splash of fresh paints,
Trees and plants
Grim and dark,
With a spark
Into emerald green, are changed,
Donned is the sky in glistening blue,
Splendid and meek, the golden sun
Flirts jauntily,
Budding flowers kissing delicately
Coaxing beauty in the fun;
As spring plays with colors,
With the melodious songs of birds,
With the waltz of cheery butterflies,
With the noble heart of man,
New hopes, like fresh petals unbolt,
Blossoming gaily in the garden of life.
Anita Bacha
The grains of sand tickle my feet,
I close my eyes,
Is it you, my sweet Lord,
Filling my soul with vibes divine?
The sea amorously laps my toes,
I close my eyes,
Is it you, my sweet Lord,
Sending cosmic waves down my spine?
As I stroll down the shore
‘I have caressed His Feet! ‘whispers the sand;
‘I have kissed His toes!’ murmurs the sea,
You walk with me, my sweet Lord!Anita Bacha
In her garden
Grandma planted a seed
She fenced around the earth
Water it before the sun is high
In her garden,
Grandma planted a seed,
She fenced around the earth,
Water it before the sun is high;
With her tender keep,
The seed grew into a sapling;
In the middle of the field,
Mom moved the sapling,
Fenced around the earth,
Water it before the sun is high;
With her tender keep,
The sapling grew into a tree;
In our field, there is a tree,
Giving us shade when the sun is high,
And, a thirst-quenching fruit with a seed,
That will grow into a sapling,
If like grandma and mom, we heed.
Anita Bacha
Photo credit : Anita Bacha
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.
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.
Anita Bacha
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.
Anita Bacha
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.
Image of Snowing in Belgium cc. Anita Bacha.
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.
You walk in my life unaware,
Inviting my pen to play melodies,
Of indescribable beauty on strings,
My fingers throbbing with love;
Don’t walk away unaware,
Breaking the rhythm of my heart beats,
Striking your name on strings,
My fingers blemished in ink;
You are the dancing script,
The humming pen, the amorous words,
You are around me, within me,
You are the poem you whispered in my ear.
Anita Bacha
Anita Bacha 