Aminath Neena is an English lecturer from the picturesque archipelago nation of the Maldives. Currently, she works at, The Maldives National University. An avid lover of words, poetry is a hobby closest to her heart. Her poems usually revolve around themes such as love, relationships, spirituality, society, human rights and global issues. According to her, poetry is the gateway to spirituality because it resonates purity like no other. Among her achievements include having her poem featured in ‘Words And Music’, a programme on BBC Radio. She believes her writings to be a reflection of her thoughts, her feelings and her life.

GONE WITH THE WIND

Gone, gone with the wind are those days
Within the chamber of escaped time, I lament
Walking past the bleak concrete blocks
Depicting a cross between a slum and a shanty town
With piles of rotten garbage lying haywire
Twin nostrils flaring at stray cat defecation
Gagging out on the scraggy road in exasperation

The whizz, whizz of two wheelers flying past
Lunging out- ever ready to gore my existence
When the blackballed breeze steals into the premises
Huffing and puffing a generous amount of fume
To weave a subtle kaleidoscope of time
of a similar backdrop, two scores ago
Tears of wistfulness evokes a familiar tango

With the Lub-dub of hearts racing, we fasten our limbs
The aroma of fresh flat bread from chimneys
Pay tribute to the welcoming morning sun
Cups and spoons do the hula hoop dance together
Fresh fish soup boiling in gigantic pots
While the kettle does the whistling song
And the radio whispering sweet nothings all day long

The Pitter patter of little happy feet awaiting
Sweet calls from the familiar street vendors
“zileybi gannaneba” “zileybi gannaneba”
Cheeks gleaming with saccharine caramel syrup
Tiny hands playing with roses, marigold and periwinkle
Mimicking butterflies and skipping gleefully
To hymns of love from the neighbourhood family

The swish, swish of ekel brooms of womenfolk
liberating the smooth sand from minute debris
the pancakes, the sweet porridge, the festivities and sharing
Dragon flies caught in sticky breadfruit sap
held captive in shaky shmaltzy hands
Those wind-swept days- flying paper kites now and then
chasing chickens, to be chased by a puffy mother hen

The thump, thump of mangoes falling on tin roofs
harmonizing the drumbeat of the tropical downpour
On those downcast murky monsoon days
Sailing paper boats in the great necromantic puddles
Stick cranes stuck into sand - an omen to evade the deluge
Taking rain showers under the sliding roof without any fears
Those feigned chidings from mamma to fall on deaf ears

Gone, gone with the wind into the abyss
of implacable time, are those golden days
And gone will be Gen X, with the memories one day
Only these iconic words on ink will remain
Small homes built of lime and coral stone
Had raised happy, aesthetic children with gracious ways
Gone, gone with the wind are those blissful days

Zileybi : a  sweet  local pastry 

Gannaneba? Will someone buy?

FREE AGAIN

One beautiful spring day
A tiny sparkle of white eggs lay

On a mulberry tree green and fine 
In a garden of blooms and vine

Then, into a caterpillar it grew 
Nibbling the leaves, stronger it blew

Delicate and dainty it hung upside down 
A chrysalis formed by spinning a cocoon

An exotic yellow butterfly finally 
sprang out dancing gracefully

Prettier than all others under the sun 
Soon she was the target of everyone

An enchantress she was of her kind 
Unaware of the danger lying behind

She fluttered from flower to flower 
Singing merrily and sipping sweet nectar

Then, out of nowhere appeared a rascal brat 
Holding a long stick with glue as a vicious trap

It stuck on to her dainty wings 
And she was caught in the strings

Day and night she schemed on a way out 
At last, out of a tiny spout

She crept out to see daylight
But, alas it wasn’t the end of her plight

The vagabond hunted her and chased 
As she flew away and raced

A psychopath with no rational thought 
No sympathy offered and sought

Crushed her delicate wings in his palm 
Injured, yet miraculously safe of harm

Climb higher she did indeed 
Sheer willpower as a shield

Out of breath, on a tree she rested 
Her heart weak and untreated

Her abode, solid and secure on the ground 
Move not from the tree, she was bound
 
Terrified of again being victimized
The memory as a nightmare still haunted

Yet in her heart she longed endlessly 
To be free and roam the earth painlessly

One more time in this life, without any doubt 
Before closing her eyes for the final round

PERFUME

The little boy
Sat under the mango tree
Swinging his feet up and down on the swing 
Staring into space
Oblivious to the surroundings 
A little butterfly flew past him 
Grazing his ears as it flew
Dark raven hair framed his tiny face 
Long dark lashes cascaded hazel eyes 
A teardrop escaping his eyelid 
Gently fell on his cheek

*************************** 
Inside the wooden hut
The woman stumbled once 
Her nose bled
Her feet numb 
Her lips blue
She held the suitcase tight 
The door closed forever
She walked slowly towards the boy 
A dark shadow towered over her
Obscuring her from her own flesh and blood 
Such a sacrifice
For her freedom 
From the gallows
A second of hesitation 
They looked at each other 
Child and adult
Oh, how she longed to hug the tiny creature 
The fruit of her womb
Reassurance? 
Consolation?
****************************** 
The tears fell in torrents
Like monsoon rain A whisper
A croak
“Good bye my heart, I have to leave now
But I’ll be back for you I promise! ”
The little boy stood motionless 
A frozen statue
A still picture
The clock stopped chiming 
The woman turned away 
Unable to bear it anymore 
Slowly she walked away
***************************** 
Heavy footsteps
One, two, three, four, five 
Pitter patter
Tiny steps
A gentle tug on her skirt 
She turned around
A tiny voice 
“Mummy, please,
Don’t take your perfume
I want to keep your smell with me 
Even if, I cannot see you anymore! ” 
A frail heart shattered
A tiny spirit trembled 
While, behind them

A voice thundered- 
And the devil smiled.