Neetu Malik’s poetry is an expression of life’s rhythms and the beat of the human spirit. She draws upon diverse multicultural experiences and observations across three continents in which she has lived. She has contributed to The Australia Times Poetry Magazine, October Hill Magazine, Prachya Review, among others. Her poems have appeared in The Poetic Bond Anthology V and VI published by Willowdown Books, UK, NY Literary Magazine’s Tears Anthology and Poetic Imagination Anthology (Canada).
Her poem, “Soaring Flames”, was awarded First-Place by the NY Literary Magazine (2017). She has also been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, 2019 for her poem “Sacred Figs” published by Kallisto Gaia Press in their Ocotillo Review in May, 2018.
Neetu lives in Pennsylvania, USA.
You play the piano, I listen—
notes slide off
your fingers
smooth as ambrosia,
dripping a symphony
or a ragtime song
into my senses
parched for so long.
Thirsting for the heady
intoxication to fill
my emptiness
I turn to see your
graceful form,
your dancing fingers,
mesmerized
the world slips away,
as drop by drop,
pure enchantment
shivers briefly
then sinks into
the deepest
tunnels of me.
© Neetu Malik
This poem was first published in The Australia Times Poetry Magazine.
Silence
between you and me
and the crashing
of the sea
no sound is heard
but that of seagulls
circling in the sky
drop by drop
silence trickles
lengthening each
moment
before it runs dry
© Neetu Malik
3 1 Read more
I awoke
to a sprouting of spring—
will you pin it in my hair?
I wonder
as the starry white blossoms
flutter in the cool morning breeze
I know
that they will blush
to the touch of warm sunny days
still to come
They are
a promise of tomorrow
as it rises from winter’s long sleep.
© Neetu Malik
They have been sitting on the porch
in reclining chairs, an old couple,
watching the world go by
each evening the sun's shadows pass
over their faces revealing
nothing more than a few lines
of contentment
they never touch, their hands
always resting neatly on their laps,
or sometimes, they hold a glass of wine.
Passersby note with some surprise
how unmoved they are by changes
like when they widened roads
and built that new high-rise
right in front of their little row house,
dug out cherry trees and tall maples
that grew on both sides
but no one wants to ruffle sunshine
with questions—
they just wave and smile.
Today they sit as usual,
the last of the sun's rays flicker
grudgingly, a little hesitant, it seems
the woman extends her hand,
touches his
their eyes meet—
her hand still on his, a quiver
passes her lips,
she closes her eyes
as he covers her hand
with his.
© Neetu Malik
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