

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. She had a monthly column, Poet’s Day, here on A Slice of Orange.
Neetu lives in Pennsylvania, USA.
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she bends
to the breeze
allows it to twist her bones
shape her arms
to shade and protect
as she tries hard
to lean towards the sun
to draw upon its warmth
and light
where to now
that she is bent
and has swayed
every which way the wind
has blown
rooted in hardened ground
she stands
weathered and stoic
no one asks if it matters
to her or
if she hurts
© Neetu Malik

I see you will haggle over your wares
sell them to me for the price I ask
I know you have many gods
little and large, in stock
so I make my offer
much to your outrage—
how dare I belittle the deity
I hold in my outstretched hand?
So precious I should fall at its feet
not negotiate over its head—
hush, you say, such sacrilege you
cannot tolerate
I must be reasonable, not violate
your sacred space
I stand resolute in your face
my offer is no disgrace to sanctity
only a question of profit, I buy
you sell
as God is my witness
it is truth I speak
perhaps, you the keeper of such value
alone know what it is
the sticker on the figure
is a matter of trade
I retreat, leave the idol on your shelf
but hear you call me back,
pull a wrapper and roll it around
the little figurehead,
for a nickel more than
I offered,
both accept.
© Neetu Malik

first snow
flakes of a poem
fall on my page
in bitter cold
time freezes
waiting for a thaw
unburdened
the tree branches stretch out
toward the infinite
buried deep
the long slumber in darkness
of next spring’s seeds
© Neetu Malik

Shall we dip our brush
in the deep blue dusk
so we may paint joy
we stole from
the passing day
before it grows dark?
No, I think I would rather
wait for the red sun
to draw bright rays
across our canvas
and let them dry
into permanence.
© Neetu Malik
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