Times and Seasons

Times and Seasons
 
Our dawns were then like rising tides,
Our dusks were gentle ebbs—
And every time of day had moods,
Reflected in our minds.
 
******
 
Our days and nights were full of hope,
As joy was in the air.
Though suffering was all around,
We did not then despair.
 
The times have changed and we have aged,
Yet dawns and dusks proceed—
And seasons come and seasons go
Of sun—and fear and greed.
 
Our days have darkened and our nights
Are not of restful sleep.
We slide towards the precipice
And glimpse the waiting deep.
 
******
 
The seasons of our lives, once lived,
Do not return again.
And so, while still in fading light,
The darkness is embraced.
 
2022 June 24^th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York

This Old Chap

 
This Old Chap 

This Old Chap

The weariness from lack of sleep,
The weariness from age,
And all the buffets borne before
Combine to blur the page.

And though he writes his verses still
And so avoids despair,
It seems his vision falters, fogs
And fades beyond repair.

And so the time has come, perhaps,
To take a quiet nap.
And then he might have strength for more—
This old, persistent chap.

And see—he dozes in his chair
And jerks from time to time.
And when he wakes, he’ll fix again
The meter, sound and rhyme.

2018 May 30th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
-------------------------------------------------------

    

So Is It Spring?

So Is It Spring?

We see the tulips, so we know that this
Is springtime, though the winter tarries still.
And here's a tree that dresses now in white—
And down the street, another, blushing pink.
And others yet are still without their leaves,
But spread their twigs to taut, expectant buds—
Or tiny leaflets, shyly peeking out.

And seeing all of this, we know that spring
Is here, though winter works its stubborn will—
So nights are close to freezing and we wear
Our heavy garments, huddled, to our work.

And here and there, on bushes evergreen,
We see the newest leaves, in varied hues
And backlit glory, as they rise and glow
Like votive candles, in the afternoons—
And so, from this and more, we know that spring
Is with us, though the winter does not leave.

So children now are playing in the streets.
And in the parks, the squirrels peek from trees
And little birds are chirping, “This is spring!”,
As mothers wheel their still well-bundled kids.

****** 

  

The season stays and tries to work its will,
As nights are crisp and close to freezing still,
So weather men and women talk of snow
As April's done and May is at our door—
And out in Minnesota all is white,
For winter, peeved, is venting still its spite—
But here in Brooklyn we are sensing spring,
And fancies, like the birds, are taking wing.

“But is it spring?” we ask, and wonder why
The winter, old like us, will still not die,
But lingers, as we do, although our times
Are up, and all that's left—are weary rhymes.

So leave, old winter, leave—and take us too—
For spring is here to drive us out—with you.

2018 April 21, Sat.
Bensonhurst Park
Brooklyn, New York

Bensonhurst Park, Brooklyn, New York. 2018 April 21 Sat.
(On a good computer screen, click on the image for a better view.)

   

Winding Down

 
Winding Down 

The clock is wound—and then its coils unwind,
as “Tick-tick-tock!”, its seconds-hand goes ‘round,
until it’s all unwound—and then it stops
and waits for us to wind it up again.
 
So also it may be with each of us.
We each are wound—and then we each unwind,
as childhood, youth and middle age go by—
and then we might perceive we’re winding down.

And so we slow and stumble as we move,
as friction overcomes the driving force,
until at last the pulsing heart has stopped.
Then life is done and death is all that’s left.

Is there a hand that winds us up again?
If so, the spirit might perhaps revive—
but not the body or the burdened self
that sheds its baggage—and its claim to life.

2018 February 16th, Fri.
F train, running on the D line
between Atlantic Avenue and 
Fort Hamilton Parkway, Brooklyn

Fragments

   
Fragments

We age and then, in time, we die.
And yet, although we might despair,
We hold to truth, refute the lie,
And try to mend what needs repair.

We're humbled by the blows of time,
And all our hopes are dashed in turn.
And yet, we breathe, and persevere.
While life remains, our candles burn.

Who knows the truth, except the gods?
And surely they are blinded too.
We hold our fragments to the light,
For that is all we each can do.

2017 April 24th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
 

What Chance

What Chance

You were waiting by a doorway
for the bus—and smiled at me.
And I at first ignored this—
until you came to mind.
I only then responded—
but your eyes were smiling still.

   

And later, you had dropped by,
for half an hour or so.
Our hands had touched, so briefly—
with a current passing through.

For a quarter of a century,
I have seen you come and go—
so near and yet so distant—
and always in my mind.

There’s a bond that long has linked us,
in the strangest kind of way.
It has kept us always tethered,
but always still apart.

I have seen your bloom, your fading.
I have memorized your face—
the curving of your eyelids—
your planes and shapes and shades.
 
There were dreams I had of holding
your form within my arms—
and I always then dismissed these
as idle thoughts that passed.
I even dreamt we had kissed, once,
but I smiled—and said, “What chance!”
 
2017 January 27th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York
   

Relativity-III

 
Relativity-III
 
When we’re young, the years go slowly,
So it seems, but when we age,
They seem to go by faster,
Till they’re flying by at speed.
 
We find we cannot slow them,
Though we mutter, wail and rage.
We fear they will not slacken—
Till we’re dead and gone indeed.

But then, as death approaches,
The days appear to slow,
As we wish that they would hasten,
As we’re eager then to go.

So it seems that time’s a torture
That’s devised, like all the rest,
To be, with us, impatient—
Yet all our patience test.
 
2016 August 23rd, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York
-----------------------------

Note: Below are links to two distant relatives of Relativity-III:
 
1) Relativity-II (Jo`e Bangla)
    http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/03/relativity-ii-joe-bangla.html
  
2) Relativity
    http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/01/relativity.html 
     

Stay Awhile

Stay Awhile
 
I’m grateful that you came and I
Am sorry that you’ll go.
But good things always have an end—
And this I’ve come to know.

So when it comes to say goodbye,
We’ll wave to one another.
So did I once to my sister and
My father and my mother.

And once I had a spouse but now
I’m left myself, alone.
I now depend on strangers, since
It rarely rings—that ‘phone.

And so, I deal with those, with whom
Connections still are slight.
And some do wrong, while others try
To do what seems is right.

Don’t leave me to their mercies yet,
But stay with me awhile.
It’s good to hear your voice again,
It’s good to see your smile.

At times, I tried to think  ahead,
But fled to safer ground.
For I could see, where I would be
If I was still around.

But now, I'm here, as I had feared,
And so I fear no more.
I live—and day by day I bear
Whatever is in store.

And so I know how it will be,
As days and months go by,
And even years, until it's time
To close my eyes and die.

The seasons, they will come and go,
But all I’ll see is walls,
And not the sky and sun and clouds
Or rain or snow that falls.

They’ll wall me in, within a room,
With the TV as a friend,
And wheel me out, in summertime
Or when I meet my end.
 
But so it is, and so will be.
And what are we to do?
But stay awhile and chat, my friend,
So I can smile at you.

2016 April 12th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York 
   

Phirbe Na Go—ফিরবে না গো—Could Words Bring Back?

My niece, Malini  Chakravarty,  had posted, on Facebook, these lines from a Bob Dylan song:

https://www.facebook.com/malini.chakravarty/posts/10154238667818777

"And take me disappearing through the smoke rings of my mind
Down the foggy ruins of time
Far past the frozen leaves
The haunted frightened trees
Out to the windy bench
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow
Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky
With one hand waving free
Silhouetted by the sea
Circled by the circus sands
With all memory of fate
Driven deep beneath the waves
Let me forget about today until tomorrow"
-----------------------------------------------------------
  
At an antipode to that intoxication and revelation in the turbulence of youth, I came upon this hangover and realization in the doldrums of age:  *

Phirbe Na Go

Chot'obe`lar khe`lae ami mo`tto chilam jo`khon,
Jantam ki ei xexer diner dukkho ami to`khon?
Bur'o belae ut'hi e`khon, diner alo dekhi.
Mone po`r'e ko`to ko`tha, bhabi boxe likhi.
Ho`e na lekha. Jibon srote bhexe ge`lo ja,
Jo`toi likhi, phirbe na go kono mo`te ta.

xo`kal 4:19, 18-oi Epril, 2016 khri.
Bruklin, Niu Io`rk
----------------------------------------------------------- 

To hear the audio recording in Google' Chrome browser:
 1) first, click the triangular play button on the right, above;
 2 then click  either: 

   a) that button again to play the audio in the background (on this page); 
   b) or the rectangular button on the left, above, for audio at the Vocaroo site.

The procedure in other browsers might be slightly different.
Vocaroo:  Record music and voice >>
-----------------------------------------------------------
  
* For a brief explanation of the Roman transcription scheme used above (and a guide to the pronunciation), please see:
   http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/02/bharot-xadhin-indias-freedom.html

The version in the traditional Bengali script is directly below.  A translation into English follows--at the bottom of this post.  The translation is fairly literal, except that the last sentence has been changed into a question.
-----------------------------------------------------------
  
ফিরবে না গো

ছোটবেলার খেলায় আমি মত্ত ছিলাম যখন,
জানতাম কি এই শেষের দিনের দুঃখ আমি তখন?
বুড়ো বেলায় উঠি এখন, দিনের আলো দেখি৷
মনে পড়ে কত কথা, ভাবি বসে লিখি৷
হয় ন লেখা৷ জীবন স্রোতে ভেসে গেল যা,
যতই লিখি, ফিরবে না গো কোনো মতে তা৷

সকাল ৪:১৯, ১৮ ই এপ্রিল, ২০১৬ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক
-----------------------------------------------
2016 April 18th, 4:19 am
Brooklyn, New York
-----------------------------------------------
  
Could Words Bring Back?

When I was busy with my childhood games,
What did I know of the woes of age?
Now, when I wake to the light of the day,
There are things I remember that I think I should write.
They never are written. But could words ever bring
The return of the things that have floated away?

translation added:
2016 May 13th, Fri
Brooklyn, New York

  

Echoes

 
Echoes 
   
  

Chaos

     
When I get up in the morning,
And I totter from my bed,
I remember then my father,
Who’s been only three years dead.

And then looking in the mirror,
Since I’ve shaved away my beard,
I can see my father’s visage
And no longer think that’s weird.

The grunt I make on rising,
The downturn of my mouth,
Remind me that I’m aging,
For my parts are going south.

And I see and hear my father
And my uncles, grandpas, more—
That lineage, male, of elders
Who walked this way before.

So I go about my business,
But suddenly I laugh,
Remembering a gem-like grain
My father picked from chaff.
 
He had an eye and ear for it.
I hear, as I grow old,
His mild remarks that made one smile,
The stories that he told...

******
   
But when I see a stranger
And I see that stranger smile,
I know my mother’s in me
And will remain a while.

For that was how they greeted
My mother, who had eyes
That looked on them with kindness,
As each would then surmise.

And so it is with puppies
And even dogs when grown—
Except it’s me who’s smiling,
As if they were my own.

She had a way with animals,
As she also had with us.
Her instincts, of the kinder sort,
She acted on—sans fuss.

So though she was a mortal
And so had faults like all,
It seemed she was an angel,
Who’d chanced, by us, to fall.

And so my aunts and grandmas,
And that widow, with a will,
Who mothered so my sister,
Are each within me still.

******
 
I see my sister walking
Within a region hallowed.
She went her way before me.
I often wish I’d followed.

I call to her, “I’m coming.”
She doesn’t seem to hear.
I stand and watch my sister—
So distant, yet so near.

In everything she tried to do,
It seemed that she was gifted.
And yet, with so much left to do,
Her soul, from Earth, was lifted.

I read the pages of the book
She’d written with such grace.
And as I read, she lives again,
And I can read her face.

******
 
I also see the others—
From the villages and towns—
To whom I sat and listened—
The sages and the clowns…

My cousins, older, younger,
The friends I made at school,
And those who once were neighbors—
Are still within this fool.

For a fool is what I’ve turned to,
Upon my downward arc.
And so, to all that brightness,
I turn to, in the dark.

Our childhoods might be wretched,
But even those have light.
The hurts are healed and hidden,
The blessings stay in sight.

******
 
We circle, in our journeys
From birth to death, so when
We near our mortal endings,
We’re back where we began.

And where was my beginning,
Except where I was born?
So there I'll be returning
To mend the fabric torn.

I will see again the rivers
And the fields of gold and green,
So even in my misery
A breeze will blow, serene.

Village River, by Samiran Sarkar, 2011
http://www.absolutearts.com/art-for-sale/themes/all/landscape/river-5.html

 
I will hear the city’s bustle;
I will see the city’s skies.
I will squint up at the cloudscape;
I will watch the kite that flies.

I will hear the tongues my kinsfolk spoke.
I will hear the dialects’ speech.
I will savor, as I’m dying,
The flavor that’s in each.

The languages of childhood,
Of the land that gave me birth,
Their timbres and their cadences,
I’ll hear, when leaving Earth.

******

The aged are often treated
With disrespect and worse.
The scoldings are repeated,
With orders sharp and terse.

There are echoes from our childhoods
That we hear through all our lives.
And among these there are voices
That can help us bear the jibes.

There are voices past of wisdom,
There are voices that are sweet.
There are voices that are sterner
That can help us bear defeat.
   

Chaos and Perception

I’ve traveled, in my journeys,
Across the theaters grand.
I’ve met the proud and humble
And grasped the offered hand.

But when I’m near my ending
And racked by grief and pain,
The proud will be forgotten;
The humble might remain.

But surely those, that childhood
Had seen with a widened eye,
And those, to whom I bonded,
Will haunt me, as I die.

So when my hearing’s faded,
I will hear those echoes weak—
I will hear my parents talking,
I will hear my sister speak.

     
2015 September 12th, Sat., 10:20 pm
Skyway Restaurant, Bath Avenue
(some stanzas added Sept. 14th, Sun.)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

  

Decline

 
Decline

When I was still a boy, I read
and thought and read yet more.
I gathered in what elders said,
as if their words were gold.
And in the place where I was born,
a city full of life,
I saw the misery and joy
and pondered on them both.
 
And though I then said little and
perhaps because of this,
it seemed I’d found a wisdom that
escaped my cousins, friends
and others that I met at school,
for they were girls and boys
and so were moved by blowing winds
and childhood’s joys and woes.
 
******

But then I grew to be a man
but in my mind regressed –
and went through what my friends and kin
had done in growing years.
And now I’m in my sixties and
I’m left with foolishness.
My stocks of wisdom are dissolved
by time and all it bears.

******

And even at the job I do,
my expertise has waned,
if ever it was there at all,
when sanity prevailed.
And strange it is, but those who’re new,
with but a year or two
of teaching, teach their elders now
and tell them what to do.
 
It’s said that wisdom grows with age,
so when we've done our years,
our inexperience is replaced
by what we've bought with tears.
But is it true?  I do not know
but only offer this –
if that were always so, then each
might pass away in bliss.

2015 February 19th Thu
at the Sloan Kettering center and
on the train back from Manhattan
  

The Winter Comes – II

 
The Winter Comes – II
 
We age, we falter, lose our strength and die.
And some of us may idly wonder why.
But each of us, in this, have little choice –
These truths persist – that many would deny.
 
And some escape, awhile, the costs of age,
And when they see they can’t, they’re filled with rage –
And others may accept them, noting death
And all that comes before, with mindsets sage…

The leaf will yellow, wither then and fall –
And death, in time, will issue each its call,
For everyone that’s born, in turn, will die –
So aging, sickness, death, await us all…

While walking slowly once beside the sea,
I entered in a sort of reverie –
And thought I heard a voice, speaking low…
And this is what that spirit said to me –

“Oh live the life you’re given and rejoice,
Be grateful for your blessings, giving voice
To gratitude – in speech and in your deeds,
For in these things we still have each a choice.”

I listened then – and ever since, I’ve tried,
Despite the blow, despite the chance denied
That came so many times, to me and those
I knew and loved, to still be gratified…

For death has never held for me, the dread
That others might perceive in it, and yet
So many things are still unkempt and will,
I know, remain undone when I am dead.

And those, for whom the winds of chance have laid,
On me, a duty, though I’m disarrayed –
I would not leave them prey to woes that I,
By minding duty, could perhaps have stayed…

We age, we sicken, lose our health, descend,
As others then neglect or condescend...
And some, perhaps, might lend a helping hand –
Or not.  We struggle, lonely, till the end.

But walking on the street, in autumn, I
Can see the leaves, that one by one, will die,
Upon the trees – and strewn along the street.
Who grieves for them?  And who dares wonder why?

The conifers are green throughout the year.
With antifreeze evolved, they need not fear
The seasons cold.  But even they will pass  –
And who, for a fallen pine, will shed a tear?

Ah – life and death, like yang and yin entwined…
Who knows, whence life arises, whence the mind –
And where they go, when autumn’s winds have blown?
The winter comes. Take solace – and be kind…

For when we’re gone, the freezing winds will blow
And cover then the remnant leaves with snow.
But in its time, there’ll also be the spring –
And little birds will sing, as grasses grow…
 
2014 October 26th, Sun., 2:12 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  

The Mirror

 
The Mirror
 
The little girl who skipped in pigtails turned
to a maiden, blooming then in beauty, grace –
and then to a woman, married – soon with child –
and so to a mother – with a mother’s work
as well as that which earned the needed wage…
She worked her shifts, as women long have done…
 
Her face and body changed, as did her mind –
as worries grew – and satisfactions small
were countered by frustrations – small and large...
And gazing in the mirror now, she sees
that little girl, that maiden, then the wife –
the mother too – and wonders what comes next.
  
2014 October 25th, Sat.
2nd floor, McDonald’s restaurant
86th Street & 20th Avenue
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
 

Childless

 
Childless

There’s a loneliness, an emptiness, within the little flats,
For they’ve never had the children – no little angel-brats,
No pattering of little feet, no bawling in the night…
The occupants are getting old – and something’s not aright...
 
But now, alas, it’s far too late – they each are weighted down
By worries, cares and aging’s tolls – like others in their town.
And so it is around the world, as childless people age –
As singles or in twos and threes – and slowly, limits gauge.
 
“So who will care for her,” he thinks, “when I am dead and gone?
And what to do with what I’ve done – to whom to pass it on?
My cousins far away, who’re now unsteady on their feet –
They’re childless too…” He worries, while conceding the defeat.
 
But those who’ve had their offspring, labored hard and given years
To feed them, tend them, teach them, shedding blood and sweat and tears –
They wonder where their children are, who’re often far away…
And so December comes to all, who dallied once in May...

The birds and beasts are substitutes, and work that fills the day,
And in the night, on waking, thoughts that take them far away...
A wondrous world we live in, where we procreate or not,
And all we do returns to where it came and we're forgot...
   
2014 October 18th, Sat.
(last stanza added 19th, Sun.)
Brooklyn, New York
  

Exile – II

  
Exile – II

There never was that golden age, of which we like to boast.
In ancient times, men suffered – and in childhood so do most.
  
But when we’re far from our native land – the place where we were born,
We then forget those miseries and pine for what we’ve lost.

And as we age in exile, pleasant memories return,
And we are children once again, beneath our native sun.

And those we left behind and those, who long have left this Earth,
Appear again, as we had known them in our land of birth.

But then, we wake from daydreams and we know the past is gone,
And so must deal with being far from where we once were born.

There never was that Eden past, for mankind or for us.
But when we age in exile, that's what then appears to us.

2014 April 15th, Tue. 4:35 pm.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
 

When Ice Isn't Nice

When Ice Isn't Nice

When there's ice on cement, then beware!
Together, they can be a painful snare.

And if you're older, frailer, then your hip
May not survive that sudden, fatal slip.

I skate upon the ice in sneakers, while
I keep my body low. I glide and smile.

Both shoes on ground, a "safer bet", I call.
A base that's wider may prevent a fall.

A fall, relaxed, is gentler on the bones.
But never use, on ice, your mobile phones!

I understand this might not be your tea.
But gently go -- and always careful be.

2014  January 5th Sun., 8:05 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
 

And Where Are You?

And Where Are You?
                                                              
I saw you once in winter and you just walked away.
I met you in the springtime but you were with another.
You passed by me in summer and then I heard you say,
"When the leaves come down in autumn, I'll go to meet my brother."

The autumn leaves have fallen and winter winds blow cold.
"And where are you, my sister?" I ask the drifting snow.
The seasons, they are passing, and I am growing old.
And all that I had understood, I now no longer know.

*******

I thought I saw my uncle and then I slipped and fell.
My body took a beating, my spirit did as well.
And in a dream my father reached out to me his hand
But I was busy talking and did not understand.

The one who nursed my sister and cared for me beside,
I looked for her the other day, across the ocean wide.
The sun was slowly sinking and birds flew through the air.
And in the waves came drifting my mother's waving hair.

Babui / Arjun
2011 April 9th, Sat.
Brooklyn
 
In Memoriam
Monua Janah 
1959-2004