Darkness—and Light

 
Darkness—and Light

We need to see and so to understand

How pettiness and peeve can overwhelm
Our better instincts, blur and blind our sight,
And bend our reason towards disastrous ends.
So conscience dies and truth is buried deep,
As endless lies and endless wars extend
Disaster zones in which the children wail
As parents weep or turn to remnant faith.

The gods and goddesses of ancient yore
Took part, we’re told, in all our grievous sins
Of lying, cheating, loot and murder—yes,
And even now we bow to Mammon’s will
And execute his lethal schemes and  worse—
As both the godless and the theists claim
Their rights to slaughters that will never end.

In all this darkness, growing deeper, might
There still be light that waits for more at dawn?
There surely is, as mind and heart can see
If only turned and opened towards this light—
That strives at every time and every place
To heal, console, and give us more of strength
That still sustains the soul in all that lives.

Behold the darkness, viewing it in full.
Observe the remnant light and cherish it.
The cynics and the ones defeated spurn
The hope that’s offered and the needed fight,
And in so doing aid the dark’s advance.
So recognize this trait, within yourself
As well as others. Understand the plight

Of those who’re wounded, yet sustain the light.

2025 July 5th, Sat. 
Berkeley, California

No Verses

 
No Verses
.
So many verses written—scribbled, typed,
And posted, sent to others far away.
So many more that come at times to mind—
From where—and wherefore—who can truly say?
.
Adrift upon the stream, we near the sea
And hear, afar, the waves that crash and roar.
We sense the dark—the endless, waiting deep.
No verses there—or minds—for evermore.
.
******
.
The dawn that once brought hope now brings despair
As tens of thousands die—or wish they could—
As those who live are filled with grief and pain—
And most, who witness, now have understood
.
That evil often triumphs, laying waste
To all that’s good and precious: tenderness
And quietude—and love and due respect—
As Mammon grins and profits from duress. 
.
****** 
.
How many are the ones who've died in waves,
As lands were conquered or were laid to waste, 
As guns and bombs replaced the clubs and swords,
And Greed and Fear infected all with haste?
.
I hear the children laugh; I hear them weep.
I hear the dying, burned and blasted, moan.
I fear departure, leaving those I know
To fend for selves, with others, or alone.
.
****** 
.
But who among us chooses time or place
To enter or to exit from the stage
On which we walk and act and say our words—
And then depart—at ripe or tender age?
.
The dusk, descending, whispers now of night,
And I will venture out, beneath the stars,
To breathe and try to find a passing peace,
As all around delight in distant wars.
.
****** 
.
So many verses written—scribbled, typed,
And posted, sent to others far away.
So many more that come at times to mind—
From where—and wherefore—who can truly say?
.
Adrift upon the stream, we near the sea
And hear, afar, the waves that crash and roar.
We sense the dark—the endless, waiting deep.
No verses there—or minds—for evermore.
.
2024 October 3rd & 5th.
Berkeley, California
.

Joar Bhat'ar T'ane-জোয়ার ভাটার টানে

 
জোয়ার ভাটার টানে

ভোরের সাথে আশা আসে, 
সাঁঝের সাথে যায়। 
এই জীবনের জোয়ার ভাটায় 
ভাসছি কেবল, হায়!

ওই যে দূরের ডাঙ্গার দিকে 
সাঁতার কেটে যাই। 
তবুও দেখি, স্রোতের জোরে, 
হচ্ছি কাবু, ভাই।

চেষ্টা ছেড়ে, ভাসছি, ওরে, 
জোয়ার ভাটার টানে। 
রয়েছে জীবন, তাই যে কিছু 
সান্তনা পাই গানে।

শনিবার, ৩ অগাস্ট, ২০২৪ খ্রি.
বার্ক্লি, কালিফোর্নিয়া

Backyard in the Northern Summer

 
Backyard in the Northern Summer

The backyard’s long remained untouched,
Except by cats, raccoons,

Whose paths are marked by grasses bent
Beneath, beside the trees.

The many shades of green ascend
Towards a sky of blue.
The sun is almost overhead
And bathes us with its brilliance.

****** 

In tropic climes, the summers could 
Be times of misery. 
In northern lands, we welcome them
For the blessings summers bring— 

Relief from winter's cold and dark,
Relief from snow and rain—
A chance to see the sunshine and
To feel its warmth again. 

****** 

And there, within the dappled shade
Where weeds and grasses grow,
The breeze is moving shadows, leaves
Amidst the green and coolth. 

Little beings shelter there,
Living out their lives.
And some are roused, and others sleep,
As sun traverses sky. 

****** 

A life of work and hurried haste,
Of rarely seeing the sky,
And now—this languor in the sun
In a backyard, wild, untended— 

Where hummingbirds at times are seen
And squirrels, jays compete,    
And one can savor bits of peace, 
While aged and in defeat. 

2024 July 15th, Tue.
Berkeley, California

  Tap image to see in larger size.  

Use Esc or back arrow to return.

These backyard photos were taken on 2024 Aug 6, about 3 weeks after the writing of the text. In between, the grass had been cut and the bigger wild plants pulled out. So the backyard had finally received some tending.  I had also been washing, drying and sunning bed clothes in preparation for visitors. 

Progoti-প্রগতি

 
প্রগতি
 
 প্রগতির গান গাইছো তুমি—
 নতুন যুগের জয়।
 নিষ্ঠুরতার অন্ত কোথায়?
 জীবের চোখে ভয়।
 বোমার ঝড়ে ঝাঁকছে ভূমি,
 কাঁপছে শিশু, হায়!
 
 মা-বাবা যে কোথায় গেলো!
 কোথায়, দিদি-দাদা?
 এই প্রগতির দাপট দেখে,
 ভাসছে চোখে ধাঁধা।
রাত পোহালো, প্রভাত এলো।
ধুঁকছে, রক্ত মেখে।

এই প্রগতির উগ্র প্রচার 

হচ্ছে যতই দেশে,

গানের ধ্বনি উঠছে জেগে 

ততই তীব্র ক্লেশে।

 
 রবিবার, ১০ মার্চ, ২০২৪ খ্রি.
 বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফর্নিয়া.
 
 

I, Coward

 
I, Coward
 
From seeing what addictions do to men
And women, I had stayed away
From many things that draw us humans in—
But now I peck and stare at bright-lit screens.
 
******
 
I'm caught within a world I did not make,
Except at times by following the trend—
I thing that I'd resisted all my life,
Despite the lures of “going with the flow”.
 
I've held to my convictions and my code,
Not making prime the interest in self
And self-advancement that has long prevailed—
And this had helped me in my course of life.
 
I'd viewed the world, it seemed, with clarity,
And so made choices based on “what was right”—
Although I knew the limits to my sight—
Or learned of it, with due humility.
 
To “swim against the tide” is hard enough—
But even harder when there's turbulence.
Exhaustion and confusion drain one's strength.
I once was brave but now am filled with dread—
 
******
 
For when the conflicts in my inner self
Began, as duties clear became opposed,
I could no longer act with a conscience clear
And bear the consequence as I had done.
 
So those decisions, that involved a choice
Of leaving either one or other kin,
I could not make—and so was paralyzed
Until compelled to choose—with a heavy heart.
 
And ever since, I've been so anxious, tense—
Whenever conflicts rose or could be seen
Arising on the road ahead that I
Would lapse again to depths of cowardice.
 
“A brave one dies but once; a coward dies
A thousand deaths”. And this, I've realized—
As every day, I wake—not touched by hope,
But fear instead—as dawn brings deeper night.
 
******
 
What remedy is there for cowardice—
When basic discipline has broken down?
I wish I knew. I’ve tried to face the fear
And live with it—as I have done so far.
 
But how much longer can I live in dread?
And how much longer can I put on hold
The acts of living, as I’ve done for long?
And what, for others, is the consequence?
 
In all my years, I’ve had my share of woe,
Have suffered losses, wept and smiled again,
Have labored, struggled, savored small success—
But now, for twenty years, I've dug this well.
 
******
 
And more and more I now distract myself
With things that seem of little consequence—
And so avoid the acts that dredge up all
That makes me panic. So the tension builds.
 
2022 Aug 15, Mon.
(on the 75^th anniversary
of India's independence)
Berkeley, California
 

Defeat-পরাজয়

  
Defeat 

Our defeats are as bitter as our victories are sweet—
And which of us forgets her worst defeats?
But if, for each defeat, however harsh, 
We also have a tiny victory,
We then might be content—or not aggrieved.

Defeats can come from Nature or events 
Or through our fellows—foes and friends and kin.
The closer the tie, the more the hurt that's felt, 
The worse the conflict that may rage within,  
And the longer it may take to find resolve.

The whims of Nature and the winds of chance 
May let us be—or lead us here or there 
To savor victories that come from luck 
Or suffer from defeats ascribed to gods—  
Whose favors some may seek and others spurn.

A defeat at another's hands is hard to bear, 
But if we've battled as we should, we then 
Can dress our wounds and gather strength to fight 
The battles that we know await ahead— 
As all our pathways run through battlefields.

But when we bring defeats upon ourselves  
From hubris, anger, negligence or fear, 
We then may take these as our lessons learned 
Or lose our confidence and discipline 
And spiral then towards a living death.

For some, a battle is a welcome thing. 
For others, it is something to avoid.
Yet even staunchest pacifists are caught 
In wars in which they battle to survive— 
And life itself must end in its defeat.

When deep in fever and in anguish, we 
May pray for our release—that comes or not. 
But a deeper wisdom may reside in this— 
To see our losses as we do our gains—
And sneak a laugh or two, when facing death. 

2018, September 29th, Saturday
Brooklyn, New York 

The Darkness of Noon

The Darkness of Noon

Bow to the ones who are rich, my friends!
Kneel for the ones who have goons on call.
These are the gods of our times, my friends.
Toil at the feet of our Pharaohs tall.

The human race is a servile one,
For those who had pride are dead and gone,
Except for the ones who have clearly won.
They straddle the land that we are on.

******

Gone are the ones who had striven and died.
Lost are the causes for which they fought.
Rich are the ones who had stolen and lied.
Poor are the sons of the men who rot.

The mothers had wailed and the daughters had wept,
But who can remember the reason they did?
The truths are forgotten, the falsehoods are left.
The darkness has gathered, the moon has been hid.

******

When will the clouds and the dark be dispersed?
Where is the courage and where is the truth?
Where is the learning with which we were versed?
When will the trodden be rid of the boot?

The ones who are workers can gather and rise,
And bring down the ones who have risen on high,
But first they should strive to be wary and wise,
To sift what is left of the truth from the lie.

******

Strive then, oh worker, to question and learn!
Learn to distinguish the fine from the dross.
Then you will see that your sense will return.
Then there’s a chance you’ll recover your loss.

You never will bow then to those who are rich.
Your knee will not bend for the lord or his goon.
The humble will smile, as you know which is which.
The Pharaohs will see then the darkness of noon.

2018 May 19th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Gizmos

Gizmos

When finance rules a nation and commerce rules the globe,
And when the two together are dancing to the moon,
Then where is there a refuge, from “peace” as much as war,
That’s greater than the shadow of a bomb, at tropic noon?
 
So Elon sends a car upon a rocket to the stars,
And Jeffrey has a business that is rocketing on high,
And bankers squint at cryptocash and stocks are climbing still,
As Donald fires his missiles so that yet more Arabs die.

But here in New York City, in the outer boroughs, we
Are counting down our dollars as we pay our endless bills,
And India has demonetized, and some can simply shrug,
As farmers drink their pesticides and leave no final wills.

We can see it as a tragedy or a comedy sans equal.
We can weep and be dejected, or laugh as madmen do.
We can try to make a difference, we can organize and vote,
Or simply play our gizmos, as those defeated do.

2018 April 16th. Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Hopelessness

Hopelessness

There is a value to humility
That those who’re blind from hubris cannot see,
But there’s a worth to all of those ideals
So often lost from scorn or apathy.

The eyes of children often brightly shine,
But when they’re older, then their eyes are dulled.
So also, men and women strive with zeal,
Until their strength is sapped by worldly things.

How many humans walk upon this earth
And yet feel nothing underneath their feet
Except the aches of age and weariness,
While trudging with the burdens of defeat?

When meaning and desire have both been drained,
What’s left is to what was before as is
The corpse to all the life that once had been—
Except, there’s a feeling left—of hopelessness.

2017 December 22nd, Friday
UFT teachers’ room, JHS K 220
Brooklyn, New York
  
Substitute teaching, for all its perils, offers a window of survival to those who depend on it for a bare living, and also of some remnant connection and usefulness to those who are retired from teaching.

Of course, some retired teachers have other sources of financial and emotional sustenance, and might prefer to stay as far as possible from the schools in which they spent most of their working lives.
 

The Dreamers’ Lament

  
The Dreamers’ Lament
 
In childhood, we conceived our dreams;
in youth, we gave them birth.
And then we worked to rear them,
and saw them slowly grow.
And we had hoped to leave them strong,
before we left this Earth.
But sadly, they were ravaged, wrecked—
and now they are no more.
  
The things that we had dreamed of,
for which we worked and fought,
They still appear as worthwhile,
although our dreams have died,
as all the things, that we had built,
are rendered now as naught.
For every time we’d smiled and laughed,
we’ve also wept and cried.
 
The tasks, that we had set ourselves,
now must again be done.
But who will fight those battles, still,
that we had thought we’d won?
 
And who, we ask, will shoulder now
those burdens we had carried?
It seems that we have overstayed;
for far too long, we’ve tarried.
 
Our spans of course are limited,
yet long enough for woe.
We’ve had our sips of joy and now—
it’s time for us to go.
  
2017 March 31st, Fri
Brooklyn, New York
  

A Season for Retreating

 
A Season for Retreating
 
If you’re punished for your labor,
Should you cease to do what’s right?
If it’s truth that you’ve uncovered,
Should you hide it from the light?

When you’re harried for your caring,
Will you then no longer care?
When you’re hammered for your daring,
Will you then no longer dare?

You can think about your answer,
You can answer fast or slow.
But until you’ve lived to know it,
You will never really know.

You may think that you’re a fighter,
That you’ll never yield your ground
When the stakes are truth and justice,
Though the foe be all around.

But the years can take their taxes
And the blows can wear you down.
And there’s little point in fighting
When it’s you against the town.

There’s a point in every battle,
There’s a time in every war,
When you know you’ve been defeated,
No matter who you are.

There’s a season for advancing,
Another for the pause.
There’s a season for retreating,
No matter what the cause.

For your causes may have merit
And your logic may be sound,
But when lies have you surrounded,
Then it’s time for ceding ground.

2015 January 11th, 12:31 pm
Brooklyn, New York
  

Meaning

    
Meaning
 
When conflict rages deep within, paralysis then reigns,
For when that fire consumes the brain, what trace of sense remains?
Then fear becomes our ruler, and our actions are constrained.
Our courage fails.  We stand and watch, as all our strength is drained.
   
We need our air, our water and our food, so we can live.
We also need philosophy, when wounded, to forgive.
And some would say we each require a share of empathy.
But meaning too is needed – or we lapse to apathy.
 
There’s caring in this world, and yet there’s also cruelty.
Betrayal and deception vie with truth and fealty.
But as we grow in body-mind, we each construct a map
That gives a meaning to the world – and this becomes the trap.
 
For when a tremor comes that shakes the base of what we’ve built,
Our edifices crumble, as the siltstone turns to silt.
And then we realize, as we are choking in the dust,
That all the meaning and the worth were only seen by us.
 
What’s left for us to live for, when the meaning has departed?
We labored long for nothing and we’re back to where we started.
But many years have passed – and now, we’re aged, defeated, worn.
We’re sickened from the madness and we wish we were unborn.
  
And yet, from dust and ashes, a phoenix still may rise.
And even as we’re humbled, its figure, we surmise.
And one may see a dragon; another sees a bird;
Another yet may realize – there is, for it, no word...
  
And so, with loss of meaning comes another kind of worth.
When all is seen as worthless, then we find in this the mirth.
And laughing at our egos and at all the world’s conceits,
We exit, and reenter, and we relish our defeats.
   
2014 September 22nd, Mon (first four stanzas)
and 23rd Tues (last three stanzas)
Brooklyn, New York
  

The Last Defeat

 
The Last Defeat
 
Since highways serve to smooth the workers’ rides,
Who still takes rougher roadways anymore?
Amidst the rushing and efficient swarm,
What place is there for those who pedal slow?

There comes a time, when we admit defeat
And merely hope to cease from further strain.
But even then, we might be forced to stay,
Where work’s reward is even more of pain.
 
A life consumed by labor might result,
At journey’s end, in greater sorrow yet –
For those departed, while we labored, grief,
For all our fruitless years of work, regret.

But could there still be consolation, when
Our efforts turn to blowing dust and sand?
When men are robbed of satisfaction, hope,
Could there be things, they then might understand?

In isolation, emptiness, we taste
Of striving’s bitter, acrid ashes – yet,
Although we know our lives have been a waste,
We feel for those, whom others might forget.

And so, when we have nothing left to give,
And weariness, discouragement is deep,
It’s time, perhaps, to wake to light and dark –
And all the grays ignored by those asleep.

In blissful ignorance, we might have thought
Our fellows better than they truly are –
But then we see how truly hard it is
To staunch the tides of craving and of war.

However hurtful that awaking is,
We then might chance to see the subtle grain –
And seeing this, lift up, again, our heads,
Accepting, even grateful for the pain.
       
Some paint the world in colors hopeful, bright –
And others use the dark and somber hues.
But then, the hills and valleys of our lives
Reveal to us the wider, deeper views.

The hopeful dawn gives birth to light-filled day,
And then there’s dusk that brings the dark of night.
The light and colors change with every hour,
And sadness isn’t absent from delight.

For every joy, in measure, there is pain.
For every sorrow, there is pleasure still.
We take the cup of life, we drink of it,
We set it down and wait for it to fill.

And when at end we taste the final draft,
It might be bitter or it might be sweet.
But we’ll remember those we drank before,
And smile, perhaps, before our last defeat.

2014 September 3rd, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Defeats

   
Defeats
 
A mother or a father might expend their lives
on raising children, who might then show gratitude
or not – or even harm the ones who nurtured them.

A woman might spend years upon a spouse
and have him leave her for another and
an artist might have labored long on work –
with little recompense or naught – and then
awake one day to find it stolen or
to find that punishment is his reward.

And what recourse have they, who face such things, except
to turn, when reason fails, to that philosophy
that others past had turned to, in their own defeats?

We labor hard and fail, and that’s defeat.
We rise from where we fell, to try yet more
and then succeed – or not.  And this, we know,
is hard enough, but when accomplishment,
for which we’ve paid with years of labor, is
appropriated, scorned, destroyed – what then?

It’s then we're tested, like the metal in the fire,
that’s heated till it glows, incandescent,
and yet retains, awhile, its own integrity.

The Buddhists and the Stoics have advised
that victory and defeat, like pleasure, pain,
are waves upon a sea whose depths are still –
and so should be acknowledged and observed
with tranquil eyes that see their transience
and that of the chimera called "the self".

The ones we love – they suffer and they die, before
or after we have left – and though we ache at this,
this knowledge may be used to act in gentleness.
 
2014 August 14th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
   

Amerindian

 
Amerindian

I met a man of darker hue, upon the rolling plains,
And this is what he said, before he blew away his brains.

"You see, upon that ridge-top there, I stood, while still a boy,
And saw my people camped below, and laughed out loud with joy.

"For I had trekked across the plains, a little runaway,
Who'd fled the farm where he had slaved and lived to see that day.
I then ran down to the tents below, and what did I then find?
The ones I loved had passed away -- but not from my young mind!

"For twenty years I wandered more, with those of the tribe still left,
Forever seeking for my kin, of family bereft.
And though the tribe did take me in, befriending one quite lost,
I never, ever smiled again, remembering slaughter's cost.

"And one by one (and often more) the others in that tribe,
Who still survived, fell down and died, from bullet or from bribe.
To alcohol they turned, as those, who settled on this land,
Dispensed of them, with guns and booze -- as now I understand.

"And so, in time, I too took up the gun and drank from the bottle,
And murdered both the dark and pale, in the blinding heat of battle.
Pursued by gunmen, I rode west, and found myself a job,
A farmhand, doing the work of a grunt, and shucking corn from cob.

"But every night, I dreamed of those, my parents, siblings, slain,
And those I'd killed myself and saw, still writhing in their pain.
And grief and anger welled in me, and I would toss and turn,
And in my private hell at night, in fire unending, burn.

"Six years I worked -- but then, one day, being kicked while still asleep,
I slew the one who'd woken me, from dreams both dark and deep.
And so the spiral that commenced, with murders of my kin,
Took one more turn, and added yet more death to the arc of sin.

I spent twelve years in jail, and then I managed to escape,
A runaway for one last time -- and not in youthful shape!
And here I've come, to the selfsame spot, where I had met, before,
The ones who then were still alive, but now are here no more.

"And I am glad that you were here, a stranger, yet a friend,
So I could tell you this, my tale, before it comes to end."

He grasped my arm, and then he turned and walked to that long crest,
And standing there, he shot himself -- and crumpled down to rest.

Babui / Arjun Janah
2009 August 25th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York