Ki bujhechi-কি বুঝেছি

 

কি বুঝেছি?

আমার জীবন, অতি সাধারন। 

নেই গো তাতে হীরে-রতন। 

ঘোসে-মেজে বাসন, চালিয়েছি তাও, 

করেছি আয়, আয়োজন।

ভোরের আলোয় জেগেছে আশা। 

সাঁঝের সাথে এসেছে ক্লান্তি। 

দিনের বেলায় করেছি কাজ। 

শেষের বেলায় চেয়েছি শান্তি।

কত রকমের নিষ্ঠুরতা, 

কত চেতনের কান্না, হায়! 

নির্বিকারে, হৃদয় ঢেকে, 

চলছে পথে, সবাই প্রায়।

কারোর জীবন কষ্টে কাটে, 

কারোর সহজ পথে। 

ধুঁকতে ধুঁকতে লক্ষ হাটে।

কেউ ভেসে যায় রথে।

এই জীবনের স্রোতে ভেসে, 

ভুগেছি কত দুঃখে, ক্লেশে। 

দেখেছি কত দয়া, মায়া। 

কি বুঝেছি, সবের শেষে?

অনেক দেখে, অনেক ভেবে—
লবডঙ্কা, গোল্লা, জিরো!

তাই, হতাশায়, আবোল-তাবোল 

পদ্য লিখে, হচ্ছি হিরো।

সোমবার, ১৮ মার্চ, ২০২৪ খ্রি.

বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফর্নিয়া

Tuccho, apon be'tha-তুচ্ছ, আপন ব্যথা

 
তুচ্ছ, আপন ব্যথা
 
 দুর্ভাগ্যদের দশা দেখি, দুঃখ-ভরা মনে।
চোখের কোণায় কান্না আসে, বুকে লাগে ব্যথা।
 
রাগও আসে, জোয়ার-স্রোতে, ভাটার টানে যায়।
কি করা, ভাই, কেবল ভাবি। দেখছি শুধু, হায়!
কিছুটুকু চাঁদা পাঠাই, কিছু পাতা লিখি।
বুঝি, সব-ই ব্যর্থ শেষে। শিক্ষা, কঠোর, শিখি।
 
এই টুকু তাও ভরসা দেখি—আলোর ঝিলিক, কোণে।
আত্মা, নিজের দুঃখে হাসে। তুচ্ছ, আপন ব্যথা।
 
 রবিবার, ১০ মার্চ, ২০২৪ খ্রি.
 বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফর্নিয়া.
 
 

T'akar Dho'nda-টাকার ধন্দা

 
টাকার ধন্দা
 
টাকা-পয়সা, আইন-কানুন, 
সংসার আর বাণিজ্যের জট—
আমার মাথায় ঢোঁকে নি আগে,
আজও ঢোঁকে না, ভাই।
 
খেটে রোজগার করেছি সদা।
নিই নি কখনো ধার।
খর্চে বা কিপ্টে হই নি আমি। *
যেটা পাই, সেটা খাই।
 
মেনেছি আইন। দিয়েছি ট্যাক্স,
ভাড়া, মাসিক মূল্য।
আয় যে শুধু চাকরির থেকে।
পুঁজিটা বাড়ে নি  তাই। 
 
টাকার ধন্দা বুঝি নি আমি। 
সঞ্চয় করি নি ধন।
তাইতো আজ, কড়ি বাজারে,
ধমকানিটা খাই।
 
বুড়ো বয়সে নড়েছে টনক।
টাকাকে নমাই রোজ।
গ্রাহ্য করে না আমাকে তাও।
সময় হয়েছে, যাই।
 
এমন ভেবে, আবার ভাবি— 
জীবন-মরণ নয়।
যতই টাকা কামাই, জমাই,
সব-ই শেষে ছাই।
 
বৃহস্পতিবার, ১ সেপ্টেম্বর, ২০২২ খ্রি. 
বার্ক্লি, ক্যলিফোর্নিয়া
 

* খর্চে [खोर्चे]: খরচে: spendthrift

   কিপ্টে: কিপটে: miser, scrooge

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
-------------------------------------------------------

    

Packaging

Packaging 

  

 
So you're the one who's just been hired
To do the jobs of those who're fired.
Their number? It was two or three.
From work and income, they are free!
But you are now our newest slave
And you'll survive, if you are brave—
But not in speech or action, no!
But rather, in your letting go
Of all the stuff you'd nursed before—
Your scruples, fuss, and all you know
That you had learned in school and college
And also, maybe, in your village.

For here, where cars and humans jostle,
You’ve got to learn, kid, how to hustle.
We've found out—that all we'd learned
We might as well have tossed and burned.
For that was all about the stuff
About which folks have had enough.
Who cares for how or why or when
Or even what? It’s now, not then!
What use is there in understanding?
The profit comes instead from branding!
For in this world of marketing
What matters is the packaging.

So fie with focus on content!
On selling, you should be intent.
Do not be Santa's slaving elf.
Go sell the goods—and sell yourself!
And if you'd like to cut your losses,
Then always bow down low to bosses.
In offices, do not be bold.
Do not question. Do as told!
Be sure to cover up your ass
And smartly then salute the brass.
If you're savvy and survive,
Perhaps you'll be a boss—and thrive.

As it's in sales, so it's in all.
Do not drop, my friend, the ball.
And if you do, then hide it well—
Or you'll be in for bloody hell!
In this place, you've got to run—
And those who do, can have their fun.
Do not sweat the small details.
The one who does this always fails.
Well, that is all for now. Good luck!
Remember—do not care a f**k!
No matter what the tint of the collar,
It's all, at the end, about the d****r.

2018 January 26th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York

Futility-II

Futility-II

When sense and nonsense are so intermixed
That their untangling isn't worth our while,
We either then can make yet more of knots,
Or else can shake our heads and sadly smile.

So wisdom here resides in prudence, yet,
Too often, we attempt such tasks in vain—
For being mortals, we in time forget
And so repeat our errors once again.

And so it is with much that dogs our days,
As lessons we should earlier have learned
Appear to us as new, and so we make
The same mistakes and yet again are burned.

So some are not content with peace and try
To then procure such things as lead to war.
And those of wisdom and of heart may cry
Out loud—but cannot change how humans are.

Futility!  We meet you, by and by,
No matter what our gifts or fortunes be.
And some may meet you early, others late,
But you are always there, for those who see.

******

And yet, too easily, your children turn
To refuge in your bosom, spurning those
Who seek redress or cure for all the things
That need addressing in this world of woes.

They might have found, instead of you, that Hope
Or Faith or Courage that have given birth
To all endeavors that had sought for light
Amidst the darkness of afflicted Earth.

And let us pray that there's a balance still
Between that prudence that might save our lives
And that rebellion that is needed when
We find ourselves constrained in manmade hives.

You are the earth to which we all descend—
The dust that fills the mouths of those who die
As they are felled in battlefields or beds.
And yet, I draw my breath and say, “You lie.”

2017 November 26th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Not in Substance or in Form

Not in Substance or in Form

When you and I have vanished and those we knew are gone,
there still will be the sunrise, the morning and the noon,
and the afternoon will follow and the stars emerge at dusk.
The moon will have its phases and the planets wend their ways,
and the seasons too will cycle as this sphere goes ‘round its sun.
  
When the myths of men and women and the truths that they had gleaned
are lost and are forgotten, and our race is no more here,
the stars will still be burning in the vastness of the dark,
and the species will be rising and then ebbing like the waves
on the myriad specks that orbit in their spirals without end.

But our sun will wax in redness as the inner planets burn—
as those other suns before it and those other planets did.
And the thoughts that we were thinking and the feelings that we had—
and all that gave us meaning and the works on which we strove—
will they leave perhaps their traces? Not in substance or in form. 

2017 June 29th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Uniquely (among all my hundreds of posts on this blog) this post seems to have been duplicated. This might have occurred while I was trying to get each verse line to fit within one page line. I seem to have not quite succeeded here, where I have used the "Times New Roman" font, with the "small" font-size. 

But if you want each line to fit as it should, and have good eyesight, please see the duplicate of this post, where I have used the blog's default font, but with the "smallest" font-size. That is at:
 http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2017/06/not-in-substance-or-in-form.html 
  

Not in Substance or in Form (smalllest font)

  
For a larger font, please see the duplicate of this post, at: 
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2017/06/not-in-substance-or-in-form_29.html 
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
  
Not in Substance or in Form  (smallest font)

When you and I have vanished and those we knew are gone,
there still will be the sunrise, the morning and the noon,
and the afternoon will follow and the stars emerge at dusk.
The moon will have its phases and the planets wend their ways,
and the seasons too will cycle as this sphere goes ‘round its sun.

When the myths of men and women and the truths that they had gleaned
are lost and are forgotten, and our race is no more here,
the stars will still be burning in the vastness of the dark,
and the species will be rising and then ebbing like the waves
on the myriad specks that orbit in their spirals without end.

But our sun will wax in redness as the inner planets burn—
as those other suns before it and those other planets did.
And the thoughts that we were thinking and the feelings that we had—
and all that gave us meaning and the works on which we strove—
will they leave perhaps their traces?  Not in substance or in form.

2017 June 29th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Uniquely (among all my hundreds of posts on this blog) this post seems to have been duplicated. This might have occurred while I was trying to get each verse line to fit within one page line. I seem to have succeeded here, by using the default font, with the "smallest" font-size.

But if you want a slightly larger font, please see the duplicate of this post, where I have used the "Times New Roman" font in the "small" font-size. That is at: http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2017/06/not-in-substance-or-in-form_29.html 
  

Likhbe Xexe Je-লিখবে শেষে যে-The Writer at the End

There are five items in this post: 
  

• 1. the Bengali original (লিখবে শেষে যে), sparked by a Facebook post by Sanju Saha;
• 2. a Roman transcription (Likhabē Śēṣē Yē), via Google's site, http://translate.google.com, that follows the standard spelling in the Bengali script;
• 3. another Roman transcription (Likhbe Xexe Je), of the author's devising, that follows the standard Bengali pronunciation, rather than the standard spelling; 
• 4. a voice recording of the Bengali;
• 5. a translation into English (The Writer at the End).

--------------------------------------------

Item 1: Bengali Original
   
লিখবে শেষে যে

অনেক কিছু লেখার ছিল,
লেখা হল না৷
ভাবছি, কাকে বলব এখন,
বলার ছিল যা৷

ছিলে যখন পাশে, তখন
ব্যস্ত ছিলাম, তাই
লিখছি এখন, দিনের শেষে,
মনের কথা, ভাই৷ 

আসছে না, সেই বুকের ব্যাথা,
কাগজ কলমে৷
বসে আছি, তার-ই আশায়,
লিখবে শেষে যে৷
  
শুক্রবার, ৩রা মার্চ, ২০১৭ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক

https://www.facebook.com/sanju.saha.5/posts/1258502847518557
--------------------------------------------

Item 2:  The following is a Roman transcription made via http://translate.google.com.

Likhabē Śēṣē Yē

Anēka kichu lēkhāra chila,
lēkhā hala nā.
Bhābachi, kākē balaba ēkhana,
balāra chila yā.

Chilē yakhana pāśē, takhana
byasta chilāma, tā'i
likhachi ēkhana, dinēra śēṣē,
manēra kathā, bhā'i.

Āsachē nā, sē'i bukēra byāthā,
kāgaja kalamē.
Basē āchi, tāra-i āśāẏa,
likhabē śēṣē yē.

Śukrabāra, 3rā Mārca, 2017 Khri
Bruklina, Ni'uẏarka

https://www.facebook.com/sanju.saha.5/posts/1258502847518557
--------------------------------------------  
  
Item 3: The following is a Romanization made using the transcription scheme outlined briefly at http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/02/bharot-xadhin-indias-freedom.html and even more briefly (but perhaps too compactly) below.
  

• x = sh, c = ch.
• t and d are dental (with the tongue tip touching the backs of the upper front teeth)—as in Latin languages.
• t' and d' are alveolar (tongue tip to upper gum ridge)—as in English.
• h is used as an aspirant (an addition of a puff of breath to a consonant, as at times done in English).
• All other consonants are roughly as in English, but without aspiration.
• All vowels, including those at the ends of words, are pronounced.
• All unmarked* vowels are as in Italian and Spanish, but mostly with intermediate length (duration).
• ~ nasalizes the preceding vowel, faintly.
• Stress (loudness) and elongation (extended duration) are usually placed on the first syllable of a word, but are slight, and there is no slurring of vowels in unstressed syllables.

* Marked Vowels

• o` is like the first vowel in British orange, being a rounded, open, back vowel, of intermediate length.
• e` is as in hat, being an unrounded, open, front vowel, of intermediate length.

Again, both of these vowels have intermediate length (duration). 
 
Likhbe Xexe Je

O`nek kichu lekhar chilo,
lekha holo na.
Bhabchi, kake bolbo e`khon,
bo`lar chilo ja.

Chile jo`khon paxe, to`khon
be`sto chilam, tai
likhchi e`khon, diner xexe,
moner ko`tha, bhai.

Axche na, xei buker be`tha,
kagoj ko`lome.
Boxe achi, tar-i axae,
likhbe xexe je.

Xukrobar, 3e Marc, 2017 Khri
Bruklin, Niu Io`rk

https://www.facebook.com/sanju.saha.5/posts/1258502847518557
-------------------------------------------- 

Item 4:  This is a voice recording of the Bengali. This might not work on cellphones. Please click on the rounded-triangle play button on the right of the composite icon below. In some browsers, you might have to click twice. Adjust the volume on your device as needed.


Record music and voice >>
--------------------------------------------

Item 5: The following is a translation into English.
  
The Writer at the End

There was much to write
that wasn’t written.
I think—to whom will I tell
the things I had to say?

When you were by me, I
was busy, and so
I now attempt to write
my thoughts, dear friend.

What is in my heart
does not come to my pen.
I am waiting for the one
who will write at the end.

Friday, 3rd March, 2017 AD
Brooklyn, New York

https://www.facebook.com/sanju.saha.5/posts/1258502847518557 
  

Our Wisp of Verse

Our Wisp of Verse

The present moment—that is all we have.
And yet we have it not—it comes and goes,
As water, streaming, rises, ebbs and flows.
Can men possess the wind, contain the tide
Or claim, where those, whose lives have ended, hide?
 
From vastness, we are gathered for a while,
And back into the vast we each will go.
Oh friend of mine, that I have come to know,
How brief our tryst, before the winds disperse
Both you and I and this—our wisp of verse!

If there's a reason for existence, then
It can't be figured by our mortal wits.
We each are formed—and scattered back to bits
That merge with water, earth and endless sky,
Not ever knowing whence or whither, why.

I saw, upon the trackless ocean, this—
A leaf of autumn, bobbing on the seas
That troughed and crested, driven by the breeze.
Who knew, from where that withered leaf had blown—
Or where, its siblings that it once had known?

We build our villages and towns and roads
And so find comfort in our time on Earth.
But what's the road that sent us to our birth
And where's the village that awaits us when
We each are sent upon our way again?

Annihilation marks the end of life.
The spirit leaves the body, so it seems.
No magic words and no fantastic schemes
Can bring it back, for even just a while
To shed that tear or look and gently smile.

If only we could speak with those we loved
And hold them in our arms and cry and smile—
If only we were given just a while
To make amends, in speech and attitude,
And then let go, in peace and gratitude...

What vanity—those ends that we pursue
Beyond what's needed so we each survive.
And yet, what seeming comfort we derive
In hoping that our work was not in vain,
Although we lived and worked and died in pain.

So come, my friend, and walk with me a while.
Before we part, we each should laugh and cry
At this absurdity, so when we die
We might remember, as our souls disperse,
Our time together and our rhyming verse.

2016 December 4th, Mon. 1:11 am
Northwest Berkeley, California 

Choices

Choices

It’s been awhile but now I’m writing
Once again in metered verse.
And some of those to whom I’m sending
This will smile or laugh—or curse.

And since I’ve blanked out my emotions,
I consider now my choices:
How to give a form substantial
To the whispers of my voices.

******

Should I only draw my pictures—
Not with crayons, but with words—
Painting sunsets, valleys, mountains,
Fields and skies with flying birds?
 
Or should I chant in rhythms ancient,
Sounding vowels in my words,
Seeking rhymes and rising, falling—
Trilling like the singing birds?

Or should I write of what I’ve eaten—
Rice and cabbage, lentils, curds—
Writing also of digestion
And of what I’ve left as turds?

Perhaps it’s time that mathematics
Filled my verse with roots and surds— *
Or perhaps, I should write dirges
For Armenians, Turks and Kurds…

******

Should I fill my lines with nonsense,
Wasting my and readers’ time—
Though they offer still amusement,
Spoken out aloud with rhyme?
     
Or should I write of what I’m thinking,
How I view this sorry world?
Will you enter in the prisons,
In the hells in which we’re hurled?

Or should I write of feelings pleasant,
Sing of happiness and love,
Or raise my head towards the heavens,
Howling at the moon above?
 
Who can answer whence or whither,
Give us half a reason why
Each of us is born to dither
Just a while—and then to die?

I’ll be gone and then my verses
Will be lost, as all things are.
Why then should I write of living—
Joy and sorrow, peace and war?
 
******

Who will read these verses, written
In my notebooks in the night?
Who will bother still to mouth them,
Holding scribblings to the light?

Mine are verses born of grieving—
More of black and gray than white—
Yet there’s gold and silver in them—
Sparkles, hidden, of delight.
 
So I write, as if by random
Breezes blown, till gone from sight—
Like a little sailboat, bobbing
Through the heaving swells of night.

Should I end this poem neatly—
Tie the ends and pull them tight,
Or should I leave them hanging loosely,
Wondering why I chose to write?

******

There!  It’s done, for better or—
As often far more likely—worse:
I’d felt the mists and rising vapors—
Asking for my rhyming verse.

Whence, these beings of the ether,
Seeking, each, their human voice?
Why is it—that we are bidden,
Yet appear to still have choice?

2016 May 13th Fri
Brooklyn, New York
(first two stanzas, central single stanza and
last two stanzas added 2016 May 16th, Mon)

====================================
 * Listed here are the uses of the words:
    (a) “surd” in mathematics and phonetics;
    (b) “root” in mathematics and linguistics.
====================================
    

Nothing and Naught— লবডঙ্কা, কচু— Lo`bod’o`nka, Kocu— Diddlysquat, Zilch

 
The English original is followed by a translation into Bengali. This translation is given first in the traditional Bengali script, and then in a Romanization that follows the pronunciation rather than the traditional spelling. I have included, after each stanza in that Romanization, a literal, word-by-word translation back into English, preserving the Bengali syntax.

Finally, there is a Romanization that is the "machine transcription" available at http://google.com/translate.  I have (once again) lightly edited this last transcription, as I had explained in earlier posts.
----------------------------------------------------

Nothing and Naught

For many years, I’ve spouted words—
An endless stream of froth.
And soon this foam might dissipate—
Leave nothing, naught of worth.
 
But if, by chance, a residue
Remains in those who’ve read,
I then will lie contentedly
Upon my final bed.
 
And if, as is more likely, naught
And nothing should remain,
Then dying I might only feel
A tiny twinge of pain.

For knowing well impermanence—
That all is flow—I’ll sigh,
And, smiling at my impudence
In scribing verse, I’ll die.
 
2015 July 15th, Wed, 8:47 pm
Gravesend Bay, Brooklyn, New York
----------------------------------------------------

Directly below is a translation into Bengali (Bangla), in the traditional Bengali script.  This script is closely related to that used for the Asomiya (Assamese) language spoken to the north of the Bengal region and to the Tirhuta or Mithilakshar script once used for the Maithili language spoken to its northwest.
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লবডঙ্কা, কচু
  
পদ্য লিখেছি, বছর ধরে,
পাতার ওপর পাতা৷
ফেনার মত হবে হাওয়া,
রইবে কেবল ছাতা৷
  
কিছু যদি থাকে বাকি,
পাঠকগণের মনে,
খুশি হয়ে যাব আমি
ওই ওপারের বনে৷
  
কিন্তু যদি থাকে শুধু
লবডঙ্কা, শুন্য,
একটুখানি  ব্যাথার চোটেও,
মরব আমি ধন্য৷ 
  
চিরকালের জোয়ারভাটায়,
স্রোতে যাবে সবই৷
নিজের স্পর্ধায় মুচকি হেসে,
চলবে ক্রমে কবি৷
  
সন্ধ্যে ৮:৪৭, বুধবার, ১৫ই জুলাই
(বাংলায় অনুবাদ, বৃহস্পতিবার, ১৬ই জুলাই)
গ্রেভ্জেণ্ড বে, ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক
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The Romanization used directly below follows the pronunciation rather than the traditional spelling. To pronounce the words, please see the transcription scheme summarized in the preface to Bharot Xadhin (India, Free).
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Lo`bod’o`nka, Kocu 

Diddlysquat, Zilch

Po`ddo likhechi, bo`chor dhore,
patar opor pata.
Phe`nar moto ho`be haoa,
roibe kebol chata.

Poems write-have-I, years through,
page upon page.
Foam’s like, become-will air,
remain-will only mold (dreck).
 
Kichu jodi thake baki,
pat’hokgo`ner mone,
khuxi hoe jabo ami
oi oparer bone.

Something if stays left,
readers’ mind(s)-in,
happy becomed go-will I,
that that (other) (river) bank’s woods-in.
 
Kintu jodi thake xudhu
lo`bodo`nka, xunno,
ekt’ukhani be`thar cot’eo,
morbo ami dhonno.

But if stays only
diddlysquat, zero,
a-little-bit pain’s spite-in-still,
die-will I blessed.
 
Cirokaler joarbhat’ae,
srote jabe xo`bi.
Nijer spo`rdhae mucki he~xe,
Colbe krome kobi.

Forever-eons’ rise-tide-ebb-tide-in,
current-in go-will all-[emphasis].
Self’s daring-at sly-smiled,
go-will time-in poet.
 
xondhe 8:47, Budhbar, 15i Julai, 2015 khri
(Banglae onubad, Brihoxpotibar, 16i Julai)
Grebhjend’ Be, Bruklin, Niu Io`rk 
  
evening 8:47, Mars-day, 15th July, 2015 C.E.
(Bengali-in translation, Jupiter(Thor)-day, 16th July)
Gravesend Bay, Brooklyn, New York

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The Romanization below is the "machine transcription" available at http://google.com/translate.  Please see the notes at the very end of the post Beside the Sea--Xagor Tire.
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Labaḍaṅkā, Kacu

Padya likhēchi, bachar dharē,
pātār ōpar pātā.
Phēnār mata habē hā'ōẏā,
ra'ibē kēbal chātā.

Kichu yadi thākē bāki,
pāṭhakagaṇēr manē,
khuśi haẏē yāba āmi
ō'i ōpārēra banē.

Kintu yadi thākē śudhu
labaḍaṅkā, śun'ya,
ēkṭukhāni byāthār cōṭē'ō,
marba āmi dhan'ya.

Cirakālēr jōẏārbhāṭāẏ,
srōtē yābē sabi
nijēr spardhāẏ mucki hēsē,
calbē kramē kabi.

sandhyē 8:47, Budhbār, 15i Julā'i
(Bānlāẏ anubād, br̥haspatibār, 16i Julā'i)
Grēbhjēṇḍ Bē, Bruklin, Ni'uẏark
 

Resistance

 
Resistance

We walk upon the roadways we’re told to walk upon,
And find ourselves in places we really shouldn't be.
But what should be or shouldn't, between the herders and
The herded ones of reason, are matters of dispute.

The corrupted hate resistance, the zealots even more.
Our fellows who’re compliant—they shun the ones who’re not.
And so we have progressions, from misery to worse.
And all I've left, of reason, I now express in verse.

For some of us resisted and walked our lonely paths.
But each of us was hounded, who didn't stop and turn.
The paths we trod are faded and soon they might be gone,
For those who're young or jaded will hardly seek them out.

We foundered in the ocean.  We saw the distant isles.
We swam towards those islands, but only for a while.
We were driven back by currents.  We either yielded or
We fought until exhausted—and one by one were drowned.

******

We're weighted down by morals, when these are valued less
Than what is deemed expedient.  Our caring gives us stress..
What matters is the package.  Who cares for small details?
What's slick and fast and trendy succeeds, where labor fails.
 
We each may have our ethics, be loath to let these go.
And yet, amidst the breakers, we either sink or float
By holding still to scruples or yielding to the flow.
The virtue, that’s resistance, has long been seen as vice.

For some are always eager.  They never see the harm—
And so despise the laggards, who ask the questions still.
We’re beaten down and broken, or bribed to walk those roads
To then become the captors, who bend the captives’ wills.

******
   
Our labor, it is precious; the time we have is short.
And yet that time’s expended, and labor’s turned to naught.
We see the great destruction; we see the precious die.
We’re not allowed to question.  These things, they just deny.
 
So why appeal to reason, to sight of mind and heart?
What use is it to argue with those who will not see?
We drape our tattered ethics around ourselves and say,
“Although you strip us naked, we still will not obey.”
 
We always have our choices—and even unto death
We either stifle conscience or listen to its voice.
But when we’re in the furnace, it hardly matters then.
Our souls have been forfeited.  Within the hell, we’ll burn.
   
What point in now regretting the roads we traveled on?
We knew that their direction would lead towards this day.
The flames around are roaring, the work we did is lost.
We strangely still are fighting, as ashes drift to dust.

2015 May 2nd, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Versus my Verses

 
Versus my Verses

I fill the voids with scribblings such as these,
which serve to soothe my troubled soul a while.
And yet I know the issues I avoid
will still remain to plague this ailing mind.
 
Our angels, demons wait for vacant times
to show themselves.  So good and evil, both,
and beauty, horror go unrecognized
until we find the time to stop and see.
 
And if, indeed, the time I take to write
these verses gives me chances still to be,
to gather in my scattered parts, to take
then stock – and so reflect, it’s time well spent.
 
But if, instead, I merely seek release
or refuge from the stresses of my life,
then every line I write appears to be
another ruse to fool my remnant sense.
 
******
 
We travel, each, upon our roads of life,
and some may find a pleasant walk awhile.
But then, the bandits and the dark ravines
appear.  We’re beaten, broken – and we fear.

So some of us may turn to alcohol,
while others do as they are told by thugs.
And others yet, who’re drained of strength to fight,
may pen their verses, be these light or dark.

And some may write and keep their writings hidden,
while others visit these on readers’ heads.
And in my case, I do this, though unbidden,
and hope to leave some threads of sense behind.
 
But then, I wonder if my foolishness
is even greater than I once had thought,
and whether all the twine I twist and weave
will quickly fray to shreds and disappear.
   
No matter – verse, like beer, gives pleasure still
to those who brew it and to those who swill.
As bodies rot, so also words will fade.
There’s still delight, when verse, like life, is made.

So when, in darker moods, I find I curse
at all the time I've spent on writing verse,
I hear again that whisper of the muse
that bid me write – although it came out worse.
 
******

And so it is that verses come and go,
resolving nothing, much as children might
that mothers bear and then must tend until
they’re grown enough to face the cruel world.

But mothers spend their years on rearing kids,
and many fathers also do their share.
But poets like me are careless parents, for
they give their verses life and let them go.

And so I might condemn this work I do,
if not that endless toil I do for school,
where I’m a parent faux, for a year or term,
to children, often seven score or more.

Perhaps that other labor, more intense
and longer, far, might justify the verse.
Indeed, that’s what has led to it – and yet
I look at both and wonder – whither, why?

2015 April 17th Fri, 18th Sat & 20th Mon 
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

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Note: I wrote the first four stanzas of this piece on 2015 April 17th Friday, around 8 pm, after leaving the school where I work.  I wrote them while sitting on a “park” bench near the "Liberty Pole" and the New Utrecht Church, by 18th Avenue and 84th Street in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. 
    

Liberty Pole and New Utrecht Dutch Reformed Church
18th Avenue & 84th Street, Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
https://www.flickr.com/photos/34127825@N03/3243329788/

   
    

The pole was first erected in 1783, at the end of the revolutionary war with Britain. 

Top of New Utrecht Liberty Pole
https://www.flickr.com/photos/mateox/4980141745/

   

The New Utrecht Church was originally at a site, next to an old Dutch cemetery, that is now two long blocks away, on 16th and 84th.  It was completed in 1700 and stood there for over a century.  The church was rebuilt, in 1828-29, at its present site, using material from the original building.

  

New Utrecht Dutch Reformed Church
18th Ave & 84th St, Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
http://www.historicnewutrecht.org/gallery/New_Utrecht_Reformed_Church.html

   

    

    





The cemetery, still standing, dates back to 1654.
  

New Utrecht Cemetery, 16th Avenue & 84th Street, Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
https://www.flickr.com/photos/mateox/4980131333/

 
http://www.historicnewutrecht.org/History.html

http://www.newutrechtchurch.org/history.htm

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_Utrecht_Reformed_Church
  
The middle six stanzas (after the first break) were written the next day, at the Pakistani restaurant (Skyway) on Bath Avenue, between 20th and 21st Avenues, Bensonhurst.
  
The last four stanzas (after the second break) were added at home, in the early morning of  April 20th, Monday, before leaving for work.

  

The Skeletons

 
The Skeletons
  

A field of daffodils, Morton Arboretum, Chicago
http://www.usa-for-me.ru/ssha/puteshesvie-v-ssha/morton-arboretum/

 



















I saw a row of skeletons
that all appeared to grin,
it seemed as if in mockery
of the world that we are in.
 
And once again the thought occurred
that everyone has had –
that life is such a senseless thing –
beyond what’s merely sad.

And some would surely disagree
and say that life’s a blessing
or claim that there’s a purpose in it –
although it seems that's missing.

And surely I should nod my head,
to not disturb their dreams –
but still I see those skeletons
that laugh at all our themes.

******

I saw a row of skeletons
and each was once as me.
And soon enough, I too will grin
and joined with them will be.

And some will say, “We all have souls
and those will still be there.”
I gaze upon that multitude
and find it hard to bear.

Some hope for an eternity,
a heaven in the sky.
But there’s a price for everything
and more so, for a lie.

So when I end, I hope that I
will vanish and be lost.
To still be there, although I’m gone,
is far too high a cost.

Daffodil Fields, Skagit Valley, Washington, by Alan Majchrowicz
http://alanmajchrowicz.com/skagit-valley-washington-daffodil-fields/

 

















     
2015 March 8th, Sun. night, late
Skyway Restaurant, Bath Avenue
(last four stanzas added the next night,
after returning home from work)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York