Kon xubhagge-কোন শুভাগ্যে

 
কোন শুভাগ্যে?

ভোরের আলোয় জ্বলছে দেখি 
পাতায় শিশির ফোঁটা—
শিশুর চোখে আলো যেমন, 
ছোট্ট মুখে হাসি।

এই জগতের ঝড়ের মাঝে 
যতই বাড়ে কাল, 
বৃদ্ধ চোখে এসব দেখে, 
বুকে জাগে বাঁশি।

ছোট্ট পাখির ডাক শুনি গো, 
শুনি বর্ষা, হাওয়া। 
দিনে দেখি রঙের খেলা, 
রাতে অন্ধকার।

মনে আসে রাজস্থানের 
রাতের লক্ষ তারা। 
কোন সুভাগ্যে, পিঁপড়ে হয়েও, 
এমন অধিকার?

 মঙ্গলবার, ১৯ মার্চ, ২০২৪ খ্রি.
 বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফর্নিয়া.

Gotama Got it Right

 
Gotama Got it Right
 
When you're filled with fear or want
Or raging for a fight,
Then pause to breathe, remembering
Gotama got it right.
 
Observe the fear or want or rage
And watch it rise and crest—
Then feel it ebb, like the lunar tide
That circles east to west.
 
The tide—it harks to the call of the moon,
But what propels a mood?
In quietude, the whisper’s heard—
Along with the urging rude.
 
The world “outside” and the thoughts “inside”—
They speak and are heard in turn—
And we respond—as the fire may dim
Or flame with the breeze and burn.
 
The body-mind, when so observed,
Is understood in time—
And its turbulence is slowly calmed
As things begin to rhyme.
 
So our actions flow from calm within—
And so enhance the peace.
The past and future cede to now.
We savor then some ease.
 
2022 August 26^th, Fri.
Berkeley, California
 

 

Efficient

 
Efficient
 
We’ve learned to be efficient, work at speed—
To squeeze production out of everything,
Including time and people. So it is
That things requiring patience, things unclear
Are things avoided. Who has time for that?
So all that’s muddled or entangled is
Not clarified—as that would take our time—
But left for others—or is left as is.
 
And so we also have no time to hear
What others, troubled, have to say to us—
Or even look, beneath the surfaces
Of people and of things, to try and see
The causes of the problems that arise.
 
So everything is black and white and clear,
And those who see the grays and speak of these
Are shunned. So problems grow, in scope and strength,
And go unrecognized and unaddressed—
Until disasters come—and then we find
Some things or people that can take the blame—
And then we’re done with that, and saunter on.
For some of us, there’s neither guilt nor shame.
 
2022 June 16^th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Companions

 
Companions

It was past the midnight hour
when I noticed they were there—
my ghostly twin companions—
and they gave me quite a scare.

I was walking in the park then,
with these beings by my sides.
They lengthened, twinned and faded
and then strengthened with my strides.

They were shadows from the lamplights,
they were shadows from the moon.
They were shadows that were absent
when I’d walked about at noon.

They were beings of the nighttime
that would suddenly appear.
They would change in length and darkness
and then fade and disappear.

******
 
And in time I grew accustomed
to their presence, and I thought—
they are kin to me, these shadows,
in the dance of maya caught.

For the self that I have treasured
is a shadow in the dance,
projected, of a being
that is also in a trance.

And that being is a shadow
of the being that has cast
its figure on the streaming
that is future, present, past.

Or so I speculated,
as I walked with shadow-mates,
as they also might have wondered
on their origins and fates.

******
 
One may question if a shadow
could be sentient, but I ask—
are we owners of our sentience
or the fabric of its mask?

We are digits in a sequence
that will never have an end.
We may point to a beginning,
but we only can pretend.
 
We are shadows of the shadows
of the shadows of yet more.
There are shadows that will follow
and the ones that went before.

It was past the midnight hour
when the shadows spoke to me,
in the silence of the nighttime,
of the things we cannot see.
 
2016 October 15th, Sat. 12:48 am
Bensonhurst Park, Brooklyn, New York
(last five stanzas added October 18th, Tue.)
   

The Green Balloon

  

The Green Balloon

  

A green balloon had fallen to the ground.

Its color glowed as the daylight changed and ebbed.
  

Its string was sticking to the rain-wet road.

With every little breeze, it seemed to fight

to free itself—to fly beneath the vault  

of rain clouds racing in the somber sky.

  

On looking at that green balloon, I felt—

There lies a one that’s much like you and I.
  

2016 August 21, Sun

Brooklyn, New York

Company-II

   
Company–II 
 
I had ventured out, on errands,
On a sunlit winter day,
And the curbside snow had melted
As I walked upon my way.
 
And turning ‘round a corner,
Of a sudden, I could hear
Some little birds conversing,
With loud and spring-like cheer.
 
******

The sparrows all were talking
As they sat upon their trees.
They gossiped, as they chattered
In their speech of chirps and tweets.

And I, who had been walking,
Alone, except for thoughts,
Had heard their pulsing twitter—
As if of ones and naughts.
 
But this was ancient nature—
And yet forever young,
Not digits coldly streaming—
But notes, with ardor sung.
 
And so I stopped and listened
And wondered what was said—
As I’d done with hieroglyphics
In books I once had read.
 
Of what were they then talking
Upon that winter day?
I stood awhile in sunshine
And went upon my way.

I walked along the streets then
And I heard the pigeons call,
As the sparrows flew from branches
To the streets, as leaves might fall.

******
 
But then, unlike the leaflets,
They would hasten back on high.
For all the sparrows' actions,
There are surely reasons why.

Their time to live is shorter;
They move at faster speed.
They notice things that humans
Might rarely know to heed.

And so they swooped and darted.
They chirped; they tweeted, trilled—
At all of which, the pigeons
Were not the least bit thrilled.

But some of these were cooing,
As if the spring was here.
They bobbed their heads and strutted,
And flew when I got near.

******
   
So all around was chatter.
The birds were giving voice
To things, perhaps, that matter—
Of weather or of choice.
   
So humans might have spoken,
When gathered by a stream,
Of what they’d hunted, gathered
Or what they’d chanced to dream.
 
The sun had brought the pigeons
And the sparrows out that day.
And I, for one, was lucky
To hear their serenades.
 
Or so I could imagine,
Although it wasn’t me
To whom the birds were calling,
From pavement, roof and tree.
 
And then, the skies grew cloudy.
I heard the birdsong fade.
The pigeons ceased their cooing;
The sparrows flew away.
 
I shivered, as the winter
Sent winds to chill my chest.
It’s time, I thought, for turning
Towards home—and warmth and rest.

******
 
I’d ventured, sad and lonely,
To brave the winter’s cold,
To carry out my errands,
Though weary, sore and old.

I hurried through those errands
And then, enlivened, back.
The birds, to me, had given
The company I’d lacked.
 
2016 February 7th, Sun
Brooklyn, New York
  

The First of May

 
The First of May
   
The first of May.  The city streets at dusk.
A bench to sit on in the cobbled park.
The workweek ended—time to sit and breathe—
and yet a tension, still, that will not leave—
a strange foreboding in this worker’s heart.

A calm, a pause, between the day and night,
between the workweek and the weekend and
between the seasons. Yet—above—a storm.

The trees, with all their springtime twigs out-thrust
towards the storm-clouds swirling in the sky.
An eerie light on high—and in the streets
the traffic moves in strangely silent streams.

******
 
A chill that’s more like March than early May.
The muted voices of the passersby.
And as I sit, a question comes to mind.
Is this the time for me to exit right?
 
I mull upon this question for a while.
The answer comes—  
a student’s father’s dead.

It isn't time for me to leave—not yet.

******
 
I’ll grade my papers and, when Monday’s here,
I’ll go to work and speak to him a bit
and then decide if I should quit my job
and try to start on all I've left undone—
or linger still and do the other things
I still must do before I have to leave.

But then—I know such tidiness is rare.
We each must bear the mess that life can be,
with times like this to quietly reflect—
and then be grateful for that precious gift.

******

The sky has cleared.  There’s Jupiter above.
The south is darkened still with clouds.
The storm has come and gone—but left no rain,
as sometimes happens in a warmer zone.

It’s Friday evening.  Weekend—filled with work.
But that’s a blessing.  Opalescent sky—
the trees in silhouette.  The traffic lights,
whose silent signals are the city's pulse.

A bit of peace.  And yet, across the world
and even here—the madness and the wars.
 
The madness in the job is part of this.
 
Who knows what harsher horrors May and June
will bring?

Let morbid thoughts subside.  Of seasons, sing.
For life will pass and death will come in time.
Till then, we live and do what needs be done.
A bit of laughter and a bit of fun—
and that’s enough.

******
 
My student—fatherless
and far from where he came from—alien,
within a city where he walks alone,
will face yet more of sorrow and of grief.

The mortal lot.

A gesture or a look, a word or two—
a little notice—might give some relief.

It’s time to rise and tote my papers home.

******

The first of May.
A day for workers—yet a day for work.
 
2015 May 1st Fri 8:30 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
    

Milestone Park

    
Milestone Park             \1
 
Two lovers sit upon a wooden bench.
They cuddle, disengage – and snuggle more.
But then the man takes out his smart-phone and
they both appear, by what’s within, entranced.
 
And right by them, an older person sits
and reads his book – as with this toothless gums
he masticates the soft white bread he pulls
from deep within a bag that’s by his side.
 
And both of these – the lovers and the one
who quietly reads – enjoy the light and shade
that dapples now the urban “park”, where these
and others sit or stroll, in slanting sun…
 
But here’s a woman, far in years advanced,
who leans upon a “walker”, seeking what
I had at first supposed was just a seat,
until she rummaged in a garbage bin…
 
From China, she appears to be and she
confirms to what we’ve long been witnessing –
that discontent with sitting idly and
that urge to work – and earn – that drives her “race”.   \2
 
But here are others, speaking Russian, who
may hail from Europe or from Asia’s steppes –
and they are gathered by a game of chess,               \3
whose moves are much as ancient Indians played…
 
And here are Latins, Jews and Arabs and
so many others from the distant lands –
and here, in Brooklyn, as the sun declines,
they sit or walk in peace, and speak their tongues.

It’s time for me to leave.  The western sun
is warm upon my neck as I rise up.
I turn and gather up my notebook, bag –
and look around this wondrous urban “park”.

2014 July 30th, Wed., 6:30 pm
Milestone Park 
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

1.  Milestone Park is a paved public area, rather squalid,
     on one side of 18th Ave, between 83rd & 84th Streets
     in the Bensonhurst neighborhood of Brooklyn.  This
     “park” has a fenced children’s playground at one end.
     The rest of the area is unfenced, and has some trees,
     tables and benches. That is where I sat and wrote this.

2.  Bottles and soda cans marked for recycling fetch five
     cents each at recycling centers.  So twenty such yield
     a dollar of income for those folk, mostly older Chinese
     women, who walk the streets all day, gathering these
     items from garbage bins and bags.

3.   After I had written my description of the goings-on in
      the park in my notebook, I decided to walk around the
      city “park” and, among other things, see, for my increasingly
      short-sighted self, what that group of “Russian speakers”
      and other such groups were really doing. I found seven
      such groups, each gathered around a game, with a few
      core players in each case and others watching silently or
      acting as cheerleaders and advisers.
          
      Only one of these groups was, indeed, made up of Russian-
      -speakers.  These were the only ones playing chess.  Four
      of the groups had people speaking various dialects of
      Chinese.  There was one small group of Vietnamese and
      another of Albanians. 
            
       All of the participants were either middle-aged or elderly.
                    
        Most of the Chinese women were busy at cards, with
        dollars being slapped down on the tables as incentive. 
        Two groups of Chinese men were focused on the slow,
        deliberate moves of what appeared to be the schematically
        simple but mentally complex game known in Japan as “Go”. 
        The Albanians were playing, on a checker-board, a game
        that had Scrabble-like racks and pieces, but with symbols
        instead of letters.  They told me the name of their game,
        but I have forgotten it.
  

Reflections on a Tree

   
Reflections on a Tree
  
While slowly walking home this evening, I
Observed a tree that reached towards the sky.
It stood, with all its myriad fingers splayed,
And to a winter moon, in silence prayed.

I wondered if that still and silent tree
Was linked, by consciousness, to you and me.
It stood, beneath the sun and moon and stars,
A witness to our lives and loves and wars.

And surely it cared little for our kind,
That prides itself on nimbleness of mind,
While knowing more, of light and earth and air,
Than you or I could ever know or care.

But if in truth, of mind there is but one,
It shared with us, who hither, thither run,
That same awareness, but of aspect slowed,
While standing still, beside a city road.

2014 February 14th, Fri. 7:54 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
   

Who Profits?

             
Who Profits?
        
In the mathematics, that we learned at school,
We could be sure that two-plus-two was four,
And when we measured, in the physics lab,
The strength of “g”, we found that it was so.

But in our lives, and even more in what
We read and hear – and even watch on-screen,
There seems far less of certainty.  Indeed,
We couple true and false in ways obscene.

How simple is the sly and easy lie,
How facile are the ones that lead to war!
Our falsehoods, oft repeated, stand as truth.
Homo mendax – that is who we are.

So how can we then disentangle facts
From all the myths in which they tangled lie?
I do not know, but this I surely do –
For every falsehood, there's a reason why.

And for the sake of brevity, let's say,
Before believing what we haven't seen,
“Who profits from this 'fact' and our belief?”
Let's ask – so we're not led to where we've been.

But should we then be cynics in all things?
The things we see for selves, before our eyes,
We can believe, if we have eyes to see.
All else is suspect, often being lies.

But then, there's heart, which now is ridiculed.
And some have hardened theirs and some have not.
With senses, heart and logic we proceed.
For in the end, that's all that we have got.

But as we learn yet more disturbing facts,
For which we often have no strength or time,
The picture takes a shape we draw ourselves,
That's closer to the truth than all my rhyme.

2013 December 15th, Sun.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

Winter’s Fury

            
Winter’s Fury
    
In tropic climes, the sun, ascendant,
Rules the summer with its heat.
Rains are welcomed.  Winter braces,
Brings a brief relief that's sweet.

But, in climates that are polar,
Summer’s cherished, and the spring
Is awaited through the winter.
And, with autumn, sun takes wing.

Here, by the cold Atlantic seaboard,
Autumn came, with its slanting sun,
Painted the trees in many colors,
Left, of a sudden, on the run…

******
    
Now winter comes with all its fury,
With banshee winds that howl at night,
For autumn’s left – and taken with it
Remnant warmth and fading light.

The sun, defeated, feeble, arches
Low above horizon south.
The birds have fled – and squirrels sleep,
As blizzards blow from winter’s mouth.

Season grim, of cold and darkness,
Stripping broad-leaved plants of life,
Comes – and many flee before it.
Others hide from winds that knife.

******
    
If springtime be the time for courting
And summer be the consummation,
Then autumn is the time for parting
And winter then is desolation.

So winter comes, like death and taxes,
Season dread, of dark and cold.
And some have strength enough to bear it,
But not the sick or weak and old.

The ones with clothes enough can venture
Out and brave the winds that freeze.
And some have heated homes of comfort
But what brings poor and homeless ease?

****** 
      
For some had slept on subway gratings,
Cardboard-covered, shivering, wet.
But now the councils curve the gratings,
So ease can only come with death.
   
First, the pain in the nose and fingers,
Then, the numbness that foretells
Loss, from freezing, of those members.
So does winter work its hells.
   
Soldiers  fought and died in winters,
Frozen hard in fields of gore.
Others, who were prisoners, suffered,
Frozen till they were no more.

******
    
From the lands of cold and darkness,
Came the hordes – to lands of sun,
Slaughtered, robbed and raped and plundered.
So the south and west were won.

So the Arya, Hun and Mongol,
So the settler with his gun,
So the ruthless armies marching,
With the locals on the run...

But those, who tried, in vain, to conquer
Northern lands – or those on high,
They were fated, by that winter,
To, defeated, freeze and die.

******
    
So the French and Germans perished
As the Russian winter blew.
So the British, in the Afghan
Highlands, paid their venture’s dues.

Humans, born from ape ancestors,
Still can’t live in freezing climes,
Not without the dense apparel,
Learned in Neanderthal times.

Who can deal with winter’s fury,
Save the one, who’s winter’s child?
He survives – but not the stranger,
Ventured north from climates mild.

2013 November 28th, Thu.
(Last Thursday in November, Thanksgiving Day in the U.S.A.)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
 

The Winter Comes

 
The Winter Comes
   
The winter comes, with darkness and with cold,
With shortened days and nights of huddling close.
The winter comes, with freezing rain and sleet,
With blizzards, biting winds and drifting snows.

The winter comes, with battling winds that bring
Those endless snows, those dark and brooding skies.
The winter comes, with long and freezing nights –
And weakened sun that struggles, slants and dies.

The winter comes, as autumn takes its leave,
With fevers, 'flus – with windows shuttered tight.
The winter comes, with sneezes, coughs and more,
As autumn leaves – and takes, with it, the light.

The winter comes and strips the trees of leaves,
It comes and taxes those, who're ailing, old.
The birds will flee – and huddled beasts will sleep,
For winter comes, with darkness and with cold.

2013 November 9th, Sat.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn 

Autumn

                     
Autumn
           
It's autumn and the yellowed leaves
Are dying, one by one.
The city's streets are littered
With their corpses, myriad.

The polar winds are blowing through
The city and we hear
The voices of the dead, as they
Are rustled down the streets.

******
  
A sickled moon is hanging
In the darkening autumn sky.
A sickened moon is waning and
It seems about to die.

And near that dying moon, there shines
A red and baleful star.
We shudder, as we see it, at
The horrors, dread, of war.

******
   
It's autumn and the winter, it
Is camped upon the hill.
It looks upon the city and
It seizes up its prey.

It breathes upon the city and
Its breath is dank and chill.
That winter will be coming and
Its will, we shall obey.

******
   
It's autumn, and the winter, it
Is camped upon the hill.
It's autumn, and the summer, it
Is lingering on the sea.

And winter will be coming, with
Its darkness and its chill.
Then summer, long departed, will
Have seemed to never be.

2013 November 7th, Thu.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
    

New Season -- revised

  
This is a revised version of New Season , which I wrote on October 29th, 2006, a few months into a two-year stay at my parents'  house in Berkeley, California.  That long visit was initiated by a heart attack (followed, during stent installation, by heart failure) that my mother had suffered, on August 26th of that year.

Almost two years after that writing, Joe's Demise appeared, on October 5th, 2008 -- out of nowhere, so it seemed.  This happened soon after my return to Brooklyn, at the end of August of that year.

Recently, on reading both poems again, I noticed that a section of the earlier poem contained a premonition of what is perhaps portrayed in the later one, Joe's Demise.  So, after revising New Season, I am presenting it below.

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

New Season -- revised

The air has cooled, but still the ardent sun
Retains his strength, as leaves of color fall.

Now comes November... Yet, along this coast,
It is as if we're waiting still for May...

The maples – they are mottled, green and red...
And lighter, warmer shades can now be seen,
Amongst the greens, on coastal slopes and hills.

We know, beyond those hills, and east to the sea,
For a full three thousand miles, the trees stand bare,
Except for dark and stolid evergreens... 

But here, the maples, oaks, the wine-leaved plums
And all their broad-leaved kin still wear the clothes
Of early fall, which lasts here into spring...

What a paradise was this, that Nature wrought,
Until we came and drove our freeways through!
Now shopping malls deface the sun-washed coast,
And rushing cars disturb the sleeping hills.

And yet, the conifers rise up to a hilltop ridge,
And little birds are perched on cables strung
Between the poles that stand as straight and tall
As when they slowly grew in forests deep...

And high upon those hills, you still might find,
Beside a stream, a mountain lion's print –
And quickly glance about and hurry down
Before the night descends on fragrant pines.

It is as if the works of men are but
Another shadow that is speeding through,
One more among the countless ones that climb
These coastal hills as clouds go racing by.

All this shall pass, like a storm that lays about
And then is gone.  So newborn grass will spring
From asphalt cracks, and rust will eat at bridges...

And trees will conquer buildings, as they've done
Since Olmecs, Mayas, Incas, Aztecs raised
Their monuments and left, as Khmers had built
In forests far across the globe, reclaimed
By plants, and all the life that they sustain...

But wait – perhaps, this time, it won't be so,
And things will take, instead, a turn that is
Quite different – for we have stressed this whole,
Of earth and sea and air, beyond its strength...

That whole may not recover.  Life, its part,
May never be the same upon this globe...

And if we do not curb those weapons dread
That we are hoarding, life may vanish from
This blue-green planet – till it starts again
From a seed arrived from a distant orb that's sent
Ejecta forth to find a home and spread...

All this goes through the mind, on a tranquil day,
When all seems changeless, still, amidst the flow...

Perhaps we need these little respites from
The rush of seasons – both of Earth and Man.
We then can note the changes that portend
Of seasons yet to come, whose depth and length
Exceed, by far, the turns of the yearly round.

October ends, and yet, in paradise,
The sun is warm, and hummingbirds in flight
Are finding time to pause and drink their fill.

So autumn here begins, and we have time
To think these thoughts of past and future, while
We savor this – the present's timelessness.

Babui Jana (Arjun Janah)
2006 October 29th, Sun.
Berkeley, California

revised, 2013 October 23rd, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
  

The Price of Sin

The Price of Sin

A fish was swimming in the sea.
It now becomes a part of me.
Its spirit long has left its flesh,
For spirit-nature tends to flee
A carcass, while it still is fresh,
So souls are of encumbrance free.

******
 
Or so, at least, I would presume,
As others mostly do assume,
So all can look at dinners, lunches,
And guiltlessly, those meals, consume,
As well as breakfasts, teas and brunches.

And turning, therefore, to my fish,
Which looks to be a tasty dish,

I see it's sautéed well.  I smell

Its fragrance and I fondly wish
Its taste and flavor will be swell.

I pick the muscle from the spine.
I taste the flesh.  It tastes divine.
It's sad this being had to die
To make, for me, a luncheon fine.
I eat the fish – and do not cry.

But still, a nagging thought remains,
That nags and nags, as certain pains
May do, that we may wish were not,
But still persist, till each obtains
Attention due, that we forgot.

I wonder if, with tables turned,
By fishy chef, I would be burned –
Have salt and spice on scalded skin,
So I, who's dining, unconcerned,
Would fully pay the price of sin.

******
 
And this, I can't but wonder too:
Are our assumptions really true?
Does the spirit truly leave
(As hermit-crabs, their shelters do),
As many smugly may believe,
Until they die – and dinners rue?

2013 September 21, Sat. afternoon,
between Chinatown, Manhattan,
and Bensonhurst, Brooklyn,
on the N and D trains, on
the way home from the
doctor's office in C-t.
  

A Ramble and a Rant--Part I

        
A Ramble and a Rant
        
Part I – A Ramble

When I was young, I read or I was told
That you can tell a lunatic by this –
A person who believes that he is sane
But is convinced that all the rest are not.

I look around, and more and more, I see
That people rarely question what they do,
For if they did, they'd see the craziness.
I wonder, does this mean that I'm insane?

I also see, the ones who're sensitive,
The ones who care, are diligent to fault –
They seem to be the ones, who're most at risk
Of going quietly mad from hopelessness.

When I was young, I saw a fly that buzzed
Against a window pane.  It beat its wings
And dropped, at end, exhausted – there to die.
How many now are caught, as was that fly?

The sages say to find the peace within.
The seers speak of vision, bright and clear.
But when our work, our lives, are steeped in sin,
Can far be seen – or even what is near?

We learn a language – and what's right and wrong.
And languages, and morals  too, may vary.
But when there is a moral conflict, then
The ones of stronger conscience meet travail.

In this our world, where men can feed on men,
Our ethics turn to baggage that we carry,
And those with less can speed along with ease
And so can prosper.  Those with more cannot.

Our morals had evolved within our clans,
Where actions had their consequences as
The ones aggrieved or aided would be there,
To give to us, at end, what we deserved.

But now, we interact with strangers, who
Are next to naught to those who swindle, rob
Or even murder, singly or en masse,
And then depart – to dine and soundly sleep.

And so we did, with beasts we chased and killed,
Although some thanked the spirit of the beast,
While others thanked that god, who had ordained
That all that lived was their inheritance.

Religions, laws arose to meet the needs
Of people, unacquainted, thrown together,
With old constraints removed, in childhood learned,
With gentle arts that sprang from loving hearts.

But love and friendship bind, with tenderness,
The ones who're bonded by their births or chance,
And few are they, who're sainted far enough
To stretch these spheres to all that lives on Earth.

It's clear enough that laws, religions were
And still are used to keep us herded, tame,
Obedient to our masters, who exploit
Our labor in a god's or nation's name.

And so it is that hierarchies abound,
Be they in lands of empires in the east
Or north or south or west.  And each must bow
And be a vassal to a lord or god.

For even as there is, in all but few,
A sense of fairness, justice, equity,
There also is, it seems, proclivity
To be a serf – or else a master be.

How little do we know of history!
For even where traditions tell a tale,
How much of it is myth, we do not know,
And every nation centers on itself.

So victims' children may recall, perhaps,
The horrors past, those bloody annals that
The perpetrators' children glorify
Or do not care to know or understand...

And victors soon can occupy the place
That despots past assumed – and be the lords
To which the vanquished pledge their fealty.
So brigands rise, in time, to be as gods.

For see, we strive to learn the victors' tongue.
We ape their habits – and their vices, most.
We scorn the ones who feebly might resist,
As we, of newest lackey stations, boast.

2013 August 8th, Thu.
Brooklyn
  

Luminous / Darshan

   
Luminous / Darshan  
                
On walking home, as dusk was courting night,
I looked above and saw a wondrous sight.
The sky to west was lit, in light cyan,
And darkened in the east – to deepest blue.
And in that eastern sky, there floated clouds,
Of gray below, with mounts of purest white,
That still, as darkness grew, were filled with light...

And once again, from gloom and misery,
I found reprieve, as Nature's treasury
Of lines and shades and colors found its use
In paintings ever new, with none the same,
Unmatched by all those masters past who tried
To capture just a little bit of mystery
From Nature's trove – and then were history...

And so I walked, transformed by what I'd seen,
Refreshed, made whole, as I've so often been.
And as I walked, those clouds, so luminous,
Grew darker, yet – as blues turned violet, black –
Could still be seen, as planets, stars appeared...

******
      
In war's inferno, with its sights obscene,
Could grace be found in one celestial scene?

I pondered this – and saw, that if we turn
From all the things that hurt and make us burn,
Then we may find, in skies or on this Earth,
In smallest things – for body, spirit, mind –
The sustenance we need to carry on –
A lesson that we each might quickly learn
If each would cease, to gentler voices spurn...

So though it's said that darshan is a gift
Bestowed on us by those, with power to lift
Us up from morbid ignorance, we see
That all it is, is vision, literally...
And each may find this in a different way,
But when it's found, we then can bridge the rift
Within, be whole – and good, from evil, sift...

2013 August 4th, Sun., evening
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

The Age of Packaging – Part I

The Age of Packaging – Part I
      
We've learned that chapters of our human tale
Are named for stuff that formed our implements.
And so, we've had the Age of Stone, of Bronze,
Of Iron – and we're surely still within
The Age of Coal and Oil and Gas, as we
Now live, scavenging remnants, decomposed,
Of beings past that thrived on radiance –
That even now springs forth as corpses burn.

And all the “plastics” that might indicate
That we should call our times the Plastic Age,
At source, from these – and ocean, air – are made,
And so are many clothes and furnishings,
Plus dyes and drugs – and endless things beside.
And so we could, with right, proclaim that we
Are living still in an Age of Scavenging –
And celebrate this plateau high with glee.

But some would argue for another scheme
And say that we had passed from a Primal Age
To the Age of Herds and Farms – and then, of late,
To that of Industry – and now, they'd say,
We're at the dawn of yet another age,
Where all (in time) are linked by nets that keep
Us so aware of all the rest that we
Can shout, “We're in the Information Age!”

But there's another aspect, some would note,
Examining the garbage we discard,
The things we buy and sell – and all we do
To keep in motion this economy
And so survive – including, constantly,
The merchandising of ourselves.  They'd say
We've been, awhile, within a glorious age,
In which the wrapping counts – the gloss, the spin –
Far more than what's within.   As Content is
Dethroned, they'd hail – the Age of Packaging!

2013 August 4th, Sun.
Brooklyn

The Age of Packaging -- Part II
  

At 3 am in Bensonhurst

   
At 3 am in Bensonhurst

I've lived, for many years, on a city block
that lies between a Sunoco, on Cropsey,
and a Russian social hall, on Bath.

On taking out the trash, at 3 am,
I found the night air had a bracing chill,
and started on a short, digestive stroll...
I slowly walked to bright-lit Bath and then
looked up, above the roofs, towards the sky.
And there, despite the glare of city lights,
were half a dozen lonely, scattered stars
that twinkled bravely in a patch of sky
that seemed as dark as death...

These must, I thought, be brighter than the rest –
that host that city-dwellers do not see
and never may...

I turned around and headed to my door –
but closed it, thinking I should walk the block.
And so, beside the darkened Sunoco,
I saw, above the roof-line silhouette,
another set of stars, a crescent moon,
decreased past quarter – and the silent flash
of a firefly-plane that arced across the dark...
I watched this pass the moon and disappear,
as eyes, adjusting, saw the dark had hues...

I stood there looking, drinking all this in,
and then walked home – as I had seen enough
to soundly sleep my precious hours three...

But if I'd wandered north – and passing Bath,
had walked to Benson, I would then have seen
yet more of sky, above a line of trees,
and yet more stars – perhaps the baleful Mars –
and Jupiter and Sirius and more...
That waning moon would then have walked with me,
and I, bewitched, might still be standing awed
or venturing further on that moonlit street.
I then might not have slept, this summer night...

But I had seen enough –  and so returned
and mounted up the stairs towards our flat,
before the dawn in Bensonhurst...

2013 July 30th, Tue. 3:30 am
(First paragraph & last two paras added Aug. 1st, 2:40 am)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn  
     

Fluids In Fury

 
Fluids In Fury
   
When the wind is shrieking on Antarctic seas,
And the waves have grown to mountains on the move,
Then skillful whales have ways to still survive,
But humans are transfixed by fearful awe.

How powerful is air that's moving fast,
That drives destruction in the twister's whirl,
Or churns the sea and throws it at the land,
In great cyclones that circle 'round their calms.

So wind and water move and terrify,
As substance soft, ethereal turns to that
Which lifts and tears apart the works of man,
With pressure, speed then serving demon-wrath.

Bernoulli wrote and went upon his way,
But what he scribed remains the truth today,
Though some may doubt, until they start to see
How 'planes may fly and houses may explode.
 
And solids too can melt and then can flow,
Or in unmelted state vibrate and more.
So earth can swallow up a city or
Can tear it down to rubble in a trice.

And when the moving earth disturbs the seas,
Then ocean roars, as giant wall, at speed
Across the land, reclaiming as her own
The beings that had left her long ago...

Observe the power of the fluid state.
Behold the mountains that are frozen waves
That yet are moving, ever slowly, as
They crest and break in rows across the land.

But all these motions -- of the land, the sea,
The whirling air -- are driven by the sun
And by the heat that issues from the earth,
Itself a would-be sun within its heart.

And if you were to travel to the star,
Whose distant fury fuels wind and wave,
And if you could survive, what sights you'd see --
As matter, squeezed, yields radiant energy!

Then all of Earth's long history would seem
A tiny ripple in this flowing sea,
In which the whirlpools known as galaxies
Are spiraling to nothingness...

So matter is but energy, we're told,
Imprisoned and yet serving what's released,
And both in turn are issued from the word
That is a cousin to our time and space.

And though, within each atom of our cells,
The world dissolves as does the self in us,
And though we live upon the precipice,
It's in the fluids' fury that we see...

But where there's motion, there is stillness, yes.
Where all is passing, there is timelessness.
Abandon all, upon volcano's edge,
And spread your arms and whirl towards your death...

For only when we're free of fear, we live,
However briefly, yet in radiance.
Take courage then and dance with wind and wave.
The song of life is sounding in the vast.

2013 July 26th, Fri.
Brooklyn