The Chant

 
The Chant
 
I heard the singing in the dawn, when the mist had not yet risen,
And dreaming in my bed, there came to me a wondrous vision –
I saw a line of women, on a sylvan mountain way –
And even from afar, I saw that line appeared to sway.
  
For the women, they were singing and were dancing as they went –
I could hear them sweetly singing, and the song was heaven-sent –
I could see the women dancing as they walked upon their way –
As the mist was slowly rising and the twilight turned to day.
 
I heard the singing in my dream, and woke to find the light
Was spreading in the eastern sky, as day was chasing night…
And was I only dreaming – or had truly heard the chant
Of the women on the mountain?  I could answer – but I shan’t.
 
2014 October 27th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
 

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
  

Dua, Insaan Ko–दुआ, इनसान को (A Prayer – to Mortals)

  
The Hindi-Urdu text below (in Devanagari script) is followed by a loose translation into English and then by a transcription into Roman.  As my Hindi and Urdu are both weak, any corrections or suggestions would be welcome.  -- Arjun

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दुआ, इनसान को
 
इस्लामियत को ढूंढ़ते हुए,
इन्सानियत को खोना मत।
 
हिन्दुत्व को गढ़ते हुए,
मानव-धर्म को तोड़ना मत।
 
यहोवा या यीशु के नाम से,
खून-खराबी करना मत।
 
पैसे या नाम का धन्धा मे,
सचाई और दिल को भूलना मत।
 
शनिवार, २५ अक्टूबर २०१४ ईस्वी
ब्रुकलिन, न्यूयॉर्क
  
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A Prayer – to Mortals
 
In search of an Islamic state,
Do not, a being’s rights, negate.
 
With Aryan yearnings in your mind,
You still have reason to be kind.
  
In the name of Yahweh or of Jesus,
With murderous evil, do not smite us.
 
To fame or fortune, while en route,
Remember still the heart – and truth.
   
2014  October 25th, Sat.
(translated November 1st, Sat.)
Brooklyn, New York

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Dua, Insaan Ko
  
Islaamiyat ko d'huun'r'hte hue,
insaaniyat ko khona mat.

Hindutva ko gar'hte hue,
maanav-dharm ko tor'na mat.
  
Yehova ya yiixu ke naam se,
khuun-kharaabi karna mat.

Paise ya naam ka dhandha me,
sacaai aur dil ko bhuulna mat.
      
xanivaar, 25 akt'ubar 2014 iisvi.
bruklin, nyu yo`rk
  

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
 

Slow

 
If only I could follow this advice, during the working
day in my school-teaching job, here in New York City...
------------------------------------------------------------------
 
Slow
  
If I could say one word to all the folk
who’d care to hear, the word I’d say to them
is “Slow.”

Walk slower to your work and back.  And work
a little slower, taking more of care
and even fussing, with the work you do.

In speech, be slower. Be considerate.
Refrain from words that hurt or give offence.
And don’t say, “Hurry.” Modulate your speech
to give yourselves and those who hear the time
to truly speak and hear what’s said.  Recall
that speaking is an art, as hearing is –
and neither should be rushed or desperate.

Be slower in your thoughts and actions. Think
of what you do and what its purpose is.

Compulsive thought and speech and action lead
to more compulsion and to misery.

But you might say that in the mad stampede,
the one who slows or pauses might be killed.
And you are right in this, to some degree.

So slow a teeny bit.  Let others slow
around you.  Give them time to breathe.
Perhaps you’ll see, about you, grows a space
where beings are, as beings true –
where there is time – that precious time they need
for thought, reflection, noticing, for care –
for wonder, musing – even hope and love…

The greed and fear that drive the human world,
the engines of our mad economies –
have made us hurry, hurry through our lives –
with little time for pause and savoring.

Resist. Resist the hurry, fear and greed.
Resist the rush – be gentle in your ways…

So breathe the air and slowly let it out…
Be slow, in what you do and speak and think.

Let others hurry, hurry to their graves.
Go slowly, slowly to the death that waits,
so when you leave, you’ll know that you have lived
and left some space, so others too can live.

And so I say, to all who care to hear,
“Go slow, go slow, and spread the word to all.

“And most will disregard you, some will laugh
and others vilify you.  Let them be.

“But others, you will find, will hear, and they
will also try to take the time to pause,
to notice and to care – to slow again
and be what you and they can truly be.”
 
2014  October 22nd, Wed., 6:04 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
 

Urban Epiphany

    
Urban Epiphany
    
On exiting the school, he saw the sky
And then the row of tall, majestic trees
That lined the street, beside the football field.
He stood and quietly looked awhile at these.
 
He saw – the trunks that dwarfed the ones like him,
The mighty arms outspread – as tentacles
That reached towards the light for nourishment,
The branches, twigs – the leaves, by autumn crisped…
 
He stood and stared awhile, and went his way,
A little being, walking to his nest,
Humbled by the trees – that would remain,
When he and those he knew were memories…
  
He trudged along, a weary working man
Who trundled home his workload for the eve.
And in the concrete “park”, he stopped to sit
And pen these lines and slowly sip his tea.
  
And as he writes of what he saw and felt,
The sky has darkened much. The traffic lights
Are flashing yellow, red and green –
And silhouettes are heading home, like him...
  
On reaching home, he’ll sit and type these lines
And post them in the ether, there to stay
Awhile, be read, perhaps, then fade away –
As even trees are lost, like men and leaves…
   
2014 October 21st, Tue.
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