Wednesday, April 26, 2017



Who knows the truth?
Not I, forsooth!

I'll vouch for what I've witnessed, yet
In time I'll age and I'll forget.
I only might be sure of this—
That mortal life is far from bliss!

I cannot tell, although I care,
What happened when I wasn't there.
And though I've delved and though I've read,
I cannot question those who're dead!

And when I go, so goes my truth—
Unless it finds, in others, root.
But I could notice, while I die,
My truth, transforming to a lie!

We reach the pith—
And find it's myth.

2017 April 26th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York

Quartz and Calcite

Quartz and Calcite

Quartz and calcite waged a battle.
For Quartz declared, "I know I'm brittle.
But I can scratch you. There, I've done it!"
Calcite roared, "You'd better stop it!"

But easier started, harder stopped,
Their battle lasted, till they dropped.
And Quartz had only lost a shard
Or two, for Quartz's core was hard.

But Calcite, felled by strike and thrust,
Was shattered—scattered into dust.
And from that medley, rose the cry,
"From Quartz's mischief, now I die!"

2017 April 27th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York

Monday, April 24, 2017



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

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

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

2017 April 24th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York



The history of humans, friend,
Is a greatly tangled web.
We know about it next to naught,
Although we might pretend.

The Vedas only came to be
A moment back in time.
So Abraham was born in Ur
And Egypt rose sublime.

A hundred thousand years have passed,
Since humans left that land
In which we branched away from apes,
Or so we understand.

The Abrahamic faiths insist
The gods are none but one,
And all of Earth was made for Man,
By him who made the sun.

Our Aryas worshiped dewas, while
Ahuras ruled in Fars.
And so, "divine" and "devil"—these
Are siblings joined in farce.

Segregation, apartheid,
The lasting sin of varnas
These all have failed to separate
Arjuna's kind from Karna's.

There is no superior race or god,
Or way of earning wealth,
And each such thought has wrought its dread,
In open or in stealth.

Each thing we make, which promises
To make our burdens light,
Is turned, by those who need their slaves,
To rob us of our sight.

So agriculture was and now
The labors hard of science.
So all is turned to ashes, friend,
On which we put reliance.

2017 April 24th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York

Saturday, April 22, 2017

Mayar Dha~dha-মায়ার ধাঁধা-The Maze of Delusion

The truth is that every empire, nation, community, family and individual is capable of great cruelty, as also of great kindness. This has been demonstrated over and over again, and we are seeing it being demonstrated now, all over the world. We still need to speak out and act against the cruelty and to recognize and support the kindness.

However, those who see and feel beyond a narrowing of vision and of heart are always vilified. Those who work for the common good and against scapegoating, demonizing and division are inevitably labeled as foreign agents, traitors, etc. Sadly, it is the same in every country, in every age.

মায়ার ধাঁধা

আর্য় বলে, ‘ভজ তাদের,
যাদের চামড়া গোরা৷’
এদেশী বলে, ‘বিদেশী, তুমি
সব মন্দের গোড়া৷’

ওগো মূর্খ, গোণো এবার
পুরোনো পাপের আয়৷
বিরাট পাপী, রাজা হয়ে,
রক্ত চুষে খায়৷  


কত যে দুঃখ, কত যে কষ্ট,
মায়ার ধাঁধায় পড়ে!
নিজেকে মেরেছ, নিজেকে নষ্ট
করেছ যুগযুগ ধরে৷

ফিরে চাইলে, দেখবে সব ই
অকারণে করা৷
সকল সৃষ্টির স্বত্ত্বেও, শুধু
বৃথা ভুগে ভুগে মরা৷

শনিবার, ২২ এপ্রিল, ২০১৭ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক


Friday, April 21, 2017

The Pale Blue Dot

The Pale Blue Dot

What indeed is poetry?
I really wish I knew,
Although I spout again in verse
Which often seems to veer from terse.

And Riaz earlier was wise
In saying there's a difference--
For I can persevere in meters
Or echo rhymes, as poetry peters.

And as for science, what is it?
Our Trump would say, "A lot of s**t!"
Unless it adds in cash for him,
Who grabs at p******s at his whim.

And we might say, "What's wrong with money,
Or sipping on a bit of honey?"
But others then might counter, "Naught!
But yet there's more than can be bought."

What cash can come from Andromeda,
What pleasure from a comet's tail?
And yet we might be more bereft,
If Carl were mute before he left.

For though he spoke in measured prose,
It's poetry that Sagan wove.
As Saumen too has said, it's wonder
That gives, to poets’ words, their thunder.
2017 April 21, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York

Monday, April 17, 2017

The Winter Has Ended

The Winter Has Ended

We know that we're transient.
We come and we go.
But we sense there's a stillness
in the midst of the flow.

There's a light in the gemstone,
there's a star in the eye.
We'll remember that twinkle
till the day that we die.

The song that is ancient
is tinged with a sorrow,
and yet it is saying
"There is still a tomorrow."

The song that is recent
may bring joy to the heart.
And yet there's the whisper—
"Tomorrow we part."

How brief are the colors
and scents of the spring!
But the winter has ended
and our fancies take wing.

2017 April 17th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York