টের (T'er–Sense/Perception–translation of Presence)

      
This is a translation into Bangla (Bengali) of the poem Presence .
The version in the traditional script follows directly below.  After
that, there is a Roman transcription.  A summary of the transcription
scheme, serving as a guide to the pronunciation, can be found at
Bharot Xadhin.
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টের

কোনো এক শহরের অন্তরে, কোনো এক দপ্তর-বাড়ির ভিতরে বন্দী হয়ে,
কখনো আঁধারে দাঁড়িয়ে দেখেছি দূরে জানালার অলো৷
আলোর টানে চলেছি তার দিকে, জানালা দিয়ে তাকিয়ে দেখেছি – আকাশ৷
জানি না কি কারনে, তাই দেখে জুড়িয়েছে মন৷

কর্ম-জিবনের আঁকা-বাঁকা রাস্তা দিয়ে, কখনো বনপথে,
তবে বেশিরভাগ শহরের ফুটপাথে চলেছি আমি৷
নগরের অলিগলির ময়লা  থেকে, যেখানে আইন-বেআইন সাথি, ডেকেছে আমায়
দূরে দেখা উর্দ্ধ আকাশ, হাওয়াতে দোলানো গাছ৷

জানালার পাসে দাঁড়িয়ে, অথবা কাজের শেষে ক্লান্ত হয়ে বাড়ির পথে হেঁটে,
গাছের পাতার নাচ দেখেছি, শুনেছি তাদের রব৷
কিছুক্ষন থেমে, দেখে, শুনে, আমি পেয়েছি তখন সেটার টের,
যেটা মাটি ও আকশের মাঝে বয়েছে চিরকাল৷
 
প্রত্যেক জীব, রয়েছে এই জগত-ধারায়৷ জোযার-ভাটা-স্রোত
বয়েছে মন-হৃদয়-শরীরে, ঘসে-মেজে রেখেছে তাদের পরিষ্কার৷
তবে যখন আমরা একলা হয়ে পড়ি, সেই স্রোতের থেকে বিচ্ছিন্ন হয়ে,
ভূত-প্রেত আমাদের ধরে বসে তখন, জ্বালিয়ে পাগল করে দেয়৷

প্রাসাদে রাজা, কারাগারে কয়েদি৷ শ্রমিক তার ঘুপ্চিতে খাটে৷
এরা প্র্ত্যেকে বেঁচে থেকেও মৃত হয়ে চলে৷
একলা বন্দী রেখে করেছ যাকে অসুস্থ, পাগল –
ছেড়ে দেও তাকে বন-জঙ্গলে৷ যদি সে বাঁচতে পারে, সেরে উঠবে সেখানে৷
    
ইহুদী নববর্ষ: বৃহস্পতিবার, ২৫-এ সেপ্টেম্বর, ২০১৪ খ্রিষ্টাব্দ
নতুন য়র্কের ম্যানহাটানের চীনে পাড়ায়, ডাক্তারের অফিসে
(ইংরেজী থেকে বাংলায় অনুবাদ: শনিবার, ২৭-এ সেপ্টেম্বর)
    
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T`er (translation of Presence)

Kono e`k xo`horer o`ntore, kono e`k do`ptor-bar’ir bhetore bondi hoe,
Kokhono a~dhare dar’ie dekechi dure janalar alo.
Alor t’ane colechi tar dike, janala die takie dekechi – akax.
Jani na ki karone, tai dekhe jurieche mon.

Ko`rmo-jibo`ner a~ka-ba~ka rasta die, ko`khono bono-po`the,
To`be bexir-bhag xoho`rer-phut’pathe colechi ami.
No`gorer oli-golir mo`ela theke, jekhane ain-be-ain xathi, d’ekeche amae
Dure de`kha urdho akax, haoate dolano gach.

Janalar paxe dar’ie, o`thoba kajer xexe, klanto hoe, bar’ir po`the he~t’e,
Gacher patar nac dekhechi, xunechi tader ro`b.
Kichukkhon theme, dekhe, xune, ami pe-echi to`khon xetar t’er,
Jet’a mat’i o akaxer majhe boeche cirokal.

Prottek jib, roeche ei jo`got-dharae. Joar-bhat’a-srot
Boeche mon-hrido`e-xorire, ghoxe-mejhe rekeche tader porixkar.
To`be jo`khon amra e`kla hoe pori, xei sroter theke bicchinno hoe,
Bhut-pret amader dhore bo`xe to`khon, jalie pagol kore de`-e.

Praxade raja, karagare ko`edi.  Sromik tar ghupcite khat’e.
Era protteke be~ce thekeo mrito hoe co`le.
E`kla bondi rekhe korecho jake o`xusto, pagol –
Chere dao take bon-jo`ngole. Jodi xe ba~cte pare, xere ut’thbe xekhane.

ihudi  no`bobo`rxo:  brihoxpotibar, 25-e sept’embar, 2014 khrixt’abdo
notun ior`ker me`nhe`t’an-diper cine par’ae, d’aktarer o`phixe
(ingreji theke banglae onubad: xonibar, 27-e sept’embar)
 
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------    
The above is a translation into Bangla (Bengali) of the poem Presence.  
The version in the traditional script is at the top. Following that, there is 
a Roman transcription. A summary of the transcription scheme, serving 
as a guide to the pronunciation, can be found at  Bharot Xadhin.
  

The Presence

  
The Presence
 
When trapped within a building, in the innards of a city,
I’ve seen, afar, a window – and, attracted by the light,
I’ve walked up to that window – and looked out at the sky.
And that for me was healing, although I knew not why.
 
In past peregrinations, in the course of work and life,
I’ve wandered in the wilderness, but mostly in the cities.
And while in urban gullies, where the laws abetted crime,
The trees and sky would beckon, as I mucked about in grime.
 
And pausing by a window – or while trudging home at dusk,
I’d see the tree-leaves moving – or I’d hear them rustling low.
And pausing then and looking – or listening to the sound,
I’d sense again that presence that links the sky to ground.
  
We’re each a part of Nature.  The tides and currents flow
Through minds and hearts and bodies.  They scour these vessels clean.
But when we’re isolated, from Nature and from men,
We’re each beset by demons and grow demented then.
  
The king within his palace, the prisoner in the jail,
The worker in her cubicle – can know a living death...
You can drive a man to madness, if you lock him in a cell.
Release him in the forest.  If he lives, he’ll soon be well.
 
2014 September 25th, Thursday (Jewish New Year)
Doctor’s office, Chinatown, Manhattan
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For a translation into Bangla (Bengali), please
see টের (T'er–Sense/Perception)
   

The Rustling Leaves

    
The Rustling Leaves
  
September moves towards its end, yet city trees are green.
And in the little front yards, flowers bloom as if in spring.
But squashes now are pendant, large, from trellises – and yes,
Some trees give hints of yellowing, like humans that have grayed.

For autumn’s winds are blowing now and nights are growing cold.
So leaves will change in color soon and turn to warmer hues.
I pass beneath a spreading tree and hear the rustling leaves.
They speak to me of summer’s end and whisper of the fall.

How many summers now are left, how many autumns still?
The winter winds will come with snow, and we will wait for spring.
The elder dies, the infant wails, the child and sapling grow.
How many springs to relish and how many winters more?

We city-dwellers go to work each day and then return.
And in our little flats we sit and stare at glowing screens.
But seasons come and seasons go as seasons always will.
And cities too will come and go, and those like you and me.

So when I hear the rustling leaves, I hear the voices past.
I hear our conversations and the ones I overheard.
September moves to meet its end, and so do you and I.
But seasons still will cycle ‘round and infants born will cry.

So let us smile at this, my friend, to whom I sit and write:
The day we shared had woe enough – but also gave delight.
And so, as night approaches, let us join our hands to pray –
That others after us will have their pleasures in their day.

2014 September 25th, Thu. 5:48 am.
Bensonhurst, 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
  

Those Who Will Not Think

     
Those Who Will Not Think
  
When prejudice is rampant and blinkered views are rife,
Then foolishness, in ardor, takes ignorance as wife.
And from their dark coitus, there issues forth the child,
From knowledge free – and reason – and prone to notions wild.
  
So how can there be wisdom, or remnant trace of light?
The day has long been ended – and all that’s left is night.
So you’ll not find forbearance or nuance or respect.
The puerile, mixed with madness, is what you’d now expect.
  
So what is there to do now, except to sit and weep?
When driven in the shallows, what hope of currents deep?
And so our ships will founder and so we know they’ll sink.
Why bother with the subtleties with those who will not think?
  
Our arguments may lengthen – or grow, with honing, short.
But when we’re with the yahoos, why carp on rule and tort?
Be silent, lest you beckon, by your speaking, yet more ire.
You’ll see, for comprehension, there’s simply no desire.
 
2014 September 20th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
   

Darkness and Light

  
Darkness and Light
 
“Forgive them,” said Jesus, “for they know not what they do.”
Or so the gospel says he said, two thousand years ago,
Across the seas, where Asia met with Africa and Greece.
 
And further back and further east, the sutras say Gotama,
Meditating, woke to truth and called us to awaken,
Who walk through life as if we dream, as captives to illusion.
 
The misery that we create, the madness we engender –
This lives, although we pass away, to plague the generations.
So vision stays beclouded and the nightmare still goes on.
 
But also, when we find our peace and turn towards the truth,
Our acts of kindness leave behind a little patch of calm.
And so there’s still the hope we’ll see and know what we have done.
 
Within the tempest, as it blows, in peacetime and in war,
Within our hearts, amidst the greed, the anger, fear and hatred,
There still remains the sanity – and memory of love.
 
“Forgive them,” Jesus said, “for they know not what they do.”
In hubris, men behave like gods.  Like Icarus, they fall.
And misery breeds misery, as wretches move in thrall.

And heeding Jesus, we forgive and let the burden go.
We pray that madness dissipates, that we regain our sight,
And that the darkness of the world gives way, at last, to light.

But prayer will not right a wrong or bring the dead to life.
It cannot heal a mortal wound or turn the night to day.
And so we pause and ask ourselves the reason why we pray.
 
Is there a need for suffering?  Is there a place for sorrow?
Perhaps it gives us more of depth, and humbles those of pride.
For who has not known sorrow may not truly know compassion.
 
We need the sunshine of the day, we need the dark of night.
And so perhaps the dark within is needed, so we see
And value more the sanity – and cherish more the love.
 
And there are shades of darkness too – there's sorrow and there's grief.
And both of these may cleanse the soul – but there is madness wild
And all the smaller devilries that cloud our hearts and minds.
   
And these are what obstruct our sight and so pollute our souls.
And what can clear away these things, I truly do not know.
But those of wisdom say to breathe and turn towards the light.

And so we only pray for peace, the peace within ourselves –
For courage when the fear is great, for calm when all is roiled,
So humbly we may lead our lives – and smiling, turn to die.
 
2014 September 20th Sat, 3:24 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
    

A Song of Innocence

  
A Song of Innocence
 
While walking in the countryside, I heard a soft refrain.
I walked towards the source of it and then discerned the words.
I stood and listened to the song – a song of innocence.
And as I listened, with my heart, I felt a burden lift.
For in this world, where all seemed dark, I saw there still was light.
I listened till the song had end.  And then I walked away.
I wondered who the singer was.  I wonder still today.
 
2014 September 19th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York
 

So Who Can Blame the Drunkard?

    
So Who Can Blame the Drunkard?
  

Gujarat Chief Minister Narendra Modi is also at the 400 year old Lord
Jagannath Temple where he pulled the chariot carrying the deity.
(AP Photo/Ajit Solanki)
Image source:  http://ibnlive.in.com/photogallery/4322-5.html

 
In a world, where life is feeding on other life to live,
We still converse on ethics – and mortal sins forgive.
Some speak of a creator, who set this all in motion.
They even bow to worship, with zeal in their devotion.

But who is this creator, so cruel in intent,
Who sets the seed to growing, to serve as condiment?
The cow will tend her calf with care, but then it will be taken
And butchered in the slaughterhouse – and roasted and partaken.

And even in our species, we see there is predation,
And this has been the basis of empire and of nation.
As asses, camels, oxen are used as beasts of burden,
So also are the billions who happen to be human.

The weight that workers carry is the labor that they do,
In the farm and in the factory – including me and you.
One labors with the muscle and another with the mind.
To the one who reaps the profit, they are drudges of a kind.

The poultry and the cattle may be slaughtered for their meat,
And if, from this, they rebel, they are easy to defeat.
The peasant and the worker, they are harnessed to the wheel,
And when there is rebellion, it is met with fire and steel.

The human mind is devious – in guile, a true exemplar.
And many are the traps it sets for those of us who’re simpler.
The spider nets its prey in webs.  Our predators enmesh us.
We pay the rent and interest, and drive the cycle vicious.

Behold, the great colossus – the juggernaut erected.
Observe its gears and crankshafts, by oil-of-man protected.
It roars and whirrs and grumbles. It moves and yet remains.
It seems that it is living – with labor in its veins.

For the engines to be running, that power the contraption,
The workers must be working, providing thus the traction.
For even the petroleum, to be flowing, needs their work,
And dire is the prognosis, for the ones who try to shirk.

For what had once been local – the landlords and their fiefs,
The herders who were herded, beholden to their chiefs –
Is now transformed to global.  The feeding chains extend
From Zululand to Zurich – and through the nations wend.

So there is no escaping. The tribal lands are torn,
With newer forms of serfdom, in every season, born.
And if there is resistance that slows the flow of cash,
It’s met with machinations that burn the brave to ash.

Who labors in the mineshafts, and is, of toil, relieved?
Who tells a tale that’s honest, and yet is still believed?
Who seeks the path of reason and isn’t robbed of wits?
Who stands against the dollar and isn’t bombed to bits?

The gods that men conceived of are also put to use.
If king and god command it, who dare the twain refuse?
And so it is that Yahweh, who thundered in the wild,
Is called to aid the conquest, and man and earth defiled.

So some may need convincing that there ever was an Eden,
That the god of the commandments was distinct from him called Satan.
For the evil seems intrinsic – and the world is steeped in sin.
So who can blame the drunkard, who seeks to drown in gin?

So do not pray to Krishna, the one of cunning wiles,
And do not dance for Kali, or think that Jesus smiles.
And Allah still is raging, and Shiva is asleep –
With Brahma, he is snoring, in intoxication deep.

2014 September 16th, Tuesday
Brooklyn, New York
   

Vortex

 
Vortex

We near the precipice and hear its roar,
And yet, the madness of the rush proceeds.
And even though one says, “Is that a scream?”
The others shout, “Go on. It’s just a dream!”

So lemmings, we’ve been told, may die in fjords,
And humans perish, as we’ve seen, in wars.
The ones of narrow vision rule our herd
And goad us on, upon this whirling earth.

In truth and kindness, though the saints believe,
This world is ruled by cruelty and lies.
In most religions, peace is valued most,
And yet, it’s war of which the nations boast.

So those who follow conscience now are doomed,
As they are punished and their ventures fail.
For virtue now is only seen as vice,
And he or she succeeds, who isn’t nice.

If I believed in God and Satan, then
I’d see a world that’s headed straight for hell.
And though I’ve tried to steer to what is right,
The fiery portals are what loom in sight.

Salaam, shalom, and shaanti, peace…
So men beseech the spirit, everyday.
And yet, the demons, that infest the mind,
Their newest means of endless torture find.
  
How many are the traps and vortices –
The snares and whirlpools that devour our souls...
And all around us, swirls the great cyclone,
Yet in its eye, we sit – and psalms intone.

How many are the myths by which we're led...
How many are the prisons built by men...
From deep within, the captives call, in pain.
But few can hear them, as they call in vain.

There was a time when I could view the world
And all its madness with a tranquil eye –
Observe its wonders and its horrors and
Attempt, with mind and heart, to understand.
  
But having fallen in the vortex, I
Have lost, alas, that clear, untroubled sight –
For all the conflicts of the world are fought
Within ourselves – where sanity is not.

And yet, in night's despair, the hope persists
That there's a day that will, with time, have dawn –
That deep below the shallow storms of self,
There's still that calm, to which we turn for help.
       
2014 September 13th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
      

There in the Hills

 
There in the Hills
  

Noah "Bud" Ogle Homeplace built in the late 1880's, located on
the Roaring Fork Motor Trail, Great Smoky Mountains, U.S.A.
Source: https://www.facebook.com/ldcoffeypics

  

  














There, in the hills, where the grasses are green,
There I will live, in the valley serene.
There, in the morning, I’ll climb up the trail,
To be with the mists and the clouds, as they sail.
 
There, in the noontime, I'll sit in the shade
And chew on my morsels, with water I brought
From the spring on the hillside, so cold and so sweet.
And there I will sit and be lost in my thought.
  
2014 September 6, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
   

The Worker’s Dawn

    
The Worker’s Dawn
 
I saw, in dreams, a land of innocence,
Where folk were honest, simple in their ways,
Where labor set the value of our work,
And those who labored got their share of worth.

But then I woke and saw it was a dream,
And went, with disappointment, out to work.
The little birds were chirping at the dawn,
And hope was rising in the human heart.

And so, although the thoughts of future, past
Intruded on the present as I walked,
I drank of early morning in my stride,
And went to face the day that had begun.

2014 September 6, Sat.
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