Peace / A Buddha of Our Times

Peace / A Buddha of Our Times

I say, “the soul” but mean “the mind”.
Perhaps I am confused.
My soul (or mind) had lost its peace
From being much abused.

And who abused it? Could it be
Itself that should be blamed—
Or circumstance—or others, who
Had better stay unnamed?

If I had found the answer,
It could well have been a lie.
The scab was made for healing, not
For picking for the “why?”

I cannot claim I healed myself
Or found the peace within.
And yet I did find solace, though
This world is steeped in sin.

And what I found, I’ll summarize
By saying only this:
By stepping out of madness, one
May find a bit of bliss.

There’s body-mind and then perhaps
The soul—or is this mind?
I do not know. In everything,
I know we should be kind.

But life may often be unkind.
It’s rarely only fun.
We get our depth from suffering—
Unless it’s overdone.

Too often, we encounter pain
And grief we can’t endure.
And then we seek and hope for that
Which might enact a cure.

And if this comes, we then are blessed.
But though we hope and pray,
There may be times when night prevails,
Without the hope of day.

Amidst the pain and misery,
When hope itself is gone,
We ask ourselves what lies ahead
And why we’re going on.

What answer can we give ourselves
Or those who are in need,
Except that life is precious, so
We walk where it may lead.

We live and so we taste of joy
And equally of grief.
So pain and pleasure come and go,
And worry and relief.

And when it’s time to leave behind
This life and those we love,
We cast our eyes towards the earth
Or the sky that waits above.

From earth and air and water, we
Were born—and when we leave,
To these again we all return,
Whatever we believe.

But that’s the body. Does the soul
Endure—or does it die?
I do not know, and those who say
They do—perhaps they lie.

We came with nothing, never knowing
The reason why we came.
We go with nothing, still not knowing
The reason for this game.

So each of us is humbled, in
That death as in this life.
And all that each can hope for is
The peace that ends the strife—

For conflict, in the world we see
And in the world within,
Is at the root of misery
And much of human sin.

And when that conflict ceases (if
At least within the soul),
We savor then that peace that heals
And makes our beings whole.

The Buddhas say, “Let go, let go—
Of fear and of desire.
Then see their waves—that rise, subside…
Be freed, by this, from fire.”

We cling and so we suffer. Yet
We cannot cling to that
Which is by nature passing. Do
We see that that is that?

I wish upon you happiness—
A long and happy life.
But more than that, I wish that peace.
May free your soul from strife.

There’s body-mind and then perhaps—
That soul. I do not know.
Be kind to others. Be at peace
Within—by letting go.

And who am I to give advice?
A Buddha of our times?
If only it were so. Alas!
I’m only good at rhymes.

2018 November 25th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York

Brooklyn at Dusk

Brooklyn at Dusk

It was mid-November, here at Brooklyn’s edge,
Where land and ocean meet—and city folk,
Returning home, can see the sky again.
And so I’d paused awhile, beside the door,
As I had done so many times before.

The day was ending and the air was chill.
The clouds had covered up the sky in grays.
I watched them moving, slowly, west to east.
The trees had very little left of leaves.
They stood outlined, with all their limbs revealed.

And as I watched, the light of day was drained
And in its place there came the gloom of eve.
I felt a sadness, yet I sensed a calm,
As all the hustle of the city ebbed—
And one by one I saw the stars again.

2018 November 20th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Greedy Fools

Greedy Fools

If not for what we “human beings” have done,
The air today would be as fresh as that
Which humans breathed a thousand years ago.
The waters would be just as pure as then
And all the soils would be as free of taint
As when a beggar could be called a saint.
 
But now a beggar is a “bum”—no more—
Reviled as useless, hardly fit to live.
The soils are poisoned and infertile—dead.
The streams and lakes and oceans too are filled
With toxins, sludge and floating plastic waste.
The air is fouled and bears an acrid taste.

The myriad stars of night are seen no more,
As cities spread their squalor, glare and haze.
The myriad species melt away like snows
And continents are cleared of humans too.
And this is "progress", hailed and taught in schools—
In nations led by greedy, grabbing fools.

2018 November 17th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
  

What Use Is Poetry?

What Use Is Poetry?

Is poetry of any use at all,
Except to soothe the one who writes the verse?

But then perhaps if those who read it find
In what is written something they have felt,
Then this in turn might give those readers too
A bit of pleasure or of passing calm—
And this may then be seen as proof of worth.

We gaze on beauty—that in Nature’s forms
Or what’s reflected in our human works—
And this is pleasing, calming to the soul.
So also music, song and lines of verse
Have each their beauty that the ear and heart
Perceive. This yields again that treasured calm.

But surely verse, like other forms of art,
Can also agitate, arouse, ignite—
And so produce the opposite of peace?

And this is so. Perhaps at best our verse
Can serve to open senses, minds and hearts
And rouse us to the actions that are then
Perceived as needed—or give sustenance
To courage and conviction for a while,
As songs and poems keep our hopes alive.

But some might say that all of this is chaff
And verse is only useful, if at all, in this—
In sharing sight or in inducing bliss.

So which of these opinions is the best?
I do not know—and likely never will.
I write my verses, never knowing if
The lines are gems—or even more of swill.

2018 November 17th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
 Use Is Poetry?

Is poetry of any use at all,
Except to soothe the one who writes the verse?

But then perhaps if those who read it find
In what is written something they have felt,
Then this in turn might give those readers too
A bit of pleasure or of passing calm—
And this may then be seen as proof of worth.

We gaze on beauty—that in Nature’s forms
Or what’s reflected in our human works—
And this is pleasing, calming to the soul.
So also music, song and lines of verse
Have each their beauty that the ear and heart
Perceive. This yields again that treasured calm.

But surely verse, like other forms of art,
Can also agitate, arouse, ignite—
And so produce the opposite of peace?

And this is so. Perhaps at best our verse
Can serve to open senses, minds and hearts
And rouse us to the actions that are then
Perceived as needed—or give sustenance
To courage and conviction for a while,
As songs and poems keep our hopes alive.

But some might say that all of this is chaff
And verse is only useful, if at all, in this—
In sharing sight or in inducing bliss.

So which of these opinions is the best?
I do not know—and likely never will.
I write my verses, never knowing if
The lines are gems—or even more of swill.

2018 November 17th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York

Itihaxer Boi-ইতিহাসের বই

ইতিহাসের বই

ইতিহাসের বইয়ের পাতায় দেখি
রক্তমাখা আঙুলের ছাপ—
শুকিয়ে, রঙ বদলিয়ে, প্রায় কালো।

পাতা উল্টিয়ে দেখি—
কত কিছু প্রাচীন যুগের কাহিনী—
নবাব, রাজা, সুলতান, সম্রাট—
এনাদের কীর্তির মালা।

পড়তে পড়তে, পেলাম কত
রাজবংশের বিবাহের সম্বন্ধ,
ব্যবসা-বাণিজ্যর প্রগতির খবর—
আর তারই পাশে পাশে
সারি সারি দুর্ঘটনার তালিকা—

যুদ্ধ, মহাযুদ্ধ, দূর্ভিক্ষা, দাঙ্গা,
নিষ্ঠুর জুলুম, বিদ্রোহ, বিপ্লব,
প্রতিবিপ্লব, নির্দয় খুনাখুনি,
জয়, পরাজয়, লুটপাট, ধর্ষণ।

পাতায় পাতায়, শুনতে পেলাম
শাঁখ-ঢোলের ডাকাডাকি,
ঢাল-তলোয়ারের ঠং ঠং, কামানের গর্জন,
হাতির ডাক, ঘোড়ার দৌড়, সৈনিকের চিৎকার,
বিজয়ের জয়ধ্বনি।

শুনলাম দূরে, হাহাকার, আর্তনাদ—
যারা আহত, তাদের কাকুতি,
যারা পরাজিত, তাদের বিলাপ।

এসবের খবর পেলাম, তবে
খুঁজে পেলাম না কৃষকের, শ্রমিকের নাম,
বিধবার দুর্দশা, অনাথের ভীতি,
মা-বাপের দৈনিক পরিশ্রম।

খুঁজে পেলাম না, ছোটদের হাসিকান্না, খেলা,
মিস্ত্রির কেরামতি, কারিগরের কৌশল।

দেখতে পেলাম না, মা-বাবার মুখে—
সুখের খোলা হাসি, দুঃখের চোখের জল।

শুনতে পেলাম না কোথাও
ধর্ষিত মেয়ের গোঁঙানি—
প্রতি কালের চিরঞ্জীবী গান।

শুনতে পেলাম না
রাখালের বাঁশি, বাউলের গীত,
বনের ধারে সাঁওতালের নাচ গান।

ভাবলাম, কোথায় গেল, হায়,
গাঁয়ের গরুর ডাক,
পাখিদের ভোরের আহ্বান?

তাও সন্তুষ্ট হলাম শেষে।
পড়ে, রেখে দিলাম আলমারিতে,
সেই পুরনো  ইতিহাসের বইটাকে।

বৃহস্পতিবার, ৮ নভেম্বর, ২০১৮ খ্রি 
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউ ইয়র্ক
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I would like to thank my uncle, Prokas Das, for several corrections.  I am responsible for any remaining errors or sillinesses in the Bengali. 
--Arjun 

Region of Darkness

 
Region of Darkness

Where the eyes are cast down or are forcefully shut,
Where the ears cannot listen to pleas,
Where the things all around us will never be known,
Let us go, and be satisfied, please.

Let us harden our hearts, as we smile and we laugh
At the jokes about people who suffer.
Let us silence the one who may still have a heart
And say, “He's a traitor, that duffer!”

Let this be the place that we live in, oh lord—
A place that has freedom from worry.
To this place of our dreams, let us hasten, oh lord—
To this region of darkness, let’s hurry.

2018 November 4th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
 

The Foghorn

The Foghorn

As the autumn ends, a foghorn blows
On a ship on New York Bay,
For the mist at sea has turned to fog,
As night replaces day.

And I at home can hear that sound—
A distant, rumbling moan—
And so am one with the ship at sea
That was, till now, unknown.

And from that ship I see the shore
With the fog-dimmed, twinkling lights,
As shipmates’ thoughts return to those
They had sadly left behind.

******
 
It moves upon the waters, dark;
It slows; it pauses, stops.
And the waters lap on the sides of the ship,
As they do on the distant rocks.

The lanterns shine on those waters and
On the fog that swirls around,
As the windows mist and there issues forth
That eerie blast of sound.

The autumn ends and the winter comes
And the fogs are forming still.
But the foghorn blows on New York Bay,
As time is standing still.

2018 November 2, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York