Kon Rajat'a Bhalo-কোন রাজাটা ভালো

কোন রাজাটা ভালো?

এক রাজা তো গেল চলে।
ডাল গজালো গাছের।
ওই রাজা তো দূরের দেশের।
এই রাজা তো কাছের।

স্বাধীন হলাম, লড়ে কেঁদে।
বিদেশিদের রাজ
বিদায় নিল। কাঁধের ওপর,
অন্য রাজা আজ।

কোন রাজাটা ভালো? আরে,
সব রাজাই এক।
লুটতে তারা করবে দ্বিধা?
চোখটি খুলে, দেখ।

রবিবার, ৩০ ডিসেম্বর, ২০১৮ খ্রি 
ব্রুকলিন, নিউ ইর্ক

  

Poetry as Solace

Poetry as Solace

As music is a solace, so is verse,
At least for some of us that have this vice
That has its virtue, more than smoking does
Or all the things that now distract our minds
And so are used to soothe the jangled nerves
That need the numbing that these things provide.

And I confess that I have written lines
Not only when inspired but also when
The madness and the din that is around
Had made me seek my solace—not in drink,
But in the rhythms and the stillness that
I’ve often found in writing lines of verse.
 
2018 December 30th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
   

Poetry and Truth

Poetry and Truth

I have expressed at times, in lines of verse,
The things that I could never say in prose.
And hopefully the ones who read those lines
Will find, among them, here and there, a truth.

There are those truths that most agree are facts—
The features of the flowing outer world.
And then then there are the truths we find within—
That each may feel but none of us can show.

And some of these at least we can depict
With words or other symbols, recognized
By those who’ve known the thing we refer to.
And poetry can often aid in this.

It might have been that in the distant past,
When mind and speech were more uncluttered, words
Had more of weight—so speech was more like verse.
But then we lost that ancient, artless art.

So now we find this mainly not in speech
Or written prose, but now and then in verse—
Returning, as it were, to primal speech
And so to clarity and speaking truth.

But surely verse can also serve the ends
Of those who lie, for reasons of their own.
And so it is with everything.  And yet
We still can read a line and thrill to truth.

2018 December 29th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York

Kill What You Eat--and Eat What You Kill

  Kill  What You Eat—and Eat What You Kill

  While walking in the park, I met
  an elder—and we talked.
  And what he told me gave me pause—
  and later gave me woe .

“Kill, what you eat, yourself, my friend,”
  the elder said to me.
“Do not depend on others, who
  are slaving, out of sight.

“The food you eat, the clothes you wear,
  your trinkets and your toys—
  attempt to kill or make yourself,
  or know their provenance

“The lights and gadgets in your home
  and where you go to work,
  the vehicles on which you ride,
  the roads on which they run—

“the fuels for these things as well—
  are made for you by others
  and brought to you by others or
  the conduits they have made.

“These actions all rely upon
  the slaughters, small and large,
  of beasts (and even human ones),
  and plants—and things that we

“may think are lifeless, yet have lives,
  although of other sorts—
  the mountains, plains and valleys and
  the oceans, lakes and streams.

“If you would have the hearing, you
  would hear their groans and screams.
  The air, that we are breathing, too,
  has a life that you can feel."

  And spreading out his arms, he then
  inhaled the city's air
  and slowly then exhaled that breath,
  let down his arms and smiled.

“This air we’re breathing, you and I,
  though often breathed before,
  would be as fresh, if not for Man,
  as when the plants had risen.”

  He said these things—and made me think.
  I thought: he must be mad.
  And so I said goodbye and left—
  but could not sleep at night.

“Kill what you eat,” he’d said, “and eat
  whatever you've killed, my friend.”
  as he'd gestured 'round at the earth and the sky
  and the trees and the works of Man.

  Kill what I eat?  Oh, how absurd!
  And eat what I kill?  That’s mad!
  I tried to put this out of my head,
  but I felt his words return.

  And ever since then, I've felt unease
  and even unwell at times.
  As I'd like you to share in my misery, I
  am passing this on in my turn.

  2018 December 27?, Thu?day
  Brooklyn, New York 
  

Go on, Dream

Go on, Dream

The small fish eat the smaller fish
And are eaten then in turn.
The winners—they get everything.
The losers then can burn.

In business, this is how it is.
And this is celebrated.
We may not like the way it works,
But this, it seems, is fated.

Or is it?  Can we change perhaps
The way it works—the scheme?
Some say that this is possible,
And others, "Go on. Dream."

2018 December 25, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York

Bo'rtomane-বর্তমানে

বর্তমানে

এই জগতে আসা যাওয়া
কি কারণে, ভাই?
এসেছিলাম মূর্খ শিশু।
বুঝেছি তো ছাই।

গতকালে ছিলাম।  এবার
আসছে কালে যাই।
দেখতে কিছু পাই না, বাপু।
রই না বেশি তাই।

গতকালের শোকে ভুগি,
আসছে কালের ভয়ে।
এদের সাথে যতই লড়ি,
পাই না শেষে জয়।

ভবিষ্যৎ আর অতীত—এদের
সঙ্গে লড়া মিছু।
বর্তমানে দুঃখ আছে,
সুখ ও আছে কিছু।

হাটছি আজ এই বন্য পথে,
বর্তমানে তাই।
পৌঁছব কি? কোথায়, কবে?
জানি  নাকো ভাই।

মঙ্গলবার, ২৫ ডিসেম্বর, ২০১৮ খ্রি,
ব্রুকলিন, নিউ ইয়র্ক

  

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

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

  

De'kha, Xona-দেখা, শোনা

দেখা, শোনা

যখন মনে হলো জগতের আলোর
বদলে এসেছে গভীর অন্ধকার,
তখন দুঃখের খাদের থেকে দেখি,
রাতের আকাশে জ্বলছে অগণ্য তারা।

বাইরে তাকিয়ে দেখি, পূর্ব দিগন্তে,
পাতলা নতুন চাঁদের শীতল জ্যোতি।

ভয়ের ফাঁদে যখন ছিলাম কাবু,
মাথা তুলে দেখি আকাশের লীলা।
সাদা মেঘের চূড়ায়, নীল গগনে,
বহিছে, যেন স্বর্গে, সূর্যকিরণ।

******

সংসারের গোলমালের চিৎকারে যখন
ভুগে ভুগে, হতাশায় হয়েছি  কালা,
তখনও শুনেছি, হঠাৎ নীরবে,
হাওয়ার বহা, পুকুরের জলের খেলা।

কান পেতে তখন শুনেছি দূরে
ডাকছে গরু, গাইছে রাখাল-বাঁশি।

ছলনায়, অন্যায়-অত্যাচারে যখন
হয়েছি আহত, ক্লান্ত, হতাশ,
তখন শুনেছি মনেমনে আবার
বনের ধারে সাঁওতালের বিলাপী গান।

******

নিজের দুঃখে যখন হারিয়েছি বিচার,
অন্যের বিপদ দেখে, বাড়িয়েছি হাত।
নিজেও পেয়েছি তখন দৃষ্টি, সান্তনা।
বুঝেছি তখন নিজের ক্ষুদ্রতা।

যখন এটা করতে পারিনি, তখন
ভুগেছি এবং ভুগিয়েছি বৃথা।

চোখ কান বুজে থেকেছি যখন,
তখন বুঝিনি কোন কিছু মূল।
চোখ খুলে, কান খুলে দেখেছি, শুনেছি যখন,
শুধু তখনই বুঝেছি মূল্য কিছু।

সোমবার, ২৯ অক্টোবর, ২০১৮ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউ ইয়র্ক
  

Sritir Jore-স্মৃতির জোরে

 
স্মৃতির জোরে

দেশ ছেড়ে, এই দূর দেশে ভাই
করলাম আমি বাস।
বৃদ্ধকালে রোগের চোটে
ফুরিয়ে এল শ্বাস।

ভাবলাম, এবার যাবার সময়।
তাই তো দিনের শেষে
মনেমনে স্মৃতির খোঁজে
ফিরলাম আবার দেশে।

ব্যথার মাঝে, এল কাছে
ছোটবেলার ছবি।
পাশে এসে বসল আবার
আদি কালের কবি।

দেখতে পেলাম দেশের আকাশ,
দেশের মাটি, জল।
রক্তে তাতে জীবন এল,
পেলাম তাতে বল।

শুনতে পেলাম ভুলে যাওয়া
ছোটবেলার গান।
করলাম আবার মনেমনে
নদীর স্রোতে চান।

দেখলাম আবার, চোখের জলে,
চেনা মুখের হাসি।
গেছে যারা, বলল তারা,
'ফিরব। এবার আসি।'

কানে কানে এল কথা,
'রয়েছে কত কাজ।
জীবনটা তো কিছু দিনের।
ছেড়ো না গো আজ।‘

রোগের মাঝে পেলাম ওষুধ,
টোটকা, দেশের, তাই
স্মৃতির জোরে সুস্থ হয়ে
বাঁচলাম আমি, ভাই।

রবিবার, ২৮ অক্টোবর, ২০১৮ খ্রি 
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউইয়র্ক
   

Little Minds

Little Minds

Let us wander in the mountains,
Where the peaks are shining high
And the streams that run in valleys
Reflect the sun and sky.

Let us loiter by the ocean side
And look out to the sea,
Where the waves are racing landwards
To those like you and me.

The mountain does not know us.
The ocean heeds us not.
By neither are we needed—
Who will each be soon forgot.

With you and I forgotten
And all our strivings vain,
The peak will still be shining
And the wave will crash again.

******

And that is why it’s mindful
To climb up on the hill
And to walk beside the ocean,
So our little minds are still.

There’s a mind, that we are part of,
That in silence can be heard,
Though it does not know of language
And never speaks a word.
 
We can hear it if we listen
In the pauses of our thoughts,
As we learn to be accepting
That we’re each a string of naughts.

From nothing, we have risen—
And to nothing, we’ll subside.
We can joyfully embrace this—
Or, try, from this, to hide.

******

It is difficult for some of us,
Who strive to be the heroes,
To let go of their little minds
And realize they’re zeros.

So do not say these things to Trump
Or speak of this to Modi.
Make off, instead, with Donald’s pants—
Or run, with Naren’s dhoti.

They may try to hide their penises
And all the world may laugh—
And then perhaps they might perceive
Their little minds were chaff.

They might go then to the ocean
Or climb up on the hill—
And for once be no more needy,
As their little minds are still.

******

We once could see the starry sky
With its myriad specks of light.
We knew that we were nothing then
But now have lost that sight.

And so had kings and emperors
Who ruled in times now past.
Now even common folk forget
That none of us will last.

Let’s each release the little mind;
Breathe in, breathe out, be still—
So each can hear that ocean wave
And look out from that hill.

But being only mortals, we
May seek reminders, so
We need at times to see that sky
And hear that ocean roar.

2018 October 26th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York 

  

The Evening Show

The Evening Show 
  

unfinished

I saw the moon beneath the drifting clouds,

above the city’s lights, at eventide.
The clouds were dark, the moon a shining orb
and all the sky a stage for this display—
until the clouds had veiled the moon again.

And then, beneath that shrouded moon, I saw
a blinking firefly-plane go sailing by.

And as I watched, the moon peeked in and out—
a lamp suspended in the eastern sky,
as clouds, like wind-tossed curtains, parted, closed—
and I stood staring, through the city’s lights.

2018 October 22nd, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Ritu-2018-Fall-ঋতু-২০১৮-শরৎ

 

ঋতু  (২০১৮, শরৎ)

আমাদের বর্ষাকালে, এদেশে
বৃষ্টির অভাব থাকে।
তাইতো এরা, সেটাকেও, জুরে,
'গ্রীষ্ম ঋতু' ডাকে।

এদেশের শীতকাল বড় দীর্ঘ,
মেঘে ঢাকা, অন্ধকার।
শীতের চোটে, ভুগে ভুগে কেউ
অন্তরে মানে হার।
  

এদেশের রীতি, এদেশের ঋতু, 

অন্য ধরনের, তাই

কেঁপে কেঁপে শীতের কষ্টে, আমি 

বসন্তের দিকে চাই।

******

এল বসন্ত, ফুল-আলো নিয়ে। 

গাছে গাছে, নতুন পাতা। 

তপ্ত গ্রীষ্ম এল তার পিছে। 

রোদ থেকে বাঁচাল, ছাতা।

সেই অতিথি রইল থেকে, 

চায় না যেতে আর। 

গরমে ভুগে, বলি তাকে 'যাও', 

শোনে না কথা আমার।

গ্রীষ্ম গেল শেষে, ভাটায় ভেসে।

এসেছে আজ শরৎ, দোয়ারে। 

মেঘলা দিনের আকাশের নিচে, 

ফুল মণি দুলছে জোয়ারে।

******

কিছু দিন মাত্র, ফুলের নৃত্য।

চিরকাল, আসা যাওয়া। 

ঝুড়ি-ঝুড়ি পাতা, নিয়ে যাবে কাঁধে,

হেমন্তের মুটে হাওয়া।
  

সূর্যকে ঘুরে ঘুরে, ছুটছে গ্রহ। 

আসছে যাচ্ছে ঋতু। 

জমবে সড়কে, শীতের বরফ। 

ডরে ডরে চলবে ভীতু।

শীতেরও জন্ম-মরন আছে।

আসবে বসন্ত আবার। 

নব জন্মের খুশিতে তখন 

ভরবে চিত্ত সবার।

সোমবার, ৮ অক্টোবর, ২০১৮ খ্রি 

ব্রুক্লিন, নিউইয়র্ক

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

Related: 
https://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2018/10/ritu-2018-fall.html
  

Seasons-Fall, 2018-Jahreszeiten-Herbst, 2018

The English original is followed by a German translation--basically a machine translation made via http://translate.google.com, with a few changes by hand.
-----------------------------------------------------------

Seasons (Fall, 2018)

It's October, and a cloudy day.
The Summer's heat has gone away
And Autumn's flowers now are seen.
They glow beneath a sky of gray.

And soon these blooms will fade and die
And we will look up at the sky
And see the snowflakes drifting down,
As Autumn also bids goodbye.

And Winter too will yield its place,
As this our planet wheels through space,
And then we'll see again the Spring,
Reborn, with a fresh and smiling face.

October. Summer tarried long,
But now is gone. We now belong
To Autumn. Soon the leaves will blow—
As do our lives. I end my song.

2018 October 6th, Saturday
Brooklyn, New York
-------------------------------------------------------

Jahreszeiten (Herbst, 2018)

Es ist Oktober und ein bewölkter Tag.
Die Hitze des Sommers ist weg
und die Blumen des Herbstes werden jetzt gesehen.
Sie leuchten unter dem grauen Himmel.

Und bald werden diese Blüten verblassen und sterben,
und wir werden in den Himmel schauen
und die Schneeflocken nach unten treiben sehen,
als auch der Herbst sich verabschiedet.

Und auch der Winter wird seinen Platz zurückgeben,
während unser Planet durch den Raum rollt,
und dann werden wir wieder den Frühling sehen—
wiedergeboren, mit frischem und lächelndem Gesicht.

Oktober. Der Sommer hat lange gedauert,
aber jetzt ist weg. Wir gehören jetzt
zum Herbst. So werden die Blätter wehen—
wie auch unser Leben. Ich beende mein Gedicht.

Samstag, 6. Oktober, 2018
Brooklyn, New York

Attar Alap-আত্মার আলাপ

বাংলায় ভুল হয়ে থাকলে, দয়া করে জানাবেন।

আত্মার আলাপ 

আছে কি, জীবের মধ্যে, এমনি কিছু,
যেটা মাপা যায় না—তবুও আছে,
যেটার প্রকৃতি মনের প্রকৃতির সমান বা মত—
যেটা দেখে, যেটা শোনে, যেটা বুঝতে পারে,
যেটা সেই খুশী-ব্যথা পায়, যার দরুন
আমরা ভাবি—সাবধান! এটা জীবিত।

মানুষ হলে, ‘এটা’র বদলে ‘এ’ হয়ে যায়।

একেই আমরা এ, ও, সে, তুমি, আমি বলি,
নাম ধরে ডাকি। এরই বিষয়ে ভাবি—
জন্মে এল, মরলে যাবে, আর এখন আছে।

অন্য জীবের ক্ষেত্রেও, আমরা এই ভাবে ভাবি।
যারা ধার্মিক, তারা বলে, জীবের মধ্যে আত্মা আছে।
তবে যারা বৌদ্ধ, তারা এটা মানে না।
আর আব্রাহামের সন্তানদের মতে, শুধু মানুষেরই আত্মা আছে।
বাকি জীবের নেই। তারা সবাই নাকি আত্মাহীন।

এই আত্মাটা যে কি বস্তু, সেটা কেউ বোঝে না।
আর সে কোথায় লুকিয়ে থাকে, সেটাও অজানা।
আত্মার ঠিকানা আর পরিচয়ের খোঁজে যারা বেরোয়,
তারা সবাই হয়রান হয়ে খালি হাতে ফিরে আসে।

এই আত্মা বাবু চুপিচুপি কোথার থেকে এলেন,
আর কেটে পড়ে কোথায় তিনি যাবেন,
এর বিষয়েও অনেক যুক্তি, তত্ত্ব, গল্প আছে।
তবে শেষ হিসেবে, এটা পুরোপুরি বিশ্বাসের ব্যাপার।

আত্মার বিষয়ে আরো কিছু বলা যেতে পারে,
তবে আজকের জন্য এখানেই থামা যাক।

বুধবার, ৩ অক্টোবর, ২০১৮ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউইয়র্ক 
  
Related: https://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2018/10/or-is-there-not.html 

        

Or Is There Not?

Or Is There Not? 

Is there an essence in a living thing
That can't be measured with a rule or scale
Or other instrument, but still exists,
With a nature that is kin, perhaps, to mind—
That senses and perceives what's all around
And feels the pleasure-pain that's absent in
The things that do not live and cannot feel?

Or is there not?  So then the water, air
And sculpted stone and wood, in essence, are
The same as you or me or the leaping frog—
And the light that issues from a fiery star
May carry songs or screams from deep within,
To which the leaf that reaches sunwards harks
As do the planets and the galaxies.

So is perhaps this essence everywhere
And everywhen, but clearly manifest
In things that live—that are as portals to
That essence that we sense is ours too
On looking in the eye of any beast
Or when we see the tiny leaves unfurl
Of an infant plant that water woke from sleep?

And is this essence "god", or "devil" too,
Or simply that which watches all unfold,
As is the dreamer in a passing dream
Who wakes to that in which we all are caught—
This dream that's shared of births and lives and deaths,
Of joy and sorrow, predator and prey—
Of those who rule and those who must obey?

2018 September 30, Sun (stanzas 1-2)
and October 2, Tue (stanzas 3-4)
Brooklyn, New York
------------------------------------------------------------------

Related:  https://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2018/10/attar-alap.html 

Defeat-পরাজয়

  
Defeat 

Our defeats are as bitter as our victories are sweet—
And which of us forgets her worst defeats?
But if, for each defeat, however harsh, 
We also have a tiny victory,
We then might be content—or not aggrieved.

Defeats can come from Nature or events 
Or through our fellows—foes and friends and kin.
The closer the tie, the more the hurt that's felt, 
The worse the conflict that may rage within,  
And the longer it may take to find resolve.

The whims of Nature and the winds of chance 
May let us be—or lead us here or there 
To savor victories that come from luck 
Or suffer from defeats ascribed to gods—  
Whose favors some may seek and others spurn.

A defeat at another's hands is hard to bear, 
But if we've battled as we should, we then 
Can dress our wounds and gather strength to fight 
The battles that we know await ahead— 
As all our pathways run through battlefields.

But when we bring defeats upon ourselves  
From hubris, anger, negligence or fear, 
We then may take these as our lessons learned 
Or lose our confidence and discipline 
And spiral then towards a living death.

For some, a battle is a welcome thing. 
For others, it is something to avoid.
Yet even staunchest pacifists are caught 
In wars in which they battle to survive— 
And life itself must end in its defeat.

When deep in fever and in anguish, we 
May pray for our release—that comes or not. 
But a deeper wisdom may reside in this— 
To see our losses as we do our gains—
And sneak a laugh or two, when facing death. 

2018, September 29th, Saturday
Brooklyn, New York 

Bondi-বন্দী-Prisoner

বন্দী

যা হয়েছিল, তাতে পেয়েছি দুঃখ,
ফেলেছি চোখের জল।
যা হতে পারে, সেই ভাবনায়
হয়েছি সবেতে নিশ্চল।

পেছনে  পুরনোর দুঃখ, খেদ।
সামনে নতুনের ভয়।
মধ্যিখানে রয়েছি আটকে,
সয়েছি জীবনের ক্ষয়।

এদিকে—হয়েছিল, ওদিকে—হতে পারে।
তার মাঝে, দেখো, যে কাঁদে,
যা হচ্ছে, তার ওপর নজর না রেখে,
সে পড়েছে নিজেরই ফাঁদে।

******

কতদিন ভুগেছি, ভাই—
ভেবে ভেবে, হয়েছি হতাশ।
শ্বাস নিয়ে, সকালে উঠে, তাই
এই জেলের থেকে চাইছি খালাস।

যা হয়ে গেছে, তা বদলাবে কে?
যেটা ভেসে গেছে, সেটা যাক।
যা হবেই হবে, তা নিয়ে আরো
বেশি কিছু ভেবে, কি লাভ?

অকেজো কুঁড়েমি ছেড়ে তাই
দাঁড়িয়ে উঠে আজ
করতে হবে, হেসে কেঁদে, এই
হাতের কাছের কাজ।

রবিবার, ২৩ সেপ্টেম্বর, ২০১৮ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউইয়র্ক

Windows

Windows

We were scattered over continents,
With oceans in between.
And those, with whom we'd bonded, were
For long, unheard, unseen.

But now there is the Internet
And mobile phones and more,
And so we're back in contact with
The ones we'd lost before.

But some are gone, and newer ones—
The ones we'd never known—
Now show themselves—in image, text—
On screens we each might own.

We did have phones for quite a while,
At least in urban places.
But calls were few and far between,
Across the global spaces.

But speech can now be cheaply heard,
And the voices from the past—
That still survive—have cadence slow,
In a world that changes fast.

We marvel at these miracles
That seem like science-fictions
And wonder at the spouses, kids
And the old, familiar dictions.

The ones who once were youngsters now
Have grandkids and have wrinkles.
We see on screens these wonders and
We feel we’re Rip Van Winkles.

******

And yet, although we now can peer
Through windows, space divides us.
So most of us can still not reach
And touch the ones not near us.

So when a father has a stroke
Or when a mother cries,
We dare not ask for leaves from jobs,
Unless we trade in lies.

And when a parent perishes
And the other takes to bed,
We're lucky to get half a week
To seem to serve the dead.

******

Some travel every month across
The continents and oceans
On business trips—and also fly
To faraway vacations.

And some enjoy this flying high
But others quickly tire
And wish there was a quiet place
To which they could retire

For leaving those we love behind
To deal with their travails
Is hardly good for good for peace of mind
Or fit when someone ails.

Yet others save for decades for
A trip across the borders,
And most of us will rarely go
Beyond a boss’s orders.

We fly across the world or cross
A desert in the darkness,
But spend what then is left of life
In a job that acts as harness.

We travel to and from our work
In a captive state of mind
And use our phones as windows to
The worlds we’ve left behind.

And some can buy a ticket and
Then fly across the sky—
But most are bound to where they are,
Until they too can die.

2018, September 22nd, Sun.
(verses added Sep. 25th, Tue.)
Brooklyn, New York

   

Tahare Manibo-তাহারে মানিব-That Creed

তাহারে মানিব / That Creed

An English translation follows after the Bengali.

বাংলায় ভুল হয়ে খাকলে, জানাবেন৷ 
------------------------------------------------

তাহারে মানিব

ছুঁত-অচ্ছুত মানি না, মানি না, ভাই।
ছোঁয়া যেখানে যায়, সেখানে থাকিতে চাই।
মানি না, মানি না, কাফির-মুসলমান।
সবারে সদা করিব সমানে সম্মান।
জানি না উচ্চ-নীচ, মানি না শুদ্ধ-হারাম।
প্রণাম করিয়া, সবারে কহিব সালাম।
অপর-আপন জানি না, মানি না আমি।
যেথায় হিংসা, সেথার সিমাতে থামি।
যে ধর্ম-মজবে সবার কদর, ভালবাসা,
তাহারে মানিব আমি, রাখিব তাহাতে আশা।

শুক্রবার, ২১ সেপ্টেম্বর, ২০১৮ খ্রি
ম্যানহাটন (নিউইয়র্ক), নিউইয়র্ক 
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The translation below deviates from the literal in some places.
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That Creed

Touchable, untouchable, I never will see.
Where there is touching, there I would be.
Kafir and Muslim, I do not accept.
Always, to all, I'll give equal respect.

Higher and lower, allowed and forbidden?
To me, these distinctions, forever, are hidden.
To king and to vagrant, to uncle and niece—
I’ll bow to each humbly and wish them their peace.
  
"My own" and "the other", I know, are the same.
In meanness and violence, I see there is shame.
The creed in which all have our love and respect—
That creed, I'll admire and even accept.

2018 September 21st, Fri.
D train from Manhattan to Brooklyn
New York

Essentials

Essentials

First, there is survival—
which is air, water, food
and shelter, winter-clothing
and fuel for the fire.

It is staying out of danger,
and care for young and old
and those who may be ailing
or need some basic help.

As humans, we have done this,
through the ages, for our own
and even, when it was needed,
for others on our roads.

And then, there are the other things
in which we may delight
or draw upon for sustenance
of soul and heart and mind.

There is learning, which is needed
so that humans may survive—
the knowledge and the wisdom
of the past, in present life—
and more that we may learn ourselves
and pass on to the others—
to add to human knowledge
and the wisdom that can guide us.

There are pleasures—those of senses
and of other parts of mind.
There are satisfactions, needed
so we persevere and smile.

There is joy in our creations,
be these children of the flesh,
or the thoughts that turn to structures
made of wood or paint or words…

We have art and song and music
and all the crafts of Man
and all the games and knowledge
that are passed by mind and hand.

There is pain and there is sorrow
of the body and the mind.
And we each can be of comfort
by pausing to be kind.

There is joy in recognition.
There is sorrow, when we're scorned.
There is peace, in meditation,
In the depths beneath the storms.

There's a sense in us of oneness
with a sentience that is vast—
that knows of pain and pleasure
and of sorrow and of joy.
We are kin to those we're eating
or are eaten by in turn.

We have virtues and have vices
that at times may be reversed,
and the newer ones are layered
on the old that still abide.

There are instincts and emotions
that are primal and that drive
our actions in the present
as they did in ages past.

We had hunger, thirst and lusting,
and the three are with us still,
as those, who were without these,
have left no living trace.

There was bonding, there was friendship.
You can see these extant yet.
Though the trend is to annul these,
they have managed to survive.

There is love—and sacrifice.
There is fear and there is anger;
There is greed and there is hate.
And all of these were present
when we lived in trees and caves.

But in all things, there's a balance
that is lost, when senses close—
the outer and the inner ones
that whisper in the wind.

 

This blocks out all the voices
That are needed to be sane—
the voices of the waters, of the air and of the earth,
and the voices of the beings
that have death and so have birth.

There's the power to imagine
and the logic that's a guide,
and these things were there with ancients
and the beasts that still survive.

But our reason is a pilot
to the destinations which
are set by instincts, feelings
that our logics cannot reach.

These are some of the essentials
that have stayed, in essence, same.
And when these are forgotten,
Then we stoop to acts of shame.

2018 September 20th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York

The Silent Yelp

The Silent Yelp 

Of all the droughts with which we deal,
The ones within are worst.
These dry the well to which we turn
To slake our inner thirst.

We’re weakened by this thirst within
That leaves us parched and dry.
So those who once had strength collapse,
Without the tears to cry.

So what to do?  I do not know.
There’s Nature, work and love.
Some turn to help the ones in need
And some to gods above.

******

Of all the battles that we wage,
The ones that rage within
Are hardest, since we also lose
The battles that we win.

These rob us of our inner peace
And so disturb the mind
That what we once could fetch with ease,
We now no longer find.

So what to do?  I do not know.
Some brave the inner battle
And others shy from this and yet
Are slaughtered then like cattle.

******

When fear and anger dwell within
And will not go away,
We then are turned from grace to sin,
As flesh and mind decay.

So many sorrows have their roots
In anger, fear and greed,
As envy, hatred grow from shoots
To trees that spread their seed.

So what to do?  I do not know.
Our disciplines might help
But when these each have long dissolved,
Who hears the silent yelp?

******

So there it is.  The ones who wage
The wars they base on “facts”
Have demons they have nursed within
That guide their outward acts.

And those who crave yet more of wealth
And disregard the cost,
In lives of humans, beasts and plants,
To demons, long are lost.

So what to do?  I do not know.
To a demon, we may turn
And say, “How are you then, my friend?
I see how much you burn.”

******

We each must face our devils and
It’s better if they’re friends.
Instead of wars, we then can work
In peace, to make amends.

How many friends and kin are lost
From lack of eye and ear?
How many loves have been dissolved
And turned to rage and fear?

So what to do?  I do not know.
I wish I were a sage.
I pray that you’ll be wiser and
Have fewer wars to wage.

2018 September 8th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
  

The Most Malignant Star

The Most Malignant Star

The ways of men and women aren’t free
Of vices that are praised as virtuous things.
We listen, look around and hear and see
The devils fly about on angels’ wings.

And if we dare to say that things are not
The things that they’ve been long proclaimed to be,
We then are targeted and left to rot,
As each is hung from each convenient tree.

******

The labels that we use are weapons too
And so are potent, just as bullets are.
For sticks and stones can injure me and you,
But words alone can start or end a war.

So when a virtue is condemned as vice
Or vice versa, this can ripple far
And then, no matter what the sage advice,
The hordes obey the most malignant star.

************

Ahuras and asuras are the same
And dewas, devils may be twins as well.
So one gets credit and another, blame,
Although they both, within the other, dwell.

The black and white and all the shades of gray
Are captured in the photographic frame.
And yet, some only hark to yes or nay
And label all with one or other name.

******

Who renders certain proof of distant things
Or certifies what happened in the past?
Was that a bird or a bat that flew on wings
And vanished as the light was ebbing fast?

And so it is that humans fashion feints
To make, of what was first, the very last.
So scoundrels sit in palaces, while saints,
For all their labors, are in dungeons cast.

 

2018 August 8th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York

Reality

Reality

Do pardon us for holding up
Our hands at yet more pukes.
Denuclearize? Let's start with those
Who have the most of nukes.

WMD's? Who's got the most
Of these? And has used them too?
So why this game of make-believe
That lulls both me and you?

And why is that pundits rant
When leaders try for peace?
They did it to Obama. Trump
Is getting now his piece.

Fanatics? Who’s been backing those
With funds and arms and more?
How many lives have been destroyed,
How many nations more?

Democracy?  Is that our aim
In ventures far away?
Or is it power and money?  Who
Has guts to rise and say?

2018 August 3rd, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Bay Lights

Bay Lights

The past few days were hot and humid both, as the dog days often are, this time of year.

I’d wondered if the breezes by the ocean might be cooler than the air that rose from heated streets.

And so tonight I walked down to the Bay and saw the distant lights reflected from the tops of waves.  These swept towards the shore and softly splashed—again and yet again.

And all the rest was dark, as waters are on moonless nights—with stardust spread above.

But city lights had hidden much. 

I only saw the stars of Coney and of Staten Island, with the glowworms crawling on the Verrazano  Bridge—as fireflies slowly rose and arced from JFK.

And faraway, beyond the Jersey shore, from time to time I saw the lightning flash and set ablaze a bank of clouds—without a sound.

And walking back, before the thunderstorm, I saw the headlights speeding on the Belt, in obvious haste to go to—where they went.

The breezes?  Yes, they’d cooled me down a bit.  They freshened as I walked towards my home.

I’d read that LED’s make more of light and less of heat.  On Brooklyn’s sleeping streets, they’d turned the night, in parts, to pallid day.

The storm?  It never came.  It still is hot.

But I remember walking through the night and seeing then the lights, by Gravesend Bay.

And that is still relief.

2018 August 1st, Wed.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York.

Experience

Experience

There was little to know or to understand,
As I stood where the ocean meets the land.
I could see, by the light that was ebbing fast,
The sea and the clouds of the storm that passed.
I could feel the wind and the drops of rain.
I could hear the waves as they crashed again.
I could smell the scents in the breeze that blew.
And there, for that time, that was all I knew.

2018 July 22nd, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York

Wisdom-II

Wisdom-II 

When I was young, l always yearned
For knowledge.  Now I understand
That knowledge, needed though it is,
Needs wisdom as its guiding hand.

Around us, we can plainly see
That knowledge is a needed tool.
And yet, what use is knowledge when
It’s used in service to a fool?

And even if our bosses had
The knowledge that they often lack,
Without the needed wisdom, they
Can act in ways that set us back.

If wealth and power are the aims
Of those who buy the knowledge needed,
Then wars and famines are their games,
As those who’re dying go unheeded.

Our primal goals are always set
By instincts and by feelings, so
Our knowledge and our logic then
Can merely tell us how to go.

But where and why?  Such questions need
Some wisdom and humility.
If hubris and expedience reign,
The harvest is futility.

There is a wisdom of the heart—
An organ that is in the mind—
That balances what’s in the head
And steers us towards being kind.

Is wisdom knowledge in gestalt?
That could be so.  It cannot be
Divided into parts, no more
Than that which tethers you to me.

There are more things, as Shakespeare wrote,
Than in our neat philosophies.
The mess that can’t be analyzed
Is life itself, not just disease.

Get rid of it, and life will end.
Analysis has a rightful place,
But when we love, we do not wait
To analyze the heart or face.

There is a balance that is sensed
Between our logic and our heart.
And that’s a thing that can’t be taught
As science.  It’s a deeper art.

To err is being.  Our ideal
Might be a thing that does not err.
But such a thing cannot create.
And that’s a theorem I infer.

2018 July 19th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
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Related:
https://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2018/04/for-me-and-you.html

https://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/11/ignorance.html

When Insight Is Not in Sight

When Insight Is Not in Sight

When old ambitions all are shed and newer ones not grown,
We then are naked and exposed, with each pretension known.
And then, in painful clarity, we might perceive the ground
In which we each are rooted, till we cease to be around.

We still can savor pleasures and our satisfactions small,
Enduring pains and those frustrations that afflict us all.
Our sorrows bring humility and also give us depth,
And so, to these, as to our joys, we all remain in debt.

With all the past departed and the future yet to come,
This moment of experience and of action is the sum
Of all that we can live in—or can alter just a bit.
So even for ambition, the realm must be it.

The air that’s breathed is taken in and then it is released,
And all in a continuous stream, whose flow has never ceased,
Except when we have held the breath—and only for a while.
Let’s dwell within this stream—whose flow is cause enough to smile.

The old has died, the new is born—and yet it is the same.
The revolutions come and go, with never ending blame.
The empires rise, the empires fall, the spills are red and bright,
And then they clot and darken.  Day returns at end to night.

So should we hope for dawn or wait for dusk, forgetting this—
That deep within despair there dwells the silence that is bliss?
There is yin within the yang and there is yang within the yin,
And blessed grace is present in the savage heart of sin.

High upon the mountaintop or down along the beach,
The center of the universe is there beside us each.
It flutters by the butterfly, it wallows with the whale.
It dances in the ocean waves, it howls amidst the gale.

In the well within the galaxy, we find ourselves again,
And even in inversion, encounter pleasure-pain.
“So is there right and wrong?” we ask, “And is there truth and sense?”
As meaning is unwoven and then threaded back as tense.

Let’s shake our heads to clear them and then jointly mouth a mantra.
It doesn’t matter if it’s from the rishis or the tantra.
Let’s end with aoung and amen and a shantih that is triple,
Or mouth “Shalom, salaam.” and ask the goddess for her nipple.

2018 July 17th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York

  

Does It Matter?

Does It Matter?

So does it matter, if a woman says
that she’s a Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jew
or Sikh, believing in a god or gods—
or Buddhist, Jain, for whom that matters not—
or is a follower of another creed
or disavows them all—or does not know?

And does it matter, if she says to you
that she’s a citizen of this or that—
or whether you perceive her lineage has
some more or less or none of that or this?

Or does it matter more, if through her acts
she shows that she has more of faith in you
than others might, and that she does not need
your passport shown to her and can perceive
your heart and mind, beyond your face and skin?

Does kindness have a country or a faith?
Is it confined within a species or a race?

Behold the being, of the man or dog,
in deeper essence than its outer form.
So many sorrows would be lessened, if
we found again this sight—that we have lost.

2018 July 8th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York

  

Mugwump / In the Round

 
Mugwump / In the Round

A caricature captures part
Of truth—but only that.
But if I try to point this out,
I know you'll knock me flat.

Projections on a plane are fine,
But it isn’t really sound
To base your judgement on a view
That isn’t in the round.

There are more sides to an issue
Than those that you might see.
But if I try to say this,
Your monster, I will be.

It isn’t simple left and right.
There’s back and front as well,
And up and down—and often more
Degrees in which we dwell.

There is the present state, but then
There’s past and future too.
But if you're blind to both, why then
I’m just a dolt to you.

“You’ve got to choose a side!” you say,
And if I then decline,
You say that I’m a mugrump, who
Is lacking sense and spine.

It isn’t always black and white.
There also are the grays.
But when I whisper, “Look at these.”
You drown me with your nays.

There’s action needed, I agree.
And here’s what I suggest—
Let’s pause and think this through a bit,
So the outcome might be best.

“But who’s the good guy, who’s the bad?”
You ask. I scratch my head.
“There’s some of each in each.” But you
By then have shot me dead.

2018 July 7th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Whither-II

 
Whither-II

The clouds were racing past the moon
that shone within a halo.
“Oh whither are you headed, clouds?”
I asked, in fascination.
They answered not.  They never do.
Such questions go unheeded.

I asked them once, I asked them twice,
I asked them yet again.
They did not answer—whither, whence
Or why—but raced ahead—
or was it back, or sideways?  Do
such things, for clouds, have meanings?

I wandered to the highway.  There,
I saw the cars were racing.
“Oh, whither, cars—and why this haste?”
I asked, in consternation.
They answered not.  They never do.
Such questions go unheeded.
 
2018 May 30th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
     

This Old Chap

 
This Old Chap 

This Old Chap

The weariness from lack of sleep,
The weariness from age,
And all the buffets borne before
Combine to blur the page.

And though he writes his verses still
And so avoids despair,
It seems his vision falters, fogs
And fades beyond repair.

And so the time has come, perhaps,
To take a quiet nap.
And then he might have strength for more—
This old, persistent chap.

And see—he dozes in his chair
And jerks from time to time.
And when he wakes, he’ll fix again
The meter, sound and rhyme.

2018 May 30th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
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