Gizmos

Gizmos

When finance rules a nation and commerce rules the globe,
And when the two together are dancing to the moon,
Then where is there a refuge, from “peace” as much as war,
That’s greater than the shadow of a bomb, at tropic noon?
 
So Elon sends a car upon a rocket to the stars,
And Jeffrey has a business that is rocketing on high,
And bankers squint at cryptocash and stocks are climbing still,
As Donald fires his missiles so that yet more Arabs die.

But here in New York City, in the outer boroughs, we
Are counting down our dollars as we pay our endless bills,
And India has demonetized, and some can simply shrug,
As farmers drink their pesticides and leave no final wills.

We can see it as a tragedy or a comedy sans equal.
We can weep and be dejected, or laugh as madmen do.
We can try to make a difference, we can organize and vote,
Or simply play our gizmos, as those defeated do.

2018 April 16th. Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
  

When Hera Spurted Out her Milk

When Hera Spurted Out her Milk

When Hera spurted out her milk,
did others realize
that going shopping too, one day,
could make a mortal wise?

While walking to the supermarket,
I found I'd lost my way.
But then I realized I'd strayed
beyond the Milky Way.

And so, I found nirvana in
a borough of New York,
beside an arrow sign that said,
"The Home of Kosher Pork".

Ah wonders, that, in wandering,
we sometimes stumble on!
But when I went next day, that sign
and store were vanished—gone!

And then, recalling how I'd been
suspended, out in space,
beyond our starry whorl, I knew
I'd landed on my face.

Oh Zeus, and your green-eyed wife,
with spurting mammaries!
How strange, that we and all were born
from household rivalries!

******

But wait! A fellow told me, who
has doctorates and more,
that truth is stranger, far, than all
we dolts were told before.

So you and all your kin are myths,
Jehovah-Allah too!
The devas and asuras are
an ill-imagined crew.

And verily, the truth is such
as Arjuna could not
conceive, though he beheld, in awe,
what humans have forgot.

So in that mouth immense, wherein
this universe was swallowed,
there were such things that mortals such
as we could not have followed.

As Krishna sat beside him,
being a devil-god indeed,
Arjuna then was bent, in awe,
to do the dreadful deed.

So drawing out his arrow from
its quiver then he drew
his bow, as horses galloped towards
the kinsmen that he slew.

******

So then, resolving to return
to this, the world that's plain,
I turned towards my home again,
with something to explain.

"So where's that kosher ham?" she said.
"There's a sandwich I must make."
But all I then could do was stand
and in my innards shake.

2016 November 6th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
-------------------------------------------------
  
For the reference to Hera and her milk, please see
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Milky_Way_(mythology)
and look under "Greek and Roman". This describes a Greek myth about the origin of our galaxy.
     
For the reference to Arjuna and his vision of the true nature of his charioteer, the god Krishna, please see:  
http://www.thenazareneway.com/gita_chapter_11.htm
This is a horrifying passage in the Bhagawad Gita, part of the Hindu epic Mahabharata.
   

Ke`lkat'a Ai-ক্যালকাটা আই-Calcutta Eye

Below the image, there is a the link to a story in the Telegraph (India). This is  followed by a free translation of the verse into English. Then there is the Bengali original, in three forms:

• a phonetic Romanization that follows standard Bengali pronunciation;
• the Bengali script;
• a Roman transcription that follows standard Bengali spelling.

London Eye
http://topyaps.com/things-we-desperately-want-in-kolkata

http://www.telegraphindia.com/1161101/jsp/calcutta/story_116714.jsp

Calcutta Eye

When the rains come again, oh then I will ride
Upon the great wheel, with my girl at my side.
We will soar up on high, ho ho!  We will see
the city below us.  In the clouds, we will be.
Then—lightning!  Below, they will see the great flash,
and when we return, they will find that we’re ash.

2016 November 1st, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York
----------------------------------------------------------

Ke`lkat’a Ai

Bo`rxa kale corbo ami, birat' cakar sit'e.
Boxbe paxe xokhi amar, bolbe ko`tha mit'he.
Ut'hbo dujon urdhe, hoho, dekhbo xo`hor xara.
Megher majhe mixbo xexe, meghei ho`bo hara.
Nice jara, dekhbe ho`t'at, cokh-dhadhano baj.
Axbo phire xokhir xathe, jholxe jaoa lax.

Mongolbar, 1 la No`bhembo`r, 2016 Khri
Bruklin, Niu Io`rk
----------------------------------------------------------

ক্যালকাটা আই

বর্ষাকালে চড়ব আমি বিরাট চাকার সিটে৷
বসবে পাসে সখী আমার, বলবে কথা মিঠে৷
উঠব দুজন ঊর্ধ্বে, হোহো, দেখব শহর সারা৷
মেঘের মাঝে মিশব শেষে, মেঘেই হব হারা৷
নিচে যারা, দেখবে হটাৎ, চোখ ধাধানো বাজ৷
আসব ফিরে সখীর সাথে, ঝলসে যাওয়া লাশ৷

মঙ্গলবার, ১লা নভেম্বর, ২০১৬ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক 
----------------------------------------------------------

Kyālakāṭā Ā'i

Barṣākālē caṛaba āmi birāṭa cākāra siṭē.
Basabē pāsē sakhī āmāra, balabē kathā miṭhē.
Uṭhaba dujana ūrdhbē, hōhō, dēkhaba śahara sārā.
Mēghēra mājhē miśaba śēṣē, mēghē'i haba hārā.
Nicē yārā, dēkhabē haṭāṯ, cōkha dhādhānō bāja.
Āsaba phirē sakhīra sāthē, jhalasē yā'ōẏā lāśa.

Maṅgalabāra, 1 la Nabhēmbara, 2016 Khri
Brukalina, Ni'u'iẏarka

Choices

Choices

It’s been awhile but now I’m writing
Once again in metered verse.
And some of those to whom I’m sending
This will smile or laugh—or curse.

And since I’ve blanked out my emotions,
I consider now my choices:
How to give a form substantial
To the whispers of my voices.

******

Should I only draw my pictures—
Not with crayons, but with words—
Painting sunsets, valleys, mountains,
Fields and skies with flying birds?
 
Or should I chant in rhythms ancient,
Sounding vowels in my words,
Seeking rhymes and rising, falling—
Trilling like the singing birds?

Or should I write of what I’ve eaten—
Rice and cabbage, lentils, curds—
Writing also of digestion
And of what I’ve left as turds?

Perhaps it’s time that mathematics
Filled my verse with roots and surds— *
Or perhaps, I should write dirges
For Armenians, Turks and Kurds…

******

Should I fill my lines with nonsense,
Wasting my and readers’ time—
Though they offer still amusement,
Spoken out aloud with rhyme?
     
Or should I write of what I’m thinking,
How I view this sorry world?
Will you enter in the prisons,
In the hells in which we’re hurled?

Or should I write of feelings pleasant,
Sing of happiness and love,
Or raise my head towards the heavens,
Howling at the moon above?
 
Who can answer whence or whither,
Give us half a reason why
Each of us is born to dither
Just a while—and then to die?

I’ll be gone and then my verses
Will be lost, as all things are.
Why then should I write of living—
Joy and sorrow, peace and war?
 
******

Who will read these verses, written
In my notebooks in the night?
Who will bother still to mouth them,
Holding scribblings to the light?

Mine are verses born of grieving—
More of black and gray than white—
Yet there’s gold and silver in them—
Sparkles, hidden, of delight.
 
So I write, as if by random
Breezes blown, till gone from sight—
Like a little sailboat, bobbing
Through the heaving swells of night.

Should I end this poem neatly—
Tie the ends and pull them tight,
Or should I leave them hanging loosely,
Wondering why I chose to write?

******

There!  It’s done, for better or—
As often far more likely—worse:
I’d felt the mists and rising vapors—
Asking for my rhyming verse.

Whence, these beings of the ether,
Seeking, each, their human voice?
Why is it—that we are bidden,
Yet appear to still have choice?

2016 May 13th Fri
Brooklyn, New York
(first two stanzas, central single stanza and
last two stanzas added 2016 May 16th, Mon)

====================================
 * Listed here are the uses of the words:
    (a) “surd” in mathematics and phonetics;
    (b) “root” in mathematics and linguistics.
====================================
    

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
  

Gotama and Gauss

           
Gotama and Gauss
     
I dreamed, Gotama met with Gauss,
And left serenely, when he heard, “Heraus!”
It was a scene that could have seen some drama,
But did not see it, thanks to clear Gotama.

I also dreamed that Nietsche, meeting Gandhi,
Had hurled, at him, whatever then was handy.
And in my mind, this painted quite a picture,
With Gandhi dodging what was hurled by Nietsche.

And Marx was met by none than Sri Chaitanya,
Who chanted, “Charles, I prayed to God to find ya!”
Was Karl then ruffled, or provoked to sparks?
He muttered, “God – and you – get failing marks."

Though Kipling wrote that East and West won't meet,
I saw them meeting, though it wasn't sweet.
But sour or not, the western mind forgot.
The east remembered, as has been its lot.

I wandered then to western Asia, where
The "twain" have met, who each find hard to bear
The other's ways -- and where the prophets cried --
And far too often, via torture, died...

Muhammad meets with Jesus and with Moses.
And each of them has hooked, “Semitic” noses.
And each insists that his is the religion
Of the god they share, who scorns the others legion.

I wonder, should I join in this discussion,
But exercise, instead, a safe discretion.
Can humble folk like I, with these, dispute?
Where blood has flowed,  it's prudent to be  mute.

I bow then to these prophets three and pray,
"I wish you gentlemen a wondrous day.
I hope that humans all will take the best
Of what you offer -- and forgo the rest."

I traveled then to colder, northern climes,
Where things were moving fast, with modern times,
And revolutions and their deaths were seen
In spans so short as seemed, to some, obscene.

And in my dream, I saw that Lenin, he,
With Thatcher and with Reagan, chanced to be.
But Deng had come, with sundry things to sell,
And I awoke, for Mao was roaring, “Hell!”

But then I slept again – and Nehru smiled,
For he, with charm, had Jackie O beguiled.
Onassis then was dallying with Callas.
Michelle and Dubya danced away in Dallas.

So revolutions come and go, but this,
What humans do, to pass their days, persists.
And some say, "This is all." and others, "No!"
But most remain unsure, which way to go.

I tossed and turned in moral indignation,
And snored again in abject resignation.
Confucius and Lao Tse appeared and left,
And I again awoke – of all of them bereft.

I prayed then to the spirit of Tagore,
But saw, beside him, stood rotund Al Gore.
And as the white-beard sang of Nature's smile,
The round one lectured, “Her, we now defile.”

The sight of Nature, smiling, being raped,
Disturbed me much.  Her heaving breasts, I draped,
Within my mind, and slapped our bestial kin
On his behind, for such audacious sin.

But those of finance then arose in fury,
And I was killed, not seeing judge or jury,
By a missile fired from a drone that flew away,
In a sky of blue, on a Himalayan day...

But I survived – or else was resurrected,
Or else my waking was, of dreams, constructed.
And so, unlike the others, killed from high,
I sit and type these verses, asking, “Why?”

Gotama answers clearly, “It's because.”
And Gauss says, “I don't rhyme with words like “gauze”.
And Nietsche chases Gandhi all around,
While Marx cannot, by those who seek, be found.

And now – a spirit, sere -- it is Osama,
Of recent, killed, by order of Obama.
He has the eye, of one who knows that money
Can buy such things, as only he finds funny...

And Saddam too is risen from the grave.
He's spitting curses fit to cow the brave.
And Dubya's dodging shoes like he's a pro.
Yay, Dubya!  That's the way to go!

But Modi glowers fiercely.  He is bearded.
He gives a speech.  The millions, who have heard it,
Are cheering wildly.   I awake, in fear,
And see, it's dusk – and night is drawing near.

And so I huddle back within the covers,
And soon enough, a sprite, returning, hovers.
It's Omar, who has pity on our souls
As we pursue our e'er receding goals...

There are such things, as were, before we came
And will remain, when we have played the game
And left.  And pebbles, such, we find,
Upon the shore, that please our mortal mind.

And when we find companions, for awhile,
Who've seen what we have seen and smile,
The thrill of recognition of the truth
Is briefly shared, by those, whom such things suit.

If Bhaskara and Euler were to meet,
And Ramanujam too was there, to greet
Al Beruni, Gauss –  would Khayyam's wine
Then overflow his cup, in sphere divine?

So Euclid and Pythagoras are seated
With Al Khwarizmi. Talk is heated.
But I can see, they're smiling through it all.
That Eden past, such gentle smiles recall.

So Tolstoy sits with Gandhi and Tagore,
And of such trios, I see more and more.
And Ho Chi Minh has come to Chhattisgarh.
He wishes, there, with others, to confer...

Returning then, to Gauss and to Gotama,
And to that scene that could have seen of drama,
I wondered how these towering thinkers two,
Could be, like us, as errant humans too.

For though Gotama had disposed of ego,
He still was saddened at being ordered out.
And wondering, where a seer could go,
He saw a beer-hall, entered, ordered stout...

And there he sits, while sipping of the brew
Which others, who are bhikkus, must eschew.
Does he remember, still, that meal that led
To illness -- that, which left him cold and dead?

Perhaps.  But as he ponders, Gauss calculates,
And each new finding, quietly celebrates.
So east is east and west remains as west,
And each does that, which surely it does best.

But as it's time to wake, I do espy
That Lear and Carroll, walking, pass me by,
And Ray the father, laughing, walks with them.
But I must leave, and stifle my "Ahem!".

2013 November 15th, Fri. & 16th, Sat.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 
Note added:  The phrase "Ray the father" in the last stanza is ambiguous.  It was meant to refer to Sukumar Ray  (Xukumar Ro`e), the father of the film director Satyajit Ray (Xottojit Ro`e) -- and the grandfather of  Sandip Ray (Xondip Ro`e), also a filmmaker.  Sukumar Ray died at an early age, but produced several literary works, including Abol Tabol,  a classic volume of playful Bengali nonsense verses.  These are unique, and yet reminiscent of  the  poems of two Englishmen -- Edward Lear and Lewis Carroll (the mathematician Charles Dodgson).  
        
The Wikipedia article on Sukumar Ray has some insertions that need copy-editing.  A documentary film on him, directed by his son, Satyajit, with Sandip also mentioned in the subtitles, is available as video on YouTube.  It is well worth watching.  

Sukumar Ray also wrote a children's novel, Ho`jo`bo`ro`lo` (Hajabarala), inspired by Carroll's Alice in Wonderland.  It is alleged that  Steven Spielberg's film, E.T., was based on a screenplay by Satyajit Ray, meant for a Hollywood movie that never was.  Satyajit Ray used to illustrate his screenplays with sketches, and it is likely that the appearance of  the extraterrestrial in Spielberg's film derives  from one of these. 

The spelling of the the Rays' names, including the last name,  may be misleading to non-Bengalis, as regards pronunciation.  The conventional spellings (in both Roman transcription and in the Bengali script) are closer to representing how the names would be pronounced in, say, Hindi or (for the first names) in Sanskrt. These conventional spellings do not properly represent how they are currently pronounced in standard Bengali.

 With x representing the sh cluster of English spelling, and  t being a dental, as in the Latin languages, the pronunciations of the names may be better represented as Roy, Xukumar, Xottojit and  Xondip.  I had transcribed the last name, earlier, more systematically,  as Ro`e, but Roy will suffice here -- as there is an English name (as in Roy Rogers) that is pronounced as the Rays' last name should be pronounced. 
    

Ted and Sarah – and Bachmann and Rhee

Ted and Sarah – and Bachmann and Rhee
    
I studied mathematics, science, seeking for the truth,
And traveled halfway 'round the world, to this, the U.S.A.,
Believing that I'd learn yet more, in verity's pursuit.
But after thirty-seven years, the truth is far away.

For here's a land, where people think that Jesus spoke in English,
The U.N.'s bent on world control, with helicopters black,
Obama is an atheist, a socialist, and Muslim,
And soon enough, their Jesus, speaking English, will be back.

And as for mathematics, science, although they still are extant,
These precious zones of sanity, in a world that's ruled by madness,
Are penetrated now by things, which are the opposites
Of reason, moderation, truth – as every day I witness.

And though we haven't brought back kings and slavery and serfdom,
And witches aren't being burned or devils exorcised,
You wouldn't know that from the things to which we've grown accustomed,
From which, returns of all those things might sadly be surmised.

Republicans would like us all to work until we die,
With others on the way to take our places on the cheap.
The Democrats throw workers bits and pieces of the pie,
While bowing deep to those who sit on dollars that they heap.

I've taught for twenty years and six in a borough close to Gotham,
And the madness of that city can be witnessed even here,
But the ones there with the power and the money and their “got 'em!”
Have no inkling about Brooklyn, even though it's sitting near.

There are those who speak for workers but have never labored much,
There are those who say they're patriots as they cheer for every war.
There are those who say, “The children!” but have never gobbled lunch
While staring at a clock, in sites where toilets may be far.

And I've seen the wars that issued from the ones who have the power,
The wars that were on lands afar and those within our borders.
And everywhere, the in-betweens could only die or cower,
For bosses knew that underlings obey, alas, their orders.

Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos, Indonesia,
Americas – South and Central, Granada and Panama,
Afghanistan, Somalia, Iraq, Afghanistan
Again – and Pakistan and Syria and Yemen...

So many wars, so many lives and nations blown asunder!
And even more of wars to come, for which McCains are thirsting.
More wars abroad, more wars within, with Klein and Rhee and Duncan
As generals, with Bloombergs and Obamas giving orders.
           



Michelle Rhee

   
We have had the War on Cancer and we've had the War on Drugs,
And they've each been so successful that we've wanted even more.
There's the War against the Terrorists, who once had been our thugs,
And the War against the Workers – but we've been through that before.

As a teacher, as a worker, I have seen it from below,
From the trenches, from the classrooms, where the feces from above
Have been landing, as the anuses are blasting ever more.
And yet, we are expected to be paragons of love.

Reformers and deformers – and they often are the same –
They fill us up with slogans, and we know that it's a game.
But we follow still our orders, and we rarely stop for shame,
And we're always on the lookout, for another one to blame!

What little do the powers, playing politics in D.C.,
Or the wealthy, in their penthouses in Manhattan,
Or Bloomberg, living mostly in Bermuda, know or care
About the ones who work – across the oceans – or the Hudson?

There's populism rising here, in this, the U.S.A.,
But mostly, it's the populism-right, of Sarah Palin,
That of Bachman, of Tea Baggers, of Rand Paul and Teddy Cruz,
With “Occupiers” ousted – and Obamacare for railing.
    

    
      

     

Congresswoman and former Presidential Candidate Michele Bachman
                                 

And the Empire, it is growing, though we've all been paying dear.
And the drones, they still are flying – and we find the N.S.A.
Has grown to be omniscient – a global eye-and-ear
That sees and hears what you and I are doing every day.

And tragedy has comedy embedded deep within,
And comedy is tragic when the jokers deal in death.
It's yang within the yin within the yang within the yin.
And so it was when Teddy and our saucy Sarah met.
             
 

Senator Ted Cruz and former Governor and Vice Presidential Candidate Sarah Palin
                
A boy meets a girl and a girl meets a boy,
And that's all there is in the end, it is said.
And there's whoopee and there's fighting – it's a pleasure, it's a joy,
Then there's babies  –  and at times, we may even think to wed.

Conservatives say Liberals are looser in their morals,
But Liberals say Conservatives, with money, are too tight.
And who is wrong and who is right, I leave for others' quarrels.
From both of them, I run away, when either heaves in sight.

On coming home from work, I saw a party on the street.
The beer was flowing freely, and the franks were roasting well.
And I could hear some singing – and, although it wasn't sweet,
It had a sort of rhythm – and a story, too, to tell.

“America, America – we mean the U.S.A.!
What matters it, if continents are named for this our land!
Our Mormons say that Jesus came and took our sins away.
We're red and white and blue!  What else is left to understand?

“Oh welcome, to the U.S.A., where you can earn your dollars.
And you'll never have enough of those, although you work your ass off!
And so, whatever be your hue, in politics or collars,
You'll fall for scams, as did the ones, who fell for Bernie Madoff!

“Our Limbaugh roars on radio, O'Reilly riles 'em daily!
Reality is distant, as the crazies lead the crazed!
Some nurse their dumbness dourly, while others flaunt it gaily,
And even though we're clueless, we blunder on unfazed!”

Rush Limbaugh and the flag

    

Bill O'Reilly,  intimidating

         
I heard – and hung my head awhile and trudged upon my way,
And thought, “There still are things to praise in this forsaken land,
For though it seems that blindness rules throughout the U.S.A.,
There still are those, of sanity, who see and understand."

But surely, long before we see again the light of dawn,
This night will darken even more – and karma, long in baking,
Will slowly rise and overflow, and all will then be gone
Of Empire and of posturing – in darkness of our making.

And who'll remember then our Ted, who'd mounted over Palin?
And who'll remember then Michele and others of her kind?
And will there be a Limbaugh – or O'Reilly with his railing?
Obamacare, we still might have – or still retain in mind.

2013 October 3rd Wed. morning, 4th night & 5th morning.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
   

Teachers' Cafeteria--Part I

Teachers' Cafeteria
 
Part I

I was sitting in the silence
Of the basement cafeteria,
Towards the ending of the school day,
With all the teachers gone.

I was sitting in that silence,
In that oasis of quiet,
And I heard a constant humming
That I couldn't really trace.

So I sat there and I listened
And I wondered what it was.
Perhaps it was the humming
Of machines – perhaps of pumps.

It was cold there in the basement,
Though all the lights were on.
The lights were all fluorescent,
So they didn't warm at all.

And the quality of air there,
I'd noticed, wasn't best.
I breathed a little deeper
And I thought to take a rest.

So I looked towards the couches –
Inviting, checkered green –
And I briefly thought of taking
A little nap, unseen.

But no – I looked and saw then,
From the clock upon the wall,
That the bell would soon be ringing,
So I couldn't rest at all.

The school day, it had ended,
But the work had now begun.
For three more hours, I'd labor,
And at six, I'd have to run.

For if they found me staying,
For much beyond that six,
They'd said they'd call policemen,
Who'd come for me with sticks.

2013 mid-September
teachers' cafeteria, basement, New Utrecht High School
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

Notes:

Please see also: 

   Teachers' Lounge

    http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2006/01/teachers-lounge.html

Those verses were written in the teacher's lounge of the Brooklyn Studio Secondary school, when I had begun subbing again after working for a year at the nearby New Utrecht High School.  Teachers' lounges are a rarity in the New York City public school system.

The Brooklyn Studio Secondary School is in the Bensonhurst district of southwestern Brooklyn.  The building is on 21st Avenue, between 83rd St. and 84th  St.  It contains both a senior high school (grades  9-12) and a junior high school (grades 6-8).  An adjoining building (which can be accessed from the basement) houses an elementary school (kindergarten to grade 5).  There was a time when a student might spend all his/her years of K-12 schooling in those two buildings.

The New Utrecht High School is also in Bensonhurst.  The school building stands between 79th and 80th Streets and between 16th and New Utrecht Avenues.  This six-story building, which towers above the surrounding residential ones, can be clearly seen on Google Earth, along with the school's playing field and the elevated train tracks over New Utrecht Avenue.

Both of these schools must be close to a hundred years old.  When I looked up their buildings on the NY City Map website, at http://maps.nyc.gov/doitt/nycitymap/,  I found that the current buildings for the Brooklyn Studio Secondary School and the New Utrecht High School have official construction dates of 1909 and 1931 respectively.  However, I think that the original school at the first site commenced operation a few years later, around 1913, which would make the school there, in all its incarnations, a century old as of now (2013), while the second (New Utrecht) started a few years later.

Please see also:

   Teachers' Cafeteria--Part II

   http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/10/teachers-cafeteria-part-ii.html

The Gallery of Ghosts

The Gallery of Ghosts

As we journey through our lives, we see
the ones, to whom we're bonded, pass away.
And so, in time, we each are left to walk
alone, within a gallery of ghosts.

And as we deal with loneliness and grief,
amidst the crowds – or trapped within our rooms,
we turn away from what the present brings,
reflecting on the ones, who now are past.

And some of us have duties still – to those
who're still alive, among the generations,
to animals or plants, vocations, self –
or jobs that keep us stressed, but occupied.

And some are thankful for those duties, which
return us to the present, even turn
us towards the future, rosy-hued or dark,
while others may resent intrusive tasks.

For some of us have given of ourselves
to those now passed, while they were still with us,
but others feel that they had fallen short
on duties then – and now must make amends.

And whether true or not, such matters are
decided by the self in solitude,
and as we walk within that gallery,
you'll see us then conversing, silently.

And surely, it's a shadow-play at best,
for how can we attend to those who're gone?
And yet, it seems they still can influence
the ones who live, remembering the dead.

2013 August 21st, Wed.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

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Trayvon

Trayvon
    
If you happen to be saddled
With a skin that isn't pink,
You should watch where you are going,
For it's not, as you might think.

You might say, “There is Obama,
There was Powell right before...”
But you'd better sit and listen.
There are things that you should know.

If you're followed as you're walking,
Returning from the store,
Pretend that it is nothing
Or you might regret it sore.

If you're followed by a driver,
As you're walking on the street,
Remember, keep on walking.
In this battle, best retreat.

If you try to go where drivers
In their vehicles, can't follow,
Skedaddle then – and faster,
If you see, behind, the feller.

You might think that by accosting
Or by challenging the guy,
You might still escape the torture,
But you really shouldn't try.

If you dare to try and fight him,
Then you know you might be killed.
So try to keep on walking,
For your color is your guilt.

If you're lying there and murdered
Then your mother, she might cry,
And your father, he might mumble,
“Tell me Jesus, tell me – why?”

But they'll let the one who murdered
Go back home and keep his gun.
You should never dream of fighting.
If you're followed, simply run.

You might think they still might get you,
But at least you've got a chance.
But you won't be having any
If you stick around to dance.

You may feel your life is threatened –
That he'll shoot you if you flee.
But you'd better still be running,
Or you simply may not be.

So listen to me close, son,
However strange I sound.
And even if you're cornered,
Never – ever – stand your ground!

I hope that you've been hearing.
Be a coward, never fight.
For though there is Obama,
See your color?  That ain't right.

2013 July 22nd, Mon.
Brooklyn
 

The Poet

The Poet
  
I saw a man, who'd dug a grave
And then lay down within.
I greeted him, “How do you do?
Is that a grave you're in?”

“It is.” he said.  I ventured then
To ask the reason why
He'd dug this grave (as I had seen)
And now, within, did lie.

“I am a poet, failed.” said he.
“Whatever else, I'd tried,
I'd made a mess of.  So, at end,
On poems, I relied.”

“Oh wonderful!  A poet!  Why,
I am delighted, sir!
For you're the first I've ever met.
An honor, you confer.”

And bowing low, in deep respect,
And also, so's to see,
I peered into that grave and saw
No trace of poetry.

“And where, oh poet (first I've met),
Are poetics of yours?
I've heard, a poem, when applied
At night, dyspepsia cures.”

At this, that poet muttered low.
His words, I strained to hear.
And in my notebook, I did scribe
Those noble words. They're here.

“I'll freely speak to you, because
You know so little, friend.
It's fitting that a dolt like you
Is witness to my end.”

And raising then his voice, he
With verses did regale,
Recounting what amounted to
A rather tawdry tale.

And all of what he said, I wrote,
At graveside taking seat.
And everything I heard from him,
I therefore can repeat.

“I started writing jingles when
I could do little else.
For though their quality was poor,
I'd learned that poetry sells.

“But I was told, 'There's better ways
For you to spend your time
Than this. Your poems rarely scan
And seldom even rhyme.'

“ 'It's time for you to look ahead
And put yourself to use.
Such verses as you write amount
To nothing but abuse.'

“And so, I tried my best to see
The future, as they'd said,
But what I saw was dismal and
It filled my heart with dread.

“And when I'd tried to see ahead
And found that all was black,
I wished there was a way that I
Could go, reversing, back...

“Since I'd survived the past and it
Was old, familiar ground,
I thought that I'd be better off
Back there, for a second round...

“But being told that there's no way
To travel back in time,
The only thing that I could do
Is write yet more of rhymes.

“I then was told to look around
And see what others see –
A world that's waiting enterprise
With opportunity...

“But looking left and right I saw
There's peril everywhere.
I wished that I could run away
Where people better fare.

“But since they said that danger lurks
Wherever I might go,
The only thing I found that worked
Was writing verses more...

“I saw the worries on the faces
Of the people 'round,
And I'd begun to worry that
My mind was far from sound.

“But being told, by learned folk,
That worries can't be fled,
I scribed more verse, on paper, screen,
And even in my head.

“By then, I'd reached a point where
I'd written so much verse,
That verses were a burden too –
And getting, daily, worse.

“Oh woe betide the wastrel who's
Addicted in this way!
From versifying, I now wished
That I could run away...

“And so I sought out doctors of
Disorders of the mind –
For such as these, if you would look,
In plenty you will find.

“And I had asked, of physics such,
'Have you a cure for ailment
That makes me write in verses till
It's time for my confinement?'

“But I was told, for poetry,
There isn't any cure.
I asked if they were certain and
They said that they were sure.

“I asked myself if I could live
Addicted so, to verse.
The answer came from deep within:
A negative – and terse.

“The answer that I got was this:
A short and simple 'No.'
And then I realized it's time
For me to quit and go.

“For poetry deranges minds
And turns our brains to mush.
It chatters and it sticks its tongue
At those who say, 'Now shush!'

“It's better far to leave this world
Than stay and be afflicted
By such a thing, as that to which
I sadly am addicted.

“And since the doctors I had seen
Could see no way to fix it,
I now have dug this grave so I
Can make, in it, an exit.

“So if you come tomorrow, you
Will see me lying dead.
I hope that you will help to see
No homily is read.”

I'd scribbled all the poet said,
In the notebook that I carried.
And now, besides that poet's grave,
To pay respects, I tarried.

I waited till the sun went down,
And insects flew, that bite.
And slaps and curses then I heard
From poet, out of sight.

And peering in the dark, I saw
A pair of glowing eyes.
“Is this the poet's ghost?” I asked
Myself, in some surprise.

And gathering up my courage, I
Did venture then to say,
While looking at those glowing eyes,
And slipping, slow, away...

“Oh are you he, and still alive,
Who's final words, I've written?
Or are you he, no longer live,
And yet, by insects, bitten?”

I heard a growl, and then I saw
A hand reach out at me.
I thought it fit that I should leave,
And hastily did flee.

But when, to graveside, cautiously,
I tiptoed, in the morn,
I found that though the grave was there,
The poet, he was gone.

I wondered for a while at this,
And went then on my way.
But why that poet wasn't there,
I wonder, every day.

And I return, at times, to check
That grave that he had lain in.
And though the grave has long been filled,
A fig-tree, there, is growing...

Was it a spirit that I'd met,
Who spoke to me in rhymes?
Or was he just a man like me,
Reflecting on his times?

But as I wonder, lo, I find
There jingles, through my mind,
Such verses as that poet warned
Might all one's wits unwind...

So could it be, that on that eve,
As insects small were biting,
His poetry-pest, who'd drifted free,
Had found his “dolt” inviting?

So I reflect, on incident
So singular that I
Have written this, so someone might
Explain, before I die.

2013 July 15th, Mon.
Brooklyn 
  

Befuddled / Great and Grand

Befuddled / Great and Grand
  
I saw a man, with a belly large,
And I wondered why, by fate,
I'd chanced to meet, on my evening walk,
With a person who was great.

And next – a woman, wide of hip,
With buttocks rolling high...
And seeing such a lady grand,
I asked, of Fortune, “Why?”

But then, next morning, I espied
A gent of tiny size.
And so I knew, what one day gives,
The next, in turn, denies.

But on that eve, I saw a dame
Whose size was average.
And where she fitted, in the scheme
Of things, I couldn't gauge.

And puzzled as to what this meant,
I lifted hands to sky,
“You've sent me great and grand and small
And average – but why?

A woman, walking by my side,
A man of muscle eyed.
She oohed at chest and biceps big.
“Magnificent!” she sighed.

Was height or girth or weight the crux
That merits “great” or “grand”?
This matter deep, that worried me,
I wished to understand.

I dallied at the library
And looked up those who're "great".
I found that despots, so are named,
Who mayhem, most, create.

2013 July 9th, Sun.
Brooklyn

Her Secret Vice

  
Her Secret Vice
  
“What's your hobby?” asked her friend.
“You heard me. Speak, and don't pretend.
I told you mine was postage stamps,
A pastime I acquired from gramps.
But you have never told me. Speak.
I've asked you several times this week.”

She could not speak, for quite a while.
But then, she tried to force a smile.
“Your game is up.” She told herself.
“It can't be kept to just yourself,
This thing you do, your secret shame.
Perhaps she'll understand, not blame.”

And thinking of her secret pleasure,
She found her courage, in some measure.
She'd bowed her head – and looking low,
Had studied well, companion's toe.
But now she tried to meet her eye.
“It's mathematics, on the sly.”

She'd murmured, what she could not shout.
At last!  Her secret now was out.
But searching in the hearer's face,
She saw the worst – a maid's disgrace.
And flustered, she looked down again,
While feeling, in her heart, that pain...

She'd hoped her friend could take, what men
Could not divine – or ever ken.
And so, she'd spilled her secret vice.
But see, her friend had turned to ice.
She saw her look of shock and horror,
And so was filled with sudden terror.

She wondered if she might be blamed
For feeling frightened and ashamed.
She wondered how to fix, what she
Had done – or how and where to flee.
She even wondered, if her life
She now should end, with pill or knife...

“But no,” she thought, “that's foolishness!
Let others think their nastiness.
For if my hobby gives me joy,
Why should I not, this gift, enjoy?
Was I not made by the Creator
To be, like Her, a calculator?”

And saying this, to soothe her pain,
She thought of pleasures past again.
The calculus was exquisite
For those, with skills prerequisite.
But even novices find joys
In playing with their basic toys...

And for the ones, who're more advanced
And have, in rings, with tensors danced,
Or played with algebras of Lie,
They know, what glory this can be.
What joys compare, upon this Earth,
With proofs – or giving theorems birth?

And so, with bashful, downcast eye,
She took her pleasures on the sly,
Remembering her sessions past,
In fields, with groups, that seemed to last
Beyond what humans could endure
And yet emerge, in essence, pure...

But glancing at her shell-shocked friend,
She knew her respite had to end.
But how, alas, she could explain
What she had done, escaping pain,
She did not know. But should she try,
Or wait till other asked her, “Why?”

2013 July 8th, Sun.
Brooklyn

Humor

Humor

When all around, we see the suffering,
Then we forget our misery awhile...
And when we see the pickle we are in,
Instead of weeping, we may crack a smile...

So we've invested hours or days or years –
And all is nullified by those on high?
When fortune turns our work to ashes, then
We'd better laugh, instead of asking why...

For if we were the ones at fault, then we
Could rectify our actions, learning well.
But if it was another – or blind fate,
What use is it, on matters such, to dwell?

To see absurdity in what we do,
To laugh aloud at this, is saving grace...
If only zealots too could laugh at selves,
Of zealotry, we'd see but little trace...

******

Of all the things that helped our race survive,
It's humor that is often valued least.
And yet, the laugh, and most of all, at self,
Has been a savior to the human beast.

In every village, where they're left alone,
You'll always see the smile and hear the laugh.
But if you're in a city, then the kids
Might need the zoo, with monkey and giraffe...

The antidote for fear, the thing that sets
The ones at bottom level with the top,
Is laughter, at the pretenses we bear...
And once released, it's difficult to stop...

It's all we have to quietly mock the high,
And all that's left for us, at times, of grace...
But laughter can be cruel, most unkind,
When used to keep the beaten-down in place...

Let's wield this gift, this instrument, with care –
Apply it to ourselves, to sift what's sense,
Or use it as a weapon, when oppressed,
But not against the weak, who've no defense...

*****

How many shades of humor, we discern...
How many more are hidden from our eyes...
There is the laughter loud of ignorance,
The startled smile, the snort at outright lies...

And so, from what is unexpected, we
Derive a form of pleasure.  From surprise,
We curious primates fashion sustenance.
And gentle humor marks the teaching wise...

And even from the darkest fate, we glean
That ember bright that lights the dismal gloom.
So laughter's left, when all the rest is gone.
For humor, in our hearts, there's always room...

So when a friend is worried or depressed,
And reason gives no comfort for a while,
A gentle joke or two might break the spell
And light a darkened face with brightening smile...

******
 
And if you need a bit of laughter, then
Watch passers by with clear and gentle eye,
Or pause to look at those with you at work,
Or at yourself, and ask a curious “Why?”...

If you have dogs or cats or children 'round,
They'll make you laugh, if you observe awhile...
And if you gently watch the elders, then
Their actions, too, will give you cause to smile.

And if you're by yourself, then memory
Or book, that's written by a person wise,
May bring such things to light as cause delight –
With healing smile or laughter of surprise...

Or if my verses past have caused you gloom,
Then think of me, who's typing, endlessly,
His prophesies so dire, face intent,
And gently smile or loudly laugh with me...

2013 June 28th, Fri.
(with additions on 29th Sat.)
Brooklyn
 

Death

 
Death

The casket's sealed – and then is lowered down.
The homilies and prayers now are done.
The flowers wilt and then are thrown away.
So one plus one gave one – and equaled naught...

So some may weep and wail at funerals,
And others there may stand and quietly talk,
As others gossip, even laughing loud.
And some may sit in silence, lost in thought...

But as the days go by – and months and years,
The ones who smiled may then shed bitter tears.
And those, whom death had left disconsolate,
May find that they've been healed by balms of time.

And others, who sat silent or were terse,
Might now expound, in speech or prose or verse,
And though unreason seems to drive the world,
May find, in death, a reason – or a rhyme.

2013 June 26th, Wed.
Brooklyn
 

Data-Driven Supervision

Data-Driven Supervision

Said the miser to the river,
“How beautiful you are!
I will keep you in my basement,
To look at, in a jar.”

Said the river to the miser,
“You can watch me as I flow.
If you try to catch and keep me,
There'll be nothing left to show.”

******

Said the scholar to the flower,
“I like the way you look.
Allow me now to pluck you
And to put you in my book.”

Said the flower to the scholar,
“You can look at me, my friend.
But if you try to pluck me,
Then our friendship's at an end.”

******
 
The worlds of suits and ties and those
Of workers rarely mingle.
But “Data-Driven Supervision”
Is suited for a jingle.

How many ways to make men work,
How many ways to lie...
But rather than be docile slaves,
It's better, far, to die...

******

Said the bosses to the workers,
Who were toiling at the schools,
“You will work for less and faster.
We will measure you with rules.”

Said the workers to the bosses,
“All your rules make little sense.
If you think that we are asses,
Then let's stop with this pretense.”

******

You can write upon the water,
You can try to net the air,
You can measure love and caring.
You can ask us if we care.

You can supervise the infant
Or the boy who's running wild.
But if you rule the adult,
You will make, of him, a child.

2013 June 6th, Thu. *
New Utrecht High School
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, NY

* formerly “Brooklyn-Queens Day”, but now
“Staff Professional Development Day for
Schools in Brooklyn and Queens”, for the 
New York City Department of Education

Apparel

Apparel

I pray that I'll be saved from wearing suit and tie,
As I have been for all these many years.
Before I have to wear them, let me die --
And laugh that I've been spared, as dying nears.

As penguins, do the crowds of men appear,
With suits of black (plus bow-ties or cravats)
And shirts of white.  As Croats used to wear,
So now do all – except, perhaps, for hats.

And see the women, baring far too much,
While teetering on shoes inflicting pain.
At least the men are spared from wearing such!
In this, they win – quite clearly, once again!

What use, I wonder, is the collared shirt,
Or brassiere – for those less “well endowed”?
And why have women left the flowing skirt
For trousers tight?  Should I be asking loud?

2013 May 7th, Tue., 5:06 am
Brooklyn, New York

Joe's Demise

Joe's Demise

It was five o'clock on Monday afternoon.
The sun had not yet set, but would be setting soon.
And Joseph Lieberman was sitting at his table.
His paperwork he'd done, as best as he was able.
He turned to see the clock, and then he saw,
Out of the corner of his eye, with startled awe,
A flash more bright than sun, that seared his eye.

Joe knew, within his heart, that he would die.
And yet, he staggered up – and with surviving sight,
He saw the afternoon had turned to night.
And then, a sound, that beggared all he'd heard,
And shove, that sent him flying, like a bird,
To smash against the wall, and fall to floor,
A crumpled, bleeding heap – and Joe, no more.

He'd lived a life of toil, a life quite clean.
He'd loved his kinsfolk, friends, been rarely mean.
No sin that's grievous, no unseemly blot,
Had marred the fabric of his life and lot,
Until this day, when karma, not his own,
Worked suddenly, to crush his flesh and bone.
Whence came this evil, evil only knows.

Where Joe once lived, the wind now softly blows.

Babui / Arjun Janah
2008 October 5th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
   
Note:   This came to me today (Sunday) between approximately 5:45
and 6:05 pm, at the Dunkin Donuts shop on 18th Avenue, near 86th
Street, Brooklyn -- from where, I do not know.

The Joe Lieberman, or everyman ("Joe Schmoe"), of this tale should not be confused with the well-known Joseph P. Lieberman, U.S. senator from Connecticut, to whom he may have been only distantly related.