Till We Die

.
Till We Die
.
So “science” is placed upon a throne that gives
It more of title than of power, while 
In vassalage to commerce and its drives,
With human wit and industry subsumed 
By all the cash that builds up capital.
.
This puts us on the roads of noise and rush—
The paths that lead us more and more away
From quiet observation—being one
With all existence—and our reverence
For life and all of Nature's balances.
.
Our sense of right and wrong, a sense innate
That judges what is fair and feels the pain
Of other beings—this is dulled, obscured
By distance from the acts that we defend
Or those about which we are ignorant.  
.
Afraid of depth, afraid of painful sight,
We close our eyes and ears and so our hearts, 
With minds and senses jaded, scoffing at
The ones who bring attention to the wrongs
Or struggle hard to change what isn’t right.
.
This mass retreat to dwell in shallowness—
Is this from age—and  all the buffets borne
Through years of struggle to subsist, survive—
To do what’s right in even little ways—
To find that even these were scorned and blocked?
.
Or is it from the long-accustomed ease
Of “going with the flow”, “not making waves”—
That most of us have followed through our lives –
As evils grew—with our acquiescence—
With basic ethics leashed and pegged in place?
.
I do not know—but see this in myself 
And others of my age and even those
With many years remaining in their lives.
It is as if we all have given up
On even seeing past our small cocoons.
.
So hopes of changes for the better lie, 
Along with youth, within our garbage cans,
And even younger folk are blinded by
A loss of sight as more of us are turned
To serfs that sell our labor for a wage. 
.
And yet, we still have senses left to use—
To know and try to understand the world,
However poorly, yet with diligence, 
With patience, inner sight, humility,
And courage still to question and rebel.
.
And doing this may often cause us pain,
With scorn from others when we speak of things
They do not wish to hear. And yet there is
The truth, perceived, that undercuts the lie, 
That each can softly whisper, till we die.
.
2024 July 3rd, Thu.
Berkeley, California
.

Music?

 
Music?
 
Does music tell us of a culture’s soul? 
If so, then ours is torn and wracked indeed
With rage, frustration—lacking bliss and peace,
Reflecting, darkly, worlds of fear and greed.
If music turns to a tool for torture, then 
What chance is there for healing, born of Zen?
 
Our music once had grace, with Nature's sounds,
The moods of seasons and of times of day.
These touched the heart and gently moved the soul,
And so returned us towards the peaceful way.
But now, of all of this, there's little trace.
Its guns and pistons lead away from grace. 
 
We should not rush to blame the music. It
Is but a mirror of the world we've built.
We’re disconnected from the rest of life—
Absorbed in self, avoiding silence, guilt. 
And so we deafen ears and dazzle eyes. 
Our soul's disturbance speaks in music’s guise.
 
2024 March 6th, Wed.
Berkeley, California
 

Kichu Bhalobaxa-কিছু ভালোবাসা-A Bit of Love

 
A lightly edited version of Google Translate's translation into English follows the Bangla (Bengali) text below. I will try to improve the translation later.

   কিছু ভালোবাসা

শ্রমের জীবনের শেষের সাঁঝে, 
আঁধারে যখন হেঁটেছি ধীরে, 
জগতের নিষ্ঠুরতার মাঝে,
তোমার স্মৃতি এসেছে ফিরে।
 
ক্লান্ত দেহে, বিমর্ষ মনে, 
করুণার আলো, আদি, চিরতন, 
পেয়েছি তখন মানসের কোণে। 
পেয়েছি দৃষ্টির, সাহসের রতন।
 
এটুকু কৃপা, এটুকু আলো, 
তোমার দেওয়া, রইবে সাথে। 
তোমাকে তাই বাসবো ভালো, 
যতই ব্যথা, গভীর রাতে।
 
আসবে আবার, ভরসা-ভরা ভোর। 
নতুন প্রজন্মে জাগবে আশা। 
দিয়ে যাবো তাই, যা কিছু মোর—
পেয়েছি যখন কিছু ভালোবাসা।
 
  রবিবার, ২৮ জানুয়ারি, ২০২৪ খ্রি
  বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফোর্নিয়া
 
-----------------------------------------------------------
   A Bit of Love
  
At the end of my working life,
Walking slowly in the evening's dark,
Amidst the cruelty of the world,
My memory of you returned.
  
With tired body and exhausted mind,
I found again, in a corner of my soul,
The light of mercy, ancient and eternal.
This gave me vision and courage again.
  
This bit of grace, this bit of light,
That came from you, will stay with me.
And that is why I will remember you,
No matter how painful and dark the night.
  
The hope-filled dawn will come again,
And hope will arise in a new generation.
And that is why I will give whatever I have,
Having received that bit of love. 
  
  Sunday, January 28, 2024 
   Berkeley, California
  

On Schools and Fools-As Satan Sings

On Schools and Fools /
   As Satan Sings
 
There is no Satan, setting snares,
Or “down below, in hell”.
That Satan is among us, in
Our hearts, as we can tell,
Exploiting all our frailties
With stories he can sell.
 
******
 
We humans, we are clever! We
Aspire to be as gods.
And at my age, we celebrate
At beating, still, the odds,
As beatings harsh are handed out—
And often still with rods.
 
In churches, mosques and mandirs, humans  ¹
Offer gods their things
Of substance or of spirit, while
They dream of angels’ wings—
As Mammon smiles at balance sheets
And Satan softly sings—
 
And often not so quietly,
As planes and cannons roar
And beings burn and bombs explode,
With science turned to whore—
And we can hear then Satan's song
And know that there’ll be more.
 
****** 
 
It would be wrong to just pretend
There was once a golden age,
When virtue ruled us humans, who
Were then as kind and sage
As Buddhas. This was never so.
We had vice at every stage—
 
And some were strong and others weak.
The stronger ruled the others—
Even in the places where
We tended fathers, mothers
When these were old or ailing and
Hailed all as “sisters, brothers”.
 
So there was liberation too
When villages were left
For cities, where we learned the truths
Of which we’d been bereft.
In cities, cultures interact—
And schooling too has heft.
 
******
 
We go to school and there we learn
To read and write and add—
And these are surely needed for
The modern lass or lad,
But who will guide, within the home,
Their sense of good and bad?
 
It’s there within us, yet in some
Who’ve learned of “yours and mine”
And daily act upon that sense,
It slow to rise and shine.
They only think about themselves
And feel that this is fine.
 
We learn, from watching others, more
Then hearing what they say.
If parents both are working or
Are absent through the day,
Then who will children learn from, in
The matters crucial, pray?
 
******
 
The teacher comes, the teacher goes.
The period starts and ends—
The term or school-year too, in time,
And yet, the seer pretends
That this is all that children need—
To learn—and this, defends.
 
In modern times, alas, we see
That content too, is slighted.
“It’s process! That is all that counts.”
Has been the cry, benighted.
Yet content too must still be crammed
At a pace that leaves us blighted.
 
There is a place, of course, for school—
In Ranchi as in Rome—
As there’s a place for the Internet
That has shoved aside the tome.
But tell me, truly, can a school
Replace, in whole, a home?
 
******
 
“It takes a village”, it was said,
“To educate a child.”
In Africa—and everywhere—
This wisdom, deep yet mild,
Was practiced—yet, in later times,
It came to be reviled.
 
And why? Because the villages
Were emptied—and the towns
Were crowded full—and townsfolk saw
The villagers as clowns.
And soon enough, the parents yielded
Offspring to the crowns.
 
Crowns? The ones of empires—those
With thrones and then with banks.
So children line up now, at schools,
As soldiers do—and tanks—
In peace—that never lasts for long—
And war—with all our thanks!
 
******
 
For soldiers fight and die, so we
Can go to school and learn
Those useful things, so factories
And offices can turn
Out all the stuff and services—
As fields and forests burn.
 
But right and wrong? We hear of these
In speeches, not in schools.
They’re put to use by clever men—
And women—used as tools—
To make us work—and buy—and pay
Our taxes—since we’re fools.
 
So parents slave to pay the bills
Or even to survive,
With hours long and lethal stress
That jointly can deprive
Them each of sleep and peace of mind.
So how can children thrive?
 
******
 
Fools? Perhaps I’ve overstepped—
Or overstated things.
Our words can take us far away,
As phrases take on wings.
So cleverness can lead us all
To hell, as Satan sings.
 
We should not have the schools dictate,
To children, right and wrong.
It’s back within the village calm,
And not the city’s throng,
That we should seek the quiet that
Can stop the Satan-song.
 
But there isn’t land enough that’s left
To farm, for all of us—
And agribusiness feeds us all
And frees us from the fuss
And labor of the fields, so we
Advance—as humans must!
 
******
 
“Salute! Salute the flag”, we’re told,
“And sing the anthem loud!”
Oh nation great, of thee I sing
And it’s of thee I’m proud!
The “nation” now competes with “gods”
And draws the biggest crowd.
 
The strongman grins and shakes his fist.
He jabs, with force, the air.
He’s now the hero of the crowd.
For rants, he has a flair.
A demon has been found! The blame
Is shifted. There’s the snare.
 
We fall for it, because we’re fools,
Forgetting right and wrong.
So “history” is handled well
To please, again, the throng.
No deeper, please! Nor wider!
Let the Satan sing his song.
 
******
 
There is no Satan, setting snares,
Or “down below, in hell”.
That Satan is among us, in
Our hearts, as we can tell,
Exploiting all our frailties
With stories he can sell.
 
2022 September 27^th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York
 
Notes
1.      mandir: Hindu temple
 

Bileti ba~dor-বিলেতি বাঁদর

বিলেতি বাঁদর

জন্মে ছিলাম, ভাগ্য আমার, দিশি হুনুমান।
জীবন ধরে সয়েছি এই দীর্ঘ অপমান।
নিজের দেশের ব্যাপার-স্যাপার ভাল্ লাগে না, ভাই।
পাশ্চের নতুন গান-বাজনায় মত্ত হয়েছি তাই।
মাথায় পরেছি টুপি, গলায় বেঁধেছি দড়ি।
নিজেকে আয়নায় দেখে, নিজের প্রেমে যে মরি!

বুট-জুতো পায়, কোট-খানি গায়, 
উলঙ্গ ঠ্যাঙে, তাও চলে যায়।
ইস্তিরি শেষ হলে, পরে প্যান্ট-শাট,
ঘর থেকে বেরোবো, সই ফিট-ফাট!

রোজ রোজ খুব করে মেখে হলুদ-আদা, 
কালো মুখ হয়ে গেছে বেশ কিছু সাদা!

নিজের ভাষাকে দিনে দিনে ভুলি।
আধুনিক গান গেয়ে, গাছ থেকে ঝুলি।
সিগারেট, মদ আমি প্রায়ই রাখি নিকটে।
লেজটাকে গুটিয়ে, তাই রাখি পকেটে।
মদ-ভেজা লেজে যদি লেগে যায় আগুন, 
পুড়ে গিয়ে হতে হবে তেলে-ভাজা বেগুন।

পোড়া মুখে কি আর সুট-টাই চলে?
গোরারা আমাদের ‘মুখ-পোড়া’ বলে।
মেম-দের থেকে আমি পেয়েছি আদর।
হয়ে গেছি, এই দেখো, বিলেতি বাঁদর।

পেছন ঝাকিয়ে নাচি, হুক্ হুক্ ডাকি।
লোকে বলে, অনুপম সবদিকে নাকি।

বৃহস্পতিবার ২ জুলাই, ২০২০ খ্রি, 
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউ ইয়র্ক

In Mammon’s Jaws

 

In Mammon’s Jaws

We are angry at the others, we are angry at ourselves.

We are saddened, we are sickened and we find we are in hells.

What’s the reason for the anger, for the sadness and malaise?

What’s turned us all to turtles that are hiding in their shells?

That’s a question I would answer, if I suddenly could see

Through all of my confusion to the thing that’s driving this.

But I do not have that vision, so I’ll let you have a try.

If you figure out the answer, let me know then what it is.

You might give to me an instance, and that I will accept.

But if you’d dig a little deeper, to be nearer to the cause

That is driving humans crazy—and not only you and me—

I’ll be grateful for your efforts, as we writhe in Mammon’s jaws.

It’s a thing that’s new and ancient. It was then and it is now.

Is it evil? Is it madness? Is it sorrow at the heart?

I could ramble on about it, but I know that isn'’t wise.

So I’ll leave you with the question, as I bow and I depart

2017 October 18th, Wed.

Berkeley, California

 

Self and Other--The Cooler Spots in Hell

Self and Other  (The Cooler Spots in Hell)

The mantra is—it's I and me
And then perhaps some others.
And off to hell with all the rest!
We aren't sisters, brothers—

For even if by chance we were,
We now no longer are.
So each is free to cheat and steal.
All's fair, in hate and war.

And so we've made a hell for most,
And heaven for the vile,
Who sit upon their thrones of gold
And look at us and smile.

We hate the ones who're far away.
We hate the ones who're near.
We hate each other, even those
Who surely should be dear.

It's self that is the king, be it
The self of self or more.
The others are our enemies
Or those we should ignore.

And how is it we've come to this,
Where brother turns on brother?
We've bitten on the hook, whose bait
Is that of self and other.

Oh wake up from this dream, and see
The other too is you
As you are him or her or it.
Those bonds, again renew—

For lonely is the heart that lives
In isolation long.
Rejoin this world of joy and woe—
The one where you belong.

But see, we now are penned apart,
By pressure or by choice.
How rarely can one leap the fence
And then, in tears, rejoice!

We're told that we have freedom, yet
We now are worse than slaves—
For look at whom we adulate
And see how he behaves.

If only we could find within
That innocence of old,
And also all the wisdom lost,
In Man's pursuit of gold!

How many pounds and shillings earned,
At the dearest of expense?
How many starved, or burned alive
To raise the margin’s pence?

We prey upon each other and
We praise the ones who feast,
While mocking those who're feasted on,
In west and south and east—

For in those lands the natives too
Are preying on each other,
Although they still, on meeting, use
The greetings, “Sister!”, “Brother!”

But those are turned to empty words.
We use the behen or bhai, *
But then we set that all aside,
For each must sell and buy.

So each of us is caught within
That net that snares the world.
We see but self and other, so
We each are lured and hurled—

To land within the cooking pot.
And there we simmer, fry,
As all around we hear the ones,
Who suffer, wail and cry.

But look—how many stop their ears
And say that all is well.
They've found themselves the cooler spots
That still exist in hell.

2017 October 16th, Mon.

* behen, bhai:  sister, brother, in Hindi-Urdu and other languages of northern India and Pakistan
  
These terms are habitually used in some regions not only for siblings but more generally, including as a title or in greetings. This was meant to express sisterhood/brotherhood—as was, and in places still is, common in many cultures, especially rural ones, all over the world.
  

Ashes

Ashes

https://www.facebook.com/D.V.Ahluwalia/posts/913650452108809

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2017 April 24th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
    

Needs

 
Needs
 
The things that humans build and make,
in cities, factories—these
are often wasteful, monstrous and
disturbing to the soul.

And so we need the open space,
with sky—and water, earth,
and all the hues and sounds and scents
that heal and make us whole.
 
We need the plants, we need the beasts—
we need the rest of life.
We need the clouds, the rain and snow,
we need the open sky.
 
We need the dawn, we need the dusk,
we need the arcing sun.
We do not need to speed to work
and back—to race and run.
 
******
 
We need the curve of hill and branch,
the flow of water, wind.
With quadrants and with walls, we’ve penned
ourselves and we have sinned

against this world and all that lives
and all that gave us birth,
and all that still sustains this life
upon this whirling Earth.
 
We need the whispers of the winds,
the gurgling of the streams,
and all the softer sounds we heard
that soothed us in our dreams.
 
We need to savor what we do—
to labor slow, with love.
We do not need the overseer
who drives us from above.
 
******
We need the brightness of the day,
we need the heat and cold.
We need the darkness of the night,
we need the moon and stars.
 
We need to learn, we need to teach,
to care for young and old.
We do not need the speed, the din,
the factories and the wars.
 
We need to find or grow our food,
to spin and weave the string.
We need to feel, beneath our feet,
the earth, the grass, the moss…
 
We need to talk and touch and kiss,
we need to dance and sing.
We do not need to bend the knee
or bow to lord or boss.
 
2016 October 22nd, Sat., 1:47 am
Bensonhurst Park, Brooklyn, New York

  

Home

Home

You cannot take the city or the farm
from him or her who had been reared in one.
And those remaining in the forests or
the deserts or the mountains or the ice
have need of these to keep their beings whole.
But I have town and village in my soul.

Give me the city and the countryside—
the honking cars and blessed quietude,
the sunless toilets and the fragrant trees,
the towers and the open fields and sky—
and set these things, so contrary, beside
each other, as the breath drawn in and out,
and I will be content, between the two,
to live awhile—and then, in peace, to die.

******

Within a bustling city, I was born,
and in the cities I have worked and lived,
yet only when my soles had touched the earth
and when, in turn, the waters and the sky
had touched my soul, and villagers my heart,
could I perceive that I was home at last.

The city’s spawn may sneer at small-town folk,
as these in turn look down on villagers.
And peasants too may view as primitives
the ones who live in forests or in hills.
But I have dodged the city’s traffic and
have slowly walked on winding forest paths.
I’ve heard the city’s roar, been hardened—sinned,
then gentled, cleansed, by water and by wind.

******
 
Some tribal folk maintained unbroken lines
of culture, through the ages, even though
the empires, rising later, came and went.
They might appear as “simple”, yet they know
the precious things that we have sadly lost.
New empires rise—and beings pay the cost.

From teachers in the city’s schools, I learned,
and from the books in libraries and stores,
but just as much—perhaps, in essence, more—
I gleaned from kindly folk with rustic roots.
Our cities’ schools and books have been, at best,
an overlay on what was there before.
So though we post things on the Internet,
there’s still no substitute for local lore.
 
******

In Beijing’s narrow lanes, the rickshaws ply
and those who pedal greet the ones who sit
in summer evenings on those darkened streets.
But in Shanghai the lanes of traffic flow,
as advertisements shine from towers of glass,
and few are asking, “Where did China go?”

The traffic and the crowds and all the rest,
the canyons of the city, libraries,
the silent alleys at the end of day,
the coffee shops where poets still may meet—
these all are part of me, and yet there is
that treasure of the past that’s precious too—
that  place, where all the faces there were known—
that village which, for humans, was their home.
 
strophes 1-3, on a bus in Beijing, July 8th, Fri.
strophe 4, on a plane from Beijing to Shanghai, July 9th, Sat. 
strophes 5-6, on a bus nearing Nanjing, July 9th, Sat.
strophes 7-8, in our apartment in Brooklyn, July 31st, Sun.
   

On Ignorance and Apathy

On Ignorance and Apathy
  

https://empathological.wordpress.com/2012/03/17/emotion-and-ignorance-and-anedotal-correlation/

Ah Ignorance, how sweet you taste!
It's said that you are bliss.
And Apathy, I sing you to you,
Though others boo and hiss.

We go to school and even go
To college, yet we are
As ignorant as one could be,
In matters such as war.

And truly, what can people know
Except the things they see?
So who knows what has happened in
A place across the sea?

And even in our cities, we
Now live secluded lives.
We're ignorant of what goes on
Within our busy hives.

We go to work, in offices,
But there, because we're busy,
We do not know what others do,
Unless we're types who're nosy.

And when we hear a worker is
In trouble, then we shun
That person—as, from insects, we
Now see our children run.

And as for other neighborhoods
Or regions far away—
We do not know. How can we know
Of such things, could you say?

******

I read, at work, the NY Post.
I’ve heard it’s Murdoch’s own.
I get my news from it, my friend.
The rest, I now disown.

The workers in the factories
Are surely useless bums.
They're lazy, like the migrants who
Now crowd the city's slums.

The workers in the government,
The teachers in the schools—
They’re feeding on our taxes and
They’re lazy, worthless fools.

And as for all those Hindus and
Those Muslims, Christians, Jews—
They're all a bunch of murderers,
According to the news.

And atheists? And socialists?
Do spare me those, my friend!
It's better that we're rid of those.
Let's pray their lives will end.

The world is full of primitives—
Not advanced, like you and me.
The others, they are jealous, so
We cannot let them be.

It's better that we take the wars
To them, than they to us.
The peaceniks, they are full of s**t.
To hell with all their fuss!

http://www.differencebetween.net/miscellaneous/difference-between-ignorance-and-apathy/

We're doing well, we're doing well—
With gizmos, buildings tall…
This business about nature, well—
You're welcome to it all.

For might is right. That's how it is.
This world is ours to use.
It says so in our holy books.
To listen, we refuse!

The species rise, the species die.
And so it always is.
So if we’re killing more, why that
Is just the way it is.

We need resources, so to hell
With primitives resisting.
It’s time they got more civilized.
What’s obsolete, needs fixing.

The forests must be cleared. With tribes
And critters, they’re infested.
In timber and in mines, my friend,
It’s time you were invested.

I’ve heard that water now is hot.
Privatization, yay!
The world can’t run on rum and Coke.
It now is water’s day.

And climate change? Organic food?
The ocean turning acid?
They’re hoaxes!  So invest in Shell
And BP and Monsanto.

*******

It's all a fake—a ruse, you see,
To make us number two.
But we are number one, my friend.
And that is me and you.

And some may raise, at intervals,
An issue out of history.
But since we weren't there, the truth
Remains, for us, a mystery.

We went to school and learned that we
Have built a land of glory.
So what if, as they say, the start
Of this was rather gory?

Let whiners whine. It’s onward, ho!
See other countries learning!
So what, if there’s a bit of smog
And forests razed or burning?

Ah ignorance, how sweet you taste!
And apathy?  Why that
Is what you need, or else this world
Will leave you knocked out flat.

We’re all conditioned to believe
And to behave by those
Who flood us with their ads and more.
But now, it's time to close.

And if you find I've contradicted
Everything I've said,
It's all because I'm ignorant
And will be, till I'm dead.

2016 July 26th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York

In the Gray

In the Gray
  
In the gray that marks the winters
Of the coastal polar climes,
I’ve wandered on deserted streets
And mouthed my dismal rhymes.

In the silences of holidays,
I’ve passed by windows lit,
Conversing with my lonesome self,
With remnants left of wit.

And so it is with exiles
And so it is with those
Who’re born to die in prisons
Or live in those they chose.

We humans are a social lot—
And wounded loners need
Some company to soothe their souls,
So healing can proceed.
 
How many days and weeks and months
And even scores of years
We humans bear, removed from those
For whom we shed our tears?

In the gray that marks the winters
Of the lands towards the poles,
The migrants gain their living, while
They slowly lose their souls.

There is light and there is darkness.
There is evil, there is good.
And then—there is the grayness
That blurs what’s understood.

  

So we wander in our limbos
In the foggy shades of gray
And we wonder how it happened
That we lost, alas, our way.

“...and deliver us from evil.” 
In the school that I attended,
We would say this in the morning
And again when classes ended.

But we never said a prayer
That said, “Save us from the gray.”
In my dotage, still in exile,
I should say this every day.

2015 December 26th, Sat. 12:51 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York 
  

Dawn and Dusk

Dawn and Dusk  
  

Seven Arriving at Bliss, 2008 Jan.
https://todayeye.wordpress.com/category/elevated-subway/

The sunset and the sunrise—these are times
when the changing light appears to touch
the swirls within us.  So our moods can rise
and ebb, like ocean tides, with light and dark.

For most of us, the vision of the dawn
awakens hope and gives us strength to strive.
But when the sun is setting, then we sense
emotions darker, and we turn within.

And so this waxing and this waning is
a dance that weaves its way among the rest,
as yang and yin and day and night entwine
to make the fabric that we know as self.
 
We fear the dark, for we were once the prey,
descended from the trees, who could not see
the predators that woke to hunt at dusk.
And being apes, we still revive with dawn.

******

But now the workplace and the home are lit
when night has fallen on the land and sea.
We cannot see the stars, the galaxy,
behold the planets, catch the meteor’s streak…

And oftentimes, we never see the sun—
because we run to work before it climbs,
and venture back at dusk or later still—
while those on night-shifts sleep their days away.

******

Can we escape our natures that were built
through ages when we lived beneath the sky?
Can we adapt to be like bats that climb
at dusk from caves to forage through the night?

I do not know.  We’re plastic, we can flow.
We venture where no other beings go.
And yet our genes and instincts still remain.
To alter these, we need the centuries.

So when I could, I tried to greet the dawn
and view the dusk, with self as offering.
Alas, I now but rarely see the stars
and only in the summers feel the sun.

And so, I’ve lost, with others, much of that
which woke the life and soothed the soul in turn.
I'll try again to meet with dawn and dusk,
so I can be what I was meant to be.

Queensboro Plaza Sunset, seen from the elevated 7 line, 2008 Jan.
https://todayeye.wordpress.com/category/elevated-subway/page/2/

2015 August 6th, Thu. (first four stanzas)
& August 9th, Sun. (last six stanzas)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
   

Sterility

Sterility

It seems
the poets of our age are in
a sort of limbo, neither here nor there.
They're disconnected from the earth.
The sky’s a thing
they haven’t cared to look at in a while.
And what they write
is often nothing more
than phrases, images that rise and flow,
as if
they've left behind their thought,
their history
and even
their humanity – to float
within that zone that they pretend
is poetry.

2015 April 7th, Tue. 1:23 am
Brooklyn, New York
  

I Left My Country

 
I Left My Country
(translation of  Dex Cher’e Elam-দেশ ছেড়ে এলাম)
 
I left my country to educate myself.
If I could save some money, I’d go home.
I sit on the cold pavement and beg,
so I can return to my land, having learned
ignorance.
Can’t you see I’m shivering, sir?
How about a couple of quarters?

2015 February 4th, Wed.
(translated into English Feb. 6th, Fri.)
Brooklyn, New York

This is a translation, from Bengali, of:
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/02/dex-chere-elam.html
 

Dex Chere Elam--দেশ ছেড়ে এলাম

দেশ ছেড়ে এলাম
  
দেশ ছেড়ে এলাম সেদিন, বিদেশে শিক্ষে নিতে৷
পয়সা জমলে পরে, ভাবছি ফিরব বাড়ি৷
ঠাণ্ডা ফুটপাতে বসে, বলছি ভিক্ষে দিতে,
যাতে মূর্খমি শিখে দেশে ফিরতে পারি৷
দেখছ ত সাহেব, বড় কাঁপছি শীতে৷
জেব থেকে দুটি কোযার্টার দেও তারাতারি৷
  
বুধবার, ৪ঠা ফেব্রুয়ারি, ২০১৫ খ্রি 
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউ যর্ক
----------------------------------------------------------------------

Dex Chere Elam
 
Dex chere elam xedin, bidexe xikkhe nite.
Po`exa jomle po`re, bhabchi phirbo bari.
T’hand’a phut’pate boxe, bolchi bhikke dite,
jate murkhomi xikhe dexe phirte pari.
Dekcho to xaheb, bo`r’o ka~pchi xite.
Jeb theke dut’i kuart’ar de`o tara-tari.

budhbar, 4-t’ha phebruari. 2014 khri
bruklin, niu io`rk

for a guide to the Romanization scheme used in this
transcription, please see the preface at the link:
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/02/bharot-xadhin-indias-freedom.html
----------------------------------------------------------------------
For an imperfect translation of this into English, please see:

I Left My Country

http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/02/i-left-my-country.html
   

Nazionalism

Do please suspend swift reaction and judgement, if you can, and read, with patience, to the very end, as this is not a simple issue, although it is a vital one.  Nationalism, in its nastier forms, is by no means the only problem we face in our times, but it is a thing that divides and affects us all.

And nationalism has many guises.

Tribalism, communal conflict, ethnic cleansing, civil wars without end – all of these, along with the horrors of empires of various kinds, are realities from which we cannot easily escape.

But if we begin to probe into the roots of these pathologies, to understand their nature, and so are able to recognize how they work and take action before they overwhelm us, then perhaps there is some hope.

Our tribal instincts can perhaps be addressed and appeased, without being given primacy.

Thanks.    

Arjun
------------------------------------------------------------
         
Nazionalism
   
Speak not to me of proud Bengal – or of glorious India.
Of “nations” and the harm they've done, I need no more reminder.
Of British and of Gallic pride, of German virtues – nay!
You'll only leave me, with your talk, in even more dismay.

Of Israel and Palestine, I think I've heard enough.
Call me when you're sickened by the nationalistic stuff.
Go wave the flag of Pakistan, of Bangladesh or India.
When riots start or wars begin, I know where I will find ya.

On football fields, the children play. It's innocent enough.
But in Brazil, the teams compete. And now the play turns rough.  \1
An outlet?  Yes. But see the crowds, with men and women crazed.
It's better, yes, than boxing.  Yet I still remain amajed.

Let's leave aside the commerce that corrupts us, one and all.
Observe the metaphors we use for games of bat and ball,
With headlines screaming, “beat” and “whip” – and verbs more murderous.
How easily we let the instincts coarser conquer us...

Returning then to patriots, who surely have their place –
Remember how you felt when you were struck upon your face,
Although you did no harm to him or her who did the deed.
Unless you're sainted, then arose – your ego, yes, indeed...

And it's the same with nations – when they're wounded, then they rise.
And so, in turn, they're wounders.  This should cause us no surprise.
Identities, we have – and they are multiple, until
We're singled out for one of them – and drink, of bitters, fill.

So that's a reason, why we then attempt to reinforce
Identity that causes grief – or is erased by force.
But there are other reasons too, why egos rise from sleep.
Defense is only one of them – and none of them are deep.

Let's run away from empires and let's turn away from tribes.
Let's relish our identities, which are, as one describes,
Multiple.  A woman is a mother, sister, child,
A cook and a photographer – with none of these defiled.

So can she be Bengali, and a Muslim, by her birth,
With Hindus in her lineage, and walk upon this Earth
With a passport that was Indian, until that was exchanged
For yet another document – and still not be deranged?

And can you be a Christian and an Arab and a Jew,
From all of these descended – yet be Latin in your view,
From being born, where Spanish now is spoken, and with genes
From those who first had planted, there, tobacco, maize and beans?

You're Croat?  Ah, but here I see, your grandmother was Serb.
You're Jewish?  Oh. You're hair is light.  What's Nordic, you preserve.
You're “White”? and she is “Black”?  But look – you have the same ancestor.
If that's a question still, then look –  Obama is your answer.

In Europe, lands were cleansed, in turn, of pagans, Muslims, Jews,
Of Christian sects that waged their wars for centuries, with views
That still remain to plague the lands where cleansing still proceeds,
As nations rose that soaked the earth with blood from brutal deeds.

Now Shias battle Sunnis in a war that is exploding.
But only yesterday, they sat and chatted, sans foreboding.
So is Kashmir in India or in Pakistan – or in nothing?
If that's our reason for a war, our reason, we've forgotten.

And I could point my finger at the ones who wheel and deal,
Who profit from our madness – and our dooms, with borders, seal.
But when I see how you and I are eager for the bait,
At pointing so my finger, I will take my time and wait.

So go and wave your flag and shout your slogans till you're sore.
But do this, please, at soccer games – in battlefields, no more...
And if you're for the wars we wage – go slaughter with the braves.
But let us have our hours of peace – before we fill our graves...

Go ask the shaikhs in emirates, go ask Manhattan's bankers,
What use they have for nations – and then listen to their answers.
And if you still are drunken from the potions you've imbibed,
Consorting with these cynics is the medicine prescribed.

When foreign troops are ravaging the land where you were born,
Then you might take up arms.  But when you've helped excise that thorn,
How many more you still might find that draw the people's blood...
The foreigners have left – and yet, of tears, there's still a flood...

The China that was set upon by Western wolves is risen.
But what remains of wisdom in that land of ancient vision?
How many peoples in a land, how rich the tapestry...
Yet when reduced to just a flag, what's left is travesty...

How many dead from empires, how many from our “nations”?
How many more before we reach the end of human patience?
The white sahibs were bad enough, we fought to speed their exit.
The brown sahibs are in their place.  In place of Jones, a Dixit... \2

“You do not understand,” some say, “it's all about survival!”
“Survival, yes. For whom?” I ask. The answer, if you're tribal,
Is “Us.”  “But who is us?  Explain. Were you including me?”
The borders that divide us are where we have made them be...

There always is a history – though much of it is myth.
And histories have horrors – yes, no matter who you're with.
But if we learn, from history, that blood's on all our hands,
The ones who died might smile, perhaps, that someone understands...

We humans, we have troubles from our classes and our creeds.
Why add to these a “nation” – or the empire that it breeds?
Our cities and our provinces – these entities have use.
But they're for all who're born or settle there – without abuse.

The cities and the provinces, they rarely need to battle,
Until it's said, to Russians, “Out!” or to Ukrainians, “Scuttle!”
To be a citizen's a right of birth or domicile,
And horrors rise, when laws or arms, this basic right, defile.

Economics lies at root of much of what we humans do.
Resources, scarce, are battled for – and bare survival too.
Let's strip away the garbs in which this struggle is attired –
And then, perhaps, we'll have a chance, with nation-states retired...

2014 July 3rd, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York

Notes:

1. In case these verses are extant a year or more from now, the World Cup games for soccer were ongoing in Brazil as these were being written.
  
2. In standard English orthography, that surname should  perhaps be spelled, more phonetically, as “Dikshit” – with both the “d” and the “t”being, however, dental consonants – made with the tip of the tongue touching the backs of the upper front teeth, as in most Latin languages, rather than alveolar consonants – made with the tongue-tip touching the upper gum ridge, as in English.

Some might question my use of the term “phonetic” in conjunction with English spelling.  Although there are at least two well-established systems for spelling English, differing only in minor ways, it may be a
reach to call either of these a “system”, since they both fail to systematically represent even the basic phonemes of standard spoken English – on both sides of the Atlantic.
   

The Job

A  brief preface to this can be found at

Despair and Hope (Preface to "The Job")
   
------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Job – Part I

  

The job I do, it pays my rent and more,

it gives my life a form – and when at work,

I see a village there, of which the kids,

the teachers, others and myself are part.

Although I know it’s just a fantasy,

this fills the emptiness and gives a why,

a reason to arise at dawn.  The work –

it’s filled my life for close to thirty years,

and it is endless, overwhelming, yet

it’s better than the walls and emptiness

with which I’m left on those rare times

when I have done what’s needed to be done

and so there’s space.

And yet, for all the sustenance it gives,

the job deprives me too of sanity.

For all those years, obsessed with doing right

what can’t be done, left little space for else.

And more and more, I see how mad it is,

this job I do – and my insanity.

And so, when there is space, there is regret,

and not for what I did, with all my heart,

but for all I never had a chance to do,

the duties that were lost to distances

and this, the job that I and others do.

2014  April 17^th, Wed., 6:47 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York 
 
------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Job – Part II

We work to pay the rent, to feed ourselves,

our kids.  But in our times, with workers flung

apart across the continents, our labor

may become, for some of us, the thread

we daily weave that strings what’s passed, the now,

what’s coming, into one.  So what to do,

when all our work is seen as meaningless?

And as the pressures mount on those who work,

we work yet faster, more. The workday spills

and washes over evenings, weekends, more...

And so it is, that some of us may find

that holidays are spent in catching up

with all the job-work that we couldn’t do,

while working, daily, at the job we do!

And so, we seek escapes, from all this work,

and some may find more healthy ones than some.

And others yet are good at what they do,

efficient, even, one may sometimes think,

as were the ones who burned the Gypsies, Jews…

But that’s unkind.  Let’s tip our hat and go.

2014, April 17^th, Wed. 7:14 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

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

The Job – Part III

We learn from our mistakes and those we see

that others make, who might not care to see.

Be slow to judge what others seem to do.

For each may walk upon a path, and each

may think that that’s the only path there is.

But paths are myriad, and the walkers too.

But never run, although they force you to.

For that’s when kindness ends and cruelty

begins.

“Oh yes,” you say, “that sounds all well and good.

But when the bulls stampede, who dares to pause?”

Well run then, for your life, but try to slow.

If speed is catching, isn’t slowness too?

The worker in the line must work at speed.

She’s caught, like soldiers are, who’re sent to kill.

But wars are madness. So are human mills.

The mills are not what we or those we teach

Are destined for.  It’s up to me and you,

and not the ones who order, pass decrees.

If not for all our students or for us,
then for the students and their teachers next,

let’s bring a little meaning back to school. 

2014, April 17^th, Wed. 7:33 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  
------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

The Job – Part IV

The savvy know, what counts is packaging.
For who has time to open up and check
the innards of what's marketed and sold?

And yet, when it's our child that sits at school
or it's our mother, in the hospital,
who is it then, that then becomes the fool,
and why the wailing at the state of sin?

2014, April 17^th, Wed. 1:43 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

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

Please see also the brief preface to this, at

Despair and Hope (Preface to "The Job")