Kon xubhagge-কোন শুভাগ্যে

 
কোন শুভাগ্যে?

ভোরের আলোয় জ্বলছে দেখি 
পাতায় শিশির ফোঁটা—
শিশুর চোখে আলো যেমন, 
ছোট্ট মুখে হাসি।

এই জগতের ঝড়ের মাঝে 
যতই বাড়ে কাল, 
বৃদ্ধ চোখে এসব দেখে, 
বুকে জাগে বাঁশি।

ছোট্ট পাখির ডাক শুনি গো, 
শুনি বর্ষা, হাওয়া। 
দিনে দেখি রঙের খেলা, 
রাতে অন্ধকার।

মনে আসে রাজস্থানের 
রাতের লক্ষ তারা। 
কোন সুভাগ্যে, পিঁপড়ে হয়েও, 
এমন অধিকার?

 মঙ্গলবার, ১৯ মার্চ, ২০২৪ খ্রি.
 বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফর্নিয়া.

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
     

The Pale Blue Dot

 
The Pale Blue Dot

https://www.facebook.com/arjun.janah/videos/10154567820250950/

What indeed is poetry?
I really wish I knew,
Although I spout again in verse
Which often seems to veer from terse.

And Riaz earlier was wise
In saying there's a difference--
For I can persevere in meters
Or echo rhymes, as poetry peters.

And as for science, what is it?
Our Trump would say, "A lot of s**t!"
Unless it adds in cash for him,
Who grabs at p******s at his whim.

And we might say, "What's wrong with money,
Or sipping on a bit of honey?"
But others then might counter, "Naught!
But yet there's more than can be bought."

What cash can come from Andromeda,
What pleasure from a comet's tail?
And yet we might be more bereft,
If Carl were mute before he left.

For though he spoke in measured prose,
It's poetry that Sagan wove.
As Saumen too has said, it's wonder
That gives, to poets’ words, their thunder.
 
2017 April 21, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York
   

The Dancer (and the Reed)

The Dancer
(and the Reed)

On the sands, beside the ocean,
I did the dancer meet,
As the waves were drum-rolls sounding
And the wind was fluting sweet.

She danced of the creation,
Of the genesis, of sex –
She was god and man and woman,
She was nature – nothing less.

From the sweat, her face was shining,
Though the breeze was blowing cool,
With the surf behind her roaring
As she danced before this fool.

I was spellbound by her dancing –
That was sensual and divine.
I stood and watched her postures
And the play of gestures fine.

With her feet, she stomped a rhythm –
Primordial, heartbeat, lust –
And her torso swayed to lilting –
That of sky that calls to dust.

She was thunder, she was lightning,
She was wind, torrential rain,
She was each of all the seasons,
She was pleasure, she was pain.

She was joy and she was sorrow,
She was laughter, she was grief.
And my heart, by her, was stolen –
By this dancer, like a thief.

So the gods may ask allegiance
That the strongest can’t resist;
So the musk may rouse the senses
And on mating, then insist…

But the dance then rose in tempo,
As coitus too may do,
And it reached, in time, a climax,
With my heart convulsing too.

And then, as she was flowing
And was swaying, I was freed
And I floated, by that seaside,
Like a wave-tossed broken reed.

******

I think I fell unconscious
And I lay there for a time.
When I woke, there was no dancer –
So I've danced her back in rhyme.

But if you find her dancing –
By an ocean, on a beach,
Beware – for those who watch her
Will be captured by her, each…

Let my rhymes be then sufficient
For the ones, who’re weak of heart –
Though they be a pale reflection
Of the wonder of her art.

Her face was flushed – her beauty
Was like the morning mist,
Her lips were slightly parted –
Her face, by moisture kissed.

Her hips were circling slowly,
Her arms were waving high,
Her hands were weaving stories,
And her eyes were darting sly.

Was she air or was she ether?
For she leaped in wondrous arcs
And she landed like a feather,
Yet the sand flew out like sparks.

She was sparkling, like a fountain,
She was flowing, like a stream.
Was she a woman – or a goddess?
Was she real – or a dream?

I do not know the answers,
But that dancer, I can see –
For I’d seen, myself, her dancing,
By the breakers, by the sea…
 
There are things we can imagine.
There are others, that we can't –
That are spoken of in whispers –
Or in hymns the faithful chant.

I have witnessed such a wonder –
As I've seen, myself, my hand.
But whence and how and wherefore,
I do not understand.

2015 January 18th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
  
Please see:  The Dances of the Golden Hall, by Ashoke Chatterjee (text) and Sunil Janah (photographs), ICCR (Indian Council for Cultural Relations), New Delhi, 1979. 

This book, designed by Zehra Tyabji and printed at the National Institute of Design, Ahmedabad, has a short Introduction by Indira Gandhi and a Foreword by the violinist Yehudi Menuhin.
   

Cosmos

    
Cosmos
 
There was silence, there was singing, there was darkness, there was light.
There was waking, there was dreaming, there was danger and delight.
There was presence, there was absence, there was hoping and despair.
There was wounding, there was healing, there was damage and repair.

There was birth and there was dying, there was living in between.
There was pain and there was pleasure, there were things that were unseen.
There was tasting, there was scenting, there was feeling, there was heart,
There was mind and there was matter, there was science, there was art.

******
   
And all of this was there then, that is vanished now and gone,
In that world that we were born in, on that planet we were on.
What is left is still the spirit, that is waiting for rebirth
On a planet that is spinning, on its orbit, like the Earth.

On that planet, in the cosmos that is timeless, that is vast,
Will the beings there remember, what had happened in the past?
Will the harsher sides of Nature, will the horrors, will the wars
Be remembered or repeated – as on Venus, as on Mars?
 
******
   
Is there silence on the mountain, is there quiet in the dale?
In the forests that are lifeless, is there one to tell the tale
Of what happened on our planet, that is swinging ‘round its sun?
But hark – the wind is singing.  And listen – waters run.

In their time, the fields will blossom, and the valleys will be green.
And the lovers then will wander, in the seasons soft, serene.
They will gaze up at the planets, at the brightly shining moon.
It will happen, it will happen.  But it will not happen soon.

******
 
And who will be the beings that will couple in the dark?
Will the skies of day have fliers that will soar on high and arc?
Will the grazers then be tripeds that were never there before?
Will the oceans then have beings that have music, that have lore?
 
How wondrous is the cosmos that is spirit, that is dirt,
Where the stars are distant beacons and yet lovers gently flirt,
Where there’s naught that isn’t passing and where love and flowers bloom,
Where the beings rise and vanish, so that others may have room…
   
2014 October 30th, Thu., 3:01 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  

Divinity

   
Divinity
   

Divinity-001a

 
   
I’ve read at times the poetry you sent,
And even figured out the things you meant.
But honestly, your stanzas, tired and old,
Might need refreshment, of a nature bold…
   
******
   
So leave awhile your peace and love, my friend,
And write instead of wars without an end –
And hatreds too – for that Reality
Cannot be cloaked by all your poetry.
 
However much you dress her in your fashion
Or rouge her with your powder of compassion,
Her nature, to your efforts, will not yield.
The thing she truly is will be revealed.
 
So rather than attempting to disguise
That lady with your veils of silken lies,
Let's strip away those layers of attire
And gaze upon her, as she might desire...
 
And now you see she’s Death and Destiny,
Of visage cold that brooks no mutiny.
Her lips are set, she’s resolute and grim.
She’ll not be swayed by prayer or by whim.
 
The figure says – a woman, yet it seems
No lover touched those breasts, no eager child
Has ever reached to drink from them…  Those hips
Have never moved in throes of passions wild…
 
This woman has a twin – they look alike,
And that one is, we’ve heard, a virgin too,
Who still has heart.  She cares and gives of love...
But not this maid, the harsher of the two.
 
Untouched by sex – and cold, devoid of love,
She has, instead, a thirst for human blood.
For hatred burns within her breast.  Her lust
Will not be sated by a meager flood…
   
And as you watch, you’ll see how she transforms
And takes on, one by one, her hideous forms.
You’ll see the fire burning in her eye,
You’ll see it light on who is next to die.
 
Engulfing east and west and north and south –
She opens wide her fanged and monstrous mouth.
And you might glimpse, within her throat, that hell,
Of which you poets rarely dare to tell.

And watch her gaze, directed at the city.
It scans the streets, without a trace of pity.
She sees – and she destroys – a family.
A little girl remains – and you and me...
 
Behold, how human form dissolves and leaves
The desolation where the orphan grieves…
But even then, that child gets no respite,               \1
As booms resound from more explosions bright...

And in the rubble of the smoking ruin,
We see a form that struggles, still alive –
That child again, disfigured, maimed and torn –
Who once, from parents' love and toil, did thrive...

So from within that vestal throat divine
There springs this hell of mortal agony...
But you've been watching, with your "love and peace",
Your verses marching still in prosody...
 
So speak to her, whose skin is stripped away –
Who lies there, burned and blinded.  Find a way
To let that deafened child hear meter, rhyme –
If that is how you'd utilize your time…
 
******
  
But see, if you have inner vision, that
Which rises from the corpse it leaves behind…
The one who dies becomes the one who slays.
She now can see, who lay there dying, blind…
 
2014 August 8th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York
 
1.   Returning from divinity to mundane matters,
      the word “respite” here is meant to rhyme with
     “bright”, as in one of its pronunciations in standard
      British English.
       

And the Spirit

  
And the Spirit

  

There, where the wild is calling,

There, where the wolf-pack howls,

There, where the moon is floating,

There, where the stars are bright,

There, I will go, for the dreaming,

There, I will wait for the dawn.

Out in the open spaces,

Out in the wilderness,

Where the grasses wave in the breezes,

Where the branches dance in the winds,

Out in the open spaces,

Out in the wilderness,

Where the sunrise lights the dewdrops,

Where the sunset floods the lake…

There I will go, where my heart is,

There I will chant to the sky.

There I will stand as the sun sets,

As the stars appear in the sky…

There I will go, where my heart is,

And there, in the wild, I will die.

The jackal will gnaw at my shoulder,

The bear will make off with my thigh,

The crows, they will pick at my eyeballs,

And the spirit will see and will smile.

There, in the cold of the winters,

There, in the mists of the dawns,

There, in the heat of the summers,

There, I will be when I’m gone.

2014  April 29^th, Tue.

Brooklyn, New York

  

Luminous / Darshan

   
Luminous / Darshan  
                
On walking home, as dusk was courting night,
I looked above and saw a wondrous sight.
The sky to west was lit, in light cyan,
And darkened in the east – to deepest blue.
And in that eastern sky, there floated clouds,
Of gray below, with mounts of purest white,
That still, as darkness grew, were filled with light...

And once again, from gloom and misery,
I found reprieve, as Nature's treasury
Of lines and shades and colors found its use
In paintings ever new, with none the same,
Unmatched by all those masters past who tried
To capture just a little bit of mystery
From Nature's trove – and then were history...

And so I walked, transformed by what I'd seen,
Refreshed, made whole, as I've so often been.
And as I walked, those clouds, so luminous,
Grew darker, yet – as blues turned violet, black –
Could still be seen, as planets, stars appeared...

******
      
In war's inferno, with its sights obscene,
Could grace be found in one celestial scene?

I pondered this – and saw, that if we turn
From all the things that hurt and make us burn,
Then we may find, in skies or on this Earth,
In smallest things – for body, spirit, mind –
The sustenance we need to carry on –
A lesson that we each might quickly learn
If each would cease, to gentler voices spurn...

So though it's said that darshan is a gift
Bestowed on us by those, with power to lift
Us up from morbid ignorance, we see
That all it is, is vision, literally...
And each may find this in a different way,
But when it's found, we then can bridge the rift
Within, be whole – and good, from evil, sift...

2013 August 4th, Sun., evening
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

At 3 am in Bensonhurst

   
At 3 am in Bensonhurst

I've lived, for many years, on a city block
that lies between a Sunoco, on Cropsey,
and a Russian social hall, on Bath.

On taking out the trash, at 3 am,
I found the night air had a bracing chill,
and started on a short, digestive stroll...
I slowly walked to bright-lit Bath and then
looked up, above the roofs, towards the sky.
And there, despite the glare of city lights,
were half a dozen lonely, scattered stars
that twinkled bravely in a patch of sky
that seemed as dark as death...

These must, I thought, be brighter than the rest –
that host that city-dwellers do not see
and never may...

I turned around and headed to my door –
but closed it, thinking I should walk the block.
And so, beside the darkened Sunoco,
I saw, above the roof-line silhouette,
another set of stars, a crescent moon,
decreased past quarter – and the silent flash
of a firefly-plane that arced across the dark...
I watched this pass the moon and disappear,
as eyes, adjusting, saw the dark had hues...

I stood there looking, drinking all this in,
and then walked home – as I had seen enough
to soundly sleep my precious hours three...

But if I'd wandered north – and passing Bath,
had walked to Benson, I would then have seen
yet more of sky, above a line of trees,
and yet more stars – perhaps the baleful Mars –
and Jupiter and Sirius and more...
That waning moon would then have walked with me,
and I, bewitched, might still be standing awed
or venturing further on that moonlit street.
I then might not have slept, this summer night...

But I had seen enough –  and so returned
and mounted up the stairs towards our flat,
before the dawn in Bensonhurst...

2013 July 30th, Tue. 3:30 am
(First paragraph & last two paras added Aug. 1st, 2:40 am)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn  
     

Fluids In Fury

 
Fluids In Fury
   
When the wind is shrieking on Antarctic seas,
And the waves have grown to mountains on the move,
Then skillful whales have ways to still survive,
But humans are transfixed by fearful awe.

How powerful is air that's moving fast,
That drives destruction in the twister's whirl,
Or churns the sea and throws it at the land,
In great cyclones that circle 'round their calms.

So wind and water move and terrify,
As substance soft, ethereal turns to that
Which lifts and tears apart the works of man,
With pressure, speed then serving demon-wrath.

Bernoulli wrote and went upon his way,
But what he scribed remains the truth today,
Though some may doubt, until they start to see
How 'planes may fly and houses may explode.
 
And solids too can melt and then can flow,
Or in unmelted state vibrate and more.
So earth can swallow up a city or
Can tear it down to rubble in a trice.

And when the moving earth disturbs the seas,
Then ocean roars, as giant wall, at speed
Across the land, reclaiming as her own
The beings that had left her long ago...

Observe the power of the fluid state.
Behold the mountains that are frozen waves
That yet are moving, ever slowly, as
They crest and break in rows across the land.

But all these motions -- of the land, the sea,
The whirling air -- are driven by the sun
And by the heat that issues from the earth,
Itself a would-be sun within its heart.

And if you were to travel to the star,
Whose distant fury fuels wind and wave,
And if you could survive, what sights you'd see --
As matter, squeezed, yields radiant energy!

Then all of Earth's long history would seem
A tiny ripple in this flowing sea,
In which the whirlpools known as galaxies
Are spiraling to nothingness...

So matter is but energy, we're told,
Imprisoned and yet serving what's released,
And both in turn are issued from the word
That is a cousin to our time and space.

And though, within each atom of our cells,
The world dissolves as does the self in us,
And though we live upon the precipice,
It's in the fluids' fury that we see...

But where there's motion, there is stillness, yes.
Where all is passing, there is timelessness.
Abandon all, upon volcano's edge,
And spread your arms and whirl towards your death...

For only when we're free of fear, we live,
However briefly, yet in radiance.
Take courage then and dance with wind and wave.
The song of life is sounding in the vast.

2013 July 26th, Fri.
Brooklyn
  

Mountains

Mountains

I shall walk towards the mountains,
I shall climber past the vines,
I shall tread upon the needles,
As I climb by scented pines...

I shall mount, where lichens linger,
As the mists are speeding through.
I shall leave the clouds beneath me
And I'll see the dappled view...

I shall see the verdant valley
With its silver, winding thread.
I shall see, by golden terrace,
The rhododendron red.

I shall see the light and shadow
As they race across the hills,
I shall hear the peasant calling
To his oxen as he tills...

I shall drink of green and golden,
I shall sip of distant blue.
I shall watch, with clouds dispersing,
Olympus rise in view...

I shall view the peaks that glisten,
Reflecting dazzling sun...
I shall have my glimpse of heaven,
By dint of climbing, won...

2013 June 28th, Fri.
Brooklyn
  

How Beautiful-II

How Beautiful-II

How beautiful and dark, your eyes,
How beautiful, my love...
I see in them the dark of night
And all the stars above...

How deep, that dark within your eyes,
How deep and dark, my dear...
I see in them the galaxies,
The planets far and near...

How melting warm, your eyes, my love,
That warm your lover's heart...
How innocent, your eyes, my love,
That speak of Nature's art...

I saw such eyes before, my love,
I saw them in a deer...
I saw them from afar, my love,
But now I see them near...

When you and I are gone, my love,
This vision will remain,
Be it in fall or wintertime,
In spring or summer's rain...

When this, our world, is gone, my dear,
This spinning orb, this Earth,
This dark I see, within your eyes,
Will see a planet's birth.

And on that planet, as it spins,
And circles through the vast,
A lover will, within such eyes,
Discern two lovers past...

How beautiful and dark, your eyes,
How beautiful, my love...
I see in them the dark of night
And all the stars above...

2013 June 28th, Fri.
Brooklyn
  
How Beautiful