Memories (2023 March)

Memories (2023 March)

Our lives are passing, as our seasons are,

With each of us a leaf that buds, unfolds

And feels the touch that comes to birth with life—

With light and shade and all that life provides—

Until it wilts and then is blown away. 

And yet we leaves can touch and even talk

And feel the bonds that form and then sustain.

And even when the winds have swept away

The ones we knew and loved, they still remain

With us—as echoes do—for quite a while.

******

When I have lost the ones that I have loved

And none remains to meet with me again,

Except within, in fondest memory, 

I still will smile on seeing faces then,

As one by one they rise within my mind.

And there they will remain and speak to me

As they had done when they were still alive—

And I in turn may try to speak to them,

Not knowing whether they can hear my words, 

Until they either fade—or I depart.

2023 March 26th, Sun.

Berkeley, California

For Me and You

For Me and You

We humans weren’t ever meant to be
As lonely jackals, wary of the rest.
We need at times our solitude—and yet
We need some others too, to be our best.

In nature, there are solitary beasts.
The male orangutan may munch alone.
But lonely humans at their lunches ask—
What sin was it, for which they now atone?

We hurry to our schools or jobs and there
We meet with fellow humans—more than less,
And this may tire us or sustain us, so
Our lunches may be respites from the stress.

******

But when we are confined, at home or work,
And see and hear no others for a while—
That might be days or weeks or even months—
We might forget to laugh—or even smile.

And now—in exiles or in prisons or
In lonely houses or in sterile wards,
We humans wither, torn from those we loved,
Who now are distant—or forever gone.

We pine for scents and tastes and textures that
Are now but memories—fading, even lost.
The years go by—and then the decades too.
And this is progress—with its human cost.

******

And so we worry and we wonder how
We might fulfill our duties to the ones
From whom we parted. Mothers rise to speak
In daughters’ dreams—and fathers, in their sons’.

As sap is what sustains the cells of trees,
And flows, within us, keep our own alive,
And like the air and water—and the foods we eat,
So also is this join, on which we thrive.

We need to feel the earth and see the sky,
To hear the plants, the beasts—and humans too.
There is a vibrance that connects and heals—
And so I write this verse—for me and you.

******
 
And yet—we age and in our age despair
Of ever having strength to reach across
The oceans and the continents—for some
Have hardly strength to bear the local cross.

How often has an exile wished to be
Not one, but two or even more—so she
Could be in places far apart at once—
And realized that this could never be.

So all that we can do, it seems, is this—
To do as needed in the place we are,
For we are locals, like the nesting hens
That cannot wander, from their clutches, far.

******

We're blown apart by commerce and by war.
The wealth is drained from villages to towns
And thence to hubs of industry or where
The bankers rule and presidents are clowns.

In dreams, our bodies may be imaged, and
In waking, minds are often split in two—
And only half is present where we walk,
The other being where we’re needed too.

But let me dwell no more on sorrows here,
For surely you have had enough of those.
I can’t be near to you in body, but
Remember—that in spirit, I am close.

2018 April 5th Thu. & 7th Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
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"Does wisdom come with age?"
"It does with some of us, dear, but not with the humans.
Those beasts are very slow learners."
http://news.discovery.com/animals/videos/why-cant-chimps-speak-video-140919.htm

  

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.
   

O`bujh--অবুঝ--Ignorant

 
For Roman transcriptions and a "free translation" into English, in tabular format, set side-by-side with the original in Bengali script, please see: http://suniljanah.org/ajanah/poems/arjun/indic/o`bujh--tabular.html

That site also has a literal translation that preserves the syntax of Bengali, and a link to an audio-recording.  That recording should be useful to those who do not know Bengali but are interested in at least knowing how it sounds, as well as to those who are learning the language. -- Arjun

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অবুঝ

কোথার থেকে এসেছিলি,
কোথায় চলে গেলি,
সারা জীবন ভেবেও আমি
বুঝব না ক তা৷
  
আমিও যাব, তোর-ই মতন৷
রইবে বাকি ছাই৷
বলবে, যারা জানত আমায়,
‘বিদায় নিল, ভাই৷’
  
রাস্তা দিয়ে হাঁটি যখন,
শহর-পাড়াগাঁয়,
দূর থেকে তোর মুখটা দেখি,
চেঁচিয়ে উঠি প্রায়৷
   
কাছে এসে দেখি যখন,
বুঝি অন্য কেও৷
কত বছর বাদেও, তোকে
মরীচিকায় দেখি৷
  
যাব যখন দেহ ছেড়ে,
রইব কি আর ‘আমি’?
রইব জানি অবুঝ তখন,
যেমনি এখন আছি৷
  
বুধবার, ৩রা ফেব্রুয়ারি, ২০১৬ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক
    
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Please see/hear also:  http://suniljanah.org/ajanah/poems/arjun/indic/o`bujh--tabular.html

    

Departure-II

 
Departure—II

“So tell me then, my father,
The reason you depart.
How long will you be staying
From all of us apart?”

“I am going now, my daughter,
To that land that’s over there—
To trade the things I’m taking
For the other things we need.

“I will climb upon those mountains
To that windswept pass on high,
And I’ll walk beside the glacier,
As the cloud goes streaming by.

“And I’ll follow then the streamlet
To the river’s gorge and hear
The roaring, rushing waters,
As they tumble cold and clear.

“Descending past the boulders,
Towards the valley—shaded, green,
I will view the river, coursing
Through the plains below, serene.

“To that land beyond the mountains,
I am going, through that pass—
But when I am returning,
I do not know, alas!

“But when I come from there, love,
I’ll come with things for you
And mom and all the others—
So be a good girl, do!”

“Go then, my dearest father.
Be careful on your way.
We’ll wait for you, our father,
And for your safety pray.”

Arjun Janah
2015 Dec 13th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
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Please see also:  Departure
      
     

Kothar Theke Sneho?—কোথার থেকে স্নেহ?—Whence Came Love?

For Roman transcriptions and a "free translation" into English, in tabular format, set side-by-side with the original in Bengali script, please see: http://suniljanah.org/ajanah/poems/arjun/indic/kothar-theke-sneho--tabular.html.

That site also has a literal translation that preserves the syntax of Bengali, and a link to an audio-recording.  That recording should be useful to those who do not know Bengali but are interested in at least knowing how it sounds, as well as to those who are learning the language. -- Arjun

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কোথার থেকে স্নেহ?  

আকাশ থেকে জীবন এল,
মাটির থেকে—দেহ৷
জলের থেকে, হাওয়ার থেকে,
কোথার থেকে—স্নেহ?

যে সন্তান বেড়েছে মায়ের ভালবাসায়,
যে সন্তান রয়েছে এখনো তার আশায়—
দুজনেই বড় হয়ে পারবে কি দিতে,
শিশুরা না বলেও চাইবে যা নিতে?

******

কোথার থেকে আসে সেই ভালবাসা, বল্—
কোথার থেকে আসে—দয়া, মায়া, স্নেহ?
কোন দেবীর বুকের থেকে, মায়ের চোখে জল?
কোন ইশ্বর-আল্লা নেয় মর্ত মায়ের দেহ?

বল্ আমায়, কোথার থেকে এলি তুই কাল?
বল্ আমায়, কি কারণে পেলাম উপহার?
ছেড়ে যেতে চাই না তোকে—এখনো তুই ছোটো৷
এত দিন লড়ে, তাও মানব কি হার?

******
 
যে বাবা বৃদ্ধ হয়ে পরলোকে যায়,
যে বাবা শিশু ছেড়ে মৃত হ্য়, হায়—
দুজনের-ই নজরে আজ ধরে আছি ফিতে৷
ছিড়ে গেলে হারাব যা জন্মেছিলাম জিতে৷

আকাশ থেকে জীবন এল,
মাটির থেকে—দেহ৷
জলের থেকে, হাওয়ার থেকে,
কোথার থেকে—স্নেহ?
 
অর্জুন (বাবুই) জানা
বৃহস্পতিবার, ১০ই ডিসেম্বর, ২০১৫ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক

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Please see/hear also:  http://suniljanah.org/ajanah/poems/arjun/indic/kothar-theke-sneho--tabular.html.

    

On Marriage

On Marriage

It seems a marriage gains in strength and lasts,
when eros wanes and plays a lesser part.
For in its time that tide may ebb and yet
the fullness of the bond be unimpaired.

And if that mixing wild of metaphors
has given pause, could one alone suffice
to paint in words a wedding’s aftermath –
that light embrace in which the spouses dance?
 
Their thoughts, their words and most of all their acts
of caring build the friendship and the trust –
the rooms and girders of the house in which
the eros is a guest that comes and goes.
 
A guest that's welcome, one that gives delight –
but still a guest who's free to leave or not –
so all should be, including man and wife,
despite the ring and all it signifies.
 
We seek for permanence – to feel secure,
to give another shelter in our warmth.
And yet we know the winds that blow about
could take with them the ones that we have loved.
 
A structure built on eros might collapse
more easily than one that’s built on trust.
The guest is here tonight, tomorrow gone.
The house remains and waits for her return.
 
******
 .
In all the tumult and the ceaseless flow,
the dwellings couples make are ripples mere.
Yet in that space, however small it seems,
there still is room for all the universe.
 
For each has strength – and when the two are one,
the strengths they each possess are multiplied.
And weakness, each may have. The friend, the spouse
may know it well and yet not stint in love.
 
And two can make a space that one cannot –
a space in which to nurture that which comes,
a space that’s not reserved, with room enough
for laughter, love and all the grief and woe.
 
But some of us are single – never wed
or though once wedded, now no longer so.
And some may pine for what they missed or lost,
and yet survive and even be of cheer.
 
We need our company – we need our friends,
but friendship true is hard for us to find.
And married bliss – or married hell – are things
that few may ever have or bear for long.
 
And when we’re single, we return to homes
that often lack in human company.
A product, this – of that insanity
that empties villages and even towns…

******
   .
But those who marry and remain as joined –
they know the wedding marked a turning point.
They once were two – but then were made as one,
for better or for worse, till death’s divide.

The wedding is remembered and the years
before and after.  Children might be born
or not – and grow to adults, leave, return.
The spinster still outlives her sisters all.

For that divide will come – for some, with death,
for some, before – and only half remain,
with memory that's bittersweet, until
that remnant half in turn to nothing goes.

By chance, we're born.  By chance, we meet and wed,
perchance to then give birth, to nurture, tend –
and then to part, so one is left behind
to mark the time and wait for chanceful death.

So marriage?  “It’s a wondrous thing.” we’re told
by some, “It’s just a vestige of the past.”
by others.  Whom should you and I believe?
I've said my piece before – and now should leave.

And so I end my ode to marriage, though
my knowledge might be scant, and others say,
"He knows as much about it as a priest
who's celibate and yet gives brides advice."

2015 January 29th, Thu.
(some stanzas added Jan. 31st, Sat.)
Brooklyn, New York