Showing posts with label Brutality. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Brutality. Show all posts

Tuesday, September 30, 2025

Treachery and Terror

  
Treachery and Terror
 
What use are treaties if they are
Ignored and violated—
Not once or twice—repeatedly,
With greed and lust unsated?
 
When leaders lead in treachery
And the rest of us are blind,
Then those who deal in lechery
Leave all the rest behind. 
 
So public crimes and private ones
Compete in cruel sin,
And horrors terrorize the world—
The one we all are in.
 
****** 
  
If one has more of weaponry
And even more of lies,
And allies who support one’s acts,
Then all resistance dies—
 
Or so one might believe, until
It rises yet again
In phoenix-form, from fire and ash, 
To strike back yet again.
 
But this is not acceptable.
It can’t be tolerated.
This challenges one's dominance—
So genocides are slated.
 
2025 September 30, Tue.
Berkeley, California
 

Tuesday, April 4, 2017

Murkho Manux-মূর্খ মানুষ-We Foolish Men


This post consists of the following, in descending vertical order:

  • four lines in Bengali (মূর্খ মানুষ)
  • a Roman transcription (Mūrkha Mānuṣa) from http://translate.google.com;
  • a voice recording of the Bengali;*
  • a Roman transcription (Murkho Manux) as described at Bharot Xadhin;
  • an English translation (We Foolish Men).
------------------------------------------------

* A reasonable, prosaic voicing can now also be heard by:

  • copying and pasting the Bengali-script text into the left panel at the Google link given above (after selecting Bengali as the input language);
  • and then clicking on the speaker icon below that left panel.
------------------------------------------------

মূর্খ মানুষ 

হায় ভগবান, হায় আল্লাহ, 
হায় গৌতম, চৈতন্য!
মূর্খ মানুষ হয়েছে পাগল, 
নিজেকে করেছে অন্য৷

মঙ্গলবার, ৪ঠা মার্চ, ২০১৭ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক
-------------------------------------

Mūrkha Mānuṣa

Hāẏa bhagabāna, hāẏa āllāha,
hāẏa gautama, caitan'ya!
Mūrkha mānuṣa haẏēchē pāgala,
nijēkē karēchē an'ya.

Maṅgalabāra, 4ṭhā Mārca, 2017 Khri
Bruklina, Ni'uẏarka
---------------------------------------------

Please click on the rounded triangular play-button on
the right to hear a voice recording. In some browsers,
you may have to click a second time. This might not
work on cellphones.  Adjust the volume on your device
as needed.


Record and upload voice >>
---------------------------------------------
Murkho Manux

Hae bho'goban, hae alla,
Hae goutom, coitonno!
Murkho manux hoeche pagol,
Nijeke koreche onno.

Mongolbar, 4t’ha Marc, 2017 Khri
Bruklin, Niu Io`rk
------------------------------------------

We Foolish Men

Oh god, with all your many names,
Oh dear, departed brothers!
We foolish men have lost our minds,
And see ourselves as others.

2017 April 4th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Shadows

 
Shadows
 
I saw the sky was laughing,
I saw the clouds that blew.
I saw the sun was shining,
Amidst the white and blue.
 
I saw the flowers blooming
Beneath that sky above.
It seemed the Earth was singing
Of happiness and love.
 
And then my eyes were blinded,
By light, more bright than sun.
And then, my ears were bleeding
And I, with death, was one.
 
******
  
I see the bodies scattered
Beneath the roiling smoke –
And am I dead or living –
And is this just a joke?
 
A man, at me, is grinning –
His head is all that’s left.
A smoldering girl is writhing –
Of face and skin bereft…
 
The flies and maggots feasted
As corpses rotted slow.
And I, among them, wandered,
Not knowing where to go.
 
******
  
But now I’m dead and gruesome,
With all who once lived here.
And yet – a child is playing
And showing naught of fear.
 
For see – the sun is shining,
As flowers toss in wind –
And so, it’s back to heaven,
Where humans once had sinned.
 
The children here are laughing –
The innocence of youth –
And I and mine are shadows,
Unwanted and uncouth.

2014 August 27th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York


-------------------------------------------------------------
A translation into Bangla (Bengali) can be 

found at Bhut (Ghosts).
  

Sunday, September 22, 2013

The Price of Sin


The Price of Sin

A fish was swimming in the sea.
It now becomes a part of me.
Its spirit long has left its flesh,
For spirit-nature tends to flee
A carcass, while it still is fresh,
So souls are of encumbrance free.

******
 
Or so, at least, I would presume,
As others mostly do assume,
So all can look at dinners, lunches,
And guiltlessly, those meals, consume,
As well as breakfasts, teas and brunches.

And turning, therefore, to my fish,
Which looks to be a tasty dish,
I see it's sautéed well.  I smell
Its fragrance and I fondly wish
Its taste and flavor will be swell.

I pick the muscle from the spine.
I taste the flesh.  It tastes divine.
It's sad this being had to die
To make, for me, a luncheon fine.
I eat the fish – and do not cry.

But still, a nagging thought remains,
That nags and nags, as certain pains
May do, that we may wish were not,
But still persist, till each obtains
Attention due, that we forgot.

I wonder if, with tables turned,
By fishy chef, I would be burned –
Have salt and spice on scalded skin,
So I, who's dining, unconcerned,
Would fully pay the price of sin.

******
 
And this, I can't but wonder too:
Are our assumptions really true?
Does the spirit truly leave
(As hermit-crabs, their shelters do),
As many smugly may believe,
Until they die – and dinners rue?

2013 September 21, Sat. afternoon,
between Chinatown, Manhattan,
and Bensonhurst, Brooklyn,

on the N and D trains, on
the way home from the
doctor's office in C-t.

  

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

Egypt's Sin

  
Egypt's Sin

In Giza now, the pavement's stained,

With blood of those who died.
The vultures wheel in Cairo yet
We dare not say they lied --
The ones who did this monstrous thing.

So Saudi "aid" will flow.
The Emirates will also give
But all the world will know
That Egypt has been murdered now.

The Copts will slowly flee,
As innocents will die for naught
And all the world will see.


The blood in Egypt marks the end
Of era that had been.
For even royal heads will roll
To pay for Egypt's sin.


*******

Two wrongs together cannot make
A right, it has been said.
So Morsi slapped up Egypt more
And Sissi shot her dead.

Egyptians, rise!  Do not forgo
What's right, but wake and see.
The ones that murder Islamists
Your murderers will be.

The Islamists are but a ruse
To rise again to power.
The Socialists, they'll wipe out next.
So each will have his hour.


So Hitler did, as Germany,
With new-found pride, applauded.
What happened next is history.
Can Egypt now afford it?


2013 August 19th, Mon., 4:31 am (first section)
(second section added August 20th, Tue. 8:15 am)
Brooklyn, New York


Yet More Advice 
 

Sunday, August 18, 2013

Yet More Advice


Yet More Advice
     
 (There are references, in parts, to the most recent horrific events in Egypt.  Remembering all the sacrifice and hope of the "Arab Spring", let us hope that courage, reason, humanity, sober idealism and sanity prevail over fear, irrationality, brutality, cynicism and insanity. )
                                                     
If you find a vassal country takes a path that you dislike,
It's your duty to divert it, with a bold preemptive strike.

But when bleeding troops and money, you had better think of ways,
By which to wield your influence.  A little thinking pays.

You can call for free elections and for freedom of the press.
If you don't like who's elected, push for freedom to repress.

And some advice to vassals too – don't take your boss for granted.
They'll let you hang tomorrow – if circumstance demands it.

So if you are the rulers there, depend not on what's distant.
Depend instead on power raw, and seize the precious instant.

If you've ruled a nation long enough (being really who's in charge),
You know that to retain it, there are duties to discharge.

Elections can be dangerous, the people then have say.
The military then must move – express a forceful “Nay!”

You can engineer conditions that will have them up in arms –
The populace – and those who are dependent on your alms...

You can tolerate the ones who're hip, and even spoon them honey,
But you've got to draw the line with those, who're sniffing for the money.

If you buy your suits in London and your wine is shipped from France,
You can't brook interruptions in your dinner or your dance.

Your children are at Stanford, and you've got to pay the fees.
So there's little choice, except to promptly deal with the disease.

The masses, you've contempt for – for they're backward and they're vile.
Can you let them enter in your rooms – and settings then defile?

They are talking of an Allah, and who knows where that may lead?
There are demons there in plenty, who on such as you may feed.

And if they taste of power, then it's curtains for your crowd.
It's then Paris, Rome or London.  But you mustn't say this loud...

For your fiefdom, it is there, where the Nile is flowing broad,
Where the Pharaohs and the Ptolemies had ruled, with spear and sword...

It's best to do it short and sharp, to cow them with your terror,
For laxity in this regard would be a serious error.

And if the slaughter continues – no matter, be resolved.
Such things will be forgotten, once you've got the problems solved.

It doesn't matter who you are – your politics, I mean.
It's power – that's what matters, and the rest becomes a sheen.

You can be a bearded mullah, wear a yarmulke or not,
But if you once buy into power, then you'll leave the rest to rot.

There are those who look to oracles, or pray to the divine,
But in politics, no miracles can build for you a spine.

So you've got to bite that bullet – with its taste and smell of grease.
You've got to swallow then your spit and pull that trigger –  please!

Astrologers may tempt you, you can have your palms be read,
But when it comes to enemies, you'd better have them dead.

There are graves enough for ditherers, or those who were uncertain,
It's better to be murderers, than ousted, that is certain.

The masses may be restive, but let's understand this truth:
They'll bear your rule in silence, if you show you're lacking ruth.

But know the ones to squeeze and also know the ones to culture.
The spoils of war and peace are used, to loyal vassals nurture.

Pay tributes to the ones above, from those below, get same.
In finance, as in bedrooms, there's no place or point in shame.

You've got to have that instinct for subservience to power.
Today it is the U.S.A., tomorrow's another's hour.

That boss you had for many years is aging now, you see.
It's time to cultivate the one, who's itching, boss to be.

With power, as with money.  And the two may go together,
Or for a while may wander, till they reach their ends of tether.

You can shelter in a Dilli, in a Tokyo or Beijing,
But when you feel them quiver, then to old New York take wing.

And if Washington is shaking, then you'd better look around.
Whatever be your politics, let your finances be sound.

There are those who see the world as did the Buddha or the Jinas,
But the others see a chance to lose – or grasp and be the winners.

So there's no place for scruples or a doleful frame of mind.
Why seek for liberation, when your fortune, you can find?

The Century of Labor's past – another one is here.
It's time for entrepreneurship and casting off of fear.

Divisions sow, of every type.  It's best when they're divided.
The working class consists of sheep – by wolves of cunning herded.

Take the best of East and West and North and South – amalgamate!
Then you needn't fear a debacle, as in the Watergate.

You could kowtow to a Pinochet, a Reagan or a Mao,
But in dealing with the obstacles, can you follow still the Tao?

Pay obeisance then to Mammon – and to Lakshmi and Ganesha,
So you can say, "...diversified, by every kind of measure...".

****** 
  
You should wipe out now the Islamists (the moderates as well),
And label all as terrorists.  And some may see and tell.

How many will be listening?  There are interests at stake!
The sleepers, they will sleep through it. A scattered few may wake.

But make the price of waking steep.  And show them that you can,
With prison, maiming, murder and, of course, the legal ban.

The courts bow down to power, as the Pharaoh wields the sun.
And power comes, as Mao had said, from the barrel of a gun.

So show them all what terror is.  Riyadh will then applaud.
And from the Gulf will come support, to fire your flaming sword.

The Islamists have had their use.  Now use them as a ruse
To gain control – and then proceed, to ticking bombs defuse.

For after you have dealt with them, or even well before,
With the Communists and Socialists, you should settle full you score.

For vermin such, the time has come, to end their numbered days!
And all who matter will be glad, when you, their kind, erase.

So courage, then, oh generals!  The world relies on you!
Your Egypt will be prosperous.  And so, of course, will you!

And those who dither, from their doubts, will surely see the dawn.
They've interests – and so will come, with F16's, to fawn.


2013 August 16th Fri. & 17th, Sat.
(last 10 couplets added Aug. 19th, Mon.)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn


More Advice

Advice
 

Sunday, June 30, 2013

The Empire


The Empire

The Empire grows – and all must bow
To It, on bended knee,
Be they the nations of the world
Or those like you and me.

The Empire knows – and yet, we see,
This knowing, It denies.
So though we have no privacy,
We have our fill of lies.

The Empire speaks – and none can dare
To challenge what is said.
The Empire acts – and those who dared
Are silenced – or are dead.

******
   
The Empire grows – and who can stop
Its growth, oh citizens?
It's up to us to say, “Enough!”
Before Its next offense.

But each, who stands, will soon be crushed
Without that public space
And public ear – and voice and deed
That spits in Empire's face.

Yet spit alone won't do the job –
For spit is merely spite.
Our hearts and minds – they must be one,
To win, for all, this fight.

2013 June 28th, Fri.
(with last 2 stanzas added June 29th, Sat.)
Brooklyn
  


Friday, June 21, 2013

The Kite-Flying Rat


The Kite-Flying Rat

 

“You can see that you'll be dying,” said the spider to her prey,
As spirit looked at spirit in the eye,
“But it's out of love I do this, to be one with you in body
As in essence – as you know you can't deny.”

******

“Money makes the world go 'round,
Money makes it go.
Remember, dear, when you are grown,
Your mother told you so...

“So you’d better find your money, dear,
And sock your stash away.
For then you’ll never have to fear
That you’ve no cash to pay.”

******

Eat and be eaten, for that's how it is
As you're climbing the ladder of life.
A lifetime of sorrow, for a moment of bliss,
And your birth in this vortex of strife...

There's the worker who's fired and the one who's retired,
And they both have no income today.
There's the child who is dying and the mother who's crying,
For where is the money to pay?

******

I was walking and dreaming and heard, in my dream,
A sound that I'd heard in the past –
The sound of a kite as I stood on a roof
With a string that was reeling out fast.

I could hark to the sound of the kite in the wind,
I could feel how it tugged on the string.
I could pull and release, I could see the kite dive,
I could see it then rise and take wing.

On a zephyr it drifted, on a westerly wind,
And it floated and sank in the east.
But when the wind freshened, it rose on an arc,
That kite – and the heart in this beast.

There's a heart in this beast and a beast in that heart,
And that beast has a story to tell.
But that beast cannot speak – it can smile, it can weep,
And there's nothing it wishes to sell.

For the beast in our hearts is a kindlier beast
Than the beasts that are governed by mind.
Like the kite, it can soar, like the kite, it can dive.
It's a sensitive beast – you will find.

******

I captured and 'prisoned a dark little mouse,
In a jar with a lid that had holes.
And it leaped to escape and it injured its nose
On the sharps of that lid that had holes.

I went, with the mouse in that jar, to a field,
Where the grasses were waving in wind.
And I saw the mouse run, but it limped as it ran
And I knew that its captor had sinned.

***

I dreamed that I witnessed a kite-flying rat
That had weights, on its back, as a load.
And yet, with a gust, it was torn from its perch
And fell to its death on the road.

I dreamed that I knelt and I gentled that rat
That twitched as it struggled to die.
And as it was dying I took off its load
And left it unfettered to lie.

***

I dreamed that a hound was pursuing a deer –
And I saw the hound leap at the deer.
I saw the deer struggle and I saw the deer die –
And I saw its eyes widened in fear...

But the hound, with its fangs – it had love in its heart...
It knew little of music or math...
And yet, it had feeling – and feeling sans art –
Like the deer and the mouse and the rat...

***

I saw that a peasant was tilling the field
With the rays of the sun on his head.
I saw that a worker was limping, at dusk,
To sleep for awhile on his bed.

And the face of the worker was darkened with grime,
From his chin to the gray of his locks...
And the brow of the peasant was furrowed by woe,
As he struggled with plow and with ox...

***

I walked by the ocean, when the sun had gone down
And the stars had appeared in the sky.
I walked by the ocean and I heard the waves roar,
And I asked of the spirit, “Oh why?”

I walked by the ocean, with the stars in the sky,
And I saw, in the waters, a light.
In the darkness it flashed, with a glow that was green,
In the dark of the ocean at night.

******

I can still hear the sound of the wind on the kite,
I can see it dive down and then soar.
I can see how it climbs to the clouds up on high,
I can hear, in the silence, its roar.

There's the wave and the wind and the kite-flying rat
And the body that lies on the road.
And we wonder at this, the world we are in,
And we ask, why we carry this load.

There's the mouse that is limping, with blood on her nose,
And she's searching for those that she left.
There's the little ones squeaking, for mother that's gone.
There's a world, that's of pity, bereft.

There's the hound with the deer and the deer with her child
And the hound with her puppies that cry.
There's the white of the eye in the deer that will die,
And the beast that is crying out, “Why?”

There's the lord of the land, with his mansion so grand,
And the peasant who swears as he tills.
There's the worker who toils, who is blackened with oils
As he slaves for the man with the mills.

******

There's the one who's retired and the worker who's fired
And neither has income today.
There's the mother who's dying and the child who is crying,
For who has the money to pay?

Eat and be eaten, for that is the way,
The way of the world and of life.
Abandon your shame, as you're playing the game,
The game of the dollar and knife.

******

“Money makes the world go 'round,
Money makes it go.
Remember, dear, when I am gone,
Your mother told you so...

“What happened to your money, dear,
The money that you earned?”
“It’s mostly gone to bankers, mom,
And some of it, I burned.”

******

“I see that you are dying,” said the predator to prey,
As each of them saw other in the eye,
“But know, you will be living, oh my spirit, in this flesh.
So fear not – for I'll eat you, as you die.”

2013 June 16th, Sun.
(with additions during the week)
Brooklyn

 

Saturday, June 8, 2013

Returning Home + Bradley's Way


Returning Home

How peaceful are the shades of blue above,
With streaks of white that arc across the deep...
How glorious, the greens in slanting sun,
How restful, those in shadows cool below...
How comforting, the reds and browns of bricks...
The city seems at peace as sunset comes...

And soon enough, it will be dark again,
As blues give way to indigos and blacks.
And far from city lights, a villager
Will see, afar, the myriad burning suns...

How beautiful, this world, in which we are,
How wonderful, this fleeting chance to see...

Returning home, from frenzied place of work,
With no one home, to whom to hurry to,
A little time is found, for breathing free,
A little time, to lift the head and see,
Remembering the ones that are no more,
With sorrow – yet with gratitude to be...

2013, June 4th Tue.
Brooklyn
 
---------------------------------------------------------------
 
Bradley's Way

How peaceful seem those shades of blue above,
Until they see those streaks of white appear,
Those villagers, who scatter if they can,
Who seek the shadows where the elders hide,
Uncomforted.  And then, the dreaded blasts
That shred the children, who were on their way...

How further, this pretense that cannot last,
This city, driven wild by Mammon's lust,
Where children go to school to be the tools
Of those that wage those wars that have no end?

And in those growing children's eyes, we see
The kindled fires of that insanity...

And when will soldiers sent abroad return,
And those, that fly the drones, from horrors, turn,
To see, with eyes renewed, the sky, the trees,
To watch their elders and the setting sun,
To lift their children in their arms and say,
“No more of sin. We walk on Bradley's way.”?

June 8th, Sat.
Brooklyn

Friday, May 24, 2013

Trees--Part I--Deciduous Trees in Spring


Trees – Part I

(Deciduous Trees in Spring)

How varied are the leaves of roadside trees
That grace this city that is hard and bleak,
Lending softness, soothing urban eyes,
Recalling sylvan past to memory...

Their sizes range from tiniest to large,
Their shapes, from feathery to boldly splayed,
With concave polygons and fractal forms –
And quite distinct from conifer and grass.

For planted here are mostly “broad-leaved” trees,
Whose unprotected leaves, in wintry climes,
Are shed in fall and then return in spring –
With hues, in seasons both, inspiring rhymes.

******
 
And now, the shades of green are darkening,
With some still light, as was the tender growth.
And yellow flames are seen in canopies
And shades of red in maples and in plums.

How wondrous are the colors of a spring
That deepen as the summer sun arcs high
And ripen into riot of the fall –
That's swept away as winter's broom clears all.

And here, amidst the ever-changing forms
Of trees deciduous, conifers maintain
A somber dignity, as adults may
As all around them children run and play.

******
 
How many kinds of life can coexist –
And even trees are manifold in form.
And yet, the madnesses we suffer from
Insist that all, to single mode, conform.

So I, who daily walk upon the streets –
And when returning home have time to see,
May owe my remnant sanity to these,
The motley trees, content to simply be.

By humans chosen, planted in their rows,
Unbalanced, stunted by our savage saws,
They still regain their balance and their grace – 
And though they're hemmed, grow wild and beautiful.

2013 May 18th Sat.(1st 6 stanzas) & 23rd Thu. (last 3)
Brooklyn, New York

Arjun Janah < sjanah@aol.com >