Mayar Cho'le-মায়ার ছলে+An Infant Cries in Palestine

মায়ার ছলে

ফিলিস্তিনে শিশু কাঁদে।
দূর সুদানেও তাই। 
কঙ্গোতেও কান্না ভাসে। 

ইয়েমেন দেশেও, ভাই। 

যতই কাঁদে, পায় না জবাব। 
চুপ হয়ে যায় শেষে।
ত্রাসের থেকে নেই যে রেহাই, 
দুর্ভাগা সব দেশে।

দেশে-দেশে, অনাহারে 
লোকে ভুগে মরে— 
নইলে কবর, নইলে শ্মশান, 
জ্যান্ত, বোমার ঝড়ে।

****** 

উপমহাদেশের ব্যোমে 
শোকের বাতাস বয়ে। 
পূর্ব থেকে কাঁদুনি এসে
পশ্চিম-নিবাসী হয়।

******

কার আদেশে হত্যা এতো? 
কোন কানুনে, শোক? 
জানলে পরে, জানিও আমায়— 
যেটাই জবাব হোক। 

‘আমি-তুমি, আমরা-তারা!’ 
বিবাদ, লড়াই চলে। 
অন্তরে যে সবাই এক-ই, 
ভোলায়, মায়ার ছলে। 

এই মায়া তো উৎস, ক্রোধের। 
দয়ার মায়া নয়। 
এর ফাঁদে লোক বিবেক হারায়।
নিষ্ঠুরতার জয়। 

সোমবার, ২রা সেপ্টেম্বর, 
বার্ক্লি, কালিফর্নিয়া 

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An Infant Cries in Palestine

An infant cries in Palestine, 
Another in Sudan. 
The winds in Congo carry wails. 
In Yemen, it's the same. 

No answer to the crying, so 
It comes, at last, to end. 
No respite from the terror, pain—
In these forsaken lands 

Where people die from famines or
Are buried, burned, alive
As bombs descend like rain in storms
On those who’re terrified.

******

The winds of weeping waft across
Subcontinental skies,
As sorrows sough from East to West
And find their resonance.

******

By whose command, this violence? 
Which law dictates this grief? 
If you come to know, inform me, 
Whatever it may be. 

“You and me! Us and them!” 
Disputes and fights go on. 
That all of us are the same, within—
That truth has been forgotten.

 
This is a cause of our madness, while
Our kindness lies discarded. 
We lose our consciences in snares. 
Cruelty prevails. 

2024, September 2nd, Mon. 
(translated from Bengali, September 3rd) 
Berkeley, California

Peace and War

. 
Peace and War
.
The silence and the summer sun
On California’s coast,
The rustling of the leaves of trees,
The distant, passing train,
.
The letting go of everything 
Of which I once could boast,
The touching by the cooling breeze,
The easing of the strain,
.
The blue of sky, the green of leaves,
The warmth of sun on skin,
The calling of the bird I hear, 
The sway of grasses tall—
.
These all combine and so provide,
Within this world of sin,
A music of the eye and ear
That brings relief to all.
.
******
.
And yet, the all-devouring greed
Will rarely pause to taste
Of all of this that beings need,
While laying more to waste. 
.
So wealth will flow, accumulate,
And bombs will fall and burst,
As burnings rise, along with hate,
And children die of thirst.
.
****** 
.
I call to those who've closed their blinds
To open windows wide
And look, with open minds and hearts,
Across the harsh divide—
.
To see that children, everywhere,
And women, are the same—
That sentients feel of grief and pain,
As humans should of shame.
.
2024 July 15th, Mon.
Berkeley, California
.

Grace and Strength

 
Grace and Strength

The rogues and rascals rise and rule.
Some cheer—as others weep.
Some say, “It's always been this way.”
Some search for reasons deep,
And others say that might is right—
And so enjoy their sleep.

We watch the scenes, on TV screens, 
Of horrors far away,
And wonder when these things will end—
And lo—it’s break of day—
But not the dawn of hope that brings
The peace for which we pray.

And here, and where I first saw light,
The time for polls is close.
Some lead the others by a mile
And others by a nose.
But whom to choose, among the rogues,
Is something no one knows,

Who’s taken time to see, to read—
To delve a little deep.
The more we learn, the worse we feel,
The more we’d like to weep!
But never fear—and persevere—
Until the final sleep!

For every three steps forwards, there
Are two steps back again.
And so we struggle now, as did
The ones who struggled when
The generations past had fought 
Their battles—but in Zen—

For when we lose that inner sight,
We also lose our way,
And so are led where rascals lead 
Us—more and more astray.
Inhale, exhale, and smile to greet—
The grace and strength of day.

2024 March 27th, Wed.
Berkeley, California 

Poetry—and Fortune

 
Poetry—and Fortune

Poetry, in you I found a solace true—
Depicting, in a foreign tongue, what I 
Perceived of worth, in spite of all we rue  
In this, the world we’re in, not knowing why 
We came—or whence—or where we’re going to.

And then, on finding, buried deep within, 
My own forgotten tongue, whose cadence I
Had gained in childhood, through my closest kin,
And then had seemed to lose—and left to die,
I found the strength to turn—and so begin. 

******

How rarely do we get, alas, this chance
To find again what we had thought we’d lost!
As one by one the words began to dance
Upon my tongue, not asking for the cost 
Of long neglect, I felt the grace of Chance—

That goddess, yes, to whom we rarely pray,
Who yet determines what we are and do,
Whose willful whims we must perforce obey—
Who spins, upon her fingers, me and you—
And only rarely kisses us—in play.

******

And so the prosody of Greece and Rome
Had passed, through western isles, to a distant land—
Where I, like others, spoke a tongue at home
And learned, in school, to speak and understand
Another that we made in part our own—

And then had met the rhythms, side by side, 
Of a lilting tongue of sky and sun and field—
Of cloud and rain and rivers flowing wide—
To clash with these and then to merge and yield—
To birth the waves that motes like me could ride.

2023 January 26th, Thu.
Berkeley, California

I, Coward

 
I, Coward
 
From seeing what addictions do to men
And women, I had stayed away
From many things that draw us humans in—
But now I peck and stare at bright-lit screens.
 
******
 
I'm caught within a world I did not make,
Except at times by following the trend—
I thing that I'd resisted all my life,
Despite the lures of “going with the flow”.
 
I've held to my convictions and my code,
Not making prime the interest in self
And self-advancement that has long prevailed—
And this had helped me in my course of life.
 
I'd viewed the world, it seemed, with clarity,
And so made choices based on “what was right”—
Although I knew the limits to my sight—
Or learned of it, with due humility.
 
To “swim against the tide” is hard enough—
But even harder when there's turbulence.
Exhaustion and confusion drain one's strength.
I once was brave but now am filled with dread—
 
******
 
For when the conflicts in my inner self
Began, as duties clear became opposed,
I could no longer act with a conscience clear
And bear the consequence as I had done.
 
So those decisions, that involved a choice
Of leaving either one or other kin,
I could not make—and so was paralyzed
Until compelled to choose—with a heavy heart.
 
And ever since, I've been so anxious, tense—
Whenever conflicts rose or could be seen
Arising on the road ahead that I
Would lapse again to depths of cowardice.
 
“A brave one dies but once; a coward dies
A thousand deaths”. And this, I've realized—
As every day, I wake—not touched by hope,
But fear instead—as dawn brings deeper night.
 
******
 
What remedy is there for cowardice—
When basic discipline has broken down?
I wish I knew. I’ve tried to face the fear
And live with it—as I have done so far.
 
But how much longer can I live in dread?
And how much longer can I put on hold
The acts of living, as I’ve done for long?
And what, for others, is the consequence?
 
In all my years, I’ve had my share of woe,
Have suffered losses, wept and smiled again,
Have labored, struggled, savored small success—
But now, for twenty years, I've dug this well.
 
******
 
And more and more I now distract myself
With things that seem of little consequence—
And so avoid the acts that dredge up all
That makes me panic. So the tension builds.
 
2022 Aug 15, Mon.
(on the 75^th anniversary
of India's independence)
Berkeley, California
 

Reasons Why

In several ways, this must be one of the worst (or at least strangest) poems I have ever written.  But please read it to the end, if you are able.
.
The format may be distracting, but the content is even more disturbing.  That disturbance may be needed, however, to see our way out from a trap of our own making. 
------------------------------------------------
.

.
Reasons Why 
.
In places far, the soldiers die,
And what can kinsfolk do but cry?
When more are sent to kill and die,
Who dares to ask for reasons why?
.
The soldiers are trained to just comply
And not to ask for reasons why.
And so we send them out to die—
Too often, to support a lie.
.
So Nation A and Nation B
Send humans out, like you and me,
Who could be friends—except, you see,
They think they’re serving A and B.
.
But is that sacrifice deserved
By those, whose wealth is well-preserved--
The ones, by ardent soldiers served
Or those, for "martyrdom", reserved?
.
******
.
They meet, those dons from A and B—
The ones who rule both you and me
And soldiers too. But can’t you see?
They’re using those like you and me.
.
They sit and chat and laugh and drink,
As humans should. And then they wink
And make their deals that link, unlink
The fates of those who’ve ceased to think.
.
In every nation, it’s the same.
Another nation gets the blame—
Along with those, who’re set to shame
And silenced—those against this game.
.
And so we are distracted and
We fail to see and understand.
The years go by like flowing sand
And soldiers still are in demand.
.
******
.
If only those, who don their suits
And walk on marbled floors, wore boots
And then were sent in those pursuits
That soldiers are—we’d see the fruits!
.
Then wars might cease—and peace prevail.
We might be rid of this travail.
But still—we do not see, and hail
The one that hammers in the nail.
.
And so we each are crucified—
And soldiers most, who’re deified,
But only when they’ve glorified
This game. We should be mortified.
.
A soldier dies a “glorious death”
And so the need for more is met,
As others join the ranks and get
Their meager pay—and pain and death.
.
******
.
Without the film-crew, where’s the star?
Without the worker, where’s the car?.
Without the soldier, where’s the war?
Till robots rise, that’s where we are.
.
When soldiers die, we do not care—
Except when lights and sirens blare.
And then it’s far too much to bear.
We seek revenge as our rightful fare.
.
A soldier is portrayed as brave.
In truth, he’s molded to a slave—
Too often, bowing to a knave.
Obedience is what rulers crave.
.
The one religious wakes and prays.
The one who isn’t marks his days.
But neither stops to see the grays.
The order comes—and he obeys.
.
******
.
But who’s he shooting, beating? Ask!
And should he question then the task?
“It doesn’t matter! Don the mask
And like a robot do the task!”
.
And so we all are robotized.
This quality is highly prized.
We might, as humans, be disguised.
Our freedom, though, has been excised.
.
What freedom is left for an employee?
A slave to a wage, she will always be.
And that's how it is for you and me
In the land of the brave and the home of the free.
.
And that's how it is, in every land—
In nations small and in nations grand.
It's been this way since we've tilled the land—
As our lords and masters understand.
.
******
.
Our work is measured by their gauges.
So soldiers earn, with gore, their wages.
Mammon’s clerks have scribed the pages.
The cage is sealed. The battle rages.
.
So dogs and roosters fight and shred
Opponents. Floors are smeared with red.
With blood, the blood-lust must be fed.
The cheers resound, when one lies dead.
.
We count our wins and bear our losses.
We carry, each of us, our crosses.
We catch the ball the captain tosses
And run with it. We bow to bosses.
.
So soldiers too must daily do.
They’re humans, just like me and you.
They're trained to pull that chariot too—
That juggernaut of this circus-zoo.
.
******
.
So many soldiers take their lives
And leave behind their parents, wives
And children too. Our love revives
When bombs explode and none survives.
.
They died together, blasted, burned.
The wages that their service earned
Have ceased. Will widows’ pleas be spurned
For pensions—or for lessons learned?
.
The funds and arms for death were sent
By those, on wreaking mayhem, bent.
A superpower long had lent
What’s needed, taking lives as rent.
.
But why? Go ask of Mammon and
Of Satan. They’ve had motives grand
And petty. But the fronts are manned
By those who must not understand.
.
******
.
A nearby nation once had burned
And tactics practiced there were turned
To uses here, by those who’d learned
To murder, maim—for credits earned.
.
Such schools exist, for ardent sons,
Who there are trained, perhaps with guns—
Or else without—for they’re the ones
Whose bodies burst like searing suns.
.
They don’t have planes and missiles, so
They use their feet, however slow,
And going where they’re told to go,
They then deliver there the blow.
.
So soldiers once again will die
And others too. The limbs will fly.
The bodies, torn and charred, will lie.
And who will ask for reasons why?
.
******
.
So thousand-pounders do as well.
They turn a town into a hell.
But who is there to see and tell?
Those stories aren’t fit to sell.
.
When suicide bombers kill a score,
It’s a heinous crime like none before.
When missiles daily kill far more,
That’s war—and who is keeping score?
.
The bombers circle once again
And drop their bombs like falling rain.
And beings burn and cry in pain,
But Terror doesn’t fly a plane—
.
Except that once—that we remember—
On an autumn morning in September,
When our homeland too received an ember
Of the fires we’ve set—that some remember.
.
******
.
And soldiers shoot civilians too,
Who aren’t armed—and I and you
May hear at times of one or two,
As armies do what armies do.
.
A thousand pellets, flying fast!
The boy had ducked. They speeded past.
The girl could not.  She sees her last.
And so the daily die is cast.
.
So many children, walking blind!
The captain says we should not mind.
A better means is hard to find.
Our use of pellets shows we’re kind.
.
And still, we see the flying stone
That flung with force can break the bone.
That’s all he has. For that alone,
The thrower may, for long, atone.
.
******
.
These bullets now—as you can tell--
Are ones the pelters know too well.
They pulverize the bones. They sell
Because they make, of life, a hell.
.
But this again is seen as kind
Or justified. We should not mind.
In every nation, some will find
That “kindness” has been redefined.
.
Seventy thousand listed dead.
A street that’s often bathed in red.
The youths are now, by zealots, led.
The ones, who reasoned, long are dead.
.
That demon that is Blind Religion—
That plague that’s ravaged every region—
Has mounted now on that of Nation 
And whips us on towards damnation.
.
******
.
But Faith and Nation need their stash,
So see—how deep they bow to Cash! .
And lo—it turns this world to trash,
And all that’s precious, serves to smash.
.
And so the spiral turns and turns.
The children cry. The village burns.
The vultures wait. And what returns
Is ash, perhaps, in plastic urns.
.
A thousand miles. The widow weeps.
A little bit of ash, she keeps.
But where he served, another leaps.
The Reaper, yet another reaps.
.
How many humans more will die?
How many orphans more will cry?
How many bullets more will fly?
And who will pause to question why?
.
******
.
A story has its bends and twists.
Their weapons could be arms and fists,
But all we’ll ever see are lists
In which the slain are terrorists.
.
That woman and that child as well?
Those aren’t things on which we dwell.
There’s no one with a voice to tell
“They’ve turned our home into a hell.”
.
But where is “home” and who are “they”?
That home’s unseen and far away.
Who orders this? I cannot say.
But soldiers listen and obey.
.
It could be at a barbed-wire border.
It could be for the sake of order.
It could be by the forest’s border.
But soldiers must obey the order.
.
******
.
A girl is slain. Her parents sigh.
But should her siblings only cry?
So tens of thousands more will die.
And who will ask for reasons why?
.
2019 February 19th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York
.  

Peace / A Buddha of Our Times

Peace / A Buddha of Our Times

I say, “the soul” but mean “the mind”.
Perhaps I am confused.
My soul (or mind) had lost its peace
From being much abused.

And who abused it? Could it be
Itself that should be blamed—
Or circumstance—or others, who
Had better stay unnamed?

If I had found the answer,
It could well have been a lie.
The scab was made for healing, not
For picking for the “why?”

I cannot claim I healed myself
Or found the peace within.
And yet I did find solace, though
This world is steeped in sin.

And what I found, I’ll summarize
By saying only this:
By stepping out of madness, one
May find a bit of bliss.

There’s body-mind and then perhaps
The soul—or is this mind?
I do not know. In everything,
I know we should be kind.

But life may often be unkind.
It’s rarely only fun.
We get our depth from suffering—
Unless it’s overdone.

Too often, we encounter pain
And grief we can’t endure.
And then we seek and hope for that
Which might enact a cure.

And if this comes, we then are blessed.
But though we hope and pray,
There may be times when night prevails,
Without the hope of day.

Amidst the pain and misery,
When hope itself is gone,
We ask ourselves what lies ahead
And why we’re going on.

What answer can we give ourselves
Or those who are in need,
Except that life is precious, so
We walk where it may lead.

We live and so we taste of joy
And equally of grief.
So pain and pleasure come and go,
And worry and relief.

And when it’s time to leave behind
This life and those we love,
We cast our eyes towards the earth
Or the sky that waits above.

From earth and air and water, we
Were born—and when we leave,
To these again we all return,
Whatever we believe.

But that’s the body. Does the soul
Endure—or does it die?
I do not know, and those who say
They do—perhaps they lie.

We came with nothing, never knowing
The reason why we came.
We go with nothing, still not knowing
The reason for this game.

So each of us is humbled, in
That death as in this life.
And all that each can hope for is
The peace that ends the strife—

For conflict, in the world we see
And in the world within,
Is at the root of misery
And much of human sin.

And when that conflict ceases (if
At least within the soul),
We savor then that peace that heals
And makes our beings whole.

The Buddhas say, “Let go, let go—
Of fear and of desire.
Then see their waves—that rise, subside…
Be freed, by this, from fire.”

We cling and so we suffer. Yet
We cannot cling to that
Which is by nature passing. Do
We see that that is that?

I wish upon you happiness—
A long and happy life.
But more than that, I wish that peace.
May free your soul from strife.

There’s body-mind and then perhaps—
That soul. I do not know.
Be kind to others. Be at peace
Within—by letting go.

And who am I to give advice?
A Buddha of our times?
If only it were so. Alas!
I’m only good at rhymes.

2018 November 25th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York

The Silent Yelp

The Silent Yelp 

Of all the droughts with which we deal,
The ones within are worst.
These dry the well to which we turn
To slake our inner thirst.

We’re weakened by this thirst within
That leaves us parched and dry.
So those who once had strength collapse,
Without the tears to cry.

So what to do?  I do not know.
There’s Nature, work and love.
Some turn to help the ones in need
And some to gods above.

******

Of all the battles that we wage,
The ones that rage within
Are hardest, since we also lose
The battles that we win.

These rob us of our inner peace
And so disturb the mind
That what we once could fetch with ease,
We now no longer find.

So what to do?  I do not know.
Some brave the inner battle
And others shy from this and yet
Are slaughtered then like cattle.

******

When fear and anger dwell within
And will not go away,
We then are turned from grace to sin,
As flesh and mind decay.

So many sorrows have their roots
In anger, fear and greed,
As envy, hatred grow from shoots
To trees that spread their seed.

So what to do?  I do not know.
Our disciplines might help
But when these each have long dissolved,
Who hears the silent yelp?

******

So there it is.  The ones who wage
The wars they base on “facts”
Have demons they have nursed within
That guide their outward acts.

And those who crave yet more of wealth
And disregard the cost,
In lives of humans, beasts and plants,
To demons, long are lost.

So what to do?  I do not know.
To a demon, we may turn
And say, “How are you then, my friend?
I see how much you burn.”

******

We each must face our devils and
It’s better if they’re friends.
Instead of wars, we then can work
In peace, to make amends.

How many friends and kin are lost
From lack of eye and ear?
How many loves have been dissolved
And turned to rage and fear?

So what to do?  I do not know.
I wish I were a sage.
I pray that you’ll be wiser and
Have fewer wars to wage.

2018 September 8th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
  

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.
  

Saint or Sinner?

Saint or Sinner?

Show us a sinner or show us a saint,
And we’ll find, in the first one, an aspect of worth,
And then, in the second, as surely, a taint—
For such are the natures of beings on Earth.

Let's open the corrals we use to constrain
The field of our fellows to friends and to foes,
And know—that these boxes we try to maintain
May often be nests that can nurture our woes.

Let's value a friendship, beware of a foe,
Yet open a passage where beings may flow,
For such are their natures, not solid, but more
Of a fluid—at times, like the breezes that blow.

So is he a “saint” or is he a “sinner”?
Or if we're like Trump, and addicted to sin,
Then is he a “loser” or is he a “winner”?
Could sinners be saints, just as losers might win?

And is she a blessing or is she a pain,
Or is she a bit of them both?  It is time
That we leave you to think, as we end this refrain
That we've couched, for your pleasure, in meter and rhyme.

2017 September 25th Mon.
(2nd-to-last stanza and minor edits added October 1st, Sun.)

The Walls of Sin

 
The Walls of Sin

I can weave my words in verses.
I can try to write in prose.
But until I see some action,
I will never find repose.

My words may lull my readers, 
Or wake them up from sleep,
But until the deeds have followed,
Their impact can’t be deep—

For words are far too easy,
And deeds are often hard.
For every verse I fashion,
I find a broken shard.

It tells of visions shattered,
It speaks of things undone.
How many are the losses
For every battle won? 
   
Our spans are so uncertain—
Except in that they end.
We seek some satisfaction—
Before we are at end.

What action do I look for?
Should it be yours or mine?
It’s an ebbing, of the madness,
That might need a grace divine.

But no god will come to aid us
And no leader, heaven-sent.
We can wait for gods forever.
We can follow—and repent.

I am looking for the vision
That can see the trap we’re in.
I am waiting for the action
From the heart that’s cleansed of sin.

For long, a tide’s been rising
That brings us more of lies.
We can work towards its turning,
But only if we’re wise.

We are busy with our duties
Or sundry pleasures, so
We limit heart and vision—
And query, even more.

Can truth be gleaned from fiction,
Or virtue born from vice?
Can warmth be found in beings,
Whose hearts have turned to ice?

If we see the faults of others
But not our own, we sink
Towards a dark suspicion
That stems from how we think.

If we note the act of evil
But not the ones of good,
We feed the fire within us
With more of kindling wood.

The anger and the hatred
Can burn away the soul.
Could Yeshua or Gotama
Make such a being whole?
   
We sicken from the slaughter.
We hide our hearts away.
So darkness is ascendant.
What hope remains for day?

But see, the ones who're shielded
From mayhem and from worse—
They too have lost their senses,
And they can't be cured by verse.
  
When people cease from hearing,
A deafness then prevails.
The orphans may be screaming,
But all their pleading fails.

When people cease from seeing,
Then blindness is their fate.
What end is there to hatred,
Except in more of hate?
 
We need a gentle cleansing
Of body and of mind.
We need to turn from hating
To relearning to be kind.

Towards the ones we care for,
We might be soft and kind.
But what about the others—
That we’ve put out of mind?

We can’t be saints or angels,
But should we yield to rage
That blinds us to the spirals
That churn through every age?

Should we close our eyes to madness,
Be cocooned, within our nest?
Should we tend to duties, pleasures—
And wave away the rest?

Do first, that which is local.
But then, look up and see
What's past and what is distant
And how they came to be.

The future is created
By what we now will do.
And all the past is present
In thought—and feeling too.

Can a being, who’s conditioned,
Be free of habit’s snare?
If we’re driven by the madness,
Can we learn again to care?
 
We are trained, from when we’re children,
By the candy and the stick.
So we grow up to be zombies
And we make each other sick.

But as those who are discerning
Grow in number, it will turn—
This tide that has been rising—
This fire, in which we burn.

Can we find an end to conflicts,
When we’re not at peace within?
Can we see the pain of others,
When we’re blinded by our sin?

It is feeling that will free us,
But not what is expected.
It’s the heart that is within us,
Whose call we have neglected.

It is thinking that will lead us,
But not the thoughts implanted.
It’s the sense, that was within us,
That the nonsense has supplanted.

It is action that will heal us,
But not the kind we praise.
It’s the action of refraining
From running through the maze.

This maze is our creation.
It’s the prison we have made.
When we cease from blindly racing,
The walls of sin will fade.

Observe your own reaction
That traps you even more.
Inhale, and see it rising.
Exhale, and let it go.

When the cattle are stampeding,
The one who pauses dies.
So also truth can perish,
When all around are lies.

But when there is a slowing,
Proceeding one by one,
Then truth is heard and spoken,
And sanity has won.

2017 May 31, Wed.
(parts in blue added 2017 June 4th, Sun.)
Brooklyn, New York 

Quartz and Calcite

Quartz and Calcite 

https://www.facebook.com/dan.nave.1/posts/10208821879645289

Quartz and Calcite waged a battle.
For Quartz declared, "I know I'm brittle.
But I can scratch you. There, I've done it!"
Calcite roared, "You'd better stop it!"

But easier started, harder stopped,
Their battle lasted, till they dropped.
And Quartz had only lost a shard
Or two, for Quartz's core was hard.

But Calcite, felled by strike and thrust,
Was shattered—scattered into dust.
And from that medley, rose the cry,
"From Quartz's mischief, now I die!"

2017 April 27th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
  

There Still are Joys

There Still are Joys

The despots and the ogres spread their woe.
They wreck our lives and rob us of our peace.
Yet one by one, like each of us, they die,
and some are gloried still—or vilified.

I walked, the other day, upon the green
and felt the grass and earth beneath my feet.
I caught the scents of burning autumn leaves
and looking up I saw the changing sky.
 
Which tyrant, hurried by his need to win,
could quietly savor water, earth and air
as those, untroubled by such urges, could?
And yet, how many still might worship him.
 
So those, who seek their worth from inner fiends,
and those, who crave the world’s attention, vie,
while those, who suffer at their hands, perceive
there still are joys, as long as life persists.

2016 November 9th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York, 4:27 pm
  

Hell-II

 
Hell-II
 
When your nights are crazed – and your mind’s on fire,
When your days are mad – and you race,
When you’re robbed of wit and of all desire,
Then you’ll know the name of that place.
 
You’ve been told of a hell in the afterlife,
And for some, that’s a subject of mirth.
But whether it’s there or not, you can see
We have fashioned our hells on this Earth.
 
When you’re caught in the battle, you will kill or be killed,
For that is the plight of us humans.
We are soldiers who slaughter, and our leaders can say,
“We have turned them, as needed, to demons.”
 
You’ll be sent to a school or be trained for a war,
And they both are the sides of the same.
You’ll be robbed of your freedom. You’ll toil or you’ll fight,
And you won’t be aware of the shame.
 
There are wars that we humans endure.  And we die,
But the wars of our tribes do not end.
We are drudges who work, till we sicken and die.
But the lines to the mills do not end.

Is it Lucifer then who has led us to this,
Is it Satan, who's conquered the world?
So our hearts have been asking, since pharaohs arose
And we men, in the furnace, were hurled.

The pyramids rise in the south and the north,
The ziggurats, towers and domes.
And we humans are tamed and are rendered as slaves
In the Shenzhens and Cairos and Romes.
 
******
  
There are snares that we set for the bird and the beast,
There are snares that we set for our kind.
In the lands of the west and the lands of the east,
They can capture your body and mind.
  
There are hells on this Earth that we humans have made,
In the battlefield, factory and mine.
And we work and we fight, till we’re worn or we’re dead.
There are more, who are waiting in line...
    
And your fortune or wit could have saved you from this,
Or have given you leases of years.
But the traps have been baited and prisons prepared
For the labors of sweat and of tears.
  
If you’re looking for peace, you should exit fast,
For you’ll stay at the risk of your soul.
And the longer you stay, the more of your bits
You will need to rejoin, to be whole.
  
When the mind is at peace, then the body is freed
From the toil or the fight that’s the trap.
So it’s peace that’s denied to the mind, as the slave
Who’s been captured is smeared with the crap.
 
It’s the loss of your freedom that leads to the grave,
Before you have lived of your life.
It’s the captives who labor, so their captors can say
They have profited much from the strife.

With our children corrupted, with innocence lost,
With the adults complicit in this,
Can we sleep in the nights, can we breathe in the days
And pretend that the future is bliss?
 
2015 January 5th, Mon. 4:04 am
(stanzas added January 13th, Tue. 2:01 am
and January 17th, Sat. 8:35 am)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  

Vortex

 
Vortex

We near the precipice and hear its roar,
And yet, the madness of the rush proceeds.
And even though one says, “Is that a scream?”
The others shout, “Go on. It’s just a dream!”

So lemmings, we’ve been told, may die in fjords,
And humans perish, as we’ve seen, in wars.
The ones of narrow vision rule our herd
And goad us on, upon this whirling earth.

In truth and kindness, though the saints believe,
This world is ruled by cruelty and lies.
In most religions, peace is valued most,
And yet, it’s war of which the nations boast.

So those who follow conscience now are doomed,
As they are punished and their ventures fail.
For virtue now is only seen as vice,
And he or she succeeds, who isn’t nice.

If I believed in God and Satan, then
I’d see a world that’s headed straight for hell.
And though I’ve tried to steer to what is right,
The fiery portals are what loom in sight.

Salaam, shalom, and shaanti, peace…
So men beseech the spirit, everyday.
And yet, the demons, that infest the mind,
Their newest means of endless torture find.
  
How many are the traps and vortices –
The snares and whirlpools that devour our souls...
And all around us, swirls the great cyclone,
Yet in its eye, we sit – and psalms intone.

How many are the myths by which we're led...
How many are the prisons built by men...
From deep within, the captives call, in pain.
But few can hear them, as they call in vain.

There was a time when I could view the world
And all its madness with a tranquil eye –
Observe its wonders and its horrors and
Attempt, with mind and heart, to understand.
  
But having fallen in the vortex, I
Have lost, alas, that clear, untroubled sight –
For all the conflicts of the world are fought
Within ourselves – where sanity is not.

And yet, in night's despair, the hope persists
That there's a day that will, with time, have dawn –
That deep below the shallow storms of self,
There's still that calm, to which we turn for help.
       
2014 September 13th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
      

The Gentle God

The Gentle God
 
The tongues and faiths of men and women are
As myriad as our faces.  Each of us
Is born, by chance, in one or other tribe.
Yet over this, we build our heaps of fuss.

We’re riven by religions, languages,
By “races”, classes, occupations, more...
We raise our fences, barb our borders and
We’re never done with all our ruthless gore...

Our families are sundered by our strife –
Our clans dispersed – our tribes, by tempests, blown…
We meet the “strangers”, know that they are us –
And yet pretend that they are not our own...

The nation-states and empires work their ruin –
Our inner demons turned to genies great,
As you and I express our discontent
By heaping blame on those we love to hate.

We humans still have satisfactions small –
But these appear no longer good enough.
Ambition, ego, greed and worse demand
Yet more acclaim, achievement, power, stuff…

There’s Nature, wondrous, bountiful and yet
At times enraged or sullen in her moods...
Then all of our entreaties are as naught,
As death and sorrow mark those interludes...

But then, we’ve men – and women, not outdone.
They've grown in hubris and in violence,
With empires, corporations, warrior-states –
Their mobs and armies and their borders tense...

Our minds have opened up the universe,
Wrung secrets from the stars and atoms, yet
Our wisdom lags, as men create such things
As even devils wish they could forget.

From fear we murder, and from greed we die –
And vice versa, as the wheel revolves.
And yet we claim that this is not a lie –
That humankind, towards betterment, evolves...

Among the gods to whom we turn to pray,
Is there, perhaps, a god of gentleness –
Or goddess of the same – of tranquil ways –
Who’ll answer yet our pleas to end this mess?

Is there a god or goddess, who
Can whisper in a tyrant’s ear, can soothe
The raging mob, can softly touch a heart
Or make a furrowed brow, with a gesture, smooth?

Alas, the gods are our projections too.
Divinities are limited in scope.
Their knowledge, power hardly cover all.
A lesson there – perhaps a bit of hope…

The gentleness within us waits to speak –
But when it does, it speaks with silences.
For when we feel it fill and heal our hearts,
We’ve no more need for all our sentences…

The gentle god is there in all of us.
The gentle goddess – she is smiling too,
As tears are flowing down her cheeks, for she
Is Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, Jew…

2014 August 3rd, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
  

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.
   

Two Beings

 
Preface (Walking to Work and Back, 2014)
  
Two Beings
  
When all the madness of my “working day”
Has ended and I step outside the school,
I breathe the air that blows in from the sea
And see the trees against the evening sky.
And so my jangled nerves are set at ease,
As all my scattered parts are gathered slow.
And drinking in the evening’s beauty, I
Am whole again – and homewards, tranquil, go.

In every season, as the heavens change,
I watch the skies and see the clouds and stars,
The light that slants upon the autumn leaves
Or sets afire the tender ones of spring.
I see the dogs, the cats, the ones like me
And little birds that fly to roost in trees.
And as I walk, I’m filled with wonderment,
As tense fatigue gives way to sanity.

******

And though I trundle home a heavy load,
It often happens that it lies till dawn.
And when I wake and sally forth to work,
My head is filled with buzzing puzzlement.
But then my “workday” at the school begins,
And close to forty years of work kick in.
I see the children, one by one, come in,
And I teach my classes five, as others do.

In all my work before I started this,
I worked my miracles, however small,
And after joining as a teacher, I
Saw yet more wonders as I taught at school.
But many arduous years have passed of this,
And more and more, I find myself a fool,
As all my instincts, all my heart and soul
Rebel – at what no mortal mere can do.

2014 April 1, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York

Preface (Walking to Work and Back, 2014)

Related:  Signs of Spring (March 30th), We Call for Spring (March 9th).
For earlier poems, please type in the word "spring" in the small search box in the upper right corner of the blue top-menu bar (visible if you scroll up). Then press the "Enter" key on your keyboard.
 

Combats

Combats

They're fighting now for their control of continents and oceans.
And night and day, the war goes on that taxes all our patience.
The battlefronts are drawn across our land, along our coasts.
They curve upon the rolling plains and cross the mountain hosts.
And every week brings new advance, that's followed by retreat
Or even more advancing, as the pincer-edges meet.
The islands left of foes appear to swiftly melt away,
As bones are gnawed at nighttime and lie bleached by searing day.
The corpses now are everywhere. They rot in wetlands and
Are strewn in withered piles across the fields and shifting sand.

The powers aren't lords that live in palaces and those
Who battle aren't soldiers who're as human as their foes.
The conflict raging is between the roiling airy masses.
The limbs severed are those of trees, of bushes and of grasses.
And those who rot, in regions wet, or wither, where it's dry,
Are worker leaves who toiled and died, for whom no kindred cry.
Yet each was born as tender thing, and grew and lived in beauty,
As soldiers do, who die for naught, although they're told it's duty.
But though the combats rage on scales beyond a human war,
And were and will be past our span, they're better – yes, by far.

2013 Sep.14th, Sat.
Brooklyn
  

With Harlot Falsehoods

With Harlot Falsehoods
                                       
When we've walked the road of verity,
Throughout our lives – with all our human faults,
Abstaining from the vices of the lie –
The path of falsehood then cannot be borne.

And when we've been obedient to the call
Of conscience, ever heeding heart's advice,
To disobey is as a living death,
A torture, hell ascended to this earth.

And yet, observe, how in survival's name,
Or merely for ambition, some, with ease,
Can lie throughout their lives and can benumb
Their consciences and hearts for worldly ends.

And slaves, be they in chains of iron or
Of silver, must obey the master's lip.
And those, who quickest shed their scruples, thrive
And do not shy from wielding lie and whip.

So should we martyr minds and bodies for
The quiet voices that we hear within,
Or should we yield to fear or seek to rise
By doing what we see the others do?

The question comes and must be answered, yet
We seek, from this dilemma, some escape.
We all have duties to our selves and kin.
Should mere survival then be viewed as sin?

And yet, those voices, that we've listened to,
Will not be stilled.  They fill our nights and days.
To path of justice, heart and conscience call.
And every step away dismays the soul.

And those, who've wedded selves to truth, cannot
With harlot falsehoods lie a moment long.
And yet, the webs of lies entrap their souls,
And they are found, where they do not belong.

******
   
The ways, that lead to what some call as "god"
And others, "truth", are varied, manifold.
So each may choose to walk upon the way
That's fit for him or her, while harming none.

And all creation, all that's filled with light,
Has source in this.  Compulsion kills the soul.
But even that, which free creation brings,
Is used to slaughter and to dominate.

How many ways have humans engineered,
To make, of others, slaves!  So all, that minds
Have wrought, in innocent ingenuity,
To free us, then is swiftly turned to this.

So farming gave us brigand kings and turned
The freemen into serfs.  And now we see
Computers, mathematics used to serve
As watchdogs on the herds that daily teach.

It will not be.  We shall not be a part
Of evil, though our backs are loaded, bent.
We'll bear our burdens, labor as we've done,
But will not harm our wards or blur our truths.

Our lives have taught us that humility
That those of hubris rarely see till end.
And yet, whatever remnant self-respect
Remains, demands we do not dance to lies.

For how can we fulfill our duties core,
When heart and reason clearly say, "Do this."
And fear and slavery proclaim, "Do that."?
We choose the freeman's path of clarity.

Whatever punishment that brings, we'll bear,
With inmost beings calm, in dignity.
We'll do our work and walk the path of love,
And that will be, for us, reward enough.

stanzas prior to the break written
2013 September 4th, Wed. night
(after being briefed for two days
on the new teacher-evaluation
system in New York City) and
stanzas following the break
added September 5th,Thu.
and September 6th, Fri.,
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

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