The Dreamers’ Lament

  
The Dreamers’ Lament
 
In childhood, we conceived our dreams;
in youth, we gave them birth.
And then we worked to rear them,
and saw them slowly grow.
And we had hoped to leave them strong,
before we left this Earth.
But sadly, they were ravaged, wrecked—
and now they are no more.
  
The things that we had dreamed of,
for which we worked and fought,
They still appear as worthwhile,
although our dreams have died,
as all the things, that we had built,
are rendered now as naught.
For every time we’d smiled and laughed,
we’ve also wept and cried.
 
The tasks, that we had set ourselves,
now must again be done.
But who will fight those battles, still,
that we had thought we’d won?
 
And who, we ask, will shoulder now
those burdens we had carried?
It seems that we have overstayed;
for far too long, we’ve tarried.
 
Our spans of course are limited,
yet long enough for woe.
We’ve had our sips of joy and now—
it’s time for us to go.
  
2017 March 31st, Fri
Brooklyn, New York
  

The Chant

 
The Chant
 
I heard the singing in the dawn, when the mist had not yet risen,
And dreaming in my bed, there came to me a wondrous vision –
I saw a line of women, on a sylvan mountain way –
And even from afar, I saw that line appeared to sway.
  
For the women, they were singing and were dancing as they went –
I could hear them sweetly singing, and the song was heaven-sent –
I could see the women dancing as they walked upon their way –
As the mist was slowly rising and the twilight turned to day.
 
I heard the singing in my dream, and woke to find the light
Was spreading in the eastern sky, as day was chasing night…
And was I only dreaming – or had truly heard the chant
Of the women on the mountain?  I could answer – but I shan’t.
 
2014 October 27th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Two Na**d Women

        
Two Na**d Women

Doodle-007-Discord

I saw a lady, walking nude –
A dame of Nordic stock.
And people stared as she went by.
They giggled, gaped in shock.

But she was shod – in fu**-me shoes,
With leather straps 'round calves.
And as she passed, I saw tattoos
Between her buttock-halves.

But though I squinted then to see
What the markings meant,
She strode away – and out of sight –
Unclothed – but fed, content...
  
******
   
I later saw a woman, who
Had not a shred of clothing.
She sat, despairing, in the street,
Subjected, there, to loathing.

She'd neither shoes nor sandals and
Her face and frame were gaunt.
Her eyes were filled with anguish – eyes
That will, my nightmares, haunt.

And as I walked, embarrassed, by,
And offered her no hand,
I saw, upon her wrist, some marks
I could not understand...
  
******
   
The first I saw was pink of skin,
The second, she was brown.
The first was smiling to herself,
The second made me frown.

I wondered what the tracings meant
That graced the first's behind.
It mattered not – that cryptic sign
On her I'd left behind.

And in another dream, I saw
The two, reversing roles.
I wondered what that signified
And whether parts were wholes... 

Doodle-002a-Concord

    
2014 July 20th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York    
    

The Maiden of the Forest

  
The Maiden of the Forest
     
I had seen a lissome maiden
In a forest, so it seemed…
She was dancing, like a fairy.
Was she real or was she dreamed?

A maiden of the forest,
Of an old, forgotten tribe –
She was dancing in abandon,
Yet with grace I can’t describe.

She was dancing in the forest,
In the shade beneath the trees.
She was dancing in the shadows
That were dappled by the breeze.

Had I seen her in my dreaming,
In the darkness, when asleep?
Had I seen her in the daylight?
That’s a secret I shall keep.

For the things that I remember
Are that maiden and her dance.
Does it matter, where that forest?
Was it China, India, France?

If I knew, I wouldn’t tell you
Or my closest, bosom friend.
For I fear, if it’s discovered,
That an innocence will end…

She was dancing in the forest,
As they rustled in the breeze –
The leaves, that cast their shadows
On the ground beneath the trees.

And her feet were lightly tripping
On that dappled forest floor,
As I stood there, mutely watching
And not wanting less or more.

So I stood there, and I watched her,
As she swayed and as she spun –
As she danced across the shadows
And the shafts of slanting sun…

The sun was on her skin and hair,
On her shoulders, breasts and thighs…
It caught the gestures of her hands
And it glinted from her eyes…

But the darkness, it was nestled
At the joins of arms and thighs,
And her eyes and hair were darkness –
They were dark, like starry skies…

I had stood and I had watched her,
For what seemed to be a while.
Then she vanished, and I wondered
If I’d seen her look and smile…

There are angels, from the heavens,
Some declare that they have seen.
I have never seen an angel,
But that vision, I have seen.

Of that vision, that I saw once,
In a dream – or in the day,
I have given a description.
Imagine it, you may…

But the place, in which I saw her,
Even though I knew it well,
For a treasure, or in torture,
Is a thing I wouldn’t tell.

2014 April 18th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Dhoka (Played)

    
Dhoka                                                 Played     
  
Rater majhe exechilo pori,          An angel came in the dark of night
Bhore to cole ge`lo xe.                  And left before the dawn.
Roilo to`khon xo`ron xudhu     Within the shadows of the mind,
Moner a~dhare, he.                        The memory remained.
  
Xei harano xo`roner kho~je,      In search then of that memory,
Xo`pno-praxade ghuri.                 I wandered in my dreams,
Jakei dekhi, takei jigai,                  Asking those I met if they
Dekhejo e`moni huri?                    Had ever seen such grace.
  
Jo`toi khu~ji, pai na go, tai          But finding nothing, I then sought
Dupure, xagor tire,                          The ocean shore at noon,
Roder jholoke, dekhi je`no hot’at   And in the brilliance on the waves
Porir golari hire.                               I glimpsed her necklace bright.
  
Ce~cie ut’he, jha~p debo prae,    I rushed towards the sea, but then
Ke e`k dhore bo`le, “Boka!           A voice restrained me. “Fool!
Xo`pne exechilo bholate tomae,   She came at night to play with you,
Ebaro dieche dhoka.”                      As now she does again.”
  
rat 1:45, 6oi Epril, 2014 kri.             2014 April 6th, Sat., 1:45 am
Bensanharst’, Bruklin, No`bo Io`rk.    Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
   

Xo`pne De`kha Je (Who Can It Be?)

    
Xo`pne De`kha Je

Jo`ler paxe, gacher chaeae,
gaiche e`khon ke?
Rater majhe exechilo,
xo`pne de`kha je.

xombar, 24e phebruari, 2014 kri.
bruklin, niu io`rk
-----------------------------------------------------------
   
Who Can It Be?

There by the water, by the shade of the tree,
The one that is singing, who can it be?
The more that I wonder, the stranger it seems.
Could that be the being I saw in my dreams?

2014 Feb. 24, Mon.
Brooklyn 
-----------------------------------------------------------
   
Wie Kan Dit Wees?
    
Daar naby die water, in die skaduwee van die boom,
Die een wat sing, wie kan dit wees?
Hoe meer dat ek wonder, hoe meer vreemde dit lyk.
Kan dit wees om die wese wat ek gesien het in my drome?

Maandag, Februarie 24, 2014
Brooklyn   
 

Gotama and Gauss

           
Gotama and Gauss
     
I dreamed, Gotama met with Gauss,
And left serenely, when he heard, “Heraus!”
It was a scene that could have seen some drama,
But did not see it, thanks to clear Gotama.

I also dreamed that Nietsche, meeting Gandhi,
Had hurled, at him, whatever then was handy.
And in my mind, this painted quite a picture,
With Gandhi dodging what was hurled by Nietsche.

And Marx was met by none than Sri Chaitanya,
Who chanted, “Charles, I prayed to God to find ya!”
Was Karl then ruffled, or provoked to sparks?
He muttered, “God – and you – get failing marks."

Though Kipling wrote that East and West won't meet,
I saw them meeting, though it wasn't sweet.
But sour or not, the western mind forgot.
The east remembered, as has been its lot.

I wandered then to western Asia, where
The "twain" have met, who each find hard to bear
The other's ways -- and where the prophets cried --
And far too often, via torture, died...

Muhammad meets with Jesus and with Moses.
And each of them has hooked, “Semitic” noses.
And each insists that his is the religion
Of the god they share, who scorns the others legion.

I wonder, should I join in this discussion,
But exercise, instead, a safe discretion.
Can humble folk like I, with these, dispute?
Where blood has flowed,  it's prudent to be  mute.

I bow then to these prophets three and pray,
"I wish you gentlemen a wondrous day.
I hope that humans all will take the best
Of what you offer -- and forgo the rest."

I traveled then to colder, northern climes,
Where things were moving fast, with modern times,
And revolutions and their deaths were seen
In spans so short as seemed, to some, obscene.

And in my dream, I saw that Lenin, he,
With Thatcher and with Reagan, chanced to be.
But Deng had come, with sundry things to sell,
And I awoke, for Mao was roaring, “Hell!”

But then I slept again – and Nehru smiled,
For he, with charm, had Jackie O beguiled.
Onassis then was dallying with Callas.
Michelle and Dubya danced away in Dallas.

So revolutions come and go, but this,
What humans do, to pass their days, persists.
And some say, "This is all." and others, "No!"
But most remain unsure, which way to go.

I tossed and turned in moral indignation,
And snored again in abject resignation.
Confucius and Lao Tse appeared and left,
And I again awoke – of all of them bereft.

I prayed then to the spirit of Tagore,
But saw, beside him, stood rotund Al Gore.
And as the white-beard sang of Nature's smile,
The round one lectured, “Her, we now defile.”

The sight of Nature, smiling, being raped,
Disturbed me much.  Her heaving breasts, I draped,
Within my mind, and slapped our bestial kin
On his behind, for such audacious sin.

But those of finance then arose in fury,
And I was killed, not seeing judge or jury,
By a missile fired from a drone that flew away,
In a sky of blue, on a Himalayan day...

But I survived – or else was resurrected,
Or else my waking was, of dreams, constructed.
And so, unlike the others, killed from high,
I sit and type these verses, asking, “Why?”

Gotama answers clearly, “It's because.”
And Gauss says, “I don't rhyme with words like “gauze”.
And Nietsche chases Gandhi all around,
While Marx cannot, by those who seek, be found.

And now – a spirit, sere -- it is Osama,
Of recent, killed, by order of Obama.
He has the eye, of one who knows that money
Can buy such things, as only he finds funny...

And Saddam too is risen from the grave.
He's spitting curses fit to cow the brave.
And Dubya's dodging shoes like he's a pro.
Yay, Dubya!  That's the way to go!

But Modi glowers fiercely.  He is bearded.
He gives a speech.  The millions, who have heard it,
Are cheering wildly.   I awake, in fear,
And see, it's dusk – and night is drawing near.

And so I huddle back within the covers,
And soon enough, a sprite, returning, hovers.
It's Omar, who has pity on our souls
As we pursue our e'er receding goals...

There are such things, as were, before we came
And will remain, when we have played the game
And left.  And pebbles, such, we find,
Upon the shore, that please our mortal mind.

And when we find companions, for awhile,
Who've seen what we have seen and smile,
The thrill of recognition of the truth
Is briefly shared, by those, whom such things suit.

If Bhaskara and Euler were to meet,
And Ramanujam too was there, to greet
Al Beruni, Gauss –  would Khayyam's wine
Then overflow his cup, in sphere divine?

So Euclid and Pythagoras are seated
With Al Khwarizmi. Talk is heated.
But I can see, they're smiling through it all.
That Eden past, such gentle smiles recall.

So Tolstoy sits with Gandhi and Tagore,
And of such trios, I see more and more.
And Ho Chi Minh has come to Chhattisgarh.
He wishes, there, with others, to confer...

Returning then, to Gauss and to Gotama,
And to that scene that could have seen of drama,
I wondered how these towering thinkers two,
Could be, like us, as errant humans too.

For though Gotama had disposed of ego,
He still was saddened at being ordered out.
And wondering, where a seer could go,
He saw a beer-hall, entered, ordered stout...

And there he sits, while sipping of the brew
Which others, who are bhikkus, must eschew.
Does he remember, still, that meal that led
To illness -- that, which left him cold and dead?

Perhaps.  But as he ponders, Gauss calculates,
And each new finding, quietly celebrates.
So east is east and west remains as west,
And each does that, which surely it does best.

But as it's time to wake, I do espy
That Lear and Carroll, walking, pass me by,
And Ray the father, laughing, walks with them.
But I must leave, and stifle my "Ahem!".

2013 November 15th, Fri. & 16th, Sat.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 
Note added:  The phrase "Ray the father" in the last stanza is ambiguous.  It was meant to refer to Sukumar Ray  (Xukumar Ro`e), the father of the film director Satyajit Ray (Xottojit Ro`e) -- and the grandfather of  Sandip Ray (Xondip Ro`e), also a filmmaker.  Sukumar Ray died at an early age, but produced several literary works, including Abol Tabol,  a classic volume of playful Bengali nonsense verses.  These are unique, and yet reminiscent of  the  poems of two Englishmen -- Edward Lear and Lewis Carroll (the mathematician Charles Dodgson).  
        
The Wikipedia article on Sukumar Ray has some insertions that need copy-editing.  A documentary film on him, directed by his son, Satyajit, with Sandip also mentioned in the subtitles, is available as video on YouTube.  It is well worth watching.  

Sukumar Ray also wrote a children's novel, Ho`jo`bo`ro`lo` (Hajabarala), inspired by Carroll's Alice in Wonderland.  It is alleged that  Steven Spielberg's film, E.T., was based on a screenplay by Satyajit Ray, meant for a Hollywood movie that never was.  Satyajit Ray used to illustrate his screenplays with sketches, and it is likely that the appearance of  the extraterrestrial in Spielberg's film derives  from one of these. 

The spelling of the the Rays' names, including the last name,  may be misleading to non-Bengalis, as regards pronunciation.  The conventional spellings (in both Roman transcription and in the Bengali script) are closer to representing how the names would be pronounced in, say, Hindi or (for the first names) in Sanskrt. These conventional spellings do not properly represent how they are currently pronounced in standard Bengali.

 With x representing the sh cluster of English spelling, and  t being a dental, as in the Latin languages, the pronunciations of the names may be better represented as Roy, Xukumar, Xottojit and  Xondip.  I had transcribed the last name, earlier, more systematically,  as Ro`e, but Roy will suffice here -- as there is an English name (as in Roy Rogers) that is pronounced as the Rays' last name should be pronounced. 
    

Dead Man Risen

                        
Dead Man Risen
      
I saw a dead man risen, with
The pallor of the grave.
I saw him walking towards me, as
My feet were turned to stone.

I saw that he was nearing, so
I tried then to be brave,
With all my sins before me and
No time then to atone.

And as he came upon me
And I trembled and I shook,
He reached his hands towards me
And in my eye did look.

And lo, though I was shaking,
I saw, within his eye,
The self, that had been hidden,
And it was none than I.

2013 November 8th, Fri.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

Rites of Passage / Vespertinal

  
Rites of Passage / Vespertinal
  
The seven-horse chariot's done its daily beat; 
And over there, where sky and earth commune,
The evening star sheds limpid, icy fire 
Against a cyclorama amber-blue.
  
A breeze from west, gently insistent, blows 
Streamers of sand off crests of velvet dunes, 
Whispering reminder, prickly on the soul: 
The intimation of a threshold passed.

Through dim and misty distances in time
Loom memories of dreams that went unlived; 
Of songs unsung, of feelings unrevealed; 
Of deeds not done, of promises unkept; 

Of cheery smiles received and not returned; 
Of leaps of faith across uncharted streams 
Landing in quicksand, and being helped from there 
By waiting arms that never stayed for thanks.

And as the canvas is daubed more and more, 
The tints turn muddy, chiaroscuro fades 
To shades of grey, darkly illumined from 
The tunnel's end, a weary age away.

Threescore-and-ten was granted, half is spent. 
What rests is but a half-life of decay, 
Of keeping count of acts, noble and base, 
At every rite of passage on the way. 

Vivek  Khadpekar 
Osian, Thar Desert, Rajasthan
and Benares (Varanasi)
India, 1988/89 
 
By the same author:  Midnight

My Dream

My Dream  
                        
When I grow up, I would like to be
The man who picks up the garbage.

Early in the morning, when everyone's asleep,
I would ride on the back of the garbage truck
And would hop off to pick up the garbage.

I would lift up the bags and throw them,
I would bang on the metal cans.
And some of the sleepers would wake up
And some would mutter and curse.
And the smell of the rotting garbage
Would fill up the morning air.

And then I would call to the driver –
And the truck, it would move with a roar.
I'd hop on that truck.  To the next one,
With that noise and that smell, we would go.

And that is my dream, Mr. Teacher,
The dream that you asked me to write.
I hope that you'll give me a 100.
What you gave me before wasn't fair.

My dream is to pick up the garbage,
To join with the garbage men.
I've heard that they're paid good money,
And the smell washes off when they shower...

My dream is to pick up the garbage,
To be a garbage man.
But I'm told that it it isn't easy.
I really hope I can.

The jobs nowadays aren't many.
My father's unemployed...

I hope that I'll get a paycheck,
And be married too, with kids...

Do you think, if I do all my classwork,
And my homework, every day,
And I pass all those tests you give us,
My dream will come real, one day?

2013 August 16th, Fri.
Brooklyn
 

By the River

    
By the River
    
By the river's side, we met,
By the currents flowing.
We did not know, from where we came
Or where we would be going.

I still remember well the day
Our meetings there had started.
And I remember too the night
That we, in sorrow, parted...

How cool, the shade of leafy trees
On sun-kissed afternoons...
How wonderful, those nights we lay
Beneath the shining moon...

To every life, there comes a time
When darkness turns to light.
And so it was, that interlude
Of your and my delight...

We looked upon the waters then,
Reflecting moon and sun,
And on the dancing waves, we saw
The threads of being run...

We looked across the river and
We saw the other side.
We wondered if we'd ever cross
That river, flowing wide...

How many dreams we entertained,
How many thoughts we shared,
How many little things to show
That each, for other, cared...

How pleasantly those nights had passed,
Those days of dreaming then...
How sad it is, to think that we
May never meet again...

Oh how I long to see again
That river wide – and you,
To walk where river breezes blow
And kinship old renew...

The strands that intertwine and part,
In time are joined anew,
But memory is lost with death,
And so are I and you.

By the river's side, we'll meet,
By the waters flowing.
We will not know, from where we came
Or where we'll next be going...

2013 July 19th, Fri.
By New York Bay,
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
(added later: 4th stanza)
  
Note:  The following three stanzas were also added later, to follow before the last.  But they were subsequently excised and moved below.  They are kept there for those seeking some attempted explanation for that last stanza.
   
The river is the same and yet
Its waters, never old.
So we will pass away and yet
Our tale will be retold.

The river is the same and yet
The waters, ever new.
To others we will yield, who are
The newer I and you.

For even waters seeming new
Are from that mother risen,
To which they all at end will flow –
The deep and ancient ocean...
  
Also, a disclaimer:  This, like any other such from my pen or keyboard, is a romantic fantasy, no more...;-)
  

Identity

Identity
  
While walking down a street, familiar, I
Had come upon a man who waved at me.
I did not know this man – but still waved back.
But then he asked me, “Who the heck are you?”

I fled, confused – and looking back, I saw
That he was pointing at me, to another man,
And saying, so I thought, “That person there,
He waved at me but then he ran away.”

I turned a corner, picking up my pace,
And so collided with a woman large.
On bouncing back, I saw the woman was
A person I had known. I greeted her.

She looked at me and frowned. But then, she said,
“Oh Harry! How've you been? It's been a while!”
And saying this, she stood and smiled past me.
I turned around to see, but found no one.

Again confused, I could not say a word.
For where was Harry?  Who the heck was he?
And so, I fled again, confused as hell.
But glancing back, I saw she followed me.

I started running, looking back at her
To see if she was catching up to me.
But no, she soon was out of breath – and stopped.
I thanked the gods – but then I bumped my knee.

It was a dog, upon whose back I fell.
A great big dog that barked and glared at me.
I lifted hands to better save my face,
But found his paws upon my heaving chest.

And pushing hands aside, with forceful nose,
He opened wide his jaws – and then I saw
A great red tongue that leaped to lick my face,
As I fell back, so pavement hit my head.

I lay there, stunned, enduring tongue and drool,
Until a person came and called out, “Tom!”
At this, the dog departed, wagging tail,
As he had done while he was over me.

I tried to gather scattered wits and then
To comprehend my last indignity.
I knew no dog called “Tom” – and yet I felt
The moisture still upon my squinting face.

And as I limped towards my home, I thought,
“Am I myself, or am I dreaming this?”
And so, I tried to wake myself – and did,
And saw I lay on my disheveled bed.

2013 July 13th, Fri.
Brooklyn
  

Strange Encounter -- II

              
Strange Encounter -- II
             
I met my mates the other night, down at the local pub,
It was our weekly gathering, it was our social hub.
My wife had told me earlier, "Do not carouse till late!
I want you home tonight, my dear, to eat with mom, at eight!"

But I had had a bit too much, of public house's ale,
And did my pals, with stories loud and boisterous, regale.
And when I realized, alas, that I was running late,
I took a short cut (so I thought) as it was well past eight.

And as I wandered homeward, why, I seemed to turn about,
And all was turning, as I turned, and I began to shout.
But sadly, no one answered -- and so, I silent fell.
And all around was silence -- and dark as bloody hell.

I felt, of sudden weary, and leaned upon a tree.
And shut my eyes for just a bit, to be, of tiredness, free...
And when I opened eyes again, I felt so much refreshed,
I set off striding jauntily, by my own self impressed...

But then, as I was striding, I looked around and saw
An unfamiliar setting that filled me with some awe.
It was a sylvan wilderness -- with starlight it was lighted.
It was a little frightening -- and yet I felt delighted.

For this, I sensed, was where I'd been, a long long time ago,
And this, I knew, was where they were, the ones who were no more,
The fairies and the pixies and the goblins and the trolls
And all the little beings who had played their little roles.

In the middle of that forest, where the fairies gather 'round,
I heard a soft and eerie, yet a joyful kind of sound.
It was midnight, it was moonless -- and through the silent dark,
I heard that gentle throbbing -- and to its sound did hark.

And on glimpsing, in the distance, a strange and ghostly glow,
I hurried, heart pulsating, determined, then, to know
From where and why this throbbing, from where and why this light,
That gave me trepidation -- and filled me with delight.

And then I saw a clearing -- and through it shone a star
That hypnotized me, briefly, with twinkling light afar.
And when I shut and opened -- my eyes, by star enthralled,
I saw the small ones dancing, as other wee ones called.

Oh surely they were graceful, oh surely they trod light,
But they were more than graceful, they were a wondrous sight.
I saw then, lanterns glowing, as summer glow-worms glow.
And other lights were moving, in midnight firefly show.

I heard the sound grow louder and then appear to fade,
Until I heard but silence -- and felt again afraid.
But then, like chorus rising, I heard the calls begin
And knew that they were gentle, untouched by worldly sin.

It was the sound of water, it was the sound of breeze,
It was a gentle murmur that set my heart at ease.
I floated on that rising, I drifted on that ebb,
To sound I did surrender, ensnared in woven web.

How long that seance lasted, I really do not know.
I woke at dawn's arrival, as east began to glow.
And then, I wandered homeward, to scolding from my spouse,
Who thought, perhaps, her chosen was just a drunken louse.

What matter? I just kissed her -- and roundly, on both cheeks,
And bounded past to mattress, the one that loudly squeaks.
And there I fell like timber, to dream again in wonder,
To see again that dancing in that uncertain yonder...

Babui / Arjun
2011 November 18th, Friday, 9:30 pm
Brooklyn