The Minstrel

The Minstrel
 
I met a minstrel on the road
And walked with her a while.
I heard her singing as she walked.
I listened, with a smile.

And this is what she said to me
Upon that twisting way.
Her every word remains with me
Unto this very day.

“I found you just by happenstance,
And while I have your ear,
I’ll sing to you the songs that come,
Before they disappear.
 
“I’ll sing to you of land and sea,
Of sky that vaults above.
I’ll sing to you of innocence,
Of tenderness, of love.
 
“I’ll sing to you of villages
Beside the rippling lakes.
I’ll sing to you of sentience,
Of consciousness that wakes.
 
"I'll sing to you of mountains and
Of foothills and of plains.
I'll sing to you of dancing
At the starting of the rains.
 
“I’ll sing to you of patience and
Of science and the arts.
I’ll sing to you of courage and
Of hopes in human hearts.
     
“I’ll sing to you of swirling clouds,
Of thunder, lightning, rain.
I’ll sing to you of rapture and
Of sorrow and of pain.
 
“I’ll sing to you of sunrise and
The fiery, blazing noon.
I’ll sing to you of sunset and
The brightly shining moon.
 
“I’ll sing to you of multitudes
Of men and ants and stars.
I’ll sing to you of horrors and
Of all the senseless wars.
 
“I‘ll sing to you of present times
And also other things.
I’ll sing to of history
And what the future brings.
 
“I’ll sing to you of turbulence
And of the times serene.
I ‘ll sing to you of what I've felt
And what I've heard and seen.
 
“And when you’re tired of what I sing,
Then you can bid me leave.
But when I’m gone, with all my songs,
I trust you will not grieve.
 
“I do not know from where they come,
the songs you’ll hear me sing,
Perhaps you’ll hear that singing too,
When I have taken wing.
 
“And then perhaps you’ll seek for one
Who’ll lend, to you, an ear,
And hope she will be stirred by what,
Through you, she too can hear.”
 
And so that minstrel sang to me
Her songs of light and dark.
And though the years have passed since then,
I still, to them, can hark.
 
And just as she had said to me,
I hear a singing too,
That comes from where I do not know,
So I can sing to you.
 
2015 May 14th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York  
    

The Dancer (and the Reed)

The Dancer
(and the Reed)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chips

  
Chips
  
Oh don’t be frightened, little child!
Let squirrels do what squirrels do.
He likes the nuts – and though he's wild,
That squirrel won’t be biting you.

Oh yes, I’m old, as you can see.
And these are chips – for young and old,
But not for you and not for me.
And there’s a story to be told.

You want me to tell you the story, dear?
The story then it‘ll have to be.
So sit over there, where you can hear
And listen quietly to me.

No, no!  The chips are not for us!
Do listen. Then you’ll find out why.
I don’t like kids who make a fuss.
So sit.  And chase away that fly.

I met a statue in the park.
I asked him how he came to be.
And as the sky was growing dark,
This is what he said to me.

“I once could walk about like you.
But there were  times when I was glum.
I wondered, what I then should do,
Until I met an old-time chum."

What's 'glum'? It's when you're feeling sad.
And 'chum'? A chum's a pal, a friend.
And some are good and some are bad.
Some friendships last – and others end. 

But listen – listen till the end!
Listen, as he heard his friend.

“He whispered in my ear, ‘My friend,
Chips are better when they’re fried.
And now, your sadness, it will end.
I know – because this cure, I’ve tried.

“ ‘So hasten to the park. You’ll see
A cloud on high, and that’s a sign,
And then, a tall and spreading tree.
A squirrel, next.  And you’ll be fine.’ "

What's 'hasten'?  That's to hurry, run,
Like when you've got to catch the bus.
Now listen quietly, little one!
I don't like kids who make a fuss.

“I hurried to the park in haste.
I wondered if I’d see the cloud.
I wondered too, how chips would taste
If they were fried.  I wondered loud.

“The elders in my way, they stared
And gave me then a wider berth.
But younger folk were there, who dared
To point and then express their mirth."

What's 'berth'? It's this. And 'mirth'? It's when
You smile and laugh. The kids, ahem,
Were smiling, pointing, laughing then.
And why?  They joked and laughed at him.

But let us continue. He said, 

“But little did I care. I neared
The park, and saw a patch of sky.
And sure enough, within that blue,
A little cloud was sailing high!

“I cracked a smile when I saw the cloud.
I smiled yet wider at the tree.
The squirrel made me laugh out loud.
With which of these could I disagree?

“And when a bird did doo-doo on
My head, I rolled around in fits.
And who then murmured, “He is gone.”?
The ones, who thought I’d lost my wits."

What's 'fits'? That's when you do like so.
What's 'wits'?  That's sense. We all need more
Yes. It's funny. You can giggle.
But listen. Sit – and stop that wriggle!

“I did a handstand, waved my legs,
Did a cartwheel ‘round the park.,
Saw a pigeon, brooding eggs,
Heard a puppy try to bark.

“The more I saw, the more I heard,
The more I laughed, until I cried.
And this I did, when I got word
That chips are better, when they’re fried.

“ 'They taste much better, fried, than raw!
The smell is better too, you’ll see!'
These things, I shouted.  Then, the law
Appeared.  And they were after me.

“But I was clever, I was fast!
I zoomed around the park, I zoomed!
But woe!  My freedom did not last.
They called in jaybirds.  I was doomed.

“But one of those was known to me.
He perched upon my shoulder and
He whispered. “Like a statue, be.”
And so I did, and so l stand.”

On hearing this, I shed a tear,
And wiping it, I blew my nose.
And in that statue’s hand, my dear,
I left a red and thorny rose.

So you have listened, understood.
See the cloud? And see the tree?
And there’s your squirrel. You’ve been good.
And there’s the statue. Can you see?

Now come with me and we will find
That statue there, with rose in hand.
These chips?  I hope you do not mind.
But they’re for him.  You understand?

He likes the chips, that statue there.
I’ve heard he likes the children too.
No, not for eating!  No, his fare
Is chips.  He’ll munch on those, not you.

What’s wrong – and why do you run away?
The kids today are really weird!
They’re frightened, in the light of day,
By those like me, without a beard!

2014 April 12th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York   
    

Floating Free

  
Floating Free
 
I saw the crescent moon and Jupiter
Above the city’s lights, behind a tree.
And though the night was freezing cold, I stood
And watched my silent spirit floating free.
 
******
 
And I was left, bereft and small below,
Until at last the spirit had returned.
And only so could I then move again
And slowly walk towards my home, restored.

How often, when the tides of air had cleared
Away the city’s hazy murk, have I
Looked up and seen, within the crystal dark,
The orbs on high ablaze like beacon-fires.

And every time I’ve seen those fires above,
In every season, I have stood transfixed,
As memories, perhaps of eons past,
Arose, as awe becalmed my beating heart.
 
******
  
I saw tonight the moon, with planet, stars,
In winter glory, bright behind a tree.
And while I shivered as I gazed on high,
I saw a specter rise – my spirit, free.

2014 April 5th, Sat. 11:25 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
   

The Stain

    
The Stain
 
There was blood on the sidewalk, where a man had been killed.
It was dark but was faded, from dust and from sun.
And that stain was not noticed, except by the few,
Who had been at the killing, and had seen the man run.

But he’d tripped and he’d fallen. They’d caught him right there,
The ones who had chased him. He’d cried out in fear.
And he’d cried out again, like a cat that’s in pain,
But the cries had grown weaker, as his ending drew near.

How long he had lain there, and whether alive,
A few perhaps wondered.  But they left him to lie.
And they hid him from children, whom they ushered away.
For it’s bad for the young ones to see a man die.

And his slippers had left him, as he ran for his life.
One lay in the gutter, and the other beside.
And when he was lifted, and carried away,
They lay as a witness, like the kelp to the tide.

And when I’d returned, to the spot of the slaying,
The years had been many.  The slippers had fled.
But the stain was still present, though faded by time.
I could still hear him screaming, where his blood had run red.

2014 March 24th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Reflections on a Tree

   
Reflections on a Tree
  
While slowly walking home this evening, I
Observed a tree that reached towards the sky.
It stood, with all its myriad fingers splayed,
And to a winter moon, in silence prayed.

I wondered if that still and silent tree
Was linked, by consciousness, to you and me.
It stood, beneath the sun and moon and stars,
A witness to our lives and loves and wars.

And surely it cared little for our kind,
That prides itself on nimbleness of mind,
While knowing more, of light and earth and air,
Than you or I could ever know or care.

But if in truth, of mind there is but one,
It shared with us, who hither, thither run,
That same awareness, but of aspect slowed,
While standing still, beside a city road.

2014 February 14th, Fri. 7:54 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
   

Encounter – III

   
Encounter – III
     
The “polar vortex”, with its deadly cold,
Has now retreated to its northern lair.
It will return, we’re told in forecasts grim,
But now we’ve rain that melts away the snow.

I walk tonight and see the streetlights’ glow
Upon the trees that glisten in the rain.
There’s rind that’s white, like freshly painted wall,
And other, dark as rain-drenched bark can be.

I stand before a strong, gargantuan trunk,
And see the sinews braced beneath the skin.
And looking up, I see the branches flung
Towards the starlit sky in ecstasy.

How beautiful are trees – for winter bare!
If only skeletons could match their grace,
Then when men died, we would erect their bones,
So those still living could admire the dead.

So much to see – for one, who's limited
To walking back and forth, each working day,
Along these city streets, as light and dark
And seasons, years and lifetimes circle ‘round…

2014 January 12th, Sun., 2:10 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
 

Monua in Boston (revised)

Monua  in Boston (revised)

My sister told me how, in her college days,

She’d traveled from South Hadley, a satellite

Of Amherst town, to busy Boston, where,

One winter’s eve, she waited for a bus –

And everyone that passed by, in that cold

And sullen night, seemed wrapped in such a fog

That none could see through it.  For each was trapped,

It seemed to her, within a private hell.

How much of this was she, and how much they,

Those strangers, passing, in that urban cold,

My sister – born to sun, of sky and heart,

I do not know – for this, she did not tell.

But what she saw were tense expressions – frowns,

That lack of recognition, which our towns

Impose on those who yield.  And this extends

To all around, as if all else were dead.

But this much, I can now surmise, with sight

That I then lacked – that she perhaps was wise,

From isolations that I’d never known,

And so could see, how troubled were those souls,

So locked within themselves – and round and round

In endless circles of frustration bound,

With self consuming self, without an out

From friendship, love, or care for what’s without…

It is this isolation – the living grave

Of urban life within efficient towns,

Where human contact and affections are

Redundant – where so many daily live

As jackals lone, whom Nature made as dogs –

That leads, I think, to higher suicide rates

In Scandinavia, where the Vikings live

In indoor warmth, in winters cold and dark.

They lack, perhaps, that rawest sustenance

That humans give, to others of their kind,

By their demands and their annoying ways

Which draw us out of selves – and into sun.

And if we see this, in the truest light,

We will not turn away, although our souls

May need a refuge, finding deep delight

In quietness – as in a silent night.

  

How much of this, my sister had surmised,

How much she hadn’t, only she could tell,

Who told me, Boston seemed a rung of hell.

I’m sure Bostonians might, at this, object.

And one experience, on a winter’s eve,

Should not be used to beat a city down.

But this I know, what Monua then perceived,

Had left its scar.  I heard – and I believed.

For Boston’s just a marker.  What she saw,

We all might see in cities ‘round the world.

Wherever men and women take to heart

The dictates of the demon-engine, there

We find the blight that rots us from within.

It leaves us sickened, faces turned to masks,

As each is writhing in what Dante scribed –

A place infernal, though we walk on earth.

Babui (Arjun) Janah

2006 June 4^th, Sun.
Berkeley, California
(revised & with the last two stanzas added,
2013 Dec. 19^th, Thu., Brooklyn, New York)
 In Memoriam
Monua Janah
1959 – 2004
   

Note on pronunciation:  My late sister’s name, Monua, has, in Bangla (Bengali), three smoothly joined and almost evenly stressed syllables, Mo-nu-a, with the three vowels being as in English “gold” (but shorter), “put” (but slightly longer) and “arm” (but shorter).

The first vowel gets, usually, just a slight emphasis – through a bit more of duration and loudness.  Since the last two vowels form a smooth diphthong, her name might also be thought of as having just two syllables, Mo-nua, with the “u” being, however, a distinct short “u”, (as in “put”) not a “w”. 
  

The Watcher

                 
The Watcher
        
I met a man by the marina,
Shirtless in September sun.
He had a pendant on his chest,
With symbol that resembled gun.

Upon his face, there grew a beard,
Quite scraggly, and an orange-red
That matched what hair he still had left
That grew as wild upon his head.

His nails were long like claws, with dirt
Compacted into crescents black,
And yet of wit and wisdom he
Did not, we found, completely lack.

He'd wandered by this western sea,
For many years, and knew the planes
That flew above, and could, by sound
Of cabin horn, distinguish trains.

"See -- that's the plane from New York City,
Coming in to land, and -- hark!
That's the train from Sacramento,
Emerging from the tunnel's dark!"

"See there, across the Bay, the fog
Retreating past the Golden Gate...
Today it will be warm and calm,
But winter may be long, though late..."

So all the life around the Bay
Had entered him, and there he was,
Quite shirtless that September day,
A witness to what is or was.

The gulls and squirrels knew this man,
With dirty nails and gnarled hands,
That pendant on his chest that shone,
As sun beat down on brownish pants.

He was familiar, like the sea
That lay becalmed, as boaters tried
To catch what little wind they could,
And far away, the Amtrak cried...

"Look there!", he said, "Right by that house
You'll see it run, if eyes are good!"
And sure enough, the silver sped
Right by that house, into the wood...

He'd been in Vietnam, had relished
Fighting for imagined cause;
But now, he said, "With age I'm wiser,
This war's for oil, and not for laws!"       *

He'd worked at jobs of all descriptions,
Adding to the labor force;
He'd wandered over lands and oceans,
And learned what's fine and what is coarse.

And now he sat by the marina,
Watching all the world unfold,
In the role of he who listens,
As the tale of life is told.

Babui Jana (Arjun Janah)
2006 September 17th, Sun.
Berkeley, California
 
* "this war" is the war in Iraq, begun by the U.S. in 2003 -- and still ongoing in 2006.