Showing posts with label Enslavement. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Enslavement. Show all posts

Wednesday, May 15, 2024

Truth and Justice

  
Truth and Justice
 
In each of us there is a sense, innate,
Of fairness, just as each of us can sense
Another’s feelings—almost like our own.
And some of us, at least, have always sought
The truth, discarding comfort based on lies.
 
So empathy and truth and justice—each 
Have always been of worth to humankind—
And every script revered appeals to these,
With words like these in treasured texts inscribed.
And yet, injustice reigns—along with lies.
 
****** 
 
And why is this? Some say the cause is greed 
For wealth and power, each supporting each.
And surely these are drives with low regard
For kindness, truth or justice, but there are
Some other causes too, including these—
 
Our ignorance, our fear, our apathy,
And all our history of lords and kings—
The weeding out of those who dared to speak
Or act against the rule of clubs and swords, 
And now the jails of jobs—and rains of bombs.
 
****** 
 
What gain is there in life for those who seek
For truth, for those who see another’s pain,
And those who strive for equity for all?
The gain is more of persecution, pain—
And yet they try, and fail, and try again.
 
Observe the ones who speak against the lie.
Behold the ones resisting, those who die—
Behold their courage and observe their faith.
One might believe in justice after death,
Another not—yet both believe in right.
 
2024, May 14th, Tue.
Berkeley, California
 

Thursday, April 25, 2019

Our Turn


Our Turn

There is right and there's wrong—and then there's the dollar.
It comes with a leash and it comes with a collar.
It comes with a biscuit and a ride on the ark,
And when bidden, we'll bite and when bidden we'll bark—
But not at our Master.  We're fed by his hand.
His kicks, we will take, as you all understand.

We can smile and spin.  We can twist and shout—
But the truth, in the end, will always out.
It might take a year or a thousand more,
And there isn't a god who is keeping score,
But we know in our hearts that the truth is this—
We quaked and we crapped at the Serpent's hiss.

For the sake of the silver, as Judas had done,
We sold out our honor, and the Devil has won.
When our Master decrees that a nation should fry,
Then who has the gumption to stand and defy?
But in time we will see, when it comes to our turn,
That the Devil will laugh, as he watches us burn.

2019 April 25th, Thursday
D train from Manhattan to Brooklyn
   

Friday, August 4, 2017

The Drums of War

 
The Drums of War

Can those, who make the music, slaughter too?
Can he, who wrote the verses, drop the bomb?
It seems it cannot be—and yet it is.
Our monsters swim beneath our waves of bliss.

At heaven’s gates, we find the demon-guard.
The beauty and the beast are always one.
We copulate—and practice martial arts.
The drums of war recall our mothers’ hearts.

How tender was the hand that struck the blow!
How swift, the passing of the ancient rite!
We cling to comforts as we hold to hopes.
How harsh, the laughter as we're made the dopes!

The “times of peace” can match the times of war
In horrors that will never come to light.
So virtuous men and women earn that wage
That Mammon serves to serfs in every age.
 
The ones, who seem to us the sanest, wreak
Yet greater havoc than the maddest men.
We have, upon this planet, just a while.
Amidst the mayhem, is there time to smile?

We sing our songs, as flutes and zithers play.
We beat upon the drums; we sway and dance.
But listen—there’s a music singing this:
“We heeded duty—and we savored bliss.”

We march to battles, led by wailing pipes.
And then, amidst the dissonance of war
Or caught within the madness of our jobs,
We yearn for peace—with every pulse that throbs.

But who can slip the knot that strangles us?
The more we try, the tighter is it grip.
We’ve had no peace, and hear, while still in pain—
The drums of war are beating yet again.
 
2017 August 4th, Fri.
New York, New York
    

Sunday, June 18, 2017

Time is Money?


Time is Money?

Time is more than money, friends,
although you won’t believe us.
We live where time and money are
equated.  It’s atrocious.

Time was there, when money wasn’t.
Time will be, when money isn’t.
Haughty lord or humble peasant—
time is what made living pleasant.

Time is what we lost, as we
exchanged it for the coins that clink.
We’ve lost the time for elders, kids,
for leisure—and to sit and think.

We once had time, in part or plenty—
time for joy and time for grief.
But now we’re robbed of all. I’m asking,
“Who, of time, has been the thief?”

Men are harried and distracted.
Women’s lots are even worse.
Children cannot pay attention.
Yet I sit and type my verse.

When we focus on the present,
past and future fall away.
Time is there, and yet it isn’t,
be it night or be it day.

Should we hurry sex or eating?
Can we speed up love and care?
When the mantra is “efficient”,
who, to pause and see, can dare?

All of art and much of science,
all of nurture, learning, teaching,
all of wisdom—these are timeless,
born from disregard of clocks.

Surely time, like space, has function.
But time and space will still be there,
when you and I are vanished, mortals!
Time and space, we all could share.

But time, like other things, is now
a source of profit.  It’s a factor
that’s essential.  Watch your timing!
Otherwise, you’re not an actor.

See the worker, who must watch
the ticking clock—because the boss
is watching, there are deadlines and
to fuss—delay—entails a loss.

See the businessman, who strives
to squeeze, from out of time, his cash.
No time remains to pause, reflect
on things that don’t affect his stash.

See the parent, with her bills.
working hard, to feed her kids—
and so much more.  No time for her
to stop—or she’ll be on the skids.

In places, it’s the poor who race.
The middle class can take it slow.
In other places, burghers run—
or they’ll be middle class no more.

Run, run, run!  Run, run, run!
Run, run, run—and don’t ask why.
Run, run, run!  And run some more!
Run, run, run—till you drop and die.

No use for you, if you don’t produce
and don’t consume and pay your taxes—
unless you’re Donald Trump.  He hires,
and when your time is up, he axes.

“You’re fired!”  Now, you might survive
or not.  It seems it matters little.
“Go find a job, you useless bum!
Or you’re the wood we’ll have to whittle.”

Jobs and business, bosses, profits,
bills to pay and loans and rent—
these are now our lords and masters.
With amusements, we’re content.

Time is money.  Money's all.
Who has time to pause and question,
"Why this racing?  Who is gaining?
Where's the truth and where's the fiction?"

2017 June 18th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York 
----------------------------------------------------
 
Related:  Hop  (a shorter poem, for reading out aloud)
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/04/hop.html  

   

Wednesday, May 31, 2017

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 

Saturday, May 6, 2017

In Debt and in Surfeit


In Debt and in Surfeit

How troubled are our lives—and needlessly!
Our tribulations are engendered by
our own entrapment in the webs we weave.

How meager are the needs that must be met
so we may live, with freedom from distress.
The air we breathe is free—and so should be
the water that we drink.  We each can feast
a fortnight, just on rations carried on our backs.
We also need, in climates of extremes,
some shelter from the elements—and none
of us can live for long in icy cold,
without the clothes and heat that we require.
No primates ventured near the frozen realms,
except the ones who stitched and tended fires.

But that is all we really need—except
ourselves and those that give us company.
And in this last necessity, we find
a richness and a solace that had served
us well, providing culture, memory
that passed through generations—woven strands
that still endure—although we now retreat
to hermit cells, preferring to subsist
on those connections more in our control,
so keeping humans off at distances,
while drowning still in debt and in surfeit.

Till yesterday, we lived as foragers,
content and fully human—that, which we
are now no more, except in vestiges.

2017 May 5th, Fri, 6:10 pm
Milestone Park, Bensonhurst
Brooklyn, New York 
  

Monday, April 17, 2017

Humans

 
Humans
 
https://www.facebook.com/arjun.janah/posts/10154554801155950

We murder the children, we maim and we burn.
We follow the ones who give orders and funds.
And yet we lift strangers who're wounded and risk
our lives for the children who have nowhere to turn.

How hard are we humans, how cruel and mad!
How senseless our slaughters, how ruthless our drives!
But still, in the mayhem, we heal and we nurture.
We tend to that labor, no matter how sad.
 
2017 April 17th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Saturday, September 3, 2016

I Wish That I Were Free Again

 
I Wish That I Were Free Again
 
I wish that I were free again
to climb up on the roof again
to try to fly my kite again
to see it dip and dive and then
to see it climb towards the sky,
to see the soaring clouds on high,
to watch the kite-hawks wheel and dive,
to watch the thunderstorm arrive,
to see the lightning flash and then
to hear the thunder crash and then
to see the birds go flying by,
to feel that wind from regions high,
to see my kite go down and die,
to reel the broken string and then
to flee the lightning and the rain—
I wish that I were free again
to climb up on the roof again
to feel that downdraft—bracing, cool,
to learn the things not taught at school
that I remember to this day
and will until I fade away—
to see the changing of the light,
to marvel at that eerie sight,
to see the storm approaching fast,
to dare to stay and be the last
to leave the roofs as lightning flashed
and roaring loud the thunder crashed,
to hear the sound of drumming rain
on roofs of tile and tin again,
to see the palm trees dance and sway,
to see how night was made from day,
to feel the rain, upon my skin,
that washed away this world of sin,
to leap in lashing, pouring rain,
to live that childhood once again,
I wish that I were free again—
but then I think of those not free
to climb up on the roofs like me,
who slept on pavements till the rain
came down upon them yet again,
who huddled then in misery,
and then I wake—from fantasy.

2016 September 2, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York
   

Thursday, August 25, 2016

A Space Exists


A Space Exists
 
Between the push and pull of fear, desire,
A space exists for wisdom, peace and love.
And in this space the waves of grief and joy
And all emotions, thoughts can come and go.

And yet, beneath those surface waves, there still
Remains a zone that's calm and unperturbed—
For currents strong may roil below the waves,
But there are depths in which we still are free.

But when we try to hold, preserve, maintain
The transient joys, entrapped by fear, desire,
We bring then woes upon our heads and those
Of others, losing sense and sanity.

And see—we’ve built ourselves a monstrous world
That runs on fear and greed, and so is fraught
With all the evils that the two, conjoined,
Engender, wreaking madness, mayhem, woe.

The vices that have long been recognized
Are seen as virtues, virtue viewed as vice.
Until such views reverse, we won’t regain
That space in which to breathe and see again.

We cannot know what happens far away,
Or even in our city or next door,
Except from what we’re fed—that filtered feed
That’s then polluted by the feeders’ views.

And so we each are more and more entrapped.
We’re caught, conditioned; then, as zombied slaves,
We race upon the tracks that power the mills
Of Mammon that are grinding all to dust.
 
And though the tools exist, for some at least,
To see beyond the bounds of space and time,
So many still are blinkered in their views,
As goads, incitements work to steer the herds.
 
What hope exists, except that each can still
Attempt to shed these strong constraints of view?
No liberator comes; no hope exists
Except from what we each can try to do.

No revolution can succeed until
We see the wheel that each is turning too.
No evolution towards a saner world
Can be, without that pivot each must do.
 
A space exists between the push and pull
Of fear, desire, in which our vision clears.
To clear that space of snares and clutter, we
Can labor, with our grants of strengths and years.

We each can try, in small and humble ways,
To change the world that all of us have built.
It isn’t god or nature that dictates
What humans do. Our minds are snared and trained.
 
Without the promise that we will succeed,
Without the premise that the work is light,
We each can labor, breathing deeply, while
We work from darkness towards the hope of light.

There is the outer world and that within,
And each affects the other in its turn.
There is a little sphere that pens us each—
But in ourselves the bounds are ours to reach.

We can’t control what happens in this world,
We can’t foresee the future, yet we each
Can still enjoy, within ourselves, that peace
Residing in that space that each can clear.

No matter what tomorrow takes or gives,
No matter what the past has done or been,
There’s still the moment that we’re granted now
In which to turn towards dark or towards the light.

2016 August 25th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Sunday, May 22, 2016

When Jesus Christ is CEO

 
When Jesus Christ is CEO

When lamas, popes are set on thrones,
And ayatollahs throw their stones,
Who heeds Gotama's words? Alas!
The one who does is deemed an ass!

When Mammon rules the hearts of men,
What chance is there for Yesu then?

So missionaries once would bless
The remnant natives who'd confess
That they had sinned, so greedy Spain
Was not to blame for all their pain.

The peasants labored in the field,
As kings and priests enjoyed the yield.

A king, enthroned, could sip his wine
As priests declared that he's divine.
The temples then were filled with gold
As pigs and slaves were bought and sold.

It then was so and now is still.
The names have changed, but not the swill.

So presidents invoke the Lord,
And guns have now replaced the sword.
The gods on high, it now appears,
Have bombs that burn. They shed no tears.

The TV's used by reverend Stash
For praising God and raising cash.

When godmen and the Aga Khan
Are weighed in gold, should we demand
That they be gilded then as well?
So Mammon leads us all to hell.

When Jesus Christ is CEO,
It's time for us to quietly go.
 
2016 May 22, Sun
Brooklyn, New York
    


Sunday, February 21, 2016

Love’s Labor Lost? – II

  
Love’s Labor Lost? – II
   
How many poets, in how many tongues,
Have written verses, squeezing into lines,
That fit within a page, the wisdom, grief
Regret and joy they'd gathered, each, through lives
That soon would end?  How few are known today?
How many precious notebooks thrown away?
 
How many theses, labored on for years,
Reside in folders, doomed to dust, decay?
How many painters never sold a piece?
How many Einsteins couldn't get their chance?
How much of labor and of beauty lost?
How much of truth that never saw the day?
  
And yet—a labor is its own reward:
A poem or a a painting, done, fulfills
A need no praise or payment ever can.
A shelter, in an attic or a ditch,
From all the ravages of peace and war—
Plus time—are all a being asks for this.
 
A parent or a teacher, nurse or aide
Can spend a life in caring and in toil.
The worker in the mine or factory,
The peasant who must labor for his lord,
For all their work, receive a recompense
That rarely matches what the labor's worth.
  
What enterprise or government could do
Without the labor that the beings do—
Employed, enslaved or doing of their own
What can't be set to rules or supervised
Without reducing it to lifeless form—
The labor of the dead that's dull and dark.
  
The spirit that is calling us to work—
Be this to feed ourselves or far beyond—
It functions, in constraints, in spite of these.
But those who seek to tame it never will,
For it's by nature wild.  It lets us give
What can't be got by pay or punishment.
  
2016 February 21st, Sun. 4:47 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York  

---------------------------------------------------------  
Related:  


Saturday, May 2, 2015

Resistance

 
Resistance

We walk upon the roadways we’re told to walk upon,
And find ourselves in places we really shouldn't be.
But what should be or shouldn't, between the herders and
The herded ones of reason, are matters of dispute.

The corrupted hate resistance, the zealots even more.
Our fellows who’re compliant—they shun the ones who’re not.
And so we have progressions, from misery to worse.
And all I've left, of reason, I now express in verse.

For some of us resisted and walked our lonely paths.
But each of us was hounded, who didn't stop and turn.
The paths we trod are faded and soon they might be gone,
For those who're young or jaded will hardly seek them out.

We foundered in the ocean.  We saw the distant isles.
We swam towards those islands, but only for a while.
We were driven back by currents.  We either yielded or
We fought until exhausted—and one by one were drowned.

******

We're weighted down by morals, when these are valued less
Than what is deemed expedient.  Our caring gives us stress..
What matters is the package.  Who cares for small details?
What's slick and fast and trendy succeeds, where labor fails.
 
We each may have our ethics, be loath to let these go.
And yet, amidst the breakers, we either sink or float
By holding still to scruples or yielding to the flow.
The virtue, that’s resistance, has long been seen as vice.

For some are always eager.  They never see the harm—
And so despise the laggards, who ask the questions still.
We’re beaten down and broken, or bribed to walk those roads
To then become the captors, who bend the captives’ wills.

******
   
Our labor, it is precious; the time we have is short.
And yet that time’s expended, and labor’s turned to naught.
We see the great destruction; we see the precious die.
We’re not allowed to question.  These things, they just deny.
 
So why appeal to reason, to sight of mind and heart?
What use is it to argue with those who will not see?
We drape our tattered ethics around ourselves and say,
“Although you strip us naked, we still will not obey.”
 
We always have our choices—and even unto death
We either stifle conscience or listen to its voice.
But when we’re in the furnace, it hardly matters then.
Our souls have been forfeited.  Within the hell, we’ll burn.
   
What point in now regretting the roads we traveled on?
We knew that their direction would lead towards this day.
The flames around are roaring, the work we did is lost.
We strangely still are fighting, as ashes drift to dust.

2015 May 2nd, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Wednesday, April 8, 2015

Relief

 
Relief

How precious are the times we have of peace,
amidst the madness that afflicts our lives…
A tranquil moment, in the press of work
within a factory, gives us sustenance.

We see, within a school, the teachers who
must run from room to room.  They race, when in
those rooms as well – and scold the tardy kids,
as they themselves are scolded in their turn.

For those who lag, where others go at speed,
are trampled.  So the workers all must race.
How pleasant, then, the slower interlude
at lunch.  How dear, that ending bell!

And yet, observe.  When students all have left,
a teacher stays and toils – and eyes the clock.
For if she stays past six and then is seen,
a reprimand or worse is her reward.
 
And when at last, at night, in wintertime,
she furtively escapes – and exiting
is greeted by the air that’s bracing, fresh –
how grateful she is then, for that relief.
 
And as she walks along the city streets,
she shivers, but she now has time to see
the naked limbs of trees, to hear the wind,
to calmly breathe – and so to simply be...

On reaching home, attending to her chores
of work and home, she seeks a little time
for those she loves and for her ragged self.
And that’s enough – for then it’s time to sleep.

And let us hope that sleep is restful, deep
and free of all that plagued her in the day.
For this, we pray – but rarely is it so.
The madness enters even in our sleep.
 
2015 April 8th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Tuesday, January 13, 2015

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

  

Friday, October 3, 2014

The Madness

    
The Madness
  
What still is left of sanity within the human race
Is threatened now by sickness that we’re told is glowing health.
So “Money, money, money!”  is the chanting of our times,
As Mammon is exalted in the mad pursuit of wealth.
 
But more and more, there rises too the murmur, “God is great!”
And all the ancient zealotries arise and walk again,
As brother says to brother, “You’re the infidel to slay!”
So avarice and zeal compete in doling out the pain.
 
The diktats of the secular, the dogmas of the zealous –
They both result in misery. The suffering is great,
But those who see are powerless to halt the cycles vicious.
And even in the U.S.A., the workers say it’s fate.
  
“That’s how it is!” we each declare, and do as bosses order.
We turn on one another as the “owners” rake in cash.
We blame the ones who’re poorer or the ones who cross the border.
In ignorance, we're duped to pay for dark adventures rash.
 
So those who are sincere are robbed of sleep and peace of mind.
They see the way we’re headed and they sense the mad stampede.
But if they try to slow, they find they’re shoved aside or crushed –
For punishment is sure, for every heartfelt word or deed.
 
Even in the midst of wars, there still was once the peace – 
In clamor and insanity, the quiet and the sane…
But now, within our families, and in our halls of study,
There’s falsehood and ferocity – and all the traits insane.
 
And yet we see the wheelers, who appear to be at peace,
With hearts immured to suffering, expedient, coldly wise.
And these are now our rulers, in their trademark penguin suits,
Our dealers in insanity, who market pain and lies...

Will sanity be ours again? Will madness ever ebb?
The fever rises still, the patient shivers in her bed.
And what is it that ails her? Is it this or is it that?
A doctor says it's zealotry – and greed, to which it's wed.
 
2014 October 3rd, Fri., 6:01 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
   

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

So Who Can Blame the Drunkard?

    
So Who Can Blame the Drunkard?
  
Gujarat Chief Minister Narendra Modi is also at the 400 year old Lord
Jagannath Temple where he pulled the chariot carrying the deity.
(AP Photo/Ajit Solanki)
Image source:  http://ibnlive.in.com/photogallery/4322-5.html

 
In a world, where life is feeding on other life to live,
We still converse on ethics – and mortal sins forgive.
Some speak of a creator, who set this all in motion.
They even bow to worship, with zeal in their devotion.

But who is this creator, so cruel in intent,
Who sets the seed to growing, to serve as condiment?
The cow will tend her calf with care, but then it will be taken
And butchered in the slaughterhouse – and roasted and partaken.

And even in our species, we see there is predation,
And this has been the basis of empire and of nation.
As asses, camels, oxen are used as beasts of burden,
So also are the billions who happen to be human.

The weight that workers carry is the labor that they do,
In the farm and in the factory – including me and you.
One labors with the muscle and another with the mind.
To the one who reaps the profit, they are drudges of a kind.

The poultry and the cattle may be slaughtered for their meat,
And if, from this, they rebel, they are easy to defeat.
The peasant and the worker, they are harnessed to the wheel,
And when there is rebellion, it is met with fire and steel.

The human mind is devious – in guile, a true exemplar.
And many are the traps it sets for those of us who’re simpler.
The spider nets its prey in webs.  Our predators enmesh us.
We pay the rent and interest, and drive the cycle vicious.

Behold, the great colossus – the juggernaut erected.
Observe its gears and crankshafts, by oil-of-man protected.
It roars and whirrs and grumbles. It moves and yet remains.
It seems that it is living – with labor in its veins.

For the engines to be running, that power the contraption,
The workers must be working, providing thus the traction.
For even the petroleum, to be flowing, needs their work,
And dire is the prognosis, for the ones who try to shirk.

For what had once been local – the landlords and their fiefs,
The herders who were herded, beholden to their chiefs –
Is now transformed to global.  The feeding chains extend
From Zululand to Zurich – and through the nations wend.

So there is no escaping. The tribal lands are torn,
With newer forms of serfdom, in every season, born.
And if there is resistance that slows the flow of cash,
It’s met with machinations that burn the brave to ash.

Who labors in the mineshafts, and is, of toil, relieved?
Who tells a tale that’s honest, and yet is still believed?
Who seeks the path of reason and isn’t robbed of wits?
Who stands against the dollar and isn’t bombed to bits?

The gods that men conceived of are also put to use.
If king and god command it, who dare the twain refuse?
And so it is that Yahweh, who thundered in the wild,
Is called to aid the conquest, and man and earth defiled.

So some may need convincing that there ever was an Eden,
That the god of the commandments was distinct from him called Satan.
For the evil seems intrinsic – and the world is steeped in sin.
So who can blame the drunkard, who seeks to drown in gin?

So do not pray to Krishna, the one of cunning wiles,
And do not dance for Kali, or think that Jesus smiles.
And Allah still is raging, and Shiva is asleep –
With Brahma, he is snoring, in intoxication deep.

2014 September 16th, Tuesday
Brooklyn, New York
   

Friday, March 21, 2014

Ghont’a Ghorir Sraddho (The Cremation of the Clocks)


Dear readers of my floods,
 
The Bangla (Bengali) verses below were written in a rush (which may cause much amusement, given their content).  The translation (that interleaves the stanzas) was done in even more of a rush.

The reason I was (and still am) in a rush is that I should have been working solely on job-related matters, as grades are due early Monday morning, and that usually keeps me busy all weekend.

No matter. I'll send this off now, and, with that off my resentful chest, attack the other thing tomorrow, starting early in the morning instead of staying up late, which is rarely is a good thing.

The Bangla word "sraddho" (Sanskrt: "shraaddha") should not really be translated as "cremation".  I may have done that (subconsciously) mainly for alliteration with "clock".

Hindus try to cremate (burn) their dead, with rituals if they can afford that. They then try to have, later, the further rites and collective feast that are together known as the "sraddho".  So "memorial service" might be a better translation than "cremation" or "funeral".

With apologies,
Babui / Arjun
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Please see also:  If Clocks Were Abolished – 2014 March 20th, Thu.
  
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/03/if-clocks-were-abolished.html
  
For an explanation of the transliteration scheme, see:  Bharot Xadhin (India, Free) – 2014 Feb. 8th, Sat.
  
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/02/bharot-xadhin-indias-freedom.html
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ghont’a Ghorir Sraddho   (The Cremation of the Clocks)   
                                

Ei jo`gote keu ba khat’e, keu ba orae ghuri.            
E`ker hate ador khali, onner hate churi.                  
Karor ko`pal xukher jibon, alxemite khuro.              
Karor do`xa, dukkhe bhoga, xexeo tara-huro.           

In this world, some work, others fly kites.
In one’s hand, there’s love; in another’s, a knife.
Some are lucky to live happily and lazily grow old.
The lot of others is to suffer, rushing even at the end.

Malik bhabe, munafa-t’a barate ho`be, bhai.
Mojdur-der khat’ate ho`be, capte ho`be tai. 
Calaki die, xukaj theke bo`dmaxi ho`e bexi.
Xaheb malik ja kichu bojhae, joldi xekhe dixi.

The boss thinks, we have to increase profits.
We’ve got to squeeze the workers, so they work more.         
From cleverness, there comes more evil than good.
Whatever the white boss teaches, the brown one learns.
 
“Ei je ghori, kajer jinix, bilet theke ana.                    
Et’ar ka~t’ae mojduri ae, ruiye neoa mana.             
Ghont’a-minit’ rakhle hixeb, barbe ahar tomar.         
Tumio khabe, amio khabo. Bexir bhagt’a amar.”
            
“Here is a clock, a useful thing, imported from Europe.
They’ll be paid by the clock; they’ll have no time to rest.
If you keep track of hours and minutes, the feast will grow.
You’ll dine well and so will I. The larger share will be mine.”

Tai to de`kho, karkhanate, khat’che sromik-do`l.        
Ka~t’ae ka~t’ae colche de`kho, notun juger ko`l.        
Jontro-ko`le jo`ntro bo`ro, t’akar pho`de dho`ra.     
Ei to do`xa sromik-xo`ber – bedo`m khet’e mo`ra.
         
And so you see the workers toiling in the factories.
The machines of the new age run precisely by the clock.
Caught in the money-trap, workers race upon the wheel.
This is their lot – to work without rest till they die.

“Tai to boli, ghont’a-ghori koreche jo`khon golam,
Curmar kore bhangle po`re, milbe to`khon aram!”       
Ei ko`that’a bolechilo je, nam chilo tar Hori.              
Karkhanete, kaj thamie, bhanglo rege ghori.             

“That is why I say, since the clocks have made us slaves,     
It’s only when we break them into pieces that we’ll have rest.”
The one who said these words, his name was Rock.
He stopped his work at the mill and broke the clock.

Tai dekhe to uthlam jege, sromik xo`bai jo`khon,      
Bajlo sit’i, gund’a pulix korlo jo`bai to`khon.              
Horir sriti morbe na go, roibe agun buke.                  
Thambe jedin ghori, xedin jolbe abar mukhe.            

And when we workers saw this and rose up,
The whistle blew and the goon-police came to kill us.
We’ll remember Rock. The fire will burn within us.
When the clocks stop, it will flame up again.

Khuxir cote gaibo to`khon, “No`mai tomae, Hori!        
Tomar name biplo`bete cuklo xexe ghori!                   
Jindabad, jindabad, moder xohid Horir!                    
Murdabad, murdabad, xoetaner po ghorir!”

In our joy, we will sing, “We salute you, Rock!
The rising up, in your name, has ended the clock!               
Long live, long live, the memory of the martyr!
Death to the devil’s spawn, death to the clock!”
 
 Ho`cche jo`khon, xukher bhore, gho`nt’a-ghorir sraddho,  
Monuxxota ghumer theke jagte to`khon baddho.         
To`khon, “Co`l-co`l, hat’-hat’!” cole jabe jekhane,       
Porci-hixeb chire-phele chure debo xekhane.

When, in that dawn of joy, the clocks are cremated,
Then our humanity will wake again from its slumber.
Wherever the “Go, go! Run, run!” goes to then,
There we shall throw all the torn-up accounts.

Xukrubar, 21e Marc, 2014 kri.                                    
Bruklin, No`bo Io`rk   

2014  March 21, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York   


----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Please see also:  If Clocks Were Abolished – 2014 March 20th, Thu.
  
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/03/if-clocks-were-abolished.html
  
For an explanation of the transliteration scheme, see:  Bharot Xadhin (India, Free) – 2014 Feb. 8th, Sat.
  
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/02/bharot-xadhin-indias-freedom.html
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
  

Sunday, March 2, 2014

Wars


Wars

An empire, like a fiefdom, feeds
On fear and greed and evil.
There rarely is a shortage of
These victuals of the Devil.

There’s malice in the hearts of men.
It lies there like a snake.
And when the time is opportune,
That serpent does awake.

And many are the stories told,
That feed our pride in nations –
And in our empires too, that grow
Like spreading  infestations.

No empire could have conquered lands
Or lasted, sans this malice.
And though a nation spins its tale,
It’s one that’s fit for Alice.

So neighbor turns on neighbor,
And a brother on his brother.
What one may see as treachery
Is fortune to another.

We covet land, we covet more,
We covet till we die.
And though the simple truth is greed,
It’s covered by the lie.

We're fed the tales that we believe,
Where myth adds spice to fact.
And this concoction, we devour,
And with conviction act.

But there are also bonds that served
Us well, in clans of yore,
And these, by fiefdoms, utilized,
Result in yet more gore.

And humans have a tendency
To worship those with power.
They kick the ones “below”.  To those
“Above”, they bow and cower.

And this perhaps had served for our
Survival.  Yet we see
How it ensures that humans now
As toiling slaves must be.

And all these things I listed that
In human natures are –
They're utilized, in factories –
And in the fields of war.

So every virtue, in its turn,
And surely, every vice,
Is used by those, who’re canny, so’s
To tighten more, the vise.

****** 
  
We kill and die for nations as
We once had done for clans.
Our empires feed on horrors – yet,
Like horror-films, have fans.

Our soldiers march in step towards
Their deaths, in senseless wars,
And yet we justify what isn’t
Just – or blame the stars.

Our armies slaughter thousands in
The lands across the seas.
So terror stalks those ravaged lands,
Where horrors do not cease.
   
When we've unleashed the forces that
Subsist on human malice,
Can we then claim that we are still
As innocent as Alice?
  
And yet we celebrate our selves.
We hail our godly nation.
And we agree to feeding more
Our engines of damnation.

And so it was for empires past
And nations ‘round the world,
Who fought – and fight – in lunacy,
With men in ovens hurled.

And if the ones, who kill and die,
The bitter truth are told,
They still believe the sweetened lie
Which all of us are sold.

For phantasms are what they are –
Our nations, built by men.
And they dissolve when we attempt
Their nature, true, to ken.

For phantasms, we kill and die –
For phantasms and lore.
So was it in the past and so
It is, in blood and gore.

And yet there still are reasons why
The men and women die,
There’s reason why the children wail,
There’s reason for the lie.

And this is what we each must find –
And this takes time and trouble.
It’s only when we see the “why”
That we can prick the bubble.

But know – that those who’re heartless, find,
In every war, a profit.
And though they know on what they feed,
They’re never sickened of it.

As long as men are herded and
To herders, bow and scrape,
So long will they, from factories
And armies, not escape.

But when we men and women serve
No bosses, seek no slaves –
As  equals, then, we all shall make
A people, true, of braves.

When charity replaces more
The malice in our hearts,
Then empires will be starved – and so
Will all their evil arts.

But this will not be what we see
On rising in the morrow.
That dawn must break within ourselves
So we can end this sorrow.

When factories will crumble and
When armies will disband,
Then humans will be humans true –
And walk then hand in hand.

But this again is but a dream,
Until we make it true.
But hark!  You’ll hear the children scream –
Because of me and you.
  
We still have better instincts left
That at such things revolt.
But there are instincts too, that serve
To keep those calls on hold.

For if we try to answer them,
We may ourselves be lost.
How many hear that distant cry
And rise, to bear the cost?
   
For most will say, “Let children scream,
Out there, so far away.”
But when that sound gets nearer, will
We still then turn away?

2014 March 2nd, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York