T'akar khe'la-টাকার খেলা

 
টাকার খেলা

শ্রমের চাপে, কৃষক-কুলির 
শরীর ভেঙে পড়ে। 
ধনিক জনের সঞ্চয় বাড়ে।
গরীব ভুগে মরে।

জীবন ধরে, বেদম খেটে, 
শ্রমিক খোড়ে গর্ত। 
খাজনা-সুদ-মুনাফায় বাড়ে 
পুঁজিপতির অর্থ।

সব ক্রিয়াতে টাকার খেলা, 
কৃপার ঘোর অভাব। 
‘শান্তি’-কালেও যুদ্ধ চলে। 
মহাজনের লাভ।

লোভের থেকে, হিংস্রতা,
লুন্ঠন, হাহাকার।
সহ্য করলে, মৃত্যু ধীরে।
লড়লে, শীঘ্র বার।

জনসাধারণ বন্দী থাকে 
ধূর্ত ঠকের ফাঁদে। 
অন্যায়-অত্যাচারের জুলুম।
অনাথ শিশু কাঁদে।

 বৃহস্পতিবার, ২৮ মার্চ, ২০২৪ খ্রি.
 বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফর্নিয়া.

Does Money Rule?

   
Does Money Rule?
 
“Money rules the world that ‘men’ have made.”
And who among us can resist its sway?
And yet, does money have a body, mind—
Or sense of self? It's truly men who rule—
Along with women—in proportion less
By far than what their even share could be.
 
So men (and women—some) with money rule.
The rest of us are “subjects” of these kings
(Or queens, at times)—and subject to their wills.
The pound and rifle, dollar teamed with bomb—
And now perhaps some other pairings too—
Are instruments by which our masters rule.
 
******
 
Are poorer people richer than the rich
In virtue? Do the rich have more of vice?
That's hard to say. It could be true—or not.
Wealth and power—these go hand in hand,
Magnifying vice and virtue, both.
The rich have potence that the others don't.
 
No matter. Money does not rule the world;
The ones with money—they're the ones who do,
For better or for worse. The issue is:
No ruler could exist without the ruled.
In this, we've mostly been completely fooled.
So kings were deified—as magnates are.
 
2022 August 26^th, Fri.
Berkeley, California
 
 

Freedom-2022-05-05

Freedom
 
Freedom is a vital thing
That’s dear to young and old.
Freedom is a precious thing
That can’t be bought or sold.
Yet freedom can be snatched away—
Or taken bit by bit.
When freedom’s lost or threatened, then
It’s time for actions bold.
 
There’s servitude, to those who wield
The whip, the rod, the gun;
Indenture, too—to those with snares
And webs of debt they’ve spun—
And labor, for the wage that’s earned
On terms befitting serfs.
And then there is dependence on
The beneficent one.
 
These all are forms of slavery.
To varying degrees,
We each are captives, happenstance,
Or humbled, on our knees,
To those adept at trickery
Or playing on our fears.
Arise, arise—to liberty,
So tyrannies may cease!
 
The tyranny of masters, be
They private or the states;
The tyranny of lenders, who
Extract usurious rates;
The tyranny of doctrines,
Administered by “priests”—
It matters not. Beware of those
Who “own” the others’ fates.
 

If Fortune gives you fortune, friend,
Or if you're fortune's earned—
Do use it humbly, kindly—
So your fortune then is turned
To that of others. If instead
Your fate is that of labor,
Then give, to others, service that
Will surely not be spurned.
 

The “owners” and the “workers”: both

Have rights—and both have faults.
Be fair, be just, in what you do—
With service—as with vaults.
Open up your eyes and heart.
Be wary—yet be kind.
Be neither slave nor master. Taste
Of freedom’s vital salts.
 
But wait! Beware, my patient friend,
Of those who say they act
In freedom’s name—and boast of this,
When what they do, in fact,
Is in pursuit of power, wealth—
But cloaked in freedom's garb.
Do not be fooled by merchants. Keep
Your soul—and sense—intact.
 
2022, May 5^th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
 

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
.  

Kon Rajat'a Bhalo-কোন রাজাটা ভালো

কোন রাজাটা ভালো?

এক রাজা তো গেল চলে।
ডাল গজালো গাছের।
ওই রাজা তো দূরের দেশের।
এই রাজা তো কাছের।

স্বাধীন হলাম, লড়ে কেঁদে।
বিদেশিদের রাজ
বিদায় নিল। কাঁধের ওপর,
অন্য রাজা আজ।

কোন রাজাটা ভালো? আরে,
সব রাজাই এক।
লুটতে তারা করবে দ্বিধা?
চোখটি খুলে, দেখ।

রবিবার, ৩০ ডিসেম্বর, ২০১৮ খ্রি 
ব্রুকলিন, নিউ ইর্ক

  

The Darkness of Noon

The Darkness of Noon

Bow to the ones who are rich, my friends!
Kneel for the ones who have goons on call.
These are the gods of our times, my friends.
Toil at the feet of our Pharaohs tall.

The human race is a servile one,
For those who had pride are dead and gone,
Except for the ones who have clearly won.
They straddle the land that we are on.

******

Gone are the ones who had striven and died.
Lost are the causes for which they fought.
Rich are the ones who had stolen and lied.
Poor are the sons of the men who rot.

The mothers had wailed and the daughters had wept,
But who can remember the reason they did?
The truths are forgotten, the falsehoods are left.
The darkness has gathered, the moon has been hid.

******

When will the clouds and the dark be dispersed?
Where is the courage and where is the truth?
Where is the learning with which we were versed?
When will the trodden be rid of the boot?

The ones who are workers can gather and rise,
And bring down the ones who have risen on high,
But first they should strive to be wary and wise,
To sift what is left of the truth from the lie.

******

Strive then, oh worker, to question and learn!
Learn to distinguish the fine from the dross.
Then you will see that your sense will return.
Then there’s a chance you’ll recover your loss.

You never will bow then to those who are rich.
Your knee will not bend for the lord or his goon.
The humble will smile, as you know which is which.
The Pharaohs will see then the darkness of noon.

2018 May 19th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
 

We’ll Blast You Straight to Hell!

 
We’ll Blast You Straight to Hell!

This is our god, the only god!
The other gods are false!
And if you would deny this, why,
We’ll rid you of your balls!

This is our prophet, the best and last!
No others are permitted!
And if you would say otherwise,
To hell, you’ll be remitted.
 
This is the truth, the only truth!
And everything else is lies!
It answers whats, it answers hows,
It even answers whys!
 
This is the way, the only way!
The others lead to hell!
We use these exclamation points,
For we still have stuff to sell!

There’s up and down! And we are up
And you are down below!
So toil, you slaves! And don’t complain!
Your kind deserves no more!

******

This is our race, the master race!
The others must bow low!
And those that have corrupted this—
Our purity—must go!

We are the ones who’re chosen. God
Has led us through the ages!
We’ve suffered!  Now, we own the world—
And smile, as havoc rages!

This is our creed, the greatest creed,
And everything else is shit!
And if you would say otherwise,
You must be poor of wit!

But see!  Ha ha! You now are lost!
You’ve all been led astray!
There is no truth, there is no god!
There never was a way—

Except the way that money talks,
And that’s the way we sell!
And if we find you’re in our way,
We’ll blast you straight to hell!

2017 May 28th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York

 

Ashes

Ashes

https://www.facebook.com/D.V.Ahluwalia/posts/913650452108809

The history of humans, friend,
Is a greatly tangled web.
We know about it next to naught,
Although we might pretend.

The Vedas only came to be
A moment back in time.
So Abraham was born in Ur
And Egypt rose sublime.

A hundred thousand years have passed,
Since humans left that land
In which we branched away from apes,
Or so we understand.

The Abrahamic faiths insist
The gods are none but one,
And all of Earth was made for Man,
By him who made the sun.

Our Aryas worshiped dewas, while
Ahuras ruled in Fars.
And so, "divine" and "devil"—these
Are siblings joined in farce.

Segregation, apartheid,
The lasting sin of varnas—
These all have failed to separate
Arjuna's kind from Karna's.

There is no superior race or god,
Or way of earning wealth,
And each such thought has wrought its dread,
In open or in stealth.

Each thing we make, which promises
To make our burdens light,
Is turned, by those who need their slaves,
To rob us of our sight.

So agriculture was and now
The labors hard of science.
So all is turned to ashes, friend,
On which we put reliance.

2017 April 24th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
    

Hubris and Debt, Fools and Ghouls (and Trump, Obama and Clinton)

Hubris and Debt, Fools and Ghouls
(and Trump, Obama and Clinton)

Hubris and Debt, Fools and Ghouls
(and Trump, Obama and Clinton)

So many wars that will not end!
So many products still to vend!
We’ve murdered people, murdered whales.
We’ve raised the stocks and boosted sales.
What’s left of fabrics still to rend?
And who can hope to heal and mend?
We’ve birthed the storm. So hear the gales,
As hammers pound on coffins’ nails.

How many left, who still are sane,
And not in jail or judged insane
By those who dance as puppets do,
While saying, “Dance!” to me and you?
And if we don’t, we suffer pain,
And find our efforts are in vain,
For labor must be service too,
To those who reign, as masters do.

How sad that this, our human race,
Must serve as serfs, with each in place
To work, produce—and buy, consume,
And all those qualities assume
That are expected, while we race
And vie for each coveted place.
We work—to fly and to consume
And then return—and jobs resume.

For now, vacations too are sales.
Our kids are swayed by seller’s tales.
They buy the gizmos, clothes and cars,
Cosmetics—even buying wars.
As elders quaff their wines and ales,
So youngsters guzzle sodas, sales.
As long as we are buying cars,
We also will be starting wars.

Who knows of science and history
And is intrigued by mystery?
Who dares to think and question why
We come to live and work and die?
We learn, in schools, our “history”,
But truth remains a mystery.
We lack in patience and in depth,
But not in hubris or in debt.

Where patience can be judged a vice,
There nasties rule, and those who’re nice,
Are seen as useless, worthless fools,
Who can’t be fashioned into tools
That aid those, who, ignoring price,
Would make decisions in a trice.
But who, we ask, are more the fools—
The slow—or those who serve the ghouls?

A few may feast on human flesh,
But others do on labor, fresh.
Our role, for them, is just to work,
To never raise our voice to irk
Their majesty, or rip that mesh
In which both France and Bangladesh
Are trapped. They view us as a quirk,
And squash us, as they smugly smirk.

Our role is labor and consumption,
Paying taxes, lacking gumption,
Lowing, bleating with the herd,
Being redneck, worker, nerd,
Being conditioned, drained of passion,
Trained to follow swings of fashion…
Injustice?  If we’ve ever heard,
We’ve learned to flush it, like a turd.

The cannons boom, the bombs descend,
The drones deliver and ascend.
The helicopters dive and strafe.
And who, from all of this, is safe?
The fighters die, the migrants wend
Their way—and souls and bodies vend.
From poverty and death and rape,
They flee—but find there’s no escape.

Where capital, at speed, can flow,
There labor follows, stressed and slow.
The money drains from villages,
As those who did the tillages
Must find their ways to cities.  So
The workers, to the anthills, flow.
But both in towns and villages,
The ghoul is there, who pillages.

He feeds on interest and rent,
And bribing is his special bent.
He views the worker as a chump.
He shows his underlings his rump.
The migrants, to his mills, are sent.
For a nickel’s work, he pays a cent.
And yet, if he is Donald Trump,
On migrants, he can take his dump.

“They’re rapists, murderers!” he cries.
And many chumps believe his lies.
And who is there to counter Don,
To  ask, “What planet are you on?”
Why, there’s Obama, gals and guys,
And Hillary, who tries and tries.
But Wall Street says, “No Sanders- Warren!”
She bows and curtsies.  She’s no moron.

2016 July 24th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York

   

Naked

Naked

She came into this world without her clothes
and naked, she will leave this world, again.
But while she’s here, she’s told she should be clothed,
or else she’ll get her share and more of pain.

And there are places, where she hides her face,
and even feet are swathed and not for show.
And if by chance she shows her head of hair,
a punishment, she then will surely know.

******
 
Oh woman, how has man defiled your soul
and so his own, from fear and lust combined!
To his possessions, he has added you,
and so, your role, of servitude, defined.

And see, how you yourself have fallen in
the traps that men and women make for you.
For even those, who see themselves as free,
to man and Mammon pay their daily due.

******
 
We once had goddesses, to whom we bowed;
we now have gods, to whom we kneel instead.
Forsake, oh human, lords of lordly kind.
To virtue, kneel. To kindness, bow your head.

Be neither slave nor master. All your chains
are clothes you did not have at birth.
Remove those wraps and break, oh break, those chains,
before it's time for you to leave this Earth.

2015 April 3rd, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
   
Please see also the missed post:  Reed (The Dancer)  
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/01/reed-dancer.html
     

On Winning and Sinning

 
On Winning and Sinning
  

http://memegenerator.net/instance/58914267

  























We've had our castes, our classes, sects and tribes.
And all of these remain, along with bribes.
But now, as "winners", "losers", we're divided.
And all the "losers" ever win are jibes.

Our virtues old, we've long exchanged for vice.
To those who're young, we give this shrewd advice:
"When 'winning' is the only thing that counts,
Then who has use for those who still are nice?"
 
The race is on, and all are running fast.
The gentle folk are those who finish last.
"Produce, consume and sock away your stash."
That mantra is – and all the rest is past.
 
In every land, the workers rise at dawn
To race to work.  And others, every morn,
Return from working on the graveyard shift.
We work and work, until we're dead and gone.

How much of labor!  Yet the question, "Why?"
Is rarely asked, until it's time to die.
To pay the rent, to feed ourselves, our kids –
Are these the reasons?  Who perceives the lie?

There's food enough and room enough, indeed
To house us, feed us – more than what we need.
For we and our machines – we work enough
In half our time – for all but endless greed.

Ignore the corporatists and their rants.
We've harvested the labor of the plants –
The myriad seeds of grass, the fuels below –
And yet we labor at our jobs like ants.

So pause to trace the path that value takes
From where it's made, where human labor slakes
The thirst that drives the ancient feeding chains
To where it ends, within the bankers' lakes.

And see – from there, the cash, in cycles, flows
And hither, thither, 'round the planet goes
To everywhere that rent and debt are used
To lead the harried workers by the nose.

How many hopes arise and then are dashed,
As profits grow and bonuses are cashed.
To Mammon's anvil, humans bound are led –
The hammer falls – and skulls and lives are smashed.

And what's the cordage that has long sufficed
To bind the ones who're daily sacrificed?
Their blood is flowing dark along the drains,
But few are they, who've paused – and so surmised.
 
Make no mistake – the jets that scream on high,
The cloud that rises in the crystal sky,
The fire below, the screams and silence – all
Are gifts of those who will not question why.

"That's how it is." they say and shrug or grin
And so they clear the path for more of sin.
"The way it is" is not by Nature made,

Nor made by gods, but those, who always win.

http://blogdailyherald.com/2011/03/14/higher-ed-roundup-winning-sinning-and-wtfing/

 

 


The Pharaoh once had stood between the sun
And those that worshiped both of them as one.
They worked the land from which he drew his wealth.
Six thousand years – and still we haven't won.

The newest Pharaohs now bestride the land
And their intrigues are still the stories grand.
We workers toil – and ever faster run,
And though we lose, we rarely understand.

The game is rigged. The scam is always on.
And those, who're losing, cheer the winners on,
For we've been gypped, and so we only blame
Ourselves and luck for how our lives have gone.
 
And so this worker writes, perhaps in vain.
He writes, so each of you can ease the pain.
Arise and see, what mischief is about
And end it, so it does not start again.
 
It's time the winners tasted too of loss,
It's time for drudges to defy the boss.
But only when we rise together, will
There be a chance for us to win this toss.

There's fortune, blowing in the winds of chance,
And there are pipers, playing us the dance.
And we can go with wind or piper or
Resolve to stand and take our measured stance.

Let's call for revolution, of a kind
That opens eyes and ears and also mind.
Until we see and hear and understand,
We'll never pause, our value true, to find.

But only when we pause can we begin
To see that we, who've lost, can also win.
So here's a catch that's needs to be released –
So virtue is, where now there's only sin.

As long as vice is seen as what is needed,
So long will labor's voice remain unheeded.
To cynics and to parasites, we say,
The time will come, when you will be defeated.

For though the ignorance is broad and deep,
Beneath the murk, the sense will slowly seep
Until it flows, in currents, like a tide
That clears away the rotten garbage-heap.
 
Then "winning, losing" will no longer be
The chorus that we hear, the fog we see.
Then vice and sin will yield to vision, yes,
As rivers open to the boundless sea.

And for that time I wait.  And if I die
Before that hour, and on my deathbed sigh
Because I did not live to see it, then

Remember still to ask that question, "Why?"
 

http://www.geniuscoaching.com/2014/11/4232/

 
 
 
 


When those like me are dead and gone, there still
Will come the ones who'll question, with a will.
And all the myths and lies and fakery
Will yield to those who dare to deeply drill.

"The way it is" is not by gods dictated.
This "winning, losing" we have overrated.
And this is what has led us into sin.
But sin is not the thing for which we're fated.

"The way it is" is not by gods designed,
To losing, workers long have been resigned...
But if, indeed, it's good, at times, to win,
Then by the gods, a win, we have in mind.
  
2015 February 16th, Mon. 9:36 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
     

Homo Sapiens

   
Homo Sapiens 
 
I had traveled over continents and crossed the oceans wide
To then settle on this island, by the swift Atlantic tide.
And here, I’ve made a living and have duly paid the rent –
But on looking back I wonder where my time and labor went.
 
For the joy I had in learning and in teaching what I’d learned
May be extant still, but muted, from the lashings that I’ve earned.
And the ebb and flow of seasons and the passing of the years
Have left me worn and weary, as my time of ending nears.
  
For though I’d flown across the globe, my travels since that time
Have mostly been to work and back – the worker’s tiresome rhyme.
And though this had a rhythm, like the whip on rebels brave
Or on men or beasts of burden, it has made of me a slave.
 
Should the men, of Earth begotten, and the women, side by side,
Have the Sky they claim as father watch his offspring still provide
The flour for the ovens that their humankind may make
And the fire, in which humans, yet other humans, bake?
 
Though all my life, for workers’ rights, I’ve carried high the torch,
I wonder what my thoughts will be, while gazing from a porch,
Retired from work at factories, if lucky – or, if not,
While blindly slumped upon a chair and by the world forgot’.
 
I walk to work and back each day, and though the work I do
Might give me bread to eat and more, I quietly say to you,
“Let not your son or daughter grow to work within a mill,
For that might rob your child of joy and even break the will.”
 
And what you would not have your offspring do, I’d ask that you
Should not expect that others do.  To conscience, then, be true,
And ask, what humankind can do, to free itself of fetters –
So no one issues orders, nor aspires to join their “betters”.
 
Let’s rid the world of pestilence.  Let’s start on it afresh.
Let no one call another “boss”.  Your mind and soul, refresh
In waters pure of dignity, so all can rightly claim
There lived a race of beings wise – in truth, not just in name.
  
2014 November 28th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Enslavement

    
Enslavement
    
The human mind is clever – and the human hand as well.
There's much that they've discovered, as our books and stories tell.
But yet it is enslavement that our cleverness has brought
To most of us – who live and work, in nets and snare-traps caught.
 

a captive
image source:  http://revcom.us/a/035/black-history-month-pt1.htm

   
  

      
   

The things that once had promise, at the time  they were invented,
To free us – these have each been turned to chains, by those demented,
Who profit from enslavement and the labors of the masses
And treat us, shedding conscience, much as some treat burdened asses.

We humans, we have tamed the beasts who're used to pull and carry,
And also, we have tamed the ones, with names like Ping and Harry.
And just as oxen, donkeys, mules may labor till they die,
So also Ying and Larry might, believing in the lie.
  

illustration for the poem Khuror Ko`l (The Elder's Contraption)
from the collection of Bengali nonsense verse, Abol Tabol, by Sukumar Roy.
image source: http://avikmukherjee.blogspot.com/2009/01/sukumar-roya-legacy-lost.html

And those of us who question this – and so are termed rebellious,
We each in turn are silenced – yes, by gentler means or vicious.
And so we see that humans work, yet more and more and more,
As some grow richer from that work – and stronger even more.

And though advances past had eased the lot of workers, now
We see these each negated – as we all, to magnates, bow.
We even worship them, as once we did our “godlike” kings,
While governments are bought and sold, by those on golden wings.

Those predators, they circle now, like eagles flying high.
They swoop upon their prey and then they climb up in the sky.
With all the world within their reach, with money as their claws,
They feed on men and women – and they write, for us, our laws.

They buy the public's voices and they use these for their ends.
They mangle even children – much as eagle, rabbit rends.
So where there once was innocence, we see a child demented,
As everything is used on him, by humankind invented.

To Corrupt the Innocence, painting by Paulo Zerbato
image source:  http://www.artflakes.com/en/products/to-corrupt-the-innocence

  
Losing thus our children, corrupted in their souls,
What can humans live for, who once were cogent wholes?
We now are so fragmented, in selves and in a village,
That each is easy pickings, for those who raid and pillage.

Oh rise and be again what you can be, oh humankind!
To all compulsions be averse, to mindfulness be kind.
Oh wake and see what vice has wrought, let virtue be your king.
Of all that's evil, be aware.  Of  heart and kindness, sing!

Desist from racing on the wheel. It's time for us to slow.
The wheel's a race to nowhere, save where no one sane should go.
Let's join to break our fetters and to work for better causes.
From racing and its cruelties, desist!  Extend the pauses...

For only in the quiet times, can we begin to see
The qualities of mercy and our lost humanity.
And only through that leisure can we slow – and so regain
The sanity that we have lost, pursuing fruitless gain.

2014 July 2nd, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
 

The Theft of the Commons

      
The Theft of the Commons
 
We have a duty, in the public sphere,
To do what's right – the common good of all.
And it's our duty to defend this space
From those who seek to "own" it for their ends.

If "ownership" is what they seek, we say,
"What's public still is 'owned' by all of us.
It can't be sold or bought.  It's like the air,
The sun and all that we and others share."

And yet there's value in what's shared – from work
That citizens have done, from taxes paid
And from the value that we put on things
We hold as dear, as heirs with legacies.

So when the public tills are used as troughs
From which the lazy or the clever feed,
It's only right that some should raise a cry
And to such thieves, the public's trust deny.

But equally, when magnates seek to grow
Yet richer from the government's largesse,
Procured by tools the affluent can wield,
To such as these, should we, our treasures, yield?

What once was shared by all, the common space,
Is now partitioned, walled – and we are told
By hired guards that we have no access
Or only what is doled and limited.

What public labor built is cheaply bought.
It's sold and rented out as "property".
And so, across the world, the billionaires
Grow richer yet, with workers turned to serfs. 

Our years of work, the toils of those before
Are stolen, used to profit only some.
If foreign troops arrived to conquer, would
We then defend, what we have given up?

The light, the air, the water and the land
Are shared by all of life. Our sustenance
Is drawn from these. Who dares to "own" them or
Despoil, by thoughtless plunder, sanctity?

The burglar and the con-man are condemned,
And those who try to rob the banks are chased.
But who will rise and point towards the ones
Who steal our labor and our heritage?

2014 June 27th, Fri.
Brooklyn
   

Delousing Time

      
Delousing Time

          

So Christmas comes – and brings, to some, relief.

When schools are closed, the teachers then can sleep,

And so indeed can students – quite a few,

Who stayed up nights on all the items due.

And workers, where there’s simply Christmas, might

Enjoy, perhaps, a bit more rest at night.

But sadly, Commerce rules.  As Christmas comes,

Along with carols, hark – the sound of drums!

They’re calling out to shoppers – “Come and buy!

Consume, consume – and never question why!”

And so you'll see the parents, haggard, seek

For gizmos.  Shopping’s not for those who’re weak.

Thanksgiving, once, was a holiday from jobs,

Except for those who cooked for their nabobs.

But now, we see the stores are open wide.

And at their gates – beware, the human tide!  

And so with Christmas.  As the solstice nears

And passes, we’re besieged with nibbling fears.

So Christmas too becomes a time for worry.

The ones who profit never say they’re sorry.

But still, we’re happy, those who teach at schools,

Who’re treated, through their working lives, like fools.

A week or more to rest, to clean the house,

Do catch-up work and also – to delouse…

For though our schools have long been human mills,

They test yet more our patience, souls and wills.

And infestations grow within our minds,

Whose purging now proceeds, as each unwinds.

So Christmas is delousing time for us,

When teachers breathe – and in their instincts trust.

And then, till June, we’ll labor.  Lice will breed –

And on our souls, till summer, bite and feed.

Whoever engineered this servitude,

Should now be blessed with true beatitude.

Let Bloombergs grow yet richer, every day.

“We’ll work yet harder!” grateful workers say.

We labor for our students, yet we ask,
Who profits most from every thankless task?
Our students – or the ones who want them herded?
I'll whisper now...  So tell me, if you heard it.

;-)

2013 December 20^th, Friday

Brooklyn, New York

 Comments are welcome.  Please see below.

 

A Ramble and a Rant – Part II

This may be of particular interest to those from the Indian subcontinent.

A Ramble and a Rant – Part II

Part II – A Rant

If truth be told, the peasant, tilling land,
Has often fared no better and no worse,
When those who'd ruled from 'Pindi were replaced  \1
By those who ruled from Dhaka in their stead.

What matters it, if the Queen of England reigns,
Or mughal, maharajah?  It's only when
The Company had squeezed the golden goose         \2
To close to death, that sepoys did revolt.

To Brits, it was rebellion.  Natives saw
A chance for liberation from the yoke.
But the old colonials long have left and yet –
The brown sahibs remain.  Another joke!

If there's a choice, between the local big,
And one afar, it may at end be this:
The one at hand can only squeeze so far,
And where he drinks, he also, there, needs piss.

******
< start of explanatory portion, added Aug. 26th,  for stanza directly above >

So landlords buy, of what the artisan
Produces, and they also hire, at times,
The ones who're seeking work, to dig a pond
To stock with fish, or build yet one more house.

But when a cousin of that landlord builds
A factory, in Howrah, then the cash                         \3
From sales of grain to the city then will go
To earn for him the promised interest.

And so, in turn, some peasants too will move
To work in city factories or build
The quarters there for better-offs -- or join
The beggars on the footpaths or the slums.

So local wealth departs, by labor earned,
And workers follow, seeking then for work.
But if the city isn't far away,
Then hope remains that some will still return.

But when the wealth moves further, even out
Beyond a country's borders, fencing men
But not the flow of cash, to far New York
Or London, then it is forever lost.

And sons of landlords follow, daughters too,
And even more of cash is sent abroad,
So they can study and then settle there,
As native country bleeds yet even more.

And yet, with workers who are peasants still,
Remembering the ones they left at home,
Some capital may flow, from all their toil
In lands of oil and sheiks, to green Sylhet.            \4

And so do trickles continue to flow
From cities in the U.S. to the south,
Where villages, deserted by the men,
Are living now on cash that comes by mail.

And so it is in China, in the north,
As only old and children there remain,
And even in old Mexico, you'll find
The plateau's air is fouled by city's breath.

And what do cities, even capitals,
Pretend to know or care about the hicks?
Where there's a vote, with pesos it is bought,
Or with rupees. Where carrots fail, there's sticks.

So summing up, the local brigand is
A better bet than one who's far removed,
Who neither spends his wealth on local fare,
Nor cares what local men may think of him.

You say the Syrians slaughter now their own,
The Congo's been a place of genocides --
And that may be, and you can shine a light,
But stay away with bombs and troops, I pray.

Our governments have done, in places far,
What they would never do, in present times,
In their own capitals or places where
They still might be accountable.

< end of explanatory portion added Aug. 26th >
******

There's balance  – and a circulation, which
A Dilli or a London or D.C.
Escapes.  How long was it, before
Our bombs abroad were echoed in New York?

How many millions died, in fiery hells,
In nations far, who'd never done a thing
To harm a hair on blond or auburn head?
How many lies were told, that still prevail?

The soldier, like the teacher in the school,
Is blamed – or else the generals.
The ones, who sent them into combat, live
At ease, with both the dead and living mute.

Who dares to say the battle's lost – or war?
We click our heels, salute and go to teach.
Who cares that men are dying, needlessly?
We're paid to do.  Let those, who're jobless, preach.

There is no lack of problems, in a land,
The foreigners will never understand.
Nor does it lack that class of lords and lackeys,
Who'll take the bribes and side with global bullies.

A superpower, in a land that's torn,
Is like the bull within the china shop.
So Soviets were, in high Afghanistan.
And so were we, as Khmers saw rain of bombs.

How many Indonesias, Vietnams,
How many troubled lands of east and west!
How many more of Lebanons, Iraqs,
Before we let the tortured nations rest?

It's time to let them live and fight it out,
If not for moral sense than for ourselves.
The oceans will no longer serve as dikes.
What's done afar affects us, in the end.

We have our troubles too, no end of them.
Our wars distract us from the matters here.
It's only when we truly see, that sense
Prevails, dispelling myths – and greed and fear...

I'd tell the ones, who've suffered from our bombs
And constant meddling in their land's affairs,
“Remember this – the more you bicker, fight
Among yourselves, the longer we can stay.

“And if you have to choose, between a lord
Who is corrupt, or is a zealot, then
Prefer the first, for he may rob and reign,
But does not seek to rule your mind and soul.

“But better yet, dispose of both of them!
You need your kings and presidents and worse
As much as farmers need their lords of land,
Or deer depend on wolves for wherewithal.”

But who am I to tell or to advise?
The ones afar are caught in struggles fierce,
That are connected deeply with our own.
They'll struggle through, without my glib advice.

Enough! I woke, with mind and soul disturbed,
And plainly wrote, whatever came to mind.
I leave this now, for readers to peruse
And find me mad – or put to future use.

2013 August 8th, Thu.
(stanzas 5-17, within the dividers “******”,
inserted to explain or illustrate the 4th stanza,
added August 26th, Mon.)
Brooklyn

A Ramble and a Rant -- Part I  

Notes

1. The capital of Pakistan, following its independence in 1947, was initially Karachi, the large port city on the Arabian sea, near the mouth of the Indus river in the southern province of Sindh.  With the increasing dominance of the Panjab, the capital was shifted first, in the early 1960's, to 'Pindi (Rawalpindi) in the north, where the Panjab plain meets the Himalayan foothills, and what was then the NWFP (North West Frontier Province), inhabited by Pathans (Pashtuns/Pakhtoons)) and others.  Around 1966, it was moved to the neighboring, newborn, planned capital city of Islamabad.  So Islamabad was the official capital at the time of what was essentially a military coup, in March of 1971, against what would have been the newly elected government led by Mujibur Rahman's Awami League, which had its base in mainly Bengali-speaking East Pakistan, separated from W. Pakistan by well over a thousand miles by the width of the Republic of India.

The brutal crackdown by the Pakistani army, starting in March of 1971, in that eastern wing of Pakistan, the stirring up of religious animosities, and the ever-present scarcity of land and resources in the fertile but overpopulated delta region, led to a great number of hapless, frightened, malnourished and footsore refugees streaming across the borders into neighboring states in India (which I witnessed first-hand as a relief worker there) and quite a bit of local resistance, including from a lightly-armed guerrilla force, the Mukti Bahini (Liberation Army).  Most of the Awami League leaders, however, those not arrested along with Mujibur Rahman, fled across the border to Kolkata. The final full-scale war, involving the Indian army, that led to the creation of  Bangladesh, occurred at the end of 1971.

Although Islamabad was then the capital of Pakistan, I have referred to 'Pindi in the verse line, as that was where much of the W. Pakistani army headquarters and generals were centered.  The two cities are situated, I believe, cheek to jowl.  I gathered then, from talking to many of the refugees (mostly Hindu, but with a fair number of Muslims as well) that the lot of ordinary peasants, especially the landless ones, might not change that much if and when the W. Pakistani rulers, reigning from Islamabad-Rawalpindi, were exchanged for Bengali ones ruling from Dhaka, just as the departure of the British had, at least at that time, left much of the peasantry unaffected all over the subcontinent, still subservient to, indeed, effectively enslaved by, the feudal landlord hierarchy that had been established since before the Mughals. 

For me, this was a revelation, which I might not have had had I not journeyed, in the summer of 1971, full of youthful idealism and misplaced Bengali nationalism, 900 miles southeast by train with a Gandhian group from Dilli to Bongaon, a small town on the Ichamati river, which separated the eastern Indian state of W. Bengal from what was then E. Pakistan.  But after talking to the refugees (many of whom had received their only organized help, on their own side of the border, from the Communist Party and the National Awami Party) and after rowing surreptitiously across the Ichamati, as cannon boomed, to visit a badly shelled and nearly abandoned village, where we met a few remaining aged inhabitants and some wary youths who were part of the local Mukti Bahini, I came to this conclusion, which was, at the time, a rather sad and life-changing one for me.  I hoped then that I would be proved wrong.

2.  The reference is to the British East India Company, and to the Uprising of 1857 in the subcontinent, led by the native sepoys (soldiers) employed in the Company's army.  The rebellion was brutally suppressed.   However, the British Crown then took direct control of India, making it a centerpiece of the British Empire, taking a slightly longer view and  shrewdly reining in, to some degree, the rapacity of the colonial enterprise there.

3. Howrah is a suburb of Kolkata (Calcutta), in the state of W.Bengal, India.  It houses the main railway station and is linked to Kolkata by the Howrah Bridge, built in British times across the Hooghly river, a broad local estuary of the Ganges, navigable by ocean-going ships.

4.  Sylhet is a north-eastern district of Bangladesh, bordering the Indian states of Meghalaya, Assam and Tripura.  It is a lush, hilly region, with tea, oil and gas being major industries. Sylhet, like a few other parts of the subcontinent, has long had a large expatriate population, many of whom work in the U.K. and in the Gulf states, sending remittances home.
  

More Advice

       
More Advice   
  
Yes, I know of your credentials, as you've come to me commended
By an able old disciple, who has highly recommended
Your performance, for its slickness and its evidence of art –
And he tells me that you're on the way to getting rid of heart...

But he notes that you're uncertain on some matters – that you worry,
And at times, for needed actions, you have ended feeling sorry.
And he says that you are looking for a mentor, for a guide,
Who will aid you in your journey, one in whom you can confide...

So you've come to me requesting that I give you some advice.
But you'd better be prepared, as what I'll tell you isn't nice.
If you're looking to go higher, it behooves you to be shrewd.
Be polite to those who matter.  To the rest, you can be rude.

If you labored in a factory, then you'd do as you were told.
If you worked within an office, you'd be foolish to be bold.
You would follow all your orders and be loyal to your bosses,
Or your exit would be certain. You'd be counting up your losses.
  
Were you serving in an army – or teaching in a school,
You would surely have accepted that you're nothing but a tool.
If you'd started on a business, you'd be forced to toe the rules,
For the morgues for failing businesses are filled by errant fools.

******

If you're thinking you can change the world, you'd better think again.
For the cynics have been betting – and they're winning yet again.
If you venture into politics or you work in institutions,
You should leave behind your right-and-wrong and softer intuitions.

If you listen to your conscience and you do as it dictates,
You may find that you're the object of a multitude of hates.
If you're questioning a “verity” or asking for a reason,
You will surely be suspected then of lunacy or treason.

So be wary of the rebels who are questioning the flow.
To where rising ones are headed, you'd be smart to turn and go.
Leave resistance to the failures, who you'll see are losing ground.
Let reflection be for losers, as you win another round!

To your bosses, be compliant.  With your underlings, be stern.
You should undermine complainers – who will never, ever learn.
The ambition that is needed, if you're looking to succeed,
Should be fortified by ruthlessness – and a fair amount of greed.

****** 
 
For you're clearly not for labor in a factory or school.
As for slaving in an office –  you are surely not a fool.
You're not meant to die for duty in a distant, dirty war.
You were born to be a boss-man, who'll be chauffeured in a car.

So you'll learn to do the herding – and the hunting too, my friend.
And you'll learn from those who're herders – and who hunt until the end.
And you'll ally with the in-crowd, with the ones who're seeking power,
And you'll learn to lie and break the laws and watch the timid cower.

For the rules are there for workers and the lower rungs of bosses,
But they don't apply to owners.  We are ruled by profits, losses.
And a nation, such as ours, is in need of rule by those,
Who were meant to be the owners – and the roads to owning chose.

If you're looking for the power and the wealth, then you should know
That these things, from your own labor, you can never ever grow.
For the roads to wealth and power, they are built on workers' backs,
And the entrances are barred to him, who basic shrewdness lacks.

It's when your wealth is multiplied by all who work for you,
And your power too is magnified by all who're serving you,
It's then, by dint of rent and debt and wages that you pay,
That you'll get, with wits and ruthlessness, your money – and your way.

******

So I think that I shall leave you now to ponder if you're fitted
To clamber up the hierarchies and leave the rest outwitted.
It is heartening for elders, that a younger generation
Will be putting on the stirrups, so's to ride this glorious nation.

You have come to me from someone, who was really rather clever.
He had learned what I had taught him, while repeating hardly ever.
And he says that you are like him, and may even rise above.
If he's right (and I do trust him) then my labor is of love.

For I hope that you'll be smart enough to kill and have your dinner,
And you'll show, to those who're watching, what it means to be a winner.
So I'll gladly be your mentor, for it's rarely that I find,
In a person who is younger, such a cunning sort of mind.

But your quibbles, you should garbage, you should throw them in the trash,
Or you'll find that you are hobbled, or are even acting rash.
To be honest is for others – just be careful, don't be caught!
And you'll have your time for kindness – but there's battles to be fought.
   
2013 July 2nd, Fri.
Brooklyn