Paradise

 
Paradise
 
How precious are the tranquil times that come
And bring relief from all the stress and rush.
How rare these have become, for most of us,
As lethal madnesses pervade our worlds.
 
But still, outsides the war-zones, there's the dawn
With softest light, the morning bold and bright,
And then the noon and afternoon, and dusk
That calls to rest—and brings the stars to night.
 
For some at least, there still are meets at times
With friends and kin that bring back memories,
For others, only what remains in mind,
Reminding them of hell and paradise.
 
I still retain my faith that’s shorn of creeds—
The faith primeval in the truth and right—
That hears, amidst the cruelties, the voice
That calls to those who heal and those who fight.
 
2025 August 31, Sun.
Berkeley, California
 

Lokkhi bo'nam Xo'roxxoti-Ixxo'r hok ba bap-লক্ষ্মী বনাম সরস্বতী-ঈশ্বর হোক বা বাপ

.

লক্ষ্মী বনাম সরস্বতী /

 ঈশ্বর হোক বা বাপ

.

বাবা আমায় বললো, ‘বাছা,

দুঃখ লাগে দেখে—

বইয়ের ভারি ঝোলা বয়ে

চলছো পথে বেগে’।

.

‘পড়াশোনা করেও কেনো

এমন গোটা হাদা?

পিঠের ওপর ব্যাগ চাপিয়ে,

হচ্ছো ধোপার গাধা!’

.

‘এই বিদেশে এসে, লোকে,

কালের রীতি মেনে,

রোজগারে বেশ ধন জমিয়ে,

গাড়ি-বাড়ি কেনে’।

.

‘তাও যে দেখি, কাঙ্গাল হয়ে

রয়েছো দশক ধরে।

নেই গো গাড়ি, নেই গো বাড়ি!

বোঝাও ব্যাপার, মোরে’।

.

******

.

মাথা চুলকিয়ে জবাব দিলাম,

কয়েক মিনিট ভেবে।

‘তোমার কথা শুনেই আমার

নেই যে কড়ি, জেবে’।

.

‘পুঁজিবাদ যে মন্দ, অশিব—

সম্পত্তি, মূল পাপ—

এসব কথা বলতো আমায়

শ্রদ্ধেয় নিজের বাপ’।

.

‘ছোটবেলার থেকে শুনে,

শিক্ষা মনে রেখে,

রয়েছি, বাবা, দূরে সদা

ব্যবসা, সুদের থেকে’।

.

‘সরল ভাবে জীবন যাপন,

ধনের থেকে দূরে—

এ পথ থেকে বলছো এবার

চলতে হবে ঘুরে?’

.

‘বিলম্বে যে বলছো এখন,

এত বছর পরে:

“সরস্বতীর চর্চা ছেড়ে

লক্ষ্মী আনো ঘরে”’।

.

‘দুজন দেবীর সেবক, সমান,

হয়তো হওয়া যায়।

এই প্রথাটার শেখার সময়

গেছে চলে, হায়!’

.

******

.

আমার জবাব শুনে, বাবা

বললো, ‘বাছাধন,

গরিব হয়ে থাকতে যদি

তৃপ্ত তোমার মন,

.

এই ভাবেই কাটাও জীবন,

ক’রো না বাদে বিলাপ।

দোষ দিও না অন্য কাকেও—

ঈশ্বর হোক বা বাপ’।

.

মঙ্গলবার, ২১ মে, ২০২৪ খ্রি.

বার্ক্লি, কালিফোর্নিয়া

.

On Schools and Fools-As Satan Sings

On Schools and Fools /
   As Satan Sings
 
There is no Satan, setting snares,
Or “down below, in hell”.
That Satan is among us, in
Our hearts, as we can tell,
Exploiting all our frailties
With stories he can sell.
 
******
 
We humans, we are clever! We
Aspire to be as gods.
And at my age, we celebrate
At beating, still, the odds,
As beatings harsh are handed out—
And often still with rods.
 
In churches, mosques and mandirs, humans  ¹
Offer gods their things
Of substance or of spirit, while
They dream of angels’ wings—
As Mammon smiles at balance sheets
And Satan softly sings—
 
And often not so quietly,
As planes and cannons roar
And beings burn and bombs explode,
With science turned to whore—
And we can hear then Satan's song
And know that there’ll be more.
 
****** 
 
It would be wrong to just pretend
There was once a golden age,
When virtue ruled us humans, who
Were then as kind and sage
As Buddhas. This was never so.
We had vice at every stage—
 
And some were strong and others weak.
The stronger ruled the others—
Even in the places where
We tended fathers, mothers
When these were old or ailing and
Hailed all as “sisters, brothers”.
 
So there was liberation too
When villages were left
For cities, where we learned the truths
Of which we’d been bereft.
In cities, cultures interact—
And schooling too has heft.
 
******
 
We go to school and there we learn
To read and write and add—
And these are surely needed for
The modern lass or lad,
But who will guide, within the home,
Their sense of good and bad?
 
It’s there within us, yet in some
Who’ve learned of “yours and mine”
And daily act upon that sense,
It slow to rise and shine.
They only think about themselves
And feel that this is fine.
 
We learn, from watching others, more
Then hearing what they say.
If parents both are working or
Are absent through the day,
Then who will children learn from, in
The matters crucial, pray?
 
******
 
The teacher comes, the teacher goes.
The period starts and ends—
The term or school-year too, in time,
And yet, the seer pretends
That this is all that children need—
To learn—and this, defends.
 
In modern times, alas, we see
That content too, is slighted.
“It’s process! That is all that counts.”
Has been the cry, benighted.
Yet content too must still be crammed
At a pace that leaves us blighted.
 
There is a place, of course, for school—
In Ranchi as in Rome—
As there’s a place for the Internet
That has shoved aside the tome.
But tell me, truly, can a school
Replace, in whole, a home?
 
******
 
“It takes a village”, it was said,
“To educate a child.”
In Africa—and everywhere—
This wisdom, deep yet mild,
Was practiced—yet, in later times,
It came to be reviled.
 
And why? Because the villages
Were emptied—and the towns
Were crowded full—and townsfolk saw
The villagers as clowns.
And soon enough, the parents yielded
Offspring to the crowns.
 
Crowns? The ones of empires—those
With thrones and then with banks.
So children line up now, at schools,
As soldiers do—and tanks—
In peace—that never lasts for long—
And war—with all our thanks!
 
******
 
For soldiers fight and die, so we
Can go to school and learn
Those useful things, so factories
And offices can turn
Out all the stuff and services—
As fields and forests burn.
 
But right and wrong? We hear of these
In speeches, not in schools.
They’re put to use by clever men—
And women—used as tools—
To make us work—and buy—and pay
Our taxes—since we’re fools.
 
So parents slave to pay the bills
Or even to survive,
With hours long and lethal stress
That jointly can deprive
Them each of sleep and peace of mind.
So how can children thrive?
 
******
 
Fools? Perhaps I’ve overstepped—
Or overstated things.
Our words can take us far away,
As phrases take on wings.
So cleverness can lead us all
To hell, as Satan sings.
 
We should not have the schools dictate,
To children, right and wrong.
It’s back within the village calm,
And not the city’s throng,
That we should seek the quiet that
Can stop the Satan-song.
 
But there isn’t land enough that’s left
To farm, for all of us—
And agribusiness feeds us all
And frees us from the fuss
And labor of the fields, so we
Advance—as humans must!
 
******
 
“Salute! Salute the flag”, we’re told,
“And sing the anthem loud!”
Oh nation great, of thee I sing
And it’s of thee I’m proud!
The “nation” now competes with “gods”
And draws the biggest crowd.
 
The strongman grins and shakes his fist.
He jabs, with force, the air.
He’s now the hero of the crowd.
For rants, he has a flair.
A demon has been found! The blame
Is shifted. There’s the snare.
 
We fall for it, because we’re fools,
Forgetting right and wrong.
So “history” is handled well
To please, again, the throng.
No deeper, please! Nor wider!
Let the Satan sing his song.
 
******
 
There is no Satan, setting snares,
Or “down below, in hell”.
That Satan is among us, in
Our hearts, as we can tell,
Exploiting all our frailties
With stories he can sell.
 
2022 September 27^th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York
 
Notes
1.      mandir: Hindu temple
 

Te~tuler Acar—তেঁতুলের আচার—Tamarind Chutney

 
Tamarind Chutney
  
The pods of the tamarind fruit are hanging from the tree.
Do you remember the taste of the tamarind chutney?
Grandmother made it.  It tasted sour and sweet.
She’s long gone.  No more of that for us.

2016 November 1st, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
---------------------------------------------------
 
Tetu~ler Achar

Gacher theke jhulche de`kho, tetul pho`ler d'a~t'a.
Mone po`re, chot'o be`lar tetuler acar ca~t'a.
To`k-mixt'i xad chilo tar, banano t'hakurmar.
O`nek bo`chor, ge`chen uni. Nai ko acar ar.

Xombar, 1 la Nobhembo`r, 2016 Khri
Bruklin, Niu Io`rk
---------------------------------------------------
 
তেঁতুলের আচার

গাছের থেকে ঝুলছে দেখো, তেঁতুল ফলের ডাঁটা৷
মনে পড়ে, ছোটোবেলার তেঁতুলের আচার চাঁটা৷
টক মিষ্টি স্বাদ ছিল তার, বানানো ঠাকুরমার৷
অনেক বছর, গেছেন উনি৷ নাই কো আচার আর৷

সোমবার, ১লা নভেম্বর, ২০১৬ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক
---------------------------------------------------
 
Tētulēra Ācāra

Gāchēra thēkē jhulachē dēkhō, tēm̐tula phalēra ḍām̐ṭā.
Manē paṛē, chōṭōbēlāra tēm̐tulēra ācāra cām̐ṭā.
Ṭaka miṣṭi sbāda chila tāra, bānānō ṭhākuramāra.
Anēka bachara, gēchēna uni.  Nā'i kō ācāra āra.

Sōmabāra, 1 la Nabhēmbara, 2016 Khri
Brukalina, Ni'u'iẏarka 

  

The Girl and her Mom and her Green Balloon

 
Single-click on the image for a larger and clearer view. Click on the white X (at the top right of the dark background) to return to this post.

This is best viewed on a regular computer screen (rather than on a mobile phone). 

Thanks to Kirrin and Thierry for permission to use this wonderful image for this post.
----------------------------------------

The Girl and her Mom and her Green Balloon

Maeve and Kirrin, Valença, Portugal, 2016.  Photograph by Thierry
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10153705074865146&set=a.10151014774865146.421843.701310145&type=3

the girl and her mom and her green balloon,

and the slanting sun in the afternoon,

and the land and the lake and the town and the hills

and the golden light on the bricks and the sills,

and the one that knows on the grass that grows

and the smiles and the eyes and the nose that glows

2016 September 28th, Thu.

Brooklyn, New York 

Departure-II

 
Departure—II

“So tell me then, my father,
The reason you depart.
How long will you be staying
From all of us apart?”

“I am going now, my daughter,
To that land that’s over there—
To trade the things I’m taking
For the other things we need.

“I will climb upon those mountains
To that windswept pass on high,
And I’ll walk beside the glacier,
As the cloud goes streaming by.

“And I’ll follow then the streamlet
To the river’s gorge and hear
The roaring, rushing waters,
As they tumble cold and clear.

“Descending past the boulders,
Towards the valley—shaded, green,
I will view the river, coursing
Through the plains below, serene.

“To that land beyond the mountains,
I am going, through that pass—
But when I am returning,
I do not know, alas!

“But when I come from there, love,
I’ll come with things for you
And mom and all the others—
So be a good girl, do!”

“Go then, my dearest father.
Be careful on your way.
We’ll wait for you, our father,
And for your safety pray.”

Arjun Janah
2015 Dec 13th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
-------------------------------------------------

Please see also:  Departure
      
     

Kothar Theke Sneho?—কোথার থেকে স্নেহ?—Whence Came Love?

For Roman transcriptions and a "free translation" into English, in tabular format, set side-by-side with the original in Bengali script, please see: http://suniljanah.org/ajanah/poems/arjun/indic/kothar-theke-sneho--tabular.html.

That site also has a literal translation that preserves the syntax of Bengali, and a link to an audio-recording.  That recording should be useful to those who do not know Bengali but are interested in at least knowing how it sounds, as well as to those who are learning the language. -- Arjun

------------------------------------------------------------

কোথার থেকে স্নেহ?  

আকাশ থেকে জীবন এল,
মাটির থেকে—দেহ৷
জলের থেকে, হাওয়ার থেকে,
কোথার থেকে—স্নেহ?

যে সন্তান বেড়েছে মায়ের ভালবাসায়,
যে সন্তান রয়েছে এখনো তার আশায়—
দুজনেই বড় হয়ে পারবে কি দিতে,
শিশুরা না বলেও চাইবে যা নিতে?

******

কোথার থেকে আসে সেই ভালবাসা, বল্—
কোথার থেকে আসে—দয়া, মায়া, স্নেহ?
কোন দেবীর বুকের থেকে, মায়ের চোখে জল?
কোন ইশ্বর-আল্লা নেয় মর্ত মায়ের দেহ?

বল্ আমায়, কোথার থেকে এলি তুই কাল?
বল্ আমায়, কি কারণে পেলাম উপহার?
ছেড়ে যেতে চাই না তোকে—এখনো তুই ছোটো৷
এত দিন লড়ে, তাও মানব কি হার?

******
 
যে বাবা বৃদ্ধ হয়ে পরলোকে যায়,
যে বাবা শিশু ছেড়ে মৃত হ্য়, হায়—
দুজনের-ই নজরে আজ ধরে আছি ফিতে৷
ছিড়ে গেলে হারাব যা জন্মেছিলাম জিতে৷

আকাশ থেকে জীবন এল,
মাটির থেকে—দেহ৷
জলের থেকে, হাওয়ার থেকে,
কোথার থেকে—স্নেহ?
 
অর্জুন (বাবুই) জানা
বৃহস্পতিবার, ১০ই ডিসেম্বর, ২০১৫ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক

------------------------------------------------------------

Please see/hear also:  http://suniljanah.org/ajanah/poems/arjun/indic/kothar-theke-sneho--tabular.html.

    

Echoes

 
Echoes 
   
  

Chaos

     
When I get up in the morning,
And I totter from my bed,
I remember then my father,
Who’s been only three years dead.

And then looking in the mirror,
Since I’ve shaved away my beard,
I can see my father’s visage
And no longer think that’s weird.

The grunt I make on rising,
The downturn of my mouth,
Remind me that I’m aging,
For my parts are going south.

And I see and hear my father
And my uncles, grandpas, more—
That lineage, male, of elders
Who walked this way before.

So I go about my business,
But suddenly I laugh,
Remembering a gem-like grain
My father picked from chaff.
 
He had an eye and ear for it.
I hear, as I grow old,
His mild remarks that made one smile,
The stories that he told...

******
   
But when I see a stranger
And I see that stranger smile,
I know my mother’s in me
And will remain a while.

For that was how they greeted
My mother, who had eyes
That looked on them with kindness,
As each would then surmise.

And so it is with puppies
And even dogs when grown—
Except it’s me who’s smiling,
As if they were my own.

She had a way with animals,
As she also had with us.
Her instincts, of the kinder sort,
She acted on—sans fuss.

So though she was a mortal
And so had faults like all,
It seemed she was an angel,
Who’d chanced, by us, to fall.

And so my aunts and grandmas,
And that widow, with a will,
Who mothered so my sister,
Are each within me still.

******
 
I see my sister walking
Within a region hallowed.
She went her way before me.
I often wish I’d followed.

I call to her, “I’m coming.”
She doesn’t seem to hear.
I stand and watch my sister—
So distant, yet so near.

In everything she tried to do,
It seemed that she was gifted.
And yet, with so much left to do,
Her soul, from Earth, was lifted.

I read the pages of the book
She’d written with such grace.
And as I read, she lives again,
And I can read her face.

******
 
I also see the others—
From the villages and towns—
To whom I sat and listened—
The sages and the clowns…

My cousins, older, younger,
The friends I made at school,
And those who once were neighbors—
Are still within this fool.

For a fool is what I’ve turned to,
Upon my downward arc.
And so, to all that brightness,
I turn to, in the dark.

Our childhoods might be wretched,
But even those have light.
The hurts are healed and hidden,
The blessings stay in sight.

******
 
We circle, in our journeys
From birth to death, so when
We near our mortal endings,
We’re back where we began.

And where was my beginning,
Except where I was born?
So there I'll be returning
To mend the fabric torn.

I will see again the rivers
And the fields of gold and green,
So even in my misery
A breeze will blow, serene.

Village River, by Samiran Sarkar, 2011
http://www.absolutearts.com/art-for-sale/themes/all/landscape/river-5.html

 
I will hear the city’s bustle;
I will see the city’s skies.
I will squint up at the cloudscape;
I will watch the kite that flies.

I will hear the tongues my kinsfolk spoke.
I will hear the dialects’ speech.
I will savor, as I’m dying,
The flavor that’s in each.

The languages of childhood,
Of the land that gave me birth,
Their timbres and their cadences,
I’ll hear, when leaving Earth.

******

The aged are often treated
With disrespect and worse.
The scoldings are repeated,
With orders sharp and terse.

There are echoes from our childhoods
That we hear through all our lives.
And among these there are voices
That can help us bear the jibes.

There are voices past of wisdom,
There are voices that are sweet.
There are voices that are sterner
That can help us bear defeat.
   

Chaos and Perception

I’ve traveled, in my journeys,
Across the theaters grand.
I’ve met the proud and humble
And grasped the offered hand.

But when I’m near my ending
And racked by grief and pain,
The proud will be forgotten;
The humble might remain.

But surely those, that childhood
Had seen with a widened eye,
And those, to whom I bonded,
Will haunt me, as I die.

So when my hearing’s faded,
I will hear those echoes weak—
I will hear my parents talking,
I will hear my sister speak.

     
2015 September 12th, Sat., 10:20 pm
Skyway Restaurant, Bath Avenue
(some stanzas added Sept. 14th, Sun.)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

  

To Monua – Eleven Years Past

    
To Monua – Eleven Years Past
 
In the bitter cold of winter
In the northern climes, we pray
For the warmth of northern summers –
And the ones who’ve gone away…

For the life, we each are given,
We each in time return,
From age, despair or illness –
Or fiends that bomb and burn...

We're born, indeed, by accident.
By accident, we go.
And yet, although we're happenstance,
There's much we get to know.

And when our elders leave, our grief
Is deep – but when we see
The ones who're younger go before,
We wish we would not be...
  
******
   
On a Saturday, you left us –
Or on a Sunday morn,
On the dates returned this weekend,
Oh my sister, all forlorn...
 
And I wasn’t there to stay you –
But a continent away.
And this, I still remember –
In the silence, every day.
 
But if there’s still your spirit
That wanders, asking why –
With our parents now departed,
You should know, I’m coming by –

And surely, we’ll be meeting
And I will hold your hand –
And our parents might be watching
And they will understand.
 
And all your friends, your cousins,
Your elders, in-laws, more –
The ones you touched, who’re living –
Or gone, will come to know.

For you and I and others
Are ripples on a sea –
That though we each might vanish
Will never cease to be.
 
You lived a life of beauty,
However deep the pain –
And each of us is praying
We’ll find you once again.

******

And so – for every other,
Who has passed the “One Way” sign
And left behind another
Who can only pray and pine –
 
I write to you, my sister,
As they might write to those –
The ones, who're not returning
From where their fortune chose...
 
The bubbles meet and part and pop
And others take their place.
So parents grieve and siblings mourn,
Remembering a face...
 
We think with time the wound will heal.
But rarely is it so.
In every home, the sorrow comes
And never will it go.
  
2015 January 17th, Sat. 9:35 pm
Brooklyn, New York

In Memoriam
Monua Janah
1959 – 2004

And Where Are You?
 
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2011/04/and-where-are-you.html

  
Immersion in the Ganges
 
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2006/07/immersion-in-ganges.html


Jupiter Rising
   
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2006/03/jupiter-rising.html
 
Monua in Boston
 
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/12/monua-in-boston.html

 

Our Fourth of July, 2014

         
Our Fourth of July, 2014  

July the fourth – a holiday – for some...
My brother-in-law is working hard today
to fix a backyard shed whose roof collapsed
from all the snow the winter dropped on it.
And I am there to speed, as much as I can,
this three-day project, threatening to go on...

A hurricane was sweeping up the coast,
but we up north escaped its central gyre.
The humid heat oppressed us, for a while,
and then came thunderstorms and pouring rain...
Today was cool, with showers passing through –
a pleasant day, that should be ending soon...

The sky is still alight, as evening comes.
The setting sun has painted walls in gold
and set the edges of the clouds on fire.
But as we watch, the sky is drained of light.
It turns to deepest blues and violets,
and in that deep, a quarter-moon shines bright...

And as we now approach the magic hour,
the sound of rebel fireworks can be heard.
And from a backyard, just two houses down,
there rises, of a sudden, jets of light
that arc to spreading flowers in the sky.
The reds and whites and purples shower down...

The final screw goes in as night arrives.
I take my leave and walk towards my home.
I see the west is still aglow with light,
and as I walk, I hear and see the sounds
and sparkling bursts of light that those, who dare,
set off – although these things have long been banned.

On reaching home, I climb up darkened stairs
and see the light beneath the hallway door.
I fumble with the key and enter in
and see the wife is there.  The TV set
that quietly sits all year is brightly lit,
with fireworks, songs and music pouring out.

2014 July 5th, Sat., 5:15 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
    

Monua in Boston (revised)

Monua  in Boston (revised)

My sister told me how, in her college days,

She’d traveled from South Hadley, a satellite

Of Amherst town, to busy Boston, where,

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

And everyone that passed by, in that cold

And sullen night, seemed wrapped in such a fog

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

It seemed to her, within a private hell.

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

Those strangers, passing, in that urban cold,

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

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

But what she saw were tense expressions – frowns,

That lack of recognition, which our towns

Impose on those who yield.  And this extends

To all around, as if all else were dead.

But this much, I can now surmise, with sight

That I then lacked – that she perhaps was wise,

From isolations that I’d never known,

And so could see, how troubled were those souls,

So locked within themselves – and round and round

In endless circles of frustration bound,

With self consuming self, without an out

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

It is this isolation – the living grave

Of urban life within efficient towns,

Where human contact and affections are

Redundant – where so many daily live

As jackals lone, whom Nature made as dogs –

That leads, I think, to higher suicide rates

In Scandinavia, where the Vikings live

In indoor warmth, in winters cold and dark.

They lack, perhaps, that rawest sustenance

That humans give, to others of their kind,

By their demands and their annoying ways

Which draw us out of selves – and into sun.

And if we see this, in the truest light,

We will not turn away, although our souls

May need a refuge, finding deep delight

In quietness – as in a silent night.

  

How much of this, my sister had surmised,

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

Who told me, Boston seemed a rung of hell.

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

And one experience, on a winter’s eve,

Should not be used to beat a city down.

But this I know, what Monua then perceived,

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

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

We all might see in cities ‘round the world.

Wherever men and women take to heart

The dictates of the demon-engine, there

We find the blight that rots us from within.

It leaves us sickened, faces turned to masks,

As each is writhing in what Dante scribed –

A place infernal, though we walk on earth.

Babui (Arjun) Janah

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

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

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

And Where Are You?

And Where Are You?
                                                              
I saw you once in winter and you just walked away.
I met you in the springtime but you were with another.
You passed by me in summer and then I heard you say,
"When the leaves come down in autumn, I'll go to meet my brother."

The autumn leaves have fallen and winter winds blow cold.
"And where are you, my sister?" I ask the drifting snow.
The seasons, they are passing, and I am growing old.
And all that I had understood, I now no longer know.

*******

I thought I saw my uncle and then I slipped and fell.
My body took a beating, my spirit did as well.
And in a dream my father reached out to me his hand
But I was busy talking and did not understand.

The one who nursed my sister and cared for me beside,
I looked for her the other day, across the ocean wide.
The sun was slowly sinking and birds flew through the air.
And in the waves came drifting my mother's waving hair.

Babui / Arjun
2011 April 9th, Sat.
Brooklyn
 
In Memoriam
Monua Janah 
1959-2004  
 

Immersion in the Ganges

  
Immersion in the Ganges
 
Now she has passed away – she now is past.
What’s left is memory that dims with time.
And soon this too will pass – it cannot last,
Although we honor her with rite and rhyme.
 
She fades, she fades – she fades – and then is gone.
Of her, what still remains – what does, what does?
Like the soft dawn she came, like day she shone,
Then evening turned to night – and then she was.
  
Oh sun of this bright day, may you grow dim,
But let me not forget her, who is gone –
Gone away forever, leaving those
Who knew her, loved her – blank, and woebegone,
Bereaved, bereft, bewildered, broken, bare –
But still alive – in body, mind, still there,
While she is now destroyed – is emptied, drained,
Is burnt to ashes, dust – and then cast here,
Into this river, born of ice unchained
From mountain prisons by this tropic sun –
The sun that saw her birth, the sun she loved,
With memories still of youth, in every one
That’s gathered here, recalled – as ashes, strewn
In Ganga’s waters, through my fingers run.
Here, she will mingle with the mud, and flow
Past fields and palms and forests to that one –
That Ocean, with its many, many names…
 
******
 
And as the Brahmin sings the Sanskrit chants,
And I repeat, not knowing what they mean,
There is this thing that each one understands,
Who’re here, assembled, at this ancient scene – 
  
That she, whose name we utter and invoke,
Is gone, where rites and chants can never reach –
In such a slumber now, as never woke
A mortal from, despite what scriptures teach…
 
Although we claim that these are for her soul,
These rituals truly comfort only those
Who’re still alive – not her, who isn’t whole,
Whose ashes go where this, the river, flows –
 
To sink, to scatter, into that deep sea,
Never to regather and return, alas,
To rise again with early dawn to be
The woman that she was …was …was.
 
******
  
So each of us will pass, and all regret
Is vain, except that it inform and change
How each may view the other. We forget
That midst this flow, some things will never change…
 
When you were live, we often did neglect
Your self, who is now past neglect.  Remorse
Cannot undo, nor love, too late, repair
The wreckage done.  So each must steer his course.
 
So go then to the sea, and in it dwell;
From it, we all have come, and will return.
I watch your ashes sink within the swell –
And we are left with but your empty urn…
 
You were a light, that now has fallen dark,
A song, whose lilt we shall not hear again.
In vain, we now will look, and search, and hark;
For you are gone – and free, from all your pain.
 
Babui (Arjun) Janah  
2006 July 1st, Sat.
Staten Island, New York. 
(lightly edited 2015 January 18th, Sun.)
  
In Memoriam
Monua Janah
1959-2004