Prokritir P'oth-O'sthaitto-translation of Nature's Way-Transience

প্রকৃতির পথ / অস্থায়িত্ব

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সূর্য-কিরণ এসে ছুঁলো গাছের ডালের কুঁড়ি। 

যাগলো ছোঁয়ায় পাপড়ি, পাতা। 

হাওয়ার চুমে দোলে। 

ঘ্রাণ এসে যায়, বাতাস-দূতে,

প্রেমের শুভ ঘরে।

.

রাতের ঝড়ে সব চ’লে যায়। 

কাঁদিস কেনো, ওরে?

.

******

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পর্বতের চূড়ার থেকে সাগর-তীরে নেমে, 

গভীর আঁধারে ডুবে, আলোয় আবার উঠে এসে, 

বারে বারে সেই চক্র ঘোরে, 

তোমায় আমায় ধ’রে।

.

তারার আগুন-ঝড় বারে-বারে 

বিশ্বের ধোঁয়া-ধুলো টেনে এনে, জুড়ে,

নতুন রূপে আবার মহাকাশে ছোড়ে। 

তারই থেকে সেই ফোঁটাগুলো,

যার থেকে সব জীব-প্রাণী।

.

তবে কোথা থেকে আসে, বলো,

চেতনার প্রকাশ, খুশি-ব্যথার টানাটানি,

স্বয়ঙ্গের জন্ম, স্বার্থের দাবি,

করুণা-বিবেকের টের?

.

এরই থেকে শ্বাস, পান, খাওয়া,

মৈথুন, খুন-যুদ্ধ-সংহার।

এরই থেকে সব মিলন-ভালোবাসা,

সব কর্ম, ধর্ম, মায়া-দয়া।

.

****** 

.

যে আলো পর্বত-চূড়ায় ভাসে, 

যে আঁধার সাগরের গভীর তলে বয়ে, 

যে বাতাস বনের গাছে গায়,

যে হাওয়া ঢেউয়ের ওপর খেলে—

এদেরকে বেঁধে রাখা কি যায়?

.

এদের তো শুধু মন-মহলে 

কিছুদিনের বাস। তার পরে বিদায়। 

রোদের ছোঁয়ায় যেমন শিশির-ফোটা যায়, 

মায়ের ডাকে তেমনই তুমি-আমি যাবো।

.

******

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নিজের ভাগ্যে, নিজের পছন্দে, 

কেউ বাজায় বাঁশি, কেউ বাজায় ঢোল। 

ওগো ভাগ্যে-পাওয়া বন্ধু মোর, 

তেমনই তুমি-আমি, তেমনই 

যা কিছু বলি, যা কিছু করি।

.

গাছের পাতা-ফুলের মত, এই জগতের জীব।

কিছুদিনের সুখের বাদে আসে দুঃখ, ক্লেশ।

দেখতে দেখতে তাই চ’লে যায়

ঘর-পরিবার-দেশ।

.

জীবনে, সংসারে, নেই কোনো স্থিতি। 

তবুও এই যে মূল, এই যে পুলক-ব্যথা, 

এই যে দয়া-টান-ভালোবাসা, 

তারই থেকে বেঁচে থাকার কারণ, 

তারই থেকে চেষ্টার, সংগ্রামের সাহস।

.

******

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তোমার সাথে যদি হাসতে, কাঁদতে পারি, 

ভাগ্যে যদি কিছু সহায়তা দিতে পারি, 

সেই আশীষের সৌভাগ্যে ধন্য-সুখী 

তোমার-আমার জন্ম-জীবন-মরণ—

ফুলের যেমন।

.

শনিবার, ৩০ নভেম্বর, ২০২৪ খ্রি.

পরিবর্তিত: বুধবার, ২৫ ডিসেম্বর

বার্ক্লি, কালিফর্নিয়া 

.

Buker bhalobaxa-বুকের ভালবাসা

 

বুকের ভালবাসা

রাজ্য, রাষ্ট্র আসে, যায়, 

বেলার ছায়ার মত— 

যুদ্ধ, বিবাদ, জয়, পরাজয়, 

হত্যাকাণ্ড যত।

দিনের সূর্য ওঠে, নামে, 

রাতের চন্দ্র তারা—

জোয়ার-ভাটায় দিন কেটে যায়,  

ঋতু, বছর সারা।

কত কান্না, কত হাসি, 

কত দুঃখ, সুখ—

জন্ম-জীবন-মরণ মালায় 

কোটি কোটি মুখ।

এই জীবনের স্মৃতি আসে—

যেনো গতকাল। 

দেখতে দেখতে দিন চলে যায়— 

এই আমাদের হাল।

ফুলের গন্ধ, সাঁঝের ছায়া, 

দিন-দুপুরের আলো। 

জলের শব্দ, গাছের দোলন, 

বুকের বাসা, ভালো।

 

শনিবার, ৩০ মার্চ, ২০২৪ খ্রি.

 বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফর্নিয়া.

Po'taka lal-পতাকা লাল

 
পতাকা লাল

ভোরের আলোয় এসেছে আশা,
এসেছে সাহস, শান্তি। 
সাঁঝের বেলায় ফিরেছে ভীতি, 
ফিরেছে আলস, ক্লান্তি।

আঁধার-আলোর জোয়ার-ভাটায়
ভেসেছি জীবন ধ’রে। 
পেয়েছি দৃষ্টি, পেয়েছি শক্তি, 
দিয়েছি ভক্তি, ওরে! 

জীবন-সন্ধ্যের প্রবাহে, ক্রমশ,
চিত্তের করুণ হাল। 
পেয়েছি ফিরে, তবুও, ধীরে, 
পুরনো পতাকা, লাল।

শুক্রবার, ৯ ফেব্রুয়ারি, ২০২৪ খ্রি. 
বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফর্নিয়া

Here and Now

 
Here and Now

There’s east and west and north and south
And then there’s where we are. 
From all of these, we each can learn—
From near as well as far.

To learn is good—but knowledge won’t
Replace our eyes and ears.
We need the open mind and heart,
Embracing smiles and tears.

******

The past is gone and won’t return. 
The future’s still not here.
And then there is this present time, 
In which we disappear.

For if we dwell within this now,
There is no you or I—
Nor other. There is only this—
This flow we can’t deny.

****** 

The past and future call. We hear—
Remaining, centered, still. 
In pleasure or in pain, we breathe— 
And drink, of now, our fill.

So also with the east and west—
And all the zones of mind.
It’s only here that we can be— 
And hell or heaven find.

2022 October 6th., Thu.
Brooklyn, New York

What Wonders

What Wonders

When all we see is sorrow, let us then remember joy.
When all is utter darkness, let us then recall the light.
When all around is meanness, let us then remember love.
When all we hear is wailing, let us then recall the song.

And let us all remember that the moment is the prize
That yields its passing pleasure or yields instead its pain.
That moment, let us savor, let us greet it as a friend,
Who was with us when we started and will be at the end.

We are here between the atoms and the stars that light the sky.
We are stretched between the starting and the ending of the all.
We are less than motes in sunbeams, we are ants that crawl and die,
And yet we are as oceans that have depths that hold the all.

We are nothing that is special—no more than drifting leaves,
No more than dust that’s blowing—or specks of froth on waves.
And yet we sit and worry and grasp what we should yield.
But see—we ply our sciences and all our trades and arts.

Oh sing of this creation that needs no artisan!
Oh raise your arms in wonder and dance beneath the stars.
What filigrees are woven, what horrors and delights!
Oh savor this—your being, and your passing days and nights.

What wonder and what torture, what pleasure and what pain!
Our yesterdays forgotten, our tomorrows never known,
Our day, from dawn to sunset, our night in which we dream—
What meaning, in this marvel that’s the life that never stays?

I do not know the meaning and I doubt the ones who preach.
I’ve spent my life in learning and I’ve tried my best to teach.
But as my days are ending and I’m yearning for my rest,
I remember still your kindness, in this heart that you had blessed.

I still recall your singing as I still recall the dawn
As the dusk is now descending and I know that I’ll be gone.
I have seen the stony faces, I have sensed the hearts of stone,
But I still recall your smiling—and I know I’m not alone.

And so to those who hear me, I am calling from the past.
Let your present be your treasure, for the little while you last.
Remember still your pleasures, releasing all your pains—
And laughing at your losses, surrender all your gains.

2017 October 10th, Tue. 
  

Saint or Sinner?

Saint or Sinner?

Show us a sinner or show us a saint,
And we’ll find, in the first one, an aspect of worth,
And then, in the second, as surely, a taint—
For such are the natures of beings on Earth.

Let's open the corrals we use to constrain
The field of our fellows to friends and to foes,
And know—that these boxes we try to maintain
May often be nests that can nurture our woes.

Let's value a friendship, beware of a foe,
Yet open a passage where beings may flow,
For such are their natures, not solid, but more
Of a fluid—at times, like the breezes that blow.

So is he a “saint” or is he a “sinner”?
Or if we're like Trump, and addicted to sin,
Then is he a “loser” or is he a “winner”?
Could sinners be saints, just as losers might win?

And is she a blessing or is she a pain,
Or is she a bit of them both?  It is time
That we leave you to think, as we end this refrain
That we've couched, for your pleasure, in meter and rhyme.

2017 September 25th Mon.
(2nd-to-last stanza and minor edits added October 1st, Sun.)

Not in Substance or in Form

Not in Substance or in Form

When you and I have vanished and those we knew are gone,
there still will be the sunrise, the morning and the noon,
and the afternoon will follow and the stars emerge at dusk.
The moon will have its phases and the planets wend their ways,
and the seasons too will cycle as this sphere goes ‘round its sun.
  
When the myths of men and women and the truths that they had gleaned
are lost and are forgotten, and our race is no more here,
the stars will still be burning in the vastness of the dark,
and the species will be rising and then ebbing like the waves
on the myriad specks that orbit in their spirals without end.

But our sun will wax in redness as the inner planets burn—
as those other suns before it and those other planets did.
And the thoughts that we were thinking and the feelings that we had—
and all that gave us meaning and the works on which we strove—
will they leave perhaps their traces? Not in substance or in form. 

2017 June 29th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
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Uniquely (among all my hundreds of posts on this blog) this post seems to have been duplicated. This might have occurred while I was trying to get each verse line to fit within one page line. I seem to have not quite succeeded here, where I have used the "Times New Roman" font, with the "small" font-size. 

But if you want each line to fit as it should, and have good eyesight, please see the duplicate of this post, where I have used the blog's default font, but with the "smallest" font-size. That is at:
 http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2017/06/not-in-substance-or-in-form.html 
  

The Winter Has Ended

The Winter Has Ended

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10212660965296741

We know that we're transient.
We come and we go.
But we sense there's a stillness
in the midst of the flow.

There's a light in the gemstone,
there's a star in the eye.
We'll remember that twinkle
till the day that we die.

The song that is ancient
is tinged with a sorrow,
and yet it is saying
"There is still a tomorrow."

The song that is recent
may bring joy to the heart.
And yet there's the whisper—
"Tomorrow we part."

How brief are the colors
and scents of the spring!
But the winter has ended
and our fancies take wing.

2017 April 17th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
    

At the Start of the Spring

This was written after seeing a picture of Matt and Julie Posner, standing together, by a cherry blossom tree at the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10212660965296741 

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At the Start of the Spring

When the schools were not open,
at the start of the spring,
we stood by the blossoms
and our fancies took wing.

How precious, these moments,
like blooms in their lives,
when the flowers have faded,
for husbands and wives.

So also for others,
who stood by the trees
or looked at the heavens
or gazed at the seas.

We arrive and we travel
and we exit in time.
And yet there are moments
that we treasure in rhyme.

For some, it is verses;
for others, it's prose.
Yet others remember
the scent of the rose.

There are feelings for which
we may find the right words
and others that shimmer
like the singing of birds.

And then there are things
that we sense, but that speech
cannot utter—the things
that our words cannot reach.

So we stand in the open
at the start of a season.
And a picture is taken
for which there's a reason.

And whether we knew it
or not, in a year
or in forty, we'll see it
with a smile and a tear.

2017 April 17th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
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https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10212660965296741  
   

Our Wisp of Verse

Our Wisp of Verse

The present moment—that is all we have.
And yet we have it not—it comes and goes,
As water, streaming, rises, ebbs and flows.
Can men possess the wind, contain the tide
Or claim, where those, whose lives have ended, hide?
 
From vastness, we are gathered for a while,
And back into the vast we each will go.
Oh friend of mine, that I have come to know,
How brief our tryst, before the winds disperse
Both you and I and this—our wisp of verse!

If there's a reason for existence, then
It can't be figured by our mortal wits.
We each are formed—and scattered back to bits
That merge with water, earth and endless sky,
Not ever knowing whence or whither, why.

I saw, upon the trackless ocean, this—
A leaf of autumn, bobbing on the seas
That troughed and crested, driven by the breeze.
Who knew, from where that withered leaf had blown—
Or where, its siblings that it once had known?

We build our villages and towns and roads
And so find comfort in our time on Earth.
But what's the road that sent us to our birth
And where's the village that awaits us when
We each are sent upon our way again?

Annihilation marks the end of life.
The spirit leaves the body, so it seems.
No magic words and no fantastic schemes
Can bring it back, for even just a while
To shed that tear or look and gently smile.

If only we could speak with those we loved
And hold them in our arms and cry and smile—
If only we were given just a while
To make amends, in speech and attitude,
And then let go, in peace and gratitude...

What vanity—those ends that we pursue
Beyond what's needed so we each survive.
And yet, what seeming comfort we derive
In hoping that our work was not in vain,
Although we lived and worked and died in pain.

So come, my friend, and walk with me a while.
Before we part, we each should laugh and cry
At this absurdity, so when we die
We might remember, as our souls disperse,
Our time together and our rhyming verse.

2016 December 4th, Mon. 1:11 am
Northwest Berkeley, California 

Mood Blue

 
Mood Blue

There are causes for our problems.
There are problems that we cause.
So the cycles, that we're caught in,
Keep us running, till we pause.

But to pause is to have trouble.
If we question, then we sink.
We are workers and consumers.
We pay taxes. Do we think?

There are channels for our thinking.
To these channels, we're confined.
We are penned and we're addicted.
We have little peace of mind.

******

We are flowing like the water.
We are blowing like the wind.
Yet we like to think we're solids.
That's the reason we have sinned.

Can we write upon the water?
Can we shape and hold the wind?
Did they ask themselves these questions—
Those in Egypt and in Sindh?

In old Mohenjo-daro,
Could they savor breaks from work?
Could the workers too, in Giza,
From the pharaoh's labors shirk?

We can see the woman running,
As she races to her train.
We can see the woman aging
From the stress and from the strain.

*****

And who is it who profits
From this racing, from this work?
If we knew, then we might stop it—
Give the finger to the jerk.

Is it God, up in his penthouse?
Is it Bloomberg, in the skies?
The widow holds the ashes.
The orphan sits and cries.

We have drugs and schools and markets.
We have courts and we have lawyers.
We have banks and corporations
And they need the skillful liars.

There's the blue that lights the heavens.
There's the blue that's in the soul.
There's a time for pause and sadness
That is needed to be whole.

2016 October 30, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York

https://www.facebook.com/riaz.quadir/posts/10155361065997678

https://www.facebook.com/riaz.quadir/posts/10155361065997678?comment_id=10155373674602678&comment_tracking=%7B%22tn%22%3A%22R%22%7D

  

Nothing and Naught— লবডঙ্কা, কচু— Lo`bod’o`nka, Kocu— Diddlysquat, Zilch

 
The English original is followed by a translation into Bengali. This translation is given first in the traditional Bengali script, and then in a Romanization that follows the pronunciation rather than the traditional spelling. I have included, after each stanza in that Romanization, a literal, word-by-word translation back into English, preserving the Bengali syntax.

Finally, there is a Romanization that is the "machine transcription" available at http://google.com/translate.  I have (once again) lightly edited this last transcription, as I had explained in earlier posts.
----------------------------------------------------

Nothing and Naught

For many years, I’ve spouted words—
An endless stream of froth.
And soon this foam might dissipate—
Leave nothing, naught of worth.
 
But if, by chance, a residue
Remains in those who’ve read,
I then will lie contentedly
Upon my final bed.
 
And if, as is more likely, naught
And nothing should remain,
Then dying I might only feel
A tiny twinge of pain.

For knowing well impermanence—
That all is flow—I’ll sigh,
And, smiling at my impudence
In scribing verse, I’ll die.
 
2015 July 15th, Wed, 8:47 pm
Gravesend Bay, Brooklyn, New York
----------------------------------------------------

Directly below is a translation into Bengali (Bangla), in the traditional Bengali script.  This script is closely related to that used for the Asomiya (Assamese) language spoken to the north of the Bengal region and to the Tirhuta or Mithilakshar script once used for the Maithili language spoken to its northwest.
----------------------------------------------------
 
লবডঙ্কা, কচু
  
পদ্য লিখেছি, বছর ধরে,
পাতার ওপর পাতা৷
ফেনার মত হবে হাওয়া,
রইবে কেবল ছাতা৷
  
কিছু যদি থাকে বাকি,
পাঠকগণের মনে,
খুশি হয়ে যাব আমি
ওই ওপারের বনে৷
  
কিন্তু যদি থাকে শুধু
লবডঙ্কা, শুন্য,
একটুখানি  ব্যাথার চোটেও,
মরব আমি ধন্য৷ 
  
চিরকালের জোয়ারভাটায়,
স্রোতে যাবে সবই৷
নিজের স্পর্ধায় মুচকি হেসে,
চলবে ক্রমে কবি৷
  
সন্ধ্যে ৮:৪৭, বুধবার, ১৫ই জুলাই
(বাংলায় অনুবাদ, বৃহস্পতিবার, ১৬ই জুলাই)
গ্রেভ্জেণ্ড বে, ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক
----------------------------------------------------

The Romanization used directly below follows the pronunciation rather than the traditional spelling. To pronounce the words, please see the transcription scheme summarized in the preface to Bharot Xadhin (India, Free).
----------------------------------------------------
 
Lo`bod’o`nka, Kocu 

Diddlysquat, Zilch

Po`ddo likhechi, bo`chor dhore,
patar opor pata.
Phe`nar moto ho`be haoa,
roibe kebol chata.

Poems write-have-I, years through,
page upon page.
Foam’s like, become-will air,
remain-will only mold (dreck).
 
Kichu jodi thake baki,
pat’hokgo`ner mone,
khuxi hoe jabo ami
oi oparer bone.

Something if stays left,
readers’ mind(s)-in,
happy becomed go-will I,
that that (other) (river) bank’s woods-in.
 
Kintu jodi thake xudhu
lo`bodo`nka, xunno,
ekt’ukhani be`thar cot’eo,
morbo ami dhonno.

But if stays only
diddlysquat, zero,
a-little-bit pain’s spite-in-still,
die-will I blessed.
 
Cirokaler joarbhat’ae,
srote jabe xo`bi.
Nijer spo`rdhae mucki he~xe,
Colbe krome kobi.

Forever-eons’ rise-tide-ebb-tide-in,
current-in go-will all-[emphasis].
Self’s daring-at sly-smiled,
go-will time-in poet.
 
xondhe 8:47, Budhbar, 15i Julai, 2015 khri
(Banglae onubad, Brihoxpotibar, 16i Julai)
Grebhjend’ Be, Bruklin, Niu Io`rk 
  
evening 8:47, Mars-day, 15th July, 2015 C.E.
(Bengali-in translation, Jupiter(Thor)-day, 16th July)
Gravesend Bay, Brooklyn, New York

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

The Romanization below is the "machine transcription" available at http://google.com/translate.  Please see the notes at the very end of the post Beside the Sea--Xagor Tire.
----------------------------------------------------
    

Labaḍaṅkā, Kacu

Padya likhēchi, bachar dharē,
pātār ōpar pātā.
Phēnār mata habē hā'ōẏā,
ra'ibē kēbal chātā.

Kichu yadi thākē bāki,
pāṭhakagaṇēr manē,
khuśi haẏē yāba āmi
ō'i ōpārēra banē.

Kintu yadi thākē śudhu
labaḍaṅkā, śun'ya,
ēkṭukhāni byāthār cōṭē'ō,
marba āmi dhan'ya.

Cirakālēr jōẏārbhāṭāẏ,
srōtē yābē sabi
nijēr spardhāẏ mucki hēsē,
calbē kramē kabi.

sandhyē 8:47, Budhbār, 15i Julā'i
(Bānlāẏ anubād, br̥haspatibār, 16i Julā'i)
Grēbhjēṇḍ Bē, Bruklin, Ni'uẏark
 

Metaphysics

  
Metaphysics
 
Is the universe a solid, if we add to space the time?
Then all’s predestination.  Yes, my verses still have rhyme,
but more – because, in choosing, I really have no choice.
The word I use to rhyme with is chosen – and this voice
is saying what it’s saying, because the future’s known.
So none of us may claim to act with a will that is one’s own.
 
But if, beside the time, there is at least another thing
that varies, then each instant is a bird upon the wing.
The future of the universe can never be predicted,
for every tiny particle, even undetected,
can vary in the path it takes – and there’s no way to know.
The universe is fluid then, with myriad ways to flow.
 
And since, besides, each little flow can alter yet another,
and if, in probing how to flow, each flowing speaks to brother,
the universes that might rise affect then one another,
And so, of all complexities, we have, in this, the mother!
But since I play at poetry, and not in metaphysics,
it’s time to exit quietly and end these weird lyrics…
 
2014 December 21st, Sun. 11:08 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
   

Cosmos

    
Cosmos
 
There was silence, there was singing, there was darkness, there was light.
There was waking, there was dreaming, there was danger and delight.
There was presence, there was absence, there was hoping and despair.
There was wounding, there was healing, there was damage and repair.

There was birth and there was dying, there was living in between.
There was pain and there was pleasure, there were things that were unseen.
There was tasting, there was scenting, there was feeling, there was heart,
There was mind and there was matter, there was science, there was art.

******
   
And all of this was there then, that is vanished now and gone,
In that world that we were born in, on that planet we were on.
What is left is still the spirit, that is waiting for rebirth
On a planet that is spinning, on its orbit, like the Earth.

On that planet, in the cosmos that is timeless, that is vast,
Will the beings there remember, what had happened in the past?
Will the harsher sides of Nature, will the horrors, will the wars
Be remembered or repeated – as on Venus, as on Mars?
 
******
   
Is there silence on the mountain, is there quiet in the dale?
In the forests that are lifeless, is there one to tell the tale
Of what happened on our planet, that is swinging ‘round its sun?
But hark – the wind is singing.  And listen – waters run.

In their time, the fields will blossom, and the valleys will be green.
And the lovers then will wander, in the seasons soft, serene.
They will gaze up at the planets, at the brightly shining moon.
It will happen, it will happen.  But it will not happen soon.

******
 
And who will be the beings that will couple in the dark?
Will the skies of day have fliers that will soar on high and arc?
Will the grazers then be tripeds that were never there before?
Will the oceans then have beings that have music, that have lore?
 
How wondrous is the cosmos that is spirit, that is dirt,
Where the stars are distant beacons and yet lovers gently flirt,
Where there’s naught that isn’t passing and where love and flowers bloom,
Where the beings rise and vanish, so that others may have room…
   
2014 October 30th, Thu., 3:01 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  

টের (T'er–Sense/Perception–translation of Presence)

      
This is a translation into Bangla (Bengali) of the poem Presence .
The version in the traditional script follows directly below.  After
that, there is a Roman transcription.  A summary of the transcription
scheme, serving as a guide to the pronunciation, can be found at
Bharot Xadhin.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
টের

কোনো এক শহরের অন্তরে, কোনো এক দপ্তর-বাড়ির ভিতরে বন্দী হয়ে,
কখনো আঁধারে দাঁড়িয়ে দেখেছি দূরে জানালার অলো৷
আলোর টানে চলেছি তার দিকে, জানালা দিয়ে তাকিয়ে দেখেছি – আকাশ৷
জানি না কি কারনে, তাই দেখে জুড়িয়েছে মন৷

কর্ম-জিবনের আঁকা-বাঁকা রাস্তা দিয়ে, কখনো বনপথে,
তবে বেশিরভাগ শহরের ফুটপাথে চলেছি আমি৷
নগরের অলিগলির ময়লা  থেকে, যেখানে আইন-বেআইন সাথি, ডেকেছে আমায়
দূরে দেখা উর্দ্ধ আকাশ, হাওয়াতে দোলানো গাছ৷

জানালার পাসে দাঁড়িয়ে, অথবা কাজের শেষে ক্লান্ত হয়ে বাড়ির পথে হেঁটে,
গাছের পাতার নাচ দেখেছি, শুনেছি তাদের রব৷
কিছুক্ষন থেমে, দেখে, শুনে, আমি পেয়েছি তখন সেটার টের,
যেটা মাটি ও আকশের মাঝে বয়েছে চিরকাল৷
 
প্রত্যেক জীব, রয়েছে এই জগত-ধারায়৷ জোযার-ভাটা-স্রোত
বয়েছে মন-হৃদয়-শরীরে, ঘসে-মেজে রেখেছে তাদের পরিষ্কার৷
তবে যখন আমরা একলা হয়ে পড়ি, সেই স্রোতের থেকে বিচ্ছিন্ন হয়ে,
ভূত-প্রেত আমাদের ধরে বসে তখন, জ্বালিয়ে পাগল করে দেয়৷

প্রাসাদে রাজা, কারাগারে কয়েদি৷ শ্রমিক তার ঘুপ্চিতে খাটে৷
এরা প্র্ত্যেকে বেঁচে থেকেও মৃত হয়ে চলে৷
একলা বন্দী রেখে করেছ যাকে অসুস্থ, পাগল –
ছেড়ে দেও তাকে বন-জঙ্গলে৷ যদি সে বাঁচতে পারে, সেরে উঠবে সেখানে৷
    
ইহুদী নববর্ষ: বৃহস্পতিবার, ২৫-এ সেপ্টেম্বর, ২০১৪ খ্রিষ্টাব্দ
নতুন য়র্কের ম্যানহাটানের চীনে পাড়ায়, ডাক্তারের অফিসে
(ইংরেজী থেকে বাংলায় অনুবাদ: শনিবার, ২৭-এ সেপ্টেম্বর)
    
 --------------------------------------------------------------------
  
T`er (translation of Presence)

Kono e`k xo`horer o`ntore, kono e`k do`ptor-bar’ir bhetore bondi hoe,
Kokhono a~dhare dar’ie dekechi dure janalar alo.
Alor t’ane colechi tar dike, janala die takie dekechi – akax.
Jani na ki karone, tai dekhe jurieche mon.

Ko`rmo-jibo`ner a~ka-ba~ka rasta die, ko`khono bono-po`the,
To`be bexir-bhag xoho`rer-phut’pathe colechi ami.
No`gorer oli-golir mo`ela theke, jekhane ain-be-ain xathi, d’ekeche amae
Dure de`kha urdho akax, haoate dolano gach.

Janalar paxe dar’ie, o`thoba kajer xexe, klanto hoe, bar’ir po`the he~t’e,
Gacher patar nac dekhechi, xunechi tader ro`b.
Kichukkhon theme, dekhe, xune, ami pe-echi to`khon xetar t’er,
Jet’a mat’i o akaxer majhe boeche cirokal.

Prottek jib, roeche ei jo`got-dharae. Joar-bhat’a-srot
Boeche mon-hrido`e-xorire, ghoxe-mejhe rekeche tader porixkar.
To`be jo`khon amra e`kla hoe pori, xei sroter theke bicchinno hoe,
Bhut-pret amader dhore bo`xe to`khon, jalie pagol kore de`-e.

Praxade raja, karagare ko`edi.  Sromik tar ghupcite khat’e.
Era protteke be~ce thekeo mrito hoe co`le.
E`kla bondi rekhe korecho jake o`xusto, pagol –
Chere dao take bon-jo`ngole. Jodi xe ba~cte pare, xere ut’thbe xekhane.

ihudi  no`bobo`rxo:  brihoxpotibar, 25-e sept’embar, 2014 khrixt’abdo
notun ior`ker me`nhe`t’an-diper cine par’ae, d’aktarer o`phixe
(ingreji theke banglae onubad: xonibar, 27-e sept’embar)
 
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------    
The above is a translation into Bangla (Bengali) of the poem Presence.  
The version in the traditional script is at the top. Following that, there is 
a Roman transcription. A summary of the transcription scheme, serving 
as a guide to the pronunciation, can be found at  Bharot Xadhin.
  

A Pebble

  
A Pebble

In searching for my sanity, I found instead a pebble.
And though it wasn’t what I sought, I’d long learned not to quibble.
For as I turned it ‘round and round, and felt its texture smooth,
Its presence, small, gave comfort in the midst of all my trouble.

The pebble, it is humble and is rounded and is small,
And surely has a history, as do the beings all.
It even might have sentience, with knowledge of its past,
Or bear the gift of prophesy that shows what may befall.

I wondered how it started out and knew there was no answer.
The goddess of the universe might tell me if I asked her –
“The stuff and spirit in that stone were there, when stars were born –
Were dancing then, within that dance in which you’re still a dancer.”

How many eons did it take to travel through the Earth –
How many fiery cycles past, of birthing and rebirth?
How many atoms in it were in my ancestors lost?
How many blows had given it its present shape and girth?

I turned that pebble in my hand, examining its texture.
Like rocks and soil, we beings are, of everything, a mixture.
I took that pebble home with me and placed it on my desk,
And there it sits, my company – in transience, a fixture.

And yet I know, that pebble flows – like me and like the hills,
Like waves upon the sea and all our pleasures and our ills.
Its solid form has changed – as do the clouds that hurry by,
As flowers bloom and wilt away in pots on windowsills.

And so, I’ve found my sanity, though only for a while –
Enough to make me pause, reflect and even crack a smile.
That pebble will be there, when you and I are dead and gone,
But flowing still, like waters do in Egypt’s ancient Nile.

2014 August 28th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Descent

    
Descent  
               
When the wind has fallen quiet,
You can look out at the sky,
You can see the fires celestial,
As they’re burning, up on high.

When the dawn is still a whisper,
You can wake, within your tent.
You can shiver and then bundle,
On your downward trek, intent.

Where the peaks rise up in splendor,
Where no eagles dare to soar,
In that white and barren fastness,
You can trek across the snow.

In the valley, by the glacier,
Where the ice is heaped and strewn,
You can breathe a little easy
And can feel the warmth of noon.

Where the glacier spawns the river,
You can drink from crystal streams.
You can walk on mountain pastures
And be lost in happy dreams.

Where the river roars down canyons,
Where the raging waters flow,
You can listen to that roaring,
And the sound, primeval, know.

In the forests of the foothills,
You can hear the tiger growl.
You can glimpse the deer and otters
And the sudden flights of fowl.

Where the hills gave way to corn fields,
Where the sky is smiling wide,
You can row upon the river.
With the current, you can ride.

In the flatlands of the delta,
Where the crops are growing green,
You can see the rice-fields shimmer
In the afternoons serene.

In the shade, among the fruit trees,
With their fragrance in the air,
You can while away the noontimes,
Or at insects, sit and stare.

You can fish in tranquil waters,
You can bathe in morning’s light.
You can watch the cows at sunsets,
And in children’s smiles delight.

You can travel to the outskirts
Of the city and its grime.
You can labor in its alleys,
And be old before your time.

You can leave at last the city,
On the river, flowing strong.
You can watch the boatmen rowing,
Catch the lilting of their song.

Where the river meets the ocean
And the vistas open wide,
You can see the sea-gulls wheeling,
You can feel the turning tide.

In the endlessness of ocean,
Where the land is lost to sight,
You can drift, across the sunset,
To the starry, starry night…

Let the ones, who are ascending,
Plant their puny flags on peaks.
To the one, who is descending,
They should listen, when he speaks…

2014 May 9th, Friday, 11:55 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
   

Snow on City Trees

Snow on City Trees

    

In every region of the Earth, we see

That Nature teaches men humility.

The nations of the northwest rule the planet –

A source of pride for every John and Janet.

Then winter scowls and shows the northern tribe

It can't be stopped by force or bought by bribe.

The polar vortex whirls, as gutters freeze

And blizzards drape, with snows, the city's trees.

It snowed all day – but now at night it thaws.

And as I walk, I see the trees and pause.

They stand unmoving, yet they seem to fight,

With darkened forms, against their burdens white.

The evergreens are bent with powder-loads

That slide and scatter on the snow-plowed roads.

The trees that spread and arc appear in flower,

As if to mock this blustering season's power.

A skeletal tree is limned in dark and white.

Bereft of leaves, it still gives stark delight.

With tracery of twigs against the sky,

It does the winter, with aplomb, defy.

The trees are comfort for my weary eyes.

Their patience lives, when all our hubris dies.

I thought they're fighting.  Now, I see they're not.

With snows, they're dancing – at a leisured trot.

If men, like trees, would dance with Nature too,

It might be pleasanter for me and you.

2014 February 3rd, Mon.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

When Ice Isn't Nice

When Ice Isn't Nice

When there's ice on cement, then beware!
Together, they can be a painful snare.

And if you're older, frailer, then your hip
May not survive that sudden, fatal slip.

I skate upon the ice in sneakers, while
I keep my body low. I glide and smile.

Both shoes on ground, a "safer bet", I call.
A base that's wider may prevent a fall.

A fall, relaxed, is gentler on the bones.
But never use, on ice, your mobile phones!

I understand this might not be your tea.
But gently go -- and always careful be.

2014  January 5th Sun., 8:05 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
 

New Season -- revised

  
This is a revised version of New Season , which I wrote on October 29th, 2006, a few months into a two-year stay at my parents'  house in Berkeley, California.  That long visit was initiated by a heart attack (followed, during stent installation, by heart failure) that my mother had suffered, on August 26th of that year.

Almost two years after that writing, Joe's Demise appeared, on October 5th, 2008 -- out of nowhere, so it seemed.  This happened soon after my return to Brooklyn, at the end of August of that year.

Recently, on reading both poems again, I noticed that a section of the earlier poem contained a premonition of what is perhaps portrayed in the later one, Joe's Demise.  So, after revising New Season, I am presenting it below.

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

New Season -- revised

The air has cooled, but still the ardent sun
Retains his strength, as leaves of color fall.

Now comes November... Yet, along this coast,
It is as if we're waiting still for May...

The maples – they are mottled, green and red...
And lighter, warmer shades can now be seen,
Amongst the greens, on coastal slopes and hills.

We know, beyond those hills, and east to the sea,
For a full three thousand miles, the trees stand bare,
Except for dark and stolid evergreens... 

But here, the maples, oaks, the wine-leaved plums
And all their broad-leaved kin still wear the clothes
Of early fall, which lasts here into spring...

What a paradise was this, that Nature wrought,
Until we came and drove our freeways through!
Now shopping malls deface the sun-washed coast,
And rushing cars disturb the sleeping hills.

And yet, the conifers rise up to a hilltop ridge,
And little birds are perched on cables strung
Between the poles that stand as straight and tall
As when they slowly grew in forests deep...

And high upon those hills, you still might find,
Beside a stream, a mountain lion's print –
And quickly glance about and hurry down
Before the night descends on fragrant pines.

It is as if the works of men are but
Another shadow that is speeding through,
One more among the countless ones that climb
These coastal hills as clouds go racing by.

All this shall pass, like a storm that lays about
And then is gone.  So newborn grass will spring
From asphalt cracks, and rust will eat at bridges...

And trees will conquer buildings, as they've done
Since Olmecs, Mayas, Incas, Aztecs raised
Their monuments and left, as Khmers had built
In forests far across the globe, reclaimed
By plants, and all the life that they sustain...

But wait – perhaps, this time, it won't be so,
And things will take, instead, a turn that is
Quite different – for we have stressed this whole,
Of earth and sea and air, beyond its strength...

That whole may not recover.  Life, its part,
May never be the same upon this globe...

And if we do not curb those weapons dread
That we are hoarding, life may vanish from
This blue-green planet – till it starts again
From a seed arrived from a distant orb that's sent
Ejecta forth to find a home and spread...

All this goes through the mind, on a tranquil day,
When all seems changeless, still, amidst the flow...

Perhaps we need these little respites from
The rush of seasons – both of Earth and Man.
We then can note the changes that portend
Of seasons yet to come, whose depth and length
Exceed, by far, the turns of the yearly round.

October ends, and yet, in paradise,
The sun is warm, and hummingbirds in flight
Are finding time to pause and drink their fill.

So autumn here begins, and we have time
To think these thoughts of past and future, while
We savor this – the present's timelessness.

Babui Jana (Arjun Janah)
2006 October 29th, Sun.
Berkeley, California

revised, 2013 October 23rd, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York