Showing posts with label Grief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Grief. Show all posts

Sunday, March 10, 2024

Progoti-প্রগতি

 
প্রগতি
 
 প্রগতির গান গাইছো তুমি—
 নতুন যুগের জয়।
 নিষ্ঠুরতার অন্ত কোথায়?
 জীবের চোখে ভয়।
 বোমার ঝড়ে ঝাঁকছে ভূমি,
 কাঁপছে শিশু, হায়!
 
 মা-বাবা যে কোথায় গেলো!
 কোথায়, দিদি-দাদা?
 এই প্রগতির দাপট দেখে,
 ভাসছে চোখে ধাঁধা।
রাত পোহালো, প্রভাত এলো
ধুঁকছে, রক্ত মেখে

এই প্রগতির উগ্র প্রচার 
হচ্ছে যতই দেশে,
গানের ধ্বনি উঠছে জেগে 
ততই তীব্র ক্লেশে।
 
 রবিবার, ১০ মার্চ, ২০২৪ খ্রি.
 বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফর্নিয়া
.
 
 

Thursday, May 24, 2018

Beloved, Where Are You?


Beloved, Where Are You?

The sun is warm upon the skin,
The sky is blazing blue,
And I am walking in the sun
And thinking still of you.

The little birds are chirping as
They fly from tree to tree,
And feelings, long held captive, now
Are rising, wild and free.

The winter has departed and
The spring is here to stay.
It seems that we were walking in
The spring, but yesterday.

The trees are dancing in the breeze,
As they had danced before.
But you, who’d stood and smiled at these,
Are now with us no more.

The greens of newborn leaves are flames
That rise towards the blue.
The sky and earth are singing—yet,
Beloved, where are you?

2018 May 24th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
---------------------------------------------------

Note: Any connections that such hinted romances may have with the scribe's own life (which has been mostly ordinary and unromantic) are tenuous at best. 
  

Friday, June 23, 2017

Baba (Dear Father)


Baba (Dear Father)

The summer solstice came and went—and now
the date approaches when you left this life
and so returned to nothingness again.

So mother too had left, a month before—
like you, before the school-year came to end
and set me free, for August and July—
too late, that year, for her—and then for you.

And so your daughter too had gone—before
you both—and left us all disconsolate.

******

Now school is ending—and there’s time to pause,
returning home—to sit within a park,
the playground of a school, bereft of trees—
with tar and concrete, where there should be grass.

So here I sit and bask in summer’s sun—
or swelter, as those summers come to mind,
beneath those skies that arced in brilliance,
beneath that sun that burned our darkened skins—
and in that land where you and I were born.

******

How close and distant were the father, son—
how rare and dear the tears that you and I
had wept, across the years and continents.

By culture, I was bred for reverence—
and more for elders than for all the gods.

But here I sit and weep, in quietude,
with little children’s voices wafting by,
remembering you, who once was little too—
and flew your kite, beneath that tropic sun.
 
******

How many children cry for parents lost,
how many parents for their children gone—
how many for a sibling or a friend,
or elder, younger—who is now no more…

So little time for joy—or even grief,
amidst the hustle of the city’s streets,
amidst the passage of a harried life…

How precious then, this time at summer’s start—
to pause and find the time to think of you.

2017 June 22, Thursday, 4:31 pm
playground, Public School 186
between 76th and 77th Streets, off 16th Avenue
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York 
  

Friday, April 14, 2017

Light and Shade


Light and Shade 

https://www.facebook.com/wendell.pye/posts/1736121643081412

What can I add, except to say
We greet the dawn that starts the day,
But then, when sunset comes, we sigh,
For night, and all it means, is nigh.

We sigh in pleasure as in pain.
We grimace and we laugh again.
So sorrow too is part of life.
If joy's the husband, she's the wife.

And now before you tire of this,
I should retire and wish you bliss.
We suffer pain and wish we'd die,
And moan and ask for reasons why.

What reason can we find, my friend?
We suffer till the very end.
So let's embrace the joy and sorrow.
We live today and die tomorrow.

******
 
Pleasure, pain, we live and find,
Like yang and yin, are intertwined.
From light and shade, we find our depth—
From joy and sorrow, life and death.

To wooden crosses, three were nailed.
Such cruelties had long prevailed.
But one of those had brought us sight,
Or so we hope, who seek for light.

But then, behold how darkness spread,
And evil was, with cunning, wed.
And still their offspring brings us woe.
So who is friend and who is foe?

I wish I knew the answers, but
I am myself within a rut.
And so I now should go to sleep,
And hope it will be long and deep.

2017 April 14th, Thu, 3:08 am
Brooklyn, New York 
   

Friday, March 31, 2017

The Dreamers’ Lament

  
The Dreamers’ Lament
 
In childhood, we conceived our dreams;
in youth, we gave them birth.

And then we worked to rear them,
and saw them slowly grow.

And we had hoped to leave them strong,
before we left this Earth.

But sadly, they were ravaged, wrecked—
and now they are no more.
  

The things that we had dreamed of,
for which we worked and fought,

They still appear as worthwhile,
although our dreams have died,

as all the things, that we had built,
are rendered now as naught.

For every time we’d smiled and laughed,
we’ve also wept and cried.
 

The tasks, that we had set ourselves,
now must again be done.

But who will fight those battles, still,
that we had thought we’d won?
 

And who, we ask, will shoulder now
those burdens we had carried?

It seems that we have overstayed;
for far too long, we’ve tarried.
 

Our spans of course are limited,
yet long enough for woe.

We’ve had our sips of joy and now—
it’s time for us to go.

  
2017 March 31st, Fri
Brooklyn, New York
  

Thursday, February 2, 2017

Death-III


Death-III
 
Oh death—departure of the life that was,
that only now exists in memory—
how bitter is your taste—and yet how sweet.
How dreadful is the blow that sets us free.

What use, regret?  How now to pay the dues?
How much, that’s precious, snatched and swept away!
No court, that takes or rules on our appeal.
Our only recompense is that of tears.

And yet, can death extinguish love—that lasts
when all the rest is seen as transient?
We yield the body and the mind to death,
but not the things that stay within our hearts.
  
2017 February 2nd, Thu., 9 pm,
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York.
In memory of our beloved 
daughter, sister, mother, friend
Anita (T’ukul) Sen (born Bose),
who passed away earlier today, in Kolkata,
mourned by her son, Anirup, 

daughter-in-law Nabanita,
grandson Rimpu and many others

(Last stanza added 2017 Feb. 7th) 
-------------------------------------------------------

Related:


Death
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/06/death.html
 

Death-II 
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/12/death-ii.html
      
For secure, encrypted connections, change addresses from http to https. 
  

Monday, May 16, 2016

Choices


Choices

It’s been awhile but now I’m writing
Once again in metered verse.
And some of those to whom I’m sending
This will smile or laugh—or curse.

And since I’ve blanked out my emotions,
I consider now my choices:
How to give a form substantial
To the whispers of my voices.

******

Should I only draw my pictures—
Not with crayons, but with words—
Painting sunsets, valleys, mountains,
Fields and skies with flying birds?
 
Or should I chant in rhythms ancient,
Sounding vowels in my words,
Seeking rhymes and rising, falling—
Trilling like the singing birds?

Or should I write of what I’ve eaten—
Rice and cabbage, lentils, curds—
Writing also of digestion
And of what I’ve left as turds?

Perhaps it’s time that mathematics
Filled my verse with roots and surds— *
Or perhaps, I should write dirges
For Armenians, Turks and Kurds…

******

Should I fill my lines with nonsense,
Wasting my and readers’ time—
Though they offer still amusement,
Spoken out aloud with rhyme?
     
Or should I write of what I’m thinking,
How I view this sorry world?
Will you enter in the prisons,
In the hells in which we’re hurled?

Or should I write of feelings pleasant,
Sing of happiness and love,
Or raise my head towards the heavens,
Howling at the moon above?
 
Who can answer whence or whither,
Give us half a reason why
Each of us is born to dither
Just a while—and then to die?

I’ll be gone and then my verses
Will be lost, as all things are.
Why then should I write of living—
Joy and sorrow, peace and war?
 
******

Who will read these verses, written
In my notebooks in the night?
Who will bother still to mouth them,
Holding scribblings to the light?

Mine are verses born of grieving—
More of black and gray than white—
Yet there’s gold and silver in them—
Sparkles, hidden, of delight.
 
So I write, as if by random
Breezes blown, till gone from sight—
Like a little sailboat, bobbing
Through the heaving swells of night.

Should I end this poem neatly—
Tie the ends and pull them tight,
Or should I leave them hanging loosely,
Wondering why I chose to write?

******

There!  It’s done, for better or—
As often far more likely—worse:
I’d felt the mists and rising vapors—
Asking for my rhyming verse.

Whence, these beings of the ether,
Seeking, each, their human voice?
Why is it—that we are bidden,
Yet appear to still have choice?

2016 May 13th Fri
Brooklyn, New York
(first two stanzas, central single stanza and
last two stanzas added 2016 May 16th, Mon)

====================================

 * Listed here are the uses of the words:
    (a) “surd” in mathematics and phonetics;
    (b) “root” in mathematics and linguistics.
====================================
    

Sunday, May 1, 2016

The Kalka Mail


I received a letter from my cousin, Ashoke Menon Dutt, on 2016, April 12th Tue, in which he suggested that I should try to write the lyrics to a “railroad song”, set in the Indian subcontinent.

He had been inspired by a song written and first sung by the late Steve Goodman.

For most of the past thirteen years, I had been regularly sending out, to some relatives, friends and colleagues, the verses that I had been writing on a weekly and even daily basis.  For the last several years, I had been posting these on my poetry blog, The Daily Poet, and sending out the links to the posts.   However, because of many preoccupations and for some other reasons, I had stopped  doing this for a while.

So I wrote back to Ashoke, saying that the “muse” appeared to have left me.

But later that night, I searched on the Internet for a “railroad song”, mistaking it first for the song “Lord I’m one, lord I’m two … lord, I’m five hundred miles from home”.  This, I found, was a song apparently written by Hedy West, in the 1960’s or earlier, assembled from melodies she had heard from her uncle in Georgia.  That song has elements that reminded me of classic Negro spirituals.

Soon afterwards, I found the song Ashoke had really been referring to, “The City of New Orleans”.

Ashoke had mentioned some things he liked about that Steve Goodman song, such as its catchy lyrics and rhythm that balanced the somewhat sad nature of the theme, which was not just about the railroad, but about the riders and more.  He had also outlined what he would like for the song set in India—a human element, references to the beauty of the surroundings, the inclusion of names of places not too well known, and perhaps a long route—north-south between Kashmir and Chennai, or diagonal between Bengal and Kerala.

Unfortunately, I have neither Ashoke’s experience of those routes, nor his gift for music and song.

Nevertheless, after hearing those American songs, from recordings on the Internet, I briefly considered trying to write the words for a “railroad song” in Bengali or Hindi.  I then stayed up late, into the wee hours of Wednesday morning, writing the verses in English instead.

These, reproduced below, are based on my experiences in the 1950’s, traveling with my parents and others between Kolkata (Calcutta) and Dilli (Delhi), India’s capital city.

Whether or not the muse took it upon herself to return to help me in this, I do not know.

East Indian Railway Mail leaving Kalka Station circa 1906
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kalka_Mail

I omitted many historical places and interesting experiences on the route, including only a few.

For those who are not that familiar with the geography of the subcontinent and its history between the 1940's and 1970's, some information might be needed to understand the background to the verses below.   This can be found in the accompanying notes, which have pictures and maps.

But the reader may perhaps want to first read those verses. (See below.)

In the notes, I have not gone  into the history of the railroads in the subcontinent, that began in the British Raj. Suffice it to note that those railroads, running thousands of miles, were built, as elsewhere, mainly by human (and animal) labor.
======================================

    The Kalka Mail

I’ve ridden on a bullock cart,
I’ve ridden on an ekka.
I rode upon a riksho once—
And never will again.

But now we ride the Kalka Mail—
The Kalka Mail, the Kalka Mail!
And as we ride the Kalka Mail,
The night will turn to morning.
 
I’ve ridden on a ‘cycle and
I’ve ridden on a car.
I rode the tram to T’aligo`nj,
The bus to Bou Bajar.

But now we’re on the Kalka Mail,
The Kalka Mail, the Kalka Mail!
And soon we’ll be in Asansol,
The way the wheels are turning.

I go to bed within the train.
The wheels put me to sleep.
I wake to find the train has stopped,
Within a darkness deep.

I look outside—and all is dark.
The wind is softly blowing.
And in the distance, I can see
A light is softly glowing.

What could it be, I wonder as
The wheels begin to turn.
And slowly then, it slides from view—
That light within the dark.
 
I toss and turn and try to sleep.
The wheels are singing songs.
And yet it seems I hear, in these,
The groans from ancient wrongs.
 
******
 
Before I sleep again, I hear
Ça, gawrom ça!” a call
That tells me, where we’ve stopped is still
A station in Bengal.

But when I wake again, I see
The night has turned to day.
And when we stop, I hear the chant,
Çae, çae—garam çae!

Kaavi, kaavi, kaaviya!”
I’d later hear that hail.
But that would be another trip,
Along the Deccan trail.
 
The dreaming hills of blue go by.
I wish that I could climb
A hillside track, towards the light
Of that Çhot’a Nagpur sky.
 
******

The hills are gone, and now I see
The sun-bright plains spread wide.
The dust and grit of coal is in
My clothes and hair and eyes.

The greens by now have turned to browns.
And yet I see, at times,
The yellow mustard flowers dance
As the train goes speeding by.

Mughal Serai!” The “Mongol” horde
Had camped upon this site.
So this was where the horsemen once
Had rested from the fight.

And this was where the caravans
That linked the east to west,
Would halt, so horses, camels, men
Could water and could rest.

I hear this from my parents and
My eyes are opened wide.
I wonder how and why they fought—
How many then that died.

And who were they who traveled then,
To whither and from whence?
How much there is to know, I think,
And dream of Mughal tents.

Mughal Serai!  And westwards still—
And northwards, on we go!
Who laid these rails, that stretch for miles
And miles, with labor slow?

“Who laid these rails?” I ask, but then
I’m told. “You’re just a boy.
And so, this ride, upon this train,
Is what you should enjoy.”

******
 
I’ve ridden on a scooter and
I’ve ridden on a bike.
But riding on the Kalka Mail
Is what I really like.

The Kalka Mail, the Kalka Mail—
It thunders through the night.
From Howrah, west and north it goes,
Till Dilli is in sight.

“How far are we from home?” I ask.
“How far is left to go?”
“We’re halfway there,” I’m told, “And that
Is all you have to know.”

“Who made these trains, who made these trains?”
“The British taught us how.
But hush!  There’s people sleeping and
You’re kicking up a row!”
 
******

“The Kalka Mail, the Kalka Mail—
It doesn’t travel slow.
It leaves the local trains behind—
But whither does it go?”

“The Kalka Mail, the Kalka Mail--
To Kalka still can go.
But there’s a line the British drew—
And what it says is ‘No!’”

“And why is that?” I ask and see
My parents’ worried looks.
“You’ll learn the reason later, when
You’ve learned to read your books.”

I hear my mother’s answer and
I hear my father’s sigh.
“This boy of ours is curious and
He’s always asking why.”

They’re speaking now in English, as
I still can now recall.
They do not know I’m listening still—
And memorizing all.

“He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know—
He doesn’t know it yet—
Those horrors that we saw—those things
We wish we could forget.

“Those trains that never came—and all
Those bodies in our alley…
The steamer that I took, towards
The fires of Noakhali….

“We had a dream, we had a dream.
But where did it all go?
He’s still a little boy.  There’s much
He’ll sadly come to know.

“The British now have left and yet
They still receive the loot,
From those who wear the khadi and
The ones who wear the suit.

“Perhaps the future will restore
The things that we have lost.
Perhaps we ‘natives’ still might learn
From paying such a cost.

“From Dhaka, will a train that runs
To Howrah, come to be?
From Medinipur, he’ll go, perhaps,
To Ça~t’ga~ then, by sea.”

I learn by heart the English words,
Although they make no sense.
I see my mother looking sad,
I see my father tense.

“Will Quetta and Peshawar be
On signs upon a train?
From Dilli, will the mail be run
To ‘Pind’i once again?”

I hear my parents talking and
I hear my father sigh.
I do not understand and so
I idly wonder why.

******

I’ve ridden on a phat’phat’i,
I’ve ridden on a camel.
I rode once on an elephant.
So many ways to travel!

But I prefer to walk—or else,
With Dilli as my dream,
I ride upon the Kalka Mail
That runs on coal and steam.

“Who laid these rails, who laid these rails,
That stretch for miles and miles?”
I ask again. My mother looks
At me and only smiles.

2016 April 12th Tue night to 13th Wed morning.
(several stanzas added April 23rd Sat & May 1st, Sun)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
======================================

Notes on "The Kalka Mail".   These notes have pictures and maps and include:
 
A) Place Names and Other Vocabulary (in order of occurrence in the poem) with Pictures and Maps;
 
B) Some Cities, States/Provinces and Regions of the Subcontinent (mentioned in the poem or its preface);

C) The Geography of the Subcontinent and the Violent Creations of Three of its Nation States.
 

Monday, September 14, 2015

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
  

Wednesday, August 12, 2015

Blowing Dust


Blowing Dust (Draft)

It’s difficult, and yet it’s best, to learn
That all we have and everything we’ve built,
We each will lose—that all will be as dust—
The dust that blows, to which we will return.

And yet, when we and those we know are gone,
The birds will chirp to greet again the dawn.
And crickets will be loud at eventide,
As one by one the stars begin to show.
 
******
 
A long procession winds its way through time.
How many went before upon our paths?
How many still to come?  We walk alone
Amidst the crowds, and yet in company.

So as I wipe away the dust that clings
To books I’m packing, those I’ve read and those
I hope to read before I lose my sight,
I wonder at the dust—and wonder more.

Whose dust is this?  How many beings past
Are touched by me, who cannot feel my touch?
Could books attract the dust of scholars who
Had loved their books as I do mine—and more?

A foolish thought—and yet I wonder where
My sister’s ashes, that the river took,
Are wandering—and if perhaps, by chance,
A particle might settle on her book.

My parents’ ashes have been waiting long.
And still I hope that if I can retire,
I’ll free them, like I did my sister’s, while
I leave a sprinkling on the book they wrote.

******

My sister and my parents could not see,
In print, the books on which they’d spent their years.
And I but rarely leaf through them, because
I fear I’ll stain the pages with my tears.
 
A book, when extant, might extend a life
Beyond the death of body and of mind.
As books are read, the authors come alive
And speak to those that death has left behind.

And it’s the same with photographs and more—
And all the work we did that’s left a mark—
Perhaps within a mind or heart—before
Our turn to turn again to blowing dust.

How few are those, who have their books or art
Or other free creations published, known
Beyond a tiny circle?  Each yet leaves
Their little ripples that subside with time.

And that’s enough.  And even if we die
And none remembers that we were, it is
Sufficient that we lived our little while—
No more, no less than ants or leaves—and died.
 
******
 
Our mornings and our evenings come in turn.
We’re born to be interred or else to burn.
And in-between, we do what beings do,
To leave behind, perhaps, a trace or two.
 
A mortal should accept the mortal fate—
Which is to vanish, be deleted, go.
For all we were and all we did will be
As this—the dust on which I gently blow.

2015 August 11th, Tue, 8:15 pm
(fourth-from-last and third-from-last stanzas
 added August 12th, Wed. morning, third 
stanza added August 14th, Fri. morning)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
     

Wednesday, July 1, 2015

Beside the Sea—Xagor Tire—সাগর তীরে—Sāgar Tīrē

 
This is a curious piece, with some archaisms that might seem incongruous.  It is followed by a translation into Bengali, which is in three versions:
  1. firstly, in my own strange Roman transcription scheme, which follows the pronunciation rather than the standard spelling, as was briefly summarized in the preface at http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/02/bharot-xadhin-indias-freedom.html ; 
  2. secondly, in the beautiful traditional Bengali script, attempting to reproduce the the standard spelling;  
  3. and finally, in the Roman transcription (which I will refer to as the "machine transcription") provided by the software program at http://google.com/translate.  A note on this transcription can be found at the very end of the current post.
Hopefully, these three versions, taken together with the English original, might be of some assistance to those attempting to learn Bengali.  However, for those with little or no prior knowledge of Bengali, nor of other Indian languages, a word-for-word translation might be needed, as the word-order is radically different between English and most Indian languages.  I have not provided this here.

It is often difficult to translate a poem in a literal fashion. But in this case, much (though not all) of the translation is quite literal, without, hopefully, too much harm to the sensibilities. Some might say that this is because of the seemingly absurd nature of the content. Nonsense translated literally might at times make just as fine a nonsense as the original!  Protesting feebly, I will leave you to judge.
--------------------------------------------------------
     
Beside the Sea

When waves reflect the sun at noon
Or dance beneath the shining moon,
Beside the broad and shimmering sea,
I walk and watch and wait for thee.

When seagulls flee before the squall,
To thee, across the waves, I call.
When swells are heaving in the dark,
Thine answer comes.  I turn and hark.
 
But then I ask, “Is that the wind?”
So heaven tortureth those who’ve sinned.
Yet, unrepentant still, I cry,
“The gods’ commandments, I defy!”

******
  
As ants that crawl upon the land,
Can humans ever understand
The deep, the vast, the endless sea,
With all her trove of mystery?

How stormy was the sea that day,
When I saw thee go thy way.
But even when she's still, I see
Her whim hath cruelly taken thee.

******
    
By fortune met and separated,
Are those, who might perhaps have mated,
If chance and destiny had turned
And what the gods decreed had spurned.
 
And so, to where I last had seen thee,
On that day so gray and windy,
I return—to seek and pine,
By that shore, where thou wast mine.

At sunrise, when the air is chill,
Beside the sea, I’m walking still,
As I had been at sunset time,
With thoughts of thee—and this, my rhyme.
 
2015 June 21st, Mon., 6:57 pm
Gravesend Bay, Brooklyn, New York
(translated into Bengali, July 1st, Wed.)
--------------------------------------------------------
 
Xagor Tire

Dupurer roder nice, rater ca~der aloe,
nace jo`khon xari xari d’heu,
ha~ti to`khon bixal, jhikmike xomudrer tire,
tomar o`pekkhae.

Xo`nkocil jo`khon palae jho`r’er theke,
to`khon tir theke d’aki tomae.
Rater o`ndhokare, d’heuer xaxer majhe,
Xuni je`no dure, tomar jo`bab.

To`be bhabi to`khon, “Ot’a ki haoa?”
Papir pir’o`n—nixt’hur debder xasti et’a!
Nachor’ ami, c~echie ut’hi tai,
“Manbo na ko`khono, tomader dabi!”
 
******

Pi~pr’er moto d’angae he~t’e be`r’ae manux.
Tara ki ko`beo bujhbe eke?
Ei gobhir, o`xim, o`par mo`haxagor?
Ei dha~dha-he~yali bho`ra mo`hol?

Jho`rer majhe gele tumi
ei xagorer buke.
Xagor jo`khon xanto, to`khon
tao to dekhi xet’a.

******
   
Je ko`pale jeta, xei ko`palei har!
Kon po`the je xanti chilo, dut’i be`lar xukh,
Janbo na go, janbo na go,
Janbo na go ta.

Ei o`kul, obiram xagorer tire,
pe-e-o, har’ie chilam tomae.
Tai to barbar axi—rate, dine.
Bhabi, tumi e`khon kothae?

Xondhe be`lae xurjo d’obe,
bhor be`late ot’he.
Dui belatei, tomar kho~je,
ha~t’i, xagor tire.

xondhe 6:57,  Xombar, 29e Jun
Grevzend’ Be, Bruklin, Niu Io`rk
(Banglae onubad, Budhbar, 1la Julai)
--------------------------------------------------------
   
সাগর তীরে
  
দুপুরের রোদের নীচে, রাতের চাঁদের আলোয়,
নাচে যখন সারি সারি ঢেউ,
হাঁটি তখন বিশাল, ঝিক্মিকে সমুদ্রের তীরে,
তোমার অপেক্ষায়৷ 

শঙ্খচিল যখন পালায় ঝড়ের থেকে,
তখন তীর থেকে ডাকি তোমায়৷
রাতের অন্ধকারে, ঢেউ এর শ্বাসের মাঝে,
শুনি যেন দূরে, তোমার জবাব৷
  
তবে ভাবি তখন, "ওটা কি হাওয়া"?
পাপীর  পীড়ন—নিষ্ঠুর দেবদের শাস্তি এটা!
নাছোড় আমি, চেঁচিয়ে উঠি তাই,
"মানবো না কখনো, তোমাদের দাবি!"

****** 

পিঁপড়ের মত ডাঙায় হেঁটে বেড়ায় মানুষ৷
তারা কি কবেও বুঝবে একে?
এই গভীর, অসীম, অপার মহাসাগর?
এই ধাঁধা-হেঁয়ালি ভরা মহল?
  
ঝড়ের মাঝে গেলে তুমি
এই সাগরের বুকে৷
সাগর যখন শান্ত, তখন
তাও ত দেখি সেটা৷
   
****** 
 
যে কপালে জেতা, সেই কপালেই হার!
কোন পথে যে শান্তি ছিল, দুটি বেলার সুখ,
জানব না গো, জানব না গো,
জানব না গো তা৷
    
এই অকূল, অবিরাম সাগরের তীরে,
পেয়েও, হারিয়েছিলাম তোমায়৷
তাই ত বারবার আসি—রাতে, দিনে৷
ভাবি, তুমি এখন কোথায়?

সন্ধ্যে বেলায় সূর্য় ডোবে,
ভোর বেলাতে ওঠে৷
দুই বেলাতেই, তোমার খোঁজে,
হাঁটি, সাগর তীরে৷
  
সন্ধ্যে ৬:৫৭, সোমবার, ২৯এ জুন
গ্রেভ্সেণ্ড বে, ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক
(বাংলায় অনুবাদ, বুধবার, ১লা জুলাই)
--------------------------------------------------------

Directly below is the "machine transcription" (from http://google.com/translate)
of the verses in Bengali script directly above.  A note on this machine transcription has been added at the end of the post.  I have lightly edited the transcription, as described at the start of that note.
--------------------------------------------------------
  
Sāgar Tīrē

Dupurēr rōdēr nīcē, rātēr cām̐dēr ālōẏ,
nācē yakhan sāri sāri ḍhē'u,
hām̐ṭi takhan biśāl, jhikmikē samudrēr tīrē,
tōmār apēkṣāẏ.

Śaṅkhacil yakhan pālāẏ jhaṛēr thēkē,
takhan tīr thēkē ḍāki tōmāẏ.
Rātēr andhakārē, ḍhē'u ēr śbāsēr mājhē,
Śuni yēna dūrē, tōmār jabāb.

Tabē bhābi takhan, "Ōṭā ki hā'ōẏā"?
Pāpīr pīṛan—niṣṭhur dēbdēr śāsti ēṭā!
Nāchōṛ āmi, cēm̐ciẏē uṭhi tā'i,
"mānbō nā kakhanō, tōmādēr dābi!"

******

Pim̐pṛēr mata ḍāṅāẏ hēm̐ṭē bēṛāẏ mānuṣ.
Tārā ki kabē'ō bujhbē ēkē?
Ē'i gabhīr, asīm, apār mahāsāgar?
Ē'i dhām̐dhā-hēm̐ẏāli bharā mahal?

Jhaṛēr mājhē gēlē tumi
ē'i sāgarēr bukē.
Sāgar yakhan śānta, takhan
tā'ō ta dēkhi sēṭā.
  
******
    
Yē kapālē jētā, sē'i kapālē'i hār!
Kōn pathē yē śānti chila, duṭi bēlār sukh,
jānba nā gō, jānba nā gō,
jānba nā gō tā.

Ē'i akūl, abirām sāgarēr tīrē,
pēẏē'ō, hāriẏēchilām tōmāẏ.
Tā'i ta bārbār āsi—rātē, dinē.
Bhābi, tumi ēkhan kōthāẏ?

Sandhyē bēlāẏ sūrẏa ḍōbē,
bhōr bēlātē ōṭhē.
Du'i bēlātē'i, tōmār khōm̐jē,
hām̐ṭi, sāgar tīrē.

Sandhyē 6:57, Sōmbār, 29ē Jun
Grēbhsēṇḍ Bē, Bruklin, Ni'uẏark
(Bānlāẏ anubād, Budhbār, 1lā Julā'i)
--------------------------------------------------------

Note on the "Machine Transcription"

I have lightly edited the machine transcription above, provided by the program on the server  at http://google.com/translate.  I have done this mainly to delete the unnecessary short a's that should not be pronounced and to include periods and capitalization that were missed by the transcription program.

Note that the remaining short a's in this machine transcription are pronounced as a rounded vowel, intermediate in length between the vowels in standard (British) English "ball" and "pot".  In certain cases, it is rounded further and sounds like the in English "rose" (without the diphthong and having a somewhat shorter duration). The long ā (which has a bar on top in this transcription) is pronounced like the vowel in standard (British or U.S.)  English "far", but with less duration.

Although the traditional Bengali spelling (and so also the machine transcription) makes distinctions between short and long versions of the vowels i and u, these distinctions are no longer audible in standard spoken Bengali.  Hindi-Urdu and most other Indic (Indo-Aryan) languages do preserve these distinctions of vowel-length (duration), some of which go back at least to the Sanskrit, if not earlier.

With the above reservations in mind for the short and for the loss of distinction between long and short forms of i and u, the letters ā, e, i, o and u represent, in this transcription, the same vowel sounds that they do in standard Italian and Spanish.  The letters e and o are usually written, in this transcription, as their long forms, ē and ō.  Although their lengths would sound closer to long than short to an English ear, Bengali, like most Indic languages (but unlike Dravidian ones) does not distinguish between long and short forms of these two vowels.

There is also a vowel sound in Bengali that is the unrounded partner of the rounded open vowel represented by the short a.  This is like the vowel sounds in standard English "cat" and standard U.S. English "fast", being intermediate in length between the two.  However, as this vowel sound was absent in Sanskrit and might be a fairly recent development in Bengali, there is no letter in the traditional alphabet for it.

So this vowel is usually represented (inaccurately) either by an e or, for historical reasons having to do with changes in the pronunciation of Sanskrit words, by one other means involving an a or an ā followed by a special joined form of the ẏ. (See below for .)  So the machine transcription, following the traditional spelling, also does not indicate this sound properly.

(In my own Romanization scheme, I use e` to represent this sound, and o` to represent its rounded partner.)

Most of the consonant letters have the values that they most commonly have in English. But note that c has the sound represented by the (unaspirated) ch cluster of English "chum".

The letter h, when it follows a consonant, indicates aspiration--an added puff of air.
  
One should also note that, while the machine transcription displays all three forms (ś, ṣ and s) of the unvoiced sibilant consonant, all of these usually have the same sound in standard spoken Bengali, This is close to the sound of the English cluster sh, with the exceptions being when s precedes a dental t, th or n, or when s or ś precede the simple r.  In these cases, s and ś have the sound that s has in English "sell".  Examples of this can be heard in stiti, sthān, snān, srot and śri.

The circumflex forms of the dentals tthd, dh, n and of the basic r are indicated, in the machine transcription, by a dot below the letter: ṭ, ṭh, ḍ, ḍh, ṇ and .  However, in standard Bengali, these are all pronounced more by the tongue tip touching the upper gum ridge, as in English, than in the true circumflex way that prevails in much of the rest of the subcontinent. This is especially true in most of East Bengal, which is now Bangladesh.

This gives spoken Bengali (especially that of East Bengal) and Ahomiya, to some ears, a "softer" sound than their distant cousins to the west, such as Hindi, Marathi, Gujerati and Punjabi, and also their closer cousin, Oriya, all of which, like the Dravidian languages, make sharper distinctions between circumflex and dental stops, pronouncing the former very strongly.

The nasal is represented in the machine transcription, below, by .  This symbol indicates that the preceding vowel should be nasalized.  In standard spoken Bengali, the nasalization is faint.

(In my own Romanization,  located above, between the English original and the translation in the traditional Bengali script, I have indicated nasalization with a tilde, ~, following the vowel to be nasalized.)

The n with a dot above () usually stands for the ng sound in English "singer, song, lungs" (but at times, and almost always in the East Bengal variant of the standard pronunciation, for its sound in English "finger, anger").

For those not familiar with certain historical issues in Bengali spelling, one should point out that the Sanskrit y is pronounced, in Bengali, as is j, both having the sound of the first consonant in English "jam".  The Sanskrit w, which has migrated, in many Indic languages, into v, has changed, in Bengali and some other eastern Indic languages, into b. This w turned b is no longer pronounced when it follows a sibilant.  So śbās is pronounced as "shahsh" would be in English.

The y with a dot on top () represents cases where the change to j has not taken place (usually between vowels) or is used with a vowel to indicate certain diphthongs.  In either of these situations, this is usually sounded as a short e (as in English "net").

There are a host of other things that could be discussed, including the "vowel harmony", especially evident in the central and western dialects of Bengali.  This can strongly alter the pronunciation of a vowel, because of the presence of a succeeding vowel (even when this second vowel has now vanished, due to contractions that have occurred in the past). This is only imperfectly represented in the spelling.  But I will stop here.
    

Monday, May 25, 2015

Premer Ko`tha Bolbo Kake?--প্রেমের কথা বলব কাকে?--To Whom Shall I Speak Of My Love?

   
The verses in Bengali, using its traditional script and standard spelling, are followed by a loose translation into English, and then by a transcription into Roman letters.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
  
প্রেমের কথা বলব কাকে?

যে প্রেমের কথা বলার ছিল,
সে কথা ত রয়ে গেল সব৷
রইলে না যে তুমি, যাকে
বলার ছিল কথাগুল৷
 
প্রেমের কথা বলব কাকে?
থেকে গেল আমার বুকে৷
দুঃখে এখন কাটাই জীবন৷
তাও ত দেখ হাসি ভুলে৷

বলব কি সেই দুখের কথা?
গাইব কি সেই প্রেমের গান?
হাসছি আমি মৃদু হাসি,
তোমার হাসি দেখছি আজ৷
 
******
    
গানের আলাপ, গানের সুর,
গানের ছন্দ, গানের শেষ...
গানের মত এলে তুমি,
গানের মাঝে ছাড়লে দেশ...

কোন দেশে আজ গাইছ তুমি?
কোন বেলাতে আসবে ফিরে?
সে দেশ থেকে ফিরবে না, হায়!
দেখতে দেখতে সন্ধ্যে এল৷

বুকের কথা বলব কাকে?
বলব বোধহয় হাওয়ার কানে৷
বইবে হাওয়া, নিয়ে যাবে
প্রেমের কথা কারোর কানে৷

বিকেল ৪:৪৯, সোমবার, ২৫এ মে (মেমোরিয়াল ডে ),২০১৫ খ্রি
(মার্কিন যুক্তরাষ্ট্রে, মৃত সৈনিকদের স্মারক দিবস )
বেন্সন্হার্স্ট, ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------
      
To Whom Shall I Speak Of My Love?
    
The words I had to say, with love,
those words are still with me,
but not the one, to whom I should
have softly said them then. 
  
To whom shall I speak those words of love?
They’ve stayed within my heart.
I pass my days in sorrow, yet
you see I smile by chance.
  
Should I now recount my grief
or sing my song of love?
Or should I smile because I see
the way you once had smiled? 
  
****** 
  
The humming and the rhythm and
the tune and then the end…
You came like music and like song,
but in their midst you left.
  
Where is your song and where are you?
And when will you return?
You never will return from there!
The evening comes apace.

To whom will I speak the words in my heart?
Perhaps in the ear of the wind?
The wind, it will blow and carry the words
of my love to a hearer afar.
  
2015, 25th May, Mon*, 4:49 pm
(* Memorial Day, in the U.S.A., for soldiers killed in wars)
Bensonhurst. Brooklyn, New York
  
-------------------------------------------------------------------------

That Roman transcription below follows the standard (West Bengali) pronunciation, but not the standard spelling currently used with the traditional script.

Although the traditional script is beautiful and irreplaceable, the standard spelling is based upon a pronunciation that is now either archaic or borrowed.  This spelling faithfully preserves and represents the old roots, but is better suited, phonetically, for Sanskrit or for the eastern Indo-Aryan dialects of Bihar than it is for the dialects of Bengali that have prevailed in most of the Bengal delta, probably for the past several centuries.

For the purposes of correctly representing the pronunciation of Bengali in Roman letters, it might be best, therefore, to abandon the non-phonetic or quasi-phonetic aspects of standard Bengali orthography.

Of course, standard English spelling is even worse at representing English speech.  Indeed, the spelling of English is probably as far from phonetic as one could possibly get without lapsing into total arbitrariness.

So while a Romanization might be of service to those who come to Bengali with literacy in a Western European language, it is surely advisable to also avoid the vagaries, limitations and ambiguities of English spelling.

So one has to devise or borrow a system of Romanization that can faithfully mirror the actual pronunciation of Bengali words.

In doing so, however, one might have to abandon any attempt to preserve the old root words that might ease the comprehension of written Bengali for those familiar with an ancestral or sibling tongue, such as Sanskrit or any of the Indo-Aryan tongues, or even those Dravidian languages that have borrowed heavily, especially in their literary forms, from Sanskrit or its daughters.

A similar complaint may be lodged against any phonetic rationalization of English spelling, which might of course obscure the Latin and other root-words whose fossils are still recognizable in the current spelling of English.

A brief outline of the transcription scheme used below may be found in the preface at:

http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/02/bharot-xadhin-indias-freedom.html

------------------------------------------------------------------------
       
Premer Ko`tha Bolbo Kake?

Je premer ko`tha bo`lar chilo,
xe ko`tha to roe ge`lo xo`b.
Roile na je tumi, jake
bo`lar chilo  ko`thagulo.

Premer ko`tha bolbo kake?
Theke ge`lo amar buke.
Dukkhe e`khon kat’ai jibon.
Tao to de`kho haxi bhule.

Bolbo ki xei dukher ko`tha?
Gaibo ki xei premer gan?
Haxchi ami mridu haxi.
Tomar haxi dekchi aj.
  

****** 
    
Ganer alap, ganer xur,
ganer cho`ndo, ganer xex…
Ganer moto ele tumi,
ganer majhe char’le dex…
  
Kon dexe aj gaicho tumi?
Kon belate axbe phire?
Xe dex theke phirbe na go.
Dekhte dekhte, xondhe elo.
   
Buker ko`tha bolbo kake?
Bolbo bodh ho`e haoar kane.
Boibe haoa, nie jabe
Premer ko`tha karor kane.
   
bikel 4:49, xombar, 25-e me, 2015 khri
(memorial d’e)
(markin juktoraxtre, mrito xoinikder xarok dibo`x) 
benso`nharst’, bruklin, niu io`rk
   

Sunday, May 17, 2015

হেসে ফেলি ভুলে--Hexe Pheli Bhule--I Laugh by Mistake

    
হেসে ফেলি ভুলে

কোথা থেকে এল সে?  থাকল কিছু দিন৷
গেল আবার এখান থেকে, কে জানে কোথায়?
রইল সুধু স্মৃতি তার, মনে আসে এখন৷
তাই ত আমি কেঁদে উঠি, হেসে ফেলি ভুলে৷ 

রাত ১১:৪৮, রবিবার, ১৭ ই মে, ২০১৫ খ্রি
বেন্সন্হার্স্ট, ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক
---------------------------------------------------------------------
  
Hexe Pheli Bhule

Kotha theke elo xe?  Thaklo kichu din.
Ge`lo abar ekhan theke, ke jane kothae?
Roilo xudhu sriti tar, mone axe e`khon.
Tai to ami ke~de ut’hi, hexe pheli bhule.

rat 11:48,  robibar, 17-oi me, 2015 khri.
benso`nharst’, bruklin, niu io`rk

for a guide to the Romanization scheme used in this
transcription, please see the preface at the link:
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/02/bharot-xadhin-indias-freedom.html
---------------------------------------------------------------------- 
  
I Laugh by Mistake  

From where did she come?  She stayed with us a while.
And then she went upon her way, to who knows where?
All that’s left is memories.  They come to mind again.
That is why I cry at times, and that is why I smile.

2015 May 17th, Sun. 11:49 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York  
 

Saturday, January 17, 2015

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

 

Saturday, January 3, 2015

গাইব তাদের গান (gaibo tader gan)

 
গাইব তাদের গান

ধর্মের পথে, কাটল জীবন পাপের আবিষ্কারে৷
কাজের ফলে, ভরল থলি কেবল তিরষ্কারে৷
যা কিছু প্রিয়, রাখল কেড়ে গভীর অন্ধকারে৷

নিশির মাঝে, পথ হারিয়ে, আলোর খোঁজে যাই৷
হোঁচট খেয়ে, হুমরে পরে, যমের দয়া চাই৷
দুঃখে, শোকে, মনে মনে মায়ের ভজন গাই৷
 
বারেবারে আঘাত খেয়ে, তাও ত আছে প্রাণ৷
তাই ত আছে আলোর স্মৃতি, আছে আশার টান৷
রাতের শেষে, ভোর বেলাতে, গাইব তাদের গান৷
 
শনিবার, ৩রা জানুয়ারি, ২০১৪ খ্রি
ব্রুকলিন, নিউ য়র্ক

 

Thursday, December 25, 2014

A Gray Christmas

 
A Gray Christmas
 
Gray is the ocean, as Christmas arrives,
Gray as the clouds up above.
Bleak is the season.  It's windy and cold.
The trees by the roadside are bare.
 
But as evening approaches, the lights will come on – 
The lights that were made in the east. *
And carolers then might gather in halls
To sing of the child that was born.
 
The season is winter in parts to the north.
The hour of the solstice has passed.
The nights have been long and the days have been short –
But now they will lengthen, at last.
 
The year that has passed has been brutal and sad.
The woes and the deaths are in minds.
The year that's to come will be brighter, we hope,
So that more of the children can smile...

Gray is the ocean, as Christmas arrives,
Gray as the clouds in the sky.
Bleak is the winter.  And yet, in the gloom,
The hope for the light will not die.
 
2014 December 25th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
---------------------------------

* The second line in the second stanza originally read:
"The lights that in China were made."
I changed it to what it now is now, on 2016-12-29.

-- Arjun
  

Wednesday, December 17, 2014

The Softer Voice

 
The Softer Voice
 

Be it chicken, pig or human, or a fish that swims the seas,
There’s an eye in every being, that’s recording what it sees.
And the record of the ages is a tale of endless woe,
And the promise of the future is of sorrows, even more.
 
And we glorify our species, and we name it “man the wise”,
But our history is bloody, though it’s hidden by our lies –
Horror heaped on horror, through the eons since the flood,
On us humans by us humans, in a world awash in blood…
 
Are we angels, are we devils, are we somewhere in between?
We are surely born of demons, for our actions are obscene.
But in babies as in puppies, and in grasses growing green,
For the eye that knows to see it, there’s the essence soft, serene.
 
There’s the pup that softly whimpers, there’s the little kitten’s mewl.
There’s the girl in class who’s ailing, but who follows still the rule.
There’s the leaf that’s sadly drooping and that soon will die of thirst.
There’s the gentle voice that’s calling, in a world with deafness cursed.
 
Should we go about our business, should we hurry even more?
Should we speed upon the highways, should we shun the byways slow?
There’s that softer voice that’s calling, there’s the silence of the stars.
We can choose to see and listen; we can choose to end the wars.
 
In the stillness of the sunset, in the quiet of the dawn,
In the trusting eyes of children, who were here but now are gone,
We can sense that there’s a heaven, in the midst of all the hells.
For there’s such a thing as healing – and there’s still the love that wells.
  
Forgive the ones who slaughter, forgive the ones who slay.
They know not what they’re doing, as their demons, they obey.
But don’t forget the slaughtered; have them ever in your mind.
As you go about your business, remember to be kind.
 
2014 December 17th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
   

Monday, December 15, 2014

আবার তোমারে পাওয়া – abar tomare paoa

  
আবার তোমারে পাওয়া 


আঁধারে আলোয় দেখেছি তোমারে,
নিমেষে হয়েছ হাওয়া।
ডেকেছি, খুঁজেছি, কত যে চেয়েছি
আবার তোমারে পাওয়া।

  
কোথায় রয়েছ, জানি না, জানি না...
আকাশে উঠিয়ে হাত,
কেঁদেছি দিবসে, এসেছে জবাবে
লক্ষ তারার রাত...
 
স্বপ্নে ভেবেছি, দেখেছি তোমারে,
বুঝেছি, ভোরে উঠে, ভুল...
বাইরে বেরিয়ে, শীতল সকালে,
দেখেছি ফুটেছে ফুল...
 
নদির তীরে হেঁটেছি বিকেলে,
জলেতে দেখেছি তোমায়।
ডেকেছি, কেঁদেছি – মিলন তুমি
দেবে কি এবারে আমায়?

পাত্তা দেওনি কখনো, যদিও
হয়েছি ডেকে ডেকে হয়রান...
তাই ত ভেতরে,ধাপে ধাপে,
মরেছে আশা, নিবেছে প্রান।

আঁধারে আলোয় দেখেছি তোমারে,
নিমেষে হয়েছ হাওয়া।
ডেকেছি, খুঁজেছি, কত যে চেয়েছি
আবার তোমারে পাওয়া।
  
সোমবার, ১৫-ই ডিসেম্বর, ২০১৪ খৃ
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউ য়র্ক
   

-------------------------------------------------
Abar Tomare Paoa

A~dhare aloe dekhechi tomare,
nimexe hoecho haoa.
D’ekechi, khu~jechi, ko`to je ce-echi
abar tomare paoa.

Kothae roecho, jani na, jani na…
Akaxe ut’hie hat,
k~edichi dibo`xe, exeche jo`babe
lokkho-tararo rat…

Xo`pne bhebechi, dehkechi tomare.
bhujhechi, bhore ut’he, bhul…
Baire berie, xito`lo xo`kale,
dekhechi phut’eche phul…

Nodir tire he~t’echi bikele,
jo`lete dekhechi tomae.
D’ekechi, ke~dechi, “Milo`n tumi
debe ki ebare amae?”

Patta de`o ni, ko`khono, jodio
hoechi d’eke d’eke ho`eran…
Tai to bhetore, dhape dhape,
moreche axa, nibeche pran…

A~dhare aloe dekhechi tomare,
nimexe hoecho haoa.
D’ekechi, khu~jechi, ko`to je ce-echi
abar tomare paoa.

Xombar, 15-oi D’isembo`r, 2014 khri.
Bruklin, Niu Io`rk