Release

Release

We try to judge the act and not the person,

And this can serve us well through all our years,

But often we may struggle all alone,

And then perhaps could shed our bitter tears,

Had we not seen how others suffered more 

And so had gained perspective—being blessed

By traces left of humor that could see

The comedy of this, the “tragic self”—

And so could pause from misery to smile

And even laugh out loud at such a plight—

And so, amidst what seemed as darkness, find

The fortitude to still perceive the light.

****** 

We carry burdens, dense, of varied  weight, 

Of all the wrongs we’ve borne. And every grudge

Can add to these, until we let them fall

And so are freed to let the heavens judge

Our acts and those of others, breathing free

To hark to conscience, heed to duties left—

To breathe in peace and even take delight

In pleasures small and what we still have left.

This needs some practice, letting grasping go

Of fears, desires, attachments, rages—all

The things that snare us, all the chains we’ve wrought—

To find release from years in captive thrall.

2025, April 15th, Tue

Berkeley, California 

My Father’s Photographs of India

 
My Father’s Photographs of India

There's happiness and even joy
Within this world we’re in,
Yet measured out to just a few—
Or so it seems to me—

As humans, all together, shape
The human world and more,
With just a few in leading roles
And others pulled in line.

But when I look at photographs
My father once had taken,
Along with images of woe—
Of famines, riots, flights— 

And those of workers under stress
In factories, sewers, mines—
I see the faces—calm, composed,

And even smiling wide—

Of peasants in the villages
Among the hills and plains,
Of tribal folk in dignity—
Not bowed, but standing straight—

Of people living common lives—
But not in misery,
In poses, choreographed, it seems,
Within a flowing dance. 

******

The interruption of that dance—
The speeding of the pace—
The separation, competition—
Is what we humans face.

******   

Inequities of ages, borne
By those who worked the hardest—
Those still persist, but added on
Are pressures more destructive.

We each can shrug and say, “So what?”
Or say that this was destined,
Or pause, reflect, and ask if we
Have choices still for freedom.

That word—it once had resonance
And gave the people hope
In struggles that they fought and won
Or lost—while still persisting.

So every generation must
Do battle in its turn—
Not giving in to cynics or
To apathy or fear.

Yet those who care and those who dare
Are few and far between. 
The rest of us would rather shut
Our eyes to cruelest sins.

****** 

I see the images on screen
Of what is happening now—
And I am sickened to the core—
As long ago I’d been

When working with the refugees,
In nineteen-seventy-one,
Who’d left behind their homes and farms
To flee across a border.

How difficult it is for me,
Now even more than then,
To watch this manmade suffering,
And see no end in sight.

And yet, I look at photographs
My father took of those
Who died when people rose to greet
The “Naval Mutiny”.

And lo—the women, children, men,
Who lie there, stripped and dead,
With bullets through their heads or chests,
Are clothed in radiance.

2024 July 30th, Tue.
Berkeley, California

Essentials

Essentials

First, there is survival—
which is air, water, food
and shelter, winter-clothing
and fuel for the fire.

It is staying out of danger,
and care for young and old
and those who may be ailing
or need some basic help.

As humans, we have done this,
through the ages, for our own
and even, when it was needed,
for others on our roads.

And then, there are the other things
in which we may delight
or draw upon for sustenance
of soul and heart and mind.

There is learning, which is needed
so that humans may survive—
the knowledge and the wisdom
of the past, in present life—
and more that we may learn ourselves
and pass on to the others—
to add to human knowledge
and the wisdom that can guide us.

There are pleasures—those of senses
and of other parts of mind.
There are satisfactions, needed
so we persevere and smile.

There is joy in our creations,
be these children of the flesh,
or the thoughts that turn to structures
made of wood or paint or words…

We have art and song and music
and all the crafts of Man
and all the games and knowledge
that are passed by mind and hand.

There is pain and there is sorrow
of the body and the mind.
And we each can be of comfort
by pausing to be kind.

There is joy in recognition.
There is sorrow, when we're scorned.
There is peace, in meditation,
In the depths beneath the storms.

There's a sense in us of oneness
with a sentience that is vast—
that knows of pain and pleasure
and of sorrow and of joy.
We are kin to those we're eating
or are eaten by in turn.

We have virtues and have vices
that at times may be reversed,
and the newer ones are layered
on the old that still abide.

There are instincts and emotions
that are primal and that drive
our actions in the present
as they did in ages past.

We had hunger, thirst and lusting,
and the three are with us still,
as those, who were without these,
have left no living trace.

There was bonding, there was friendship.
You can see these extant yet.
Though the trend is to annul these,
they have managed to survive.

There is love—and sacrifice.
There is fear and there is anger;
There is greed and there is hate.
And all of these were present
when we lived in trees and caves.

But in all things, there's a balance
that is lost, when senses close—
the outer and the inner ones
that whisper in the wind.

 

This blocks out all the voices
That are needed to be sane—
the voices of the waters, of the air and of the earth,
and the voices of the beings
that have death and so have birth.

There's the power to imagine
and the logic that's a guide,
and these things were there with ancients
and the beasts that still survive.

But our reason is a pilot
to the destinations which
are set by instincts, feelings
that our logics cannot reach.

These are some of the essentials
that have stayed, in essence, same.
And when these are forgotten,
Then we stoop to acts of shame.

2018 September 20th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York

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

  

New Year’s Blessings?

 
New Year’s Blessings?
 
You ask for this, you ask for that.
I’ll intercede for you
With Her, who grants our wishes if
She thinks that they are due.
 
The New Year comes.  I wish you peace –
The peace and joy of heaven.
That doesn’t mean you first should die –
Let's hope you'll still be living.
 
I wish you that, which neither health
Nor all your friends can give.
That doesn’t mean you should be sick
Or friendless, though you live.
 
I wish you treasure, such as neither
Wealth nor wit can buy.
That doesn’t mean you should be poor
Or witless, ere you die.
 
And even more, I’d wish for you,
But She, who scans each line,
Has warned me, “Cease! Such blessings as
You give, the wise decline!”
  
So I should end my wishes here,
Except perhaps to note
That if you asked for happiness,
Then that would get my vote.
 
2014 December 31, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
   

Fleeting

     
Fleeting

A gentle breeze is blowing and the sun is shining bright.
The little birds are singing and the clouds are floating by.
A day, it seems, in paradise – and yet a day on earth,
A day for joy and happiness – and not for asking why.

And yet, the present time reflects, like water does the clouds,
The past with all its history – and whispers, what’s to come.
So joy is tinged with misery, and happiness with woe.
And I begin to understand, why father turned to rum.

I walk below the rustling leaves, I listen to their sound.
I see the dappled ground below, I watch the leaves that fall.
The sky is blue and white above.  In the distance, is the sea.
I wonder where my sister is – and I hear my mother call.

Oh happiness, that lights upon a shoulder like a leaf
And then is blown away by chance and fate’s persistent breeze –
Some chase you all their lives and find you still are far away,
While others, you may land upon, who stroll about at ease…

2014  October 13th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
  

A Song of Innocence

  
A Song of Innocence
 
While walking in the countryside, I heard a soft refrain.
I walked towards the source of it and then discerned the words.
I stood and listened to the song – a song of innocence.
And as I listened, with my heart, I felt a burden lift.
For in this world, where all seemed dark, I saw there still was light.
I listened till the song had end.  And then I walked away.
I wondered who the singer was.  I wonder still today.
 
2014 September 19th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York
 

The Touch of the Rain

The Touch of the Rain

I walked in a gossamer springtime rain,
As much of a mist as a drizzle.
The sky was gray and the sun had set
But my heart, it was lit like the day.

The bark of the tree, it was glistening dark,
And its branches were flung to the sky as it prayed.
The rain of the spring, it was gentling the tree,
That was waiting for warmth for its buds to spring free.

I'd stepped from the schoolhouse and into the street,
And the air, it was chill as I bundled myself.
But the touch of the rain, it was gentle and sweet,
Like the lips of a lover, in tenderness met.

There's grief for the ones that we loved, who are gone,
There's sorrow we carry for things left undone,
There are tensions and worries we all have to bear,
But then there's the kiss of the rain in the spring.

I walked in the fine, thin springtime rain,
And all of the worry and sorrow I'd borne
Was lifted away by the touch of the rain,
And just for a moment, the grief.

I'd worked through the day in the school till the eve,
And my being was worn to a frazzle.
But that touch of the rain, like the grace to a soul
Of a sinner, was granted today.

2014 April 4th, Fri, 8:45 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York 
  
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Recent posts related to spring:  Signs of Spring (March 30), We Call for Spring (March 9)

For earlier posts:  Scroll up until you can see the small search box in the upper right corner of the blue top-menu bar.  Type in the word "spring" (or whatever word you wish).  Then press the "Enter" key on your keyboard.  This should show most of the posts that have that word in their title or text.  Scroll down to see them displayed below one another.  The posts may not be in order by date.  

Note:  The titles displayed on the left in the blog archive will be those for the year and month of the first displayed post.  So most of these titles will not be those of posts related to the searched-for word.  You can display or hide the list of titles by clicking on the year and month pointers on the left (blog archive) panel.
 

Signs of Spring

    
Signs of Spring

Bird and Blooms of Spring – from Rosangela Bile’s Facebook post

I saw, today, a little bird,
And then I saw another.
I saw a tree was taut with twigs
And buds – and then another.

And though the little buds were closed,
With not a leaf in sight,
I felt the air was balmier.
The sky was filled with light.

And as I watched a little bird,
It chirped and took to wing.
And when another did the same,
I knew – we'd soon have spring.

2014 March 30th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York  
-----------------------------------------------------------
  
Related:  We Call for Spring
   

Nature's Nature

Nature's Nature
    
I sat this afternoon, awhile, in a café,
And looking through the window, I could see
A building right across the corner, which
Had walls of glass, with tint of darkest green.

I saw the glass reflecting clouds and trees,
With topmost branches waving in the wind.
And as I watched, I felt a sense of peace.
I knew this leaf would wave a while and leave.

How often in the past, when darkness seemed
To overcome whatever hopes I had,
Had Nature spoken through the skies, the trees,
The moving water,  leaving me at ease...

And though I've heard her raging fiercely and
Have seen the ravage that she left behind,
It seems that Nature's nature has a side
That calls to that within, which is serene.

******

Our worries come in turn and trouble us,
And in the end depart, and though we try
To deal with them, there's little we can do,
At times, but breathe and do what can be done.

But we forget our transience and size,
Until we face the universe again,
And so, this afternoon, I caught a glimpse
Of Nature, dancing – and rejoined her dance.

******
 
I remember how we used to walk,
When we were small, on afternoons each day,
To where the British once had joined up ponds
To make the lake, by where we'd run and play.

And ever since, on walks on afternoons,
I feel contented only when I reach
A pool or lake or river or the sea,
Reflecting sky, where I can sit and be.

And if such place is lacking, then I seek
An open space, or hilltop, where the sky
Reminds me of the sky I used to see
On clambering to rooftops as a child.

A window that is open to the sky
Is such delight, for sky-struck ones like me,
That if I had but nothing else except
A window, I'd be happy as I die.

2013 August 11th, Sun. evening
Jireh Guatemalan Restaurant, at 19th & Bath Avenues.,
(first four stanzas only, with the others added Sun. night, at home)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

Meetings

  
Meetings
  
Where shall we meet in the gloaming,
When shall I see you again?
There's so little of time remaining –
And yet it is time yet again...

******

Shall we meet by chance on a country road,
As the end of the day is coming?
And shall we dally there awhile,
With the crickets loudly humming?

Or shall I find you by a lake,
On another day, at evenfall?
And shall we linger by the shore,
As the frogs and the birds returning call?

Or shall we meet  in a wooded glen,
At the sunset hour, in another season?
And shall we stand there, in the dusk,
And wonder then if there's a reason?

Shall we cross upon the field,
At twilight, in another year?
Will you know that it is me,
And will I know that you are near?

******

We met and walked together awhile,
And then, in time, we parted.
But still, I think of you and smile,
Who far too soon departed...

I always feel that we'll meet again,
But then again we'll part.
And so it's always the end of the day,
When I sense that you are there.

But if I smile as the sun goes down,
Will I weep in the light of the dawning,
As I see you walking on the dew-wet grass,
And I know that you're gone forever?

How sad is the gloom of the evening,
How glad is the sun of the morn...
And yet, when I think of your passing,
I smile as I weep that you're gone.

******

Where shall we meet in the gloaming,
When shall I see you again?
There's so little of time remaining –
And yet it is time yet again...

2013 July 27th, Sat.
Brooklyn   
   

I Saw the Moon

     
I Saw the Moon
     
I saw the moon beside a cedar tree.
I saw her moving as she walked with me.
And if I'd ventured to the dancing sea,
Her silver trail upon the waves, I'd see...

The moon is aged and yet is ever new.
She's watched the ancients and she watches you.
How many past have stood and marked her rise,
Or seen her shining in a lover's eyes?
 
I saw that moon, at full, on night of birth.
And in her rhythms, like the sea and earth,
She's followed me, an ever-watchful eye,
In all her guises, from the changing sky.
 
I might presume this old, familiar friend
Will watch this mortal as he meets his end.
And I will now request that on that day,
Beneath her gaze, I'm sent upon my way.

So if, as likely, I will lie within
A room, enclosed, with memory and sin,
I do beseech, whoever's at my side,
To take me where I sense her lunar tide.

And if there's none to help me leave this earth,
Remembering the moon I saw at birth,
And how she slipped behind the cedar tree,
From remnant coils, I'll lift my spirit free.
     
2013 July 19th, Fri.,  around 9:30 pm,
walking home from Gravesend Bay
along Shore Parkway,
between 17th & 18th Avenues,
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
(second stanza added later)
    

A Window to the Sky

  
A Window to the Sky
   
Imprison me within a cell – but leave
A window there, that's open to the sky,
And I shall live a while – and even smile. 
But if you seal that view,  I soon will die.
   
2013 July 18th, Thu.
Manhattan, Chinatown

Humor

Humor

When all around, we see the suffering,
Then we forget our misery awhile...
And when we see the pickle we are in,
Instead of weeping, we may crack a smile...

So we've invested hours or days or years –
And all is nullified by those on high?
When fortune turns our work to ashes, then
We'd better laugh, instead of asking why...

For if we were the ones at fault, then we
Could rectify our actions, learning well.
But if it was another – or blind fate,
What use is it, on matters such, to dwell?

To see absurdity in what we do,
To laugh aloud at this, is saving grace...
If only zealots too could laugh at selves,
Of zealotry, we'd see but little trace...

******

Of all the things that helped our race survive,
It's humor that is often valued least.
And yet, the laugh, and most of all, at self,
Has been a savior to the human beast.

In every village, where they're left alone,
You'll always see the smile and hear the laugh.
But if you're in a city, then the kids
Might need the zoo, with monkey and giraffe...

The antidote for fear, the thing that sets
The ones at bottom level with the top,
Is laughter, at the pretenses we bear...
And once released, it's difficult to stop...

It's all we have to quietly mock the high,
And all that's left for us, at times, of grace...
But laughter can be cruel, most unkind,
When used to keep the beaten-down in place...

Let's wield this gift, this instrument, with care –
Apply it to ourselves, to sift what's sense,
Or use it as a weapon, when oppressed,
But not against the weak, who've no defense...

*****

How many shades of humor, we discern...
How many more are hidden from our eyes...
There is the laughter loud of ignorance,
The startled smile, the snort at outright lies...

And so, from what is unexpected, we
Derive a form of pleasure.  From surprise,
We curious primates fashion sustenance.
And gentle humor marks the teaching wise...

And even from the darkest fate, we glean
That ember bright that lights the dismal gloom.
So laughter's left, when all the rest is gone.
For humor, in our hearts, there's always room...

So when a friend is worried or depressed,
And reason gives no comfort for a while,
A gentle joke or two might break the spell
And light a darkened face with brightening smile...

******
 
And if you need a bit of laughter, then
Watch passers by with clear and gentle eye,
Or pause to look at those with you at work,
Or at yourself, and ask a curious “Why?”...

If you have dogs or cats or children 'round,
They'll make you laugh, if you observe awhile...
And if you gently watch the elders, then
Their actions, too, will give you cause to smile.

And if you're by yourself, then memory
Or book, that's written by a person wise,
May bring such things to light as cause delight –
With healing smile or laughter of surprise...

Or if my verses past have caused you gloom,
Then think of me, who's typing, endlessly,
His prophesies so dire, face intent,
And gently smile or loudly laugh with me...

2013 June 28th, Fri.
(with additions on 29th Sat.)
Brooklyn
 

Mountains

Mountains

I shall walk towards the mountains,
I shall climber past the vines,
I shall tread upon the needles,
As I climb by scented pines...

I shall mount, where lichens linger,
As the mists are speeding through.
I shall leave the clouds beneath me
And I'll see the dappled view...

I shall see the verdant valley
With its silver, winding thread.
I shall see, by golden terrace,
The rhododendron red.

I shall see the light and shadow
As they race across the hills,
I shall hear the peasant calling
To his oxen as he tills...

I shall drink of green and golden,
I shall sip of distant blue.
I shall watch, with clouds dispersing,
Olympus rise in view...

I shall view the peaks that glisten,
Reflecting dazzling sun...
I shall have my glimpse of heaven,
By dint of climbing, won...

2013 June 28th, Fri.
Brooklyn
  

Trees--Part I--Deciduous Trees in Spring

Trees – Part I

(Deciduous Trees in Spring)

How varied are the leaves of roadside trees
That grace this city that is hard and bleak,
Lending softness, soothing urban eyes,
Recalling sylvan past to memory...

Their sizes range from tiniest to large,
Their shapes, from feathery to boldly splayed,
With concave polygons and fractal forms –
And quite distinct from conifer and grass.

For planted here are mostly “broad-leaved” trees,
Whose unprotected leaves, in wintry climes,
Are shed in fall and then return in spring –
With hues, in seasons both, inspiring rhymes.

******
 
And now, the shades of green are darkening,
With some still light, as was the tender growth.
And yellow flames are seen in canopies
And shades of red in maples and in plums.

How wondrous are the colors of a spring
That deepen as the summer sun arcs high
And ripen into riot of the fall –
That's swept away as winter's broom clears all.

And here, amidst the ever-changing forms
Of trees deciduous, conifers maintain
A somber dignity, as adults may
As all around them children run and play.

******
 
How many kinds of life can coexist –
And even trees are manifold in form.
And yet, the madnesses we suffer from
Insist that all, to single mode, conform.

So I, who daily walk upon the streets –
And when returning home have time to see,
May owe my remnant sanity to these,
The motley trees, content to simply be.

By humans chosen, planted in their rows,
Unbalanced, stunted by our savage saws,
They still regain their balance and their grace – 
And though they're hemmed, grow wild and beautiful.

2013 May 18th Sat.(1st 6 stanzas) & 23rd Thu. (last 3)
Brooklyn, New York
Arjun Janah < sjanah@aol.com >
  

May

May

This evening, it was warmer as I walked
On homeward path at end of working day,
With sky alight as hour was nearing seven –
And sunlight slanting still to light my way.

The sun and warmth had beckoned forth the green,
With fig-tree sprouting leaves and little figs –
And rosebush reaching skyward, with its leaves
And buds of red upthrust, awaiting gigs.

And soon indeed the roses too will bloom,
As tulips do – and bluebells did before.
And women then will shed their winter garb,
For sun to bless their thirsting legs and more.

How pleasant is the coming of the spring,
In lands that bore, with patience, winter's breath.
The sap is running in deciduous trees –
And men rejoice, as lissome May is met.

2013 May 7th eve. & May 8th, 2:51 am
Brooklyn, New York
  

Breath of May

Breath of May  
           
I heard a little bird that called
And one that answered gay,
When April was at ending and
We felt the breath of May.

All Winter long, we'd battled and
Awaited tardy Spring.
But Summer's warmth was close at hand,
So little birds could sing.

Babui / Arjun
2011 April 28th, Thu.
Brooklyn