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

Past, Present and Future

 
Past, Present and Future
 
Without the memory of the past, we would
Be ignorant, without identity—
And might not then survive for very long.
 
Without anticipation, how could we
Prepare to deal with what might come our way?
Again, without this, we would perish soon.
 
But when the present is intruded on
By memories of things that now have passed,
This could then cloud our clarity of sight.
 
So also, when our worries grip our hearts,
We cannot savor then the present time.
A mind that’s crowded leaves no space for light.
 
Too often, we are prisoners of our past
And hostage to the future. Let us breathe,
Enjoying both the breathing in and out.
 
The disciplines of body and of mind,
When gently practiced, lead to habits sound
That then sustain us through our grief and stress.
 
And so, the present, with its challenges,
Can be the focus. Starting with the breath,
Awareness spreads and gives us clarity.
 
2022 September 13th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York

Experience

Experience

There was little to know or to understand,
As I stood where the ocean meets the land.
I could see, by the light that was ebbing fast,
The sea and the clouds of the storm that passed.
I could feel the wind and the drops of rain.
I could hear the waves as they crashed again.
I could smell the scents in the breeze that blew.
And there, for that time, that was all I knew.

2018 July 22nd, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York

Cud

Cud

A woman, in her passion, cries
Out not for god or lover –
For though she mouths the names of both,
They only serve as cover.

The patient, in his agony,
He moans – but not for others.
His groaning is his comfort, bare.
So pain and lust are brothers.

And when a poet recreates,
On paper, hurt or passion,
His inner space, he ventilates
By channels of tradition.

******

For every poet sane, you’ll find
A dozen more, demented.
To sanity, I lost my claim
And never have regained it.

So do not search, within my verse,
For reason past the rhyme –
For madness is this inmate’s curse
And so he does his time.

And though a writer may have hope
His work will find some favor
In those who read him when he’s gone,
For now alone, I labor.

******
  
This poem that I’m writing is
A cloud that’s floating by.
I’ll watch it till I lose it in
The ever-changing sky.

The stanzas that I write are like
The leaves upon a tree.
They flutter in the breeze and then
They wither, falling free.
 
The verses that I scribble are
As waves upon the sea.
They’re born – and undulate a while –
And then they cease to be.

******  

I taste the grass of verity
And chew it like a cow.
Some write for a posterity,
I savor here and now.

So some of what I’ve written is
The sound of satisfaction –
The feel and scent and taste of grass –
In bovine stupefaction.

But when the cow has lost her calf,
She calls for it, in pain.
We hear her lowing in the dark
And know – it is in vain.

******
  
When tempests come, they bend the trees
And make the branches cry.
And in the midst of wars, you hear
A grieving mother’s sigh.

So some of what I’ve written is,
In essence, just a wail.
You’ll hear it rise and ululate –
And lose it in the gale.

For every leaf that withers, there’s
Another, in the bud.
For every poet, gone his way,
Another, chewing cud.

2014 February 6th, Thu
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

Why Think Ahead?

Why Think Ahead?
    
Now Sunday ends.  From mostly sleeping through it,
I find that nothing I had planned is done.
So I could stay up late and try to do it,
Or I could sleep.  Now which would be more fun?

If only I had made my life’s decisions
On this criterion, I might happier be.
But other things, like duty, diligence
Had interfered – as I can finally see.

And so, with insight, I will now retire
And try to sleep.  My lids are drooping low.
And if I can’t?  Well then, I’ll lie awake.
Why think ahead?  For soon enough, I’ll know.

If only I had lived my life this way,
Not thinking of the morrow, till tomorrow,
My life and that of others might have had
Some more of joy – and less, perhaps, of sorrow.
   
2014 January 20th, Mon., 12:56 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York   
   

The Winter Comes

 
The Winter Comes
   
The winter comes, with darkness and with cold,
With shortened days and nights of huddling close.
The winter comes, with freezing rain and sleet,
With blizzards, biting winds and drifting snows.

The winter comes, with battling winds that bring
Those endless snows, those dark and brooding skies.
The winter comes, with long and freezing nights –
And weakened sun that struggles, slants and dies.

The winter comes, as autumn takes its leave,
With fevers, 'flus – with windows shuttered tight.
The winter comes, with sneezes, coughs and more,
As autumn leaves – and takes, with it, the light.

The winter comes and strips the trees of leaves,
It comes and taxes those, who're ailing, old.
The birds will flee – and huddled beasts will sleep,
For winter comes, with darkness and with cold.

2013 November 9th, Sat.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn 

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
  

Transience

   
Transience
     
The days go by – and then the years.
They're dappled with our smiles and tears.
We're born to live awhile and die,
Yet some presume to question why.

They ask, at birthing, with a wail –
And all through life, to no avail –
And even with their final sigh
They question why we live and die.

But none has found, in any season,
For birth and death, a cause or reason –
And yet, without that answer why,
It seems that life's a pointless lie.

So some surrender to their fate
Or find their drives in love or hate.
But even these, when children die –
They raise their arms to the watching sky.

How precious is the fleeting now!
To hold it still, we don't know how.
So past and future feed the lie,
As we, our transience, deny.

2013 March 30th, Sat.
Brooklyn
  

On Such a Night

    
On Such a Night

    

On such a night, with moonbeams gliding

Through the windows, we

Lay side by side, as scents of rose

And jasmine mingled free.

Now once again, we see that moon,

And a sky that's filled with stars.

The flowers in their vases swoon,

And men still wage their wars.

One by one, the flowers die,

And so do we, my love.

But see -- this moon that rises, sets,

These stars that shine above.

Though one by one, the flowers droop,

Whose scents and colors fade,

On every morn, the sun will rise

And there'll be light and shade.

When you and I are memory,

A dim, receding spark,

The sun and moon and stars will whirl

Through skies of light and dark.

The clouds that race on surging winds,

The mists that rise at dawn,

Our brethren, these, will rise and race

When you and I are gone.

And when our memories have passed

Away like drifting mist,

Then lovers new will witness still

Such nights, by moonlight kissed.

And in their turn, the sun and moon

And stars will pass away,

And long before, this life on Earth,

As fleeting as the day.

But yet, on a planet distant, where

The moons may number three,

Such beings still will rise and mate

As equal you and me.

Babui / Arjun

2010 December 4th, Sat.

Brooklyn

      
On Such a Night--II