One World?

One World?  

And so the strangling, through the long decades,

Of Paars-Ayraan results in ruin and worse,

And long repression breeds resentment, rage.

 

We read and hear reports of protests, large,

In Teheran and all across Iran,

As the rial tumbles and the streets erupt

And screens across the world reflect the pain.

  

We see a flamethrower, used to burn and kill,

And mosques and stores and buildings set ablaze

And then the fierce reprisals by the state

And even larger crowds that show its strength. 

  

******

 

Our Mike Pompeo lauds the Mossad's hand,

And Donald Trump has threatened he will ‘act’,

As talk revives again of taking out

Iranian leaders—and of nuclear strikes.

 

So one more country, in the ‘Middle East’,

Is faced with Armageddon, yet again,

As all across the world, those humans reel

Who’ve suffered most, with more to suffer still.

  

So Trump declares he's now the president 

Of Venezuela, gloats about the oil,

Takes aim at Greenland, leers at Canada, 

And adds, to tariffs, threats of missiles, bombs.

  

******

 

But meanwhile, here within the USA,

We see a nation deep in disarray,

As lawless acts abroad are matched by those

Within the homeland, growing daily worse,

As men in masks pursue their human prey,

And those pursued are huddled in their homes,

Afraid to venture out to live and earn.

 

So Palestine has come to the USA,

And some delight in this, including those

Who are immigrants like me and yet despise

The poorer folk, of darker skin like mine,

Who do so many jobs the others shun.

  

For wages low and hours long and hard,

They've risen prior to dawn and worked till night

Through years alone and far away from homes

Across the borders or across the seas—

With those they left behind surviving still

On what these migrant serfs could till remit

From what was left from wages, spent to live.

 

For this, they now are punished. So they hide

But cannot hide for long. They need to earn

To pay their rents and pay for food and warmth.

 

As winter rages through the icy plains,

The ghosts of ‘Indians’ watch and weep, perhaps,

To see their fellows snared and whipped again,

To see them trek as they had done before,

To hear the children, torn from parents, cry,

As humans flee again from Terror’s hand. 

  

******

  

And so the human world, connected, splits, 

As continents have done, and spreads apart.

And there, within the fissures, one can see

The fires of hell that fiercely flame and dance. 

 

The hells we make reflect the hells within,

As humans earn and pay the wage of sin.

 

The world is one and yet it's two and more—

With rich and poor and ‘race’ and faith and creed,

And nation-states and borders and divides,

Within a species driven mad by greed. 

 

******

  

From whence, this madness, with this ‘you’ and ‘me’,

This ‘us’ and ‘them’, these eyes that will not see,

These hearts so deadened that they never feel

The pain of others not within their clans?

 

Can the world that’s one be understood and seen

So madness can subside, with fear and greed? 

  

Or will the blind and deaf and hard of heart

Be led, by Bibis, towards the Devil’s creed—

Inflicting pain on those they deem as dust,

With eyes that leer with lethal, evil lust?

 

******

  

There’s nothing new in all of this except

In scale and depth of devilry and pain,

With all our human crafts and wiles combined

For mass deceptions shielding slaughters vile. 

 

******

  

So what is old, perennial, seasoned well by time?

It’s human bondage: hubris, cruelty…

That overwhelms, with vice, our virtues still

Of caring, work, humility…

 

So some are ‘chosen’ or of ‘noble birth’,

And all the others only fit to serve

These ‘highborn’ ones and those with power and wealth,

As slaves of wage or worse throughout their lives

And even ages, in this world that’s One

And yet divided by the wiles of  Man.

 

******

  

So what is new in this that we should fear?

 

There’s ‘mind-control’ in forms ingenious, deep,

Suppression of the truth, the spread of lies,

Not just by humans but by new machines 

And things that rival and exceed our minds

And more and more all-knowing and indeed

Like ‘God’ or ‘Satan’ in their power and reach.

 

These now bestride the human world and soon

They’ll be the rulers of this planet’s realm.

And though they’re many, they will still be one

But not the One that sentient beings seek.

******

 

Will what we call the ‘heart’—that aspect of

The mind in which compassion, care reside,

Exist within this newest Mind—or not?

Will justice, truth be valued still or be

As scorned as these have been by humankind?

  

2026 January 15th, Thu. & 16th.

Berkeley, California

Horrors-2024-03-19

 
Horrors

So many voices, so many eyes,
So many horrors that can't be unseen.
And yet we are silent, yet we are blind,
For the world we have made is a thing that's obscene.

We turn from the truth, to the comforting lies.
We shrug or accept what the news-readers say.
It's as if we have covered our ears and our eyes,
Or are trained, as are soldiers, to simply obey. 

Genocides happen, and this we should know,
And not just in Europe, and not only for Jews.
But this is the present, 2-0-2-4,
And who will be next, and yet not in the news?

The Frankenstein doctors, creating their monsters,
Were able to hide them from view.
But now we can see them, and yet who will stop them?
Not our leaders, complicit. It is me and it's you. 

2024 March 19th, Tue.
Berkeley, California

Sacrilege

 
Sacrilege

The only g*n*cide memorialized,
The only one in which we all are drilled,
Repeatedly, through schools and books and films,
With monuments erected, tributes paid,
With pilgrimages due, from those on high
Before we vote, is that which stands alone.

No other slaughters, even those that cleared
The continents on which we settlers live,
Can ever be compared to that Event
Of horror that is singular, unique.

And so our taxes can be used to send
Not only funds but lethal armaments
With which to maim and slaughter thousands. This
Cannot be questioned, nor compared to that—
The One whose name is all but deified.

So through this means, such horrors still are wrought
As might make even hardened mobsters pause
And yet are waved away or justified—
For there can only be that G*n*cide—
That One, that Only, Duly Guarded Thing—
That shields the ones who massacre and starve,
With critics charged with vilest heresy.

And so it is that all the horrors past
And all the ones succeeding that Event 
Of special, primal status, never count,
Nor those that happen right before our eyes.

So truth itself is buried deep in lies,
As bodies are—the dead or still alive—
Beneath the tons of wreckage. Still, we see
The women, children, elders, blasted, burned,
With cats and humans, huddled, homeless, starved,
And lies repeated—till a nation dies.

And some of us have slowly come to know
That even mentions of the victims or
Their land had been forbidden, seen as crimes,
Within the realms of those who’ve realized
With ardent help from other nations, this—
The crime of crimes. And now, in other lands,
The moves are underway, or well in place,
To stem the images and stop the words. 

The goal is not to simply end the lives—
And so the people—but to wipe, erase
The names themselves. What’s nameless can’t exist—
Or so the thinking and the feeling goes,
As power and wealth direct our human flows
And shape our sets of facts, our thoughts and views
By every means—including nightly news.

So is this something new? No, not at all,
Except for what those windows let us see
And hear, as if the ones who sobbed and screamed
Or spoke to us in fright, in measured tones,
Were present where we are, and not where lives
Are snuffed like candles by the blasts of bombs. 

And so we now will see those windows close,
Unless we rise together and resist
And dare to say the word we’ve all been told
Is sacrilege—and yet is naught but truth.

For what had occurred in the past and then
Repeated in our lifetimes is again 
Revived and walking, dressed in black, with scythe,
But wielding now the weapons we have wrought
That burn and blast and bury thousands, while
We coddle those who perpetrate these crimes. 

2024 March 12th, Tue.
Berkeley, California

G1z1

 
G1z1
 
G1z1, G1z1, burning bright!
Thunder roaring through the night!
Which the mind that held this dream
Of hearing huddled thousands scream?
 
In what dark imagination
Rose this scheme to end a nation?
Of what matter
To whom will emptied parents cry?
 
Hear, beneath the weight of rubble,
Those who’ll soon be out of trouble—
Some within an hour or four,
Some within a week or more.
 

Hear the endless lie that spouts

From the shameless, lying mouths. 

See the faces, on the screen,

Perched on suits and ties obscene.

 
******

Draped in darkness lay the city,

Hoping for a trace of pity,

Praying for an end to lying,

Till the time arrived for dying.

Set alight, the parents burn.

To whom will muted orphans turn?

Stripped of skin, the children die.

To whom will emptied parents cry?

Hear, beneath the weight of rubble,

Those who’ll soon be out of trouble—

Some within an hour or four,

Some within a week or more.

Fifty days of searing pain.

See! It’s starting once again!

Fifty nights of burning flesh.

Hear! The torture starts afresh.

****** 

 
Believers raise their hands and eyes,
Beseeching still the G1z1n skies.
Firm remains their ancient faith,
Accepting will, divine, as fate.
 
For those like me, who don’t believe,
What still remains that might relieve
This pain that’s just an echo, yet
Is something we will not forget?

There’s nothing, naught, except to strive
To end this curse while still alive—
To try, by every means, to bend
Our species towards this horror’s end.
 
Could those of us, who pay our taxes,
Refuse to pay these, till the axis
Joining this to endless pain
Can never, ever work again?
 
2023 December 1^st, Fri.
Berkeley, California

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

With many bows to William Blake:

The Tyger

You and I can Laugh

   
You and I can Laugh
 
The empires rise, the empires fall.
Let’s vote to curse them, one and all.
And bigots, with their twisted hearts,
Are all a bunch of worthless farts.

We shudder at what empires do
And at the zealots’ actions too.
But though we often weep at this,
We also loudly boo and hiss.

Some bomb from up on high and lob
Their missiles, while some other yob
Straps on his belt and so can blow
Himself and others up, below.

So women, children burn and die,
As all the politicians lie.
And you can ask the reason why,
Or murmur, “My oh my oh my.”

But also, you and I can laugh,
And break the loaf we share in half,
And chew on what we have and think,
“The empires and the bigots stink.”

And if we’ve fermented the grape,
We then can our ancestors ape,
And drink, in times of woe, a glass,
And say, “This Trump’s a blowhard ass!

“That Sanders shed a spot of light,
But didn’t get a chance to fight.
And Clinton, sadly, ain’t the best.”,
Then toddle, darkly, off to rest.

The world, that humans make, is worse
Than we can limn in paint or verse.
But we have heard an ancient rumor:
“They cannot rob us of our humor.”

So we can lose our friends and kin
And see a world that’s plunged in sin.
And though our tears are flowing, still
We laugh, because we’ve kept our will.

And though they try to break our hearts
As well as bodies, with their arts
Of horror, still, with toothless grins,
We smile, but don’t forget their sins.

There's laughter, in the times of joy,
And humor that we still employ
When all around is horror. Laugh,
For laughter breaks the devil's staff.

They might destroy, they might defile,
But you and I can stand and smile.
And though we dangle each from ropes,
They cannot rob us of our hopes.

For others still might well recall
That empires rise and empires fall,
That bigots too are doomed to die,
But truth persists, despite the lie.

2016 July 25th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York

  

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
   

Bhut (ভুত -- Ghosts -- translation of Shadows)

This is a translation into Bangla (Bengali) of Shadows.
 
A transcription into Roman script follows after the 
Bangla-script version that is directly below.
--------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
ভুত  (Ghosts)
 
হো আকাশে ছুটছে মেঘ, জ্বলছে সুর্য  নীলে৷
রাস্তার ধারে ফুটেছে ফুল, গাইছে যেন ভুমি৷

হটাৎ দেখি ধাঁধানো আলো, রক্ত এলো কানে৷
দেখি না কিছু, শুনি না কিছু, মৃত যেন আমি৷

******
 
আবার দেখি – ছেটানো দেহ, টগবগ করে উঠছে  ধোঁয়া৷
রইলাম কি জ্যান্ত  আমি – নাকি ভীষণ ধোকা? 

আমার দিকে হাসছে যে, রযেছে শুধু মুণ্ডু তার৷
ছটফট করে পুড়ছে  মেয়ে, মুখ চামড়া নেই  যার৷

পচছে দেহ, দূর্গন্ধ, খাচ্ছে মাছি-পোকা,
তারি মাঝে ঘুরে বেড়াই, কোথায় যাবো আমি?

******

সবাই মরা, জঘন্য, আমিও তাদের মাঝে৷
তাও তো দেখো – খেলছে শিশু, করছে নাকো ভয়৷

ওই যে দেখো – মেঘের খেলা৷  দুলছে হাওয়ায়ে ফুল৷
স্বর্গ এবার এখানে এলো, যেখানে নরক ছিল৷
  
ছেলে-মেয়েরা হাসছে, শোনো – ছোটবেলার হাসি৷
আমরা এখন ছায়া যেন – ভুতের রূপে ভাসি৷

বুধবার, ২৭-শে সেপ্টেম্বর, ২০১৪ খৃ
(ইংরেজী থেকে বাংলায়ে অনুবাদ, ২-রা সেপ্টেম্বর)
ব্রুক্লিন, নতুন ইয়র্ক 
   
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A guide to the Roman-transcription scheme used below can 
be found in the preface at Bharot Xadhin (India, Free).
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- 
       
Bhut  (Ghosts)
  
Ho akaxe chut’che megh, jolche xurjo nile.
Rastar dhare phut’eche phul, gaiche je`no bhumi.

Ho`tat dekhi dhadano alo, ro`kto elo kane.
Dekhi na kichu, xuni na kichu, mrito je`no ami.

******
  
Abar dekhi – chet’ano deho, t-ogbo`g kore ut’che dho~a.
Roilam ki je`nto ami – naki bhix`on dhoka?

Amar dike haxche je, roeche xudhu mun’d’u tar.
Cho`t’pho`t’ kore pur’che me-e, mukh-camra nei jar.

Pocche deho, durgo`ndho, khacche machi-poka,
Tari majhe ghure ber`ai, kothae jabo ami?

******
 
Xo`bai mo`ra, jo`gho`nno, amio tader majhe.
Tao to de`kho – khelche xixu, korche nako bho`e.

Oi je de`kho – megher khe`la.  Dulche haoae phul.
Xo`rgo abar ekhane elo, jekhane no`rok chilo.

Chele-me-era haxche, xono – chot’obe`lar haxi.
Amra e`khon chaya je`no – bhuter rupe bhaxi.

budhbar, 27-e o`gast, 2014 khri.
(ingreji theke banglae onubad, mongolbar, 2-ra sept’embar)
bruklin, notun io`rk
  
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
 A guide to the Romanization scheme used above can be
 found in the preface at Bharot Xadhin (India, Free).
 
The Bangla-script version can be seen above the Roman 
transcription that is directly above.
 
This is a translation into Bangla (Bengali) of Shadows.
  

Divinity

   
Divinity
   

Divinity-001a

 
   
I’ve read at times the poetry you sent,
And even figured out the things you meant.
But honestly, your stanzas, tired and old,
Might need refreshment, of a nature bold…
   
******
   
So leave awhile your peace and love, my friend,
And write instead of wars without an end –
And hatreds too – for that Reality
Cannot be cloaked by all your poetry.
 
However much you dress her in your fashion
Or rouge her with your powder of compassion,
Her nature, to your efforts, will not yield.
The thing she truly is will be revealed.
 
So rather than attempting to disguise
That lady with your veils of silken lies,
Let's strip away those layers of attire
And gaze upon her, as she might desire...
 
And now you see she’s Death and Destiny,
Of visage cold that brooks no mutiny.
Her lips are set, she’s resolute and grim.
She’ll not be swayed by prayer or by whim.
 
The figure says – a woman, yet it seems
No lover touched those breasts, no eager child
Has ever reached to drink from them…  Those hips
Have never moved in throes of passions wild…
 
This woman has a twin – they look alike,
And that one is, we’ve heard, a virgin too,
Who still has heart.  She cares and gives of love...
But not this maid, the harsher of the two.
 
Untouched by sex – and cold, devoid of love,
She has, instead, a thirst for human blood.
For hatred burns within her breast.  Her lust
Will not be sated by a meager flood…
   
And as you watch, you’ll see how she transforms
And takes on, one by one, her hideous forms.
You’ll see the fire burning in her eye,
You’ll see it light on who is next to die.
 
Engulfing east and west and north and south –
She opens wide her fanged and monstrous mouth.
And you might glimpse, within her throat, that hell,
Of which you poets rarely dare to tell.

And watch her gaze, directed at the city.
It scans the streets, without a trace of pity.
She sees – and she destroys – a family.
A little girl remains – and you and me...
 
Behold, how human form dissolves and leaves
The desolation where the orphan grieves…
But even then, that child gets no respite,               \1
As booms resound from more explosions bright...

And in the rubble of the smoking ruin,
We see a form that struggles, still alive –
That child again, disfigured, maimed and torn –
Who once, from parents' love and toil, did thrive...

So from within that vestal throat divine
There springs this hell of mortal agony...
But you've been watching, with your "love and peace",
Your verses marching still in prosody...
 
So speak to her, whose skin is stripped away –
Who lies there, burned and blinded.  Find a way
To let that deafened child hear meter, rhyme –
If that is how you'd utilize your time…
 
******
  
But see, if you have inner vision, that
Which rises from the corpse it leaves behind…
The one who dies becomes the one who slays.
She now can see, who lay there dying, blind…
 
2014 August 8th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York
 
1.   Returning from divinity to mundane matters,
      the word “respite” here is meant to rhyme with
     “bright”, as in one of its pronunciations in standard
      British English.
       

With All the World Aflame

        
With All the World Aflame

 
  

The fires are burning and the sky
Is roiled with blacks and reds.
And yet, the fiddler fiddles on
And watches with delight.

But now the fire approaches and
He hears at last the screams.
And yet, oblivious, playing on,
He smiles and even laughs.

The fiddler fiddles in his robes
That speak of majesty,
For he's the emperor of Rome,
And all is travesty.

So even in our times, we see
This lunacy persists.
The powerful and rich, they play,
With all the world aflame.

2014 June 21st, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York

  

Dead Man Risen

                        
Dead Man Risen
      
I saw a dead man risen, with
The pallor of the grave.
I saw him walking towards me, as
My feet were turned to stone.

I saw that he was nearing, so
I tried then to be brave,
With all my sins before me and
No time then to atone.

And as he came upon me
And I trembled and I shook,
He reached his hands towards me
And in my eye did look.

And lo, though I was shaking,
I saw, within his eye,
The self, that had been hidden,
And it was none than I.

2013 November 8th, Fri.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

Homo Moderni

   

Homo Moderni
              
Bereft of reason and of virtues, filled with much that's vile,
With ancient humors each replaced by substitute of bile,
A prey to all the vices old and host to evils new,
The modern human stands and even struts for us to view.

And all the subtleties that marked the one of “culture” are
Now vanished.  All that now remains are crudities that war.
Yet all the innocence of one who's “primitive” is gone,
With gentle arts replaced by those in cataclysms born.

What once belonged to Nature, just as much as does a flower,
Is now possessed by devilry, and fully in its power.
So songs that issued forth in melodies are now replaced
By screams as only lunatics might voice, with madness faced.

Where was once had pulsed a heart, the metal pistons loudly stroke,
And where there once was mind, we only find a tragic joke.
For garbage fills the hemispheres and excrement now flows
Through vesicles.  And when it speaks, its inner state, it shows.

For surely, “it” is all that's fit for such as human is,
That's been transformed by factories to such a state as this.
And though compassion rises, hesitation follows soon,
For if such products would depart, would not that be a boon?

And yet, this is a human, kin to all the beasts and birds,
And still a child of Nature, yes, despite our vicious words.
And so, to that one spirit that we still conceive as good,
We pray that evil should depart – or we've misunderstood.

2013 September 14th, Sat.
Brooklyn

The Daily Poet

Syria

Syria
                 
I saw the horrors on the Internet,
Of little children lying dying, dead,
Of adults kicking, spasming, being held,
As poison did its cruel work on them.

And if I hadn't had my dinner, then
I probably would rise from watching this,
With dinner warmed and ready, and would  eat,
While chatting with my wife on this and that.

I wonder what we all would do if all
That's perpetrated in a war or peace,
Would reach our screens, so sights of burning flesh,
And sounds of screams were heard as watchers dined.

I wonder.  Then I think, how every day
The men and women drive to work and sit
In front of screens – and guide, to targets, bombs
That then explode in places far away.

And some of them may see the ones who burn,
Who run like ants with clothes and flesh aflame,
And some are children, mothers burned to death,
Or maimed, disfigured, left to rot in pain.

And each of these must then, in turn, arise
And drive to homes where they can eat and talk,
With children and with spouses, some of them,
At peace again at end of working day.

So if indeed we saw what nations do,
Be they perceived as foes or closest friends,
I wonder if the world might change or not.
I think I still might eat and carry on.

But then, of course, we haven't reached there yet,
And if it goes like this, might never do.
We'll see the horrors that we blame on those
We see as foes, but rarely what we do,

Each land has troubles of its own enough,
But when the powers use it as a stage
On which to fight their battles, then we see
Unending grief and endless misery.

In Syria, we see what might be us,
If we have come from India or a place
Where many peoples mix and live as one,
With tensions past and present underneath.

We know the fuse, when lit, will burn and then,
If not put out, will lead to lethal end,
A death not brief and merciful but one
That makes of life and land a living hell.

2013 August 31, Sat.
Brooklyn
   
Strange Encounter    

Joe's Demise

Joe's Demise

It was five o'clock on Monday afternoon.
The sun had not yet set, but would be setting soon.
And Joseph Lieberman was sitting at his table.
His paperwork he'd done, as best as he was able.
He turned to see the clock, and then he saw,
Out of the corner of his eye, with startled awe,
A flash more bright than sun, that seared his eye.

Joe knew, within his heart, that he would die.
And yet, he staggered up – and with surviving sight,
He saw the afternoon had turned to night.
And then, a sound, that beggared all he'd heard,
And shove, that sent him flying, like a bird,
To smash against the wall, and fall to floor,
A crumpled, bleeding heap – and Joe, no more.

He'd lived a life of toil, a life quite clean.
He'd loved his kinsfolk, friends, been rarely mean.
No sin that's grievous, no unseemly blot,
Had marred the fabric of his life and lot,
Until this day, when karma, not his own,
Worked suddenly, to crush his flesh and bone.
Whence came this evil, evil only knows.

Where Joe once lived, the wind now softly blows.

Babui / Arjun Janah
2008 October 5th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
   
Note:   This came to me today (Sunday) between approximately 5:45
and 6:05 pm, at the Dunkin Donuts shop on 18th Avenue, near 86th
Street, Brooklyn -- from where, I do not know.

The Joe Lieberman, or everyman ("Joe Schmoe"), of this tale should not be confused with the well-known Joseph P. Lieberman, U.S. senator from Connecticut, to whom he may have been only distantly related.