Zombie

 
Zombie
 
In the canyons of the city, where the traffic winds its way,
I had wandered for a lifetime, so it seemed, that autumn day.
And the frenzy of the city, where the workers run and toil –
It had entered in my being, it had rooted in my soil.
 
I was born of man and woman, but had grown to something else.
For the god who reigned was Mammon, who is lord of human hells.
And all that is of Nature – of  water, earth and air,
Was routed, extirpated – what remained was my despair.
 
For so it is with workers, who must labor in the mills,
Where our demons are our masters, so our virtues there are ills.
Not the cycle of the seasons, not the surging of the tides,
But the pulsing of the street-lights is the rhythm that resides.
    
In the canyons of the city, in the factories of hell,
I had turned into a zombie, as I then could clearly tell.
As the winds of fall were blowing, as the rivers flowed to sea,
I was standing at the crosswalk, and I knew I’d ceased to be.
  
2014 October 10th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York
    

Lion Dance

Lion Dance
  
I hear the distant pulsing of the drums.
And as I near, the sound grows louder.  Soon,
I find that I, along with prancing kids
Who strain at mothers’ hands and skid on ice,
Have synchronized my steps.  I glide along –
And even climbing ice-hills at the curbs
Is effortless.  It seems we gain in strength,
When martials make us dance – or march to war.

The young man strikes the drum with rhythmic force.
The leather, taut, responds to every blow.
In music, there is often scent of sex,
Which we, as children, did not care to know.
But being male, and so of warrior-gene,
The pipes and drums beguiled me as a boy,
When every year, upon a certain day,
I heard the fascists marching up the street...

I pass the drummer and the dancer and
I enter in the Chinese restaurant.
And soon enough, they’re there. The drummer stays
And beats his drum outside, upon the street.
The lion enters, dancing, with his back
And tail supported by his trailing friend.
No room for two to be the lion’s legs –
The place is busy, with the tables filled.

They stay awhile beside me, near the door.
The tail instructs the lion, who’s half-blind,
To walk towards the gods, in an alcove red,
With plastic lights in lieu of votive lamps.
 And there, the lion bows to the bearded ones
And towards the goddess of compassion too.
And when the bows are done, he walks the floor
And then returns, to bow to gods again.

I glimpse his face, with glasses, grimacing
From all his effort, walking weighted, bowed.
His mouth is open wide, as if in pain,
And though it’s cold, I know his sweat runs wet.
The Han enjoy their new-year's lion-dance
And dance-of-dragon too.  In China, they’ve
A fortnight off – but in Hong Kong, three days…
And here, they work – or take a day sans pay.

And when I ask, I’m told this dance – and all
The bows the lion-boy did, while bending deep,
Towards the gods and goddess – these will bring
The owners fortune, luck, prosperity…
And so it is, that every year, we hear
The drums that rouse the streets – and see
The lion and the dragon bow and dance,
As Montreal or Rome becomes Canton.
  
2014 February 9th, Sun.,
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

Language

                  
Language   
                   
A language is a living thing.
It breathes and grows and pulses.
It melds with us when we are young.
It’s always at our service.
And yet we are as cells that serve
The mind that lives in language.
  
How varied are our human tongues,
In rhythms, sounds and structures.
And yet they are projections, each,
Of that, which can’t be spoken.
        
******
   
A language is a living thing
That shifts and sways and dances.
The songs we sing are sung through us.
The singer true is hidden.
But in our speech, we hear it talk.
It lives in us as language.
  
So every dialect’s the same,
However each may vary.
And that’s because the mind’s the same,
That’s there, in every sentence.
      
******
  
There is a tongue that has no tongue,
And so cannot be heard.
And yet we know that it is there,
By inner sense inferred.
And each of us can feel it speak
In silence, if we listen.
   
So premonition, like a cat
That walks on velvet feet,
Comes padding by.  A faint “meow”.
We turn -- and it is gone.
      
******
  
A language is a living thing,
And yet, it’s like a shadow
That changes form with time of day,
With latitude and season.
And when the clouds are blowing wild
It vanishes.  We seek it.
 
And as the sun breaks through the clouds,
It’s born again.  We see it.
We know that it was always there.
So language is a shadow.
 
******
   
While languages, from others born,
May live their spans and fade,
In wanton acts, we murder them
As remnant speakers perish.
So as we kill the species, so
We kill our cultures too.
  
And what we’ve done is vaunted then
As progress.  Such advances
Bring tears to those remembering
The riches and the nuances.
  
******
    
As we may love a being that
Has a face and limbs and body,
So also we may love a tongue
That’s living or has perished.
As none can substitute for one
Who’s gone, so naught -- for language.
  
How tender is that love we feel
For a tongue we learned as infants…
How grievous is our loss when we
Have none, with whom to speak it…

******
   
As lovers are devoted, so
The poets are to tongues,
For a dialect has its flavor that
No other one can match.
As women have their essences,
So languages have musks.

For even as two siblings might
Have characters apart,
So sister tongues have melodies
As different as birds'.

******
   
How humble is a patois,
How regal, classic verse.
Yet each has provenance the same,
Like those, of women birthed.
They rise in rustic habitats
And end as they began.

And urban speech, where finance rules,
Is rapid, clipped and terse,
But where horizons far are seen,
The speech there slows and broadens.

******
   
Some languages are musical
And others seem more rough,
But that, imbibed with mother's milk,
For each, is sweet enough.
The lullabies of of mother tongues
Give sustenance to us.

And language can be used to lie,
To subjugate, confuse,
Or it can light the way to truth
And liberate, refute.

******
   
Like sea reflecting sky, a tongue
Can alter with our moods.
And so there's speech that's like a gun,
And that which soothes the heart.
But blame this not upon the tongue
Nor give it credit false.

For language is a living thing
That changes as we do.
When madness rules our lives, our tongues
Reflect that madness too.

2013 November 23rd, Sat.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

Evening Mass

                
Evening Mass
         
As I was walking by St. Finbar's Church,
I heard the organ and the evening mass.
I heard the converts in the basement sing.
I heard their voices as they rose and fell.
It seemed, in this our world, that all was well.

But, recalling then the history
Of those who sang of faith and mystery,
Remembering then, how their ancestors died
And for a bit of peace and justice cried,
I knew this world of ours was far from well,
More distant, yes, from heaven than from hell.

I heard the Guatemalans in the basement sing,
I saw some coming down the street to join –
In Sunday best, a little family...
I saw them cross themselves before the church
And quietly enter, by the side, to sing.

And I remembered then, how they had fled
Their country, ravaged by the endless wars,
How cash and arms had streamed from here to south,
How many then were hunted, massacred...
How those surviving lived from hand to mouth,
How many homeless ones had grieved alone...

And so they traveled north, where money went,
And some had papers, others never did.
They took up humble trades and quietly hid,
For they were quiet people, most of them –
Except on Sundays, when they donned these clothes
And gathered in the basements, there to sing.

A simple story, told by a simpleton.
The truth, you can be sure, is more complex.
But you will have to sit and talk with them
In Spanish or in Quiché.  Then you'll glimpse
The many threads that weave that history
Of silent ones – of faith – and mystery.

For these are “Indians” – not my Asian kind,
But folk of  these, the western continents.
And those, who've traveled far, from Central Am,
Are quiet folk, of stature small and slight.
But when you talk with them, you'll see, at times,
Some traces left – of a soft and ancient light...

And all the weight of ages – Maya, Spain,
The persecutions and the silent pain,
This past, you'll feel – or hear in cadences,
The muted tones of those who've suffered much,
But haven't walled themselves; they're forest folk,
And used to sounds of death – and silences.

So when they sing of Jesus on the cross,
They know of what they sing, for they have seen.
And when they sing of resurrection, they
Have tears that flow – as those, who're grieving, pray.
Far from their homes, in a foreign land, they sing,
The ones they left at home – or gone – remembering...

I heard them singing in the basement and
I briefly thought that I could understand...
And for a moment, there, by Finbar's Church,
My heart was touched and filled, with grace divine,
As pastors poured the sacrificial wine.

November 17th, Sun.
Brooklyn
  

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
 

The Teacher

The Teacher

I came upon a person by the sea,
Of haggard aspect, battered down by time.
He slumped upon a bench with downcast head,
And though the sky and ocean were alight,
It seemed it was in darkness that he sat,
An abject figure, sunk in hopelessness.

I sat beside him, wondering at this.
Had death or separation caused this man
To slouch like this, alone by oceanside,
As breezes blew and all around him seemed
A picture drawn of paradise on earth,
With Nature in her garb of happiness?

So when at last he turned to glance at me,
With a look of desperation tinged with guilt,
I bravely ventured then to ask of him
The reason for his obvious sunken state.
And hearing this, he then began to speak,
With a voice that trembled in its earnestness.

“I am a teacher.  That is all I know.
For many years, I labored at my job.
And all, that's thrown at teachers, I withstood
And tried to teach, so students then could learn.
But towards the end, I burned, it seemed, in fire,
And all my nights were seized by craziness.

“The job, impossible for those who are
Disabled by the human tendency
To do their best, and do it honestly,
To care for those they teach, and what they teach,
I still had done, for many, many years,
And even drawn, from it, my sustenance.

“We teachers earn, as workers, salaries,
But that is all.  Whatever benefits
Our union got for us, that now erode,
Do not suffice for labor such as ours,
Which sucks, from each who labors, life itself,
And leaves behind a husk – and emptiness.

“And though some fall away, defeated, some
Persist, for reasons various, and each
Has self to feed – and family as well.
And some are able, by some magic art,
To distance selves from what they do each day,
And so survive, by gift of provenance.

“And others find, perhaps, a little niche,
In which they may find shelter for a while,
And even, if they're fortunate, a bit
Of satisfaction, as their students learn.
For that is what sustains the teachers true,
Who cannot feed at troughs of callousness.

“For teachers learn, who truly are sincere,
Beyond their payment, never to expect,
From those who run the show, the sordid game,
A word of praise  – or even from their wards,
Who still are young –  and unaware of all
The teacher does, in strength or weariness.

“But teaching, just like learning, is a joy,
And when the ground is fertile, even seeds
By sowers lightly cast, untended, grow
And then bear fruit, with more of seeds in turn.
But others fall on ground that's arid, hard,
And all our tending ends in fruitlessness.

“For teaching, learning need some shelter, space,
Some attitudes from those who teach and learn,
From those who run the schools, who make the laws.
For all our culture did not come from those
Who play at high finance or at their wars,
But those, who wove their threads in diligence.

“There came a time when I grew tired of stress,
Of all my labor past and present and
The prospect of yet more until my end.
And all my efforts seemed a waste of time,
So many hours and days and years misspent,
Amounting, at the end, to nothingness.

“And even then, like a horse that's trained to pull,
I strained at harness, though my load grew such
I only crawled.  But never, even then,
Did I succumb to any of the scams
That pass for teaching and are glorified,
Though none can pass the test of harmlessness.

“For we have students, who have but one life,
And parents, live or dead, who gave them this.
And every day they spend with us is less
From what they have, before they too are dead.
So can a conscience let one sleep, who then
Gives other than his due of diligence?

“Deprived of sleep, I felt that I was spent,
So all, that once had looked alluring, now
Appeared as dull.  And what was savory,
When I was rested, now had lost its taste.
And life itself, with all its promise and
Its pleasures seemed absurd and meaningless.

“The ones I'd loved, the ones who gave me life
Had passed away – and even as I worked.
Not only all my most productive years,
But even those for whom I deeply cared
I'd lost to this, the work that teachers do,
Impossible, in total earnestness.

“For teachers, as I said, to labor true,
Look not for praise, but need – the space to teach.
But even this, to them, is now denied,
And all the castigation of the world
Is heaped on those who labor most to teach,
And they are left with naught but hopelessness.

“And yet, I could not leave my job, because
On it depended life and family.
And teaching was the only thing I knew,
And from that thing, that all my life consumed,
I'd drawn my meaning, structured all the rest
Around that thing – that turned to shamelessness.”

He stopped. The blood, that seemed had drained away,
When first I saw him, pounded in a vein
Upon his temple – and his face was flushed.
He'd straightened, gestured, come to life, but now
Again, I saw, had started to collapse.
I took my leave, in sudden fecklessness.

But when, returning from my evening walk,
I passed that spot, I saw, in gloaming's light,
That selfsame man, that teacher, self-described,
Was sitting there, with eyes affixed on ground.
And seeing this, I hastened then my step,
And passed him by, in haste and wariness.

2013 September 17th, Tue.
Brooklyn
 
On Teaching 

http://subject-teacher.blogspot.com/2013/09/on-teaching.html 
 

Alien-II

Alien-II
                                                                  
The storm has scattered us across the seas,
And some have found a cove in which to live,
And others struggle daily with the tides.
Survival leaves but little room for thought.

We dwell within our shells in loneliness
And hear the ocean pounding on the rocks.
For when we pause awhile from daily toil,
We sense in full the maelstrom all around.

And each retains a trace of memory
And so desires to be again as one,
But often only dimly sees the cause
Of feeling incomplete and alien.

2013 August 29th, Thu. 2:50 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

My Dream

My Dream  
                        
When I grow up, I would like to be
The man who picks up the garbage.

Early in the morning, when everyone's asleep,
I would ride on the back of the garbage truck
And would hop off to pick up the garbage.

I would lift up the bags and throw them,
I would bang on the metal cans.
And some of the sleepers would wake up
And some would mutter and curse.
And the smell of the rotting garbage
Would fill up the morning air.

And then I would call to the driver –
And the truck, it would move with a roar.
I'd hop on that truck.  To the next one,
With that noise and that smell, we would go.

And that is my dream, Mr. Teacher,
The dream that you asked me to write.
I hope that you'll give me a 100.
What you gave me before wasn't fair.

My dream is to pick up the garbage,
To join with the garbage men.
I've heard that they're paid good money,
And the smell washes off when they shower...

My dream is to pick up the garbage,
To be a garbage man.
But I'm told that it it isn't easy.
I really hope I can.

The jobs nowadays aren't many.
My father's unemployed...

I hope that I'll get a paycheck,
And be married too, with kids...

Do you think, if I do all my classwork,
And my homework, every day,
And I pass all those tests you give us,
My dream will come real, one day?

2013 August 16th, Fri.
Brooklyn
 

The Play and the Audience

 
The Play and the Audience
    
A thought finds voice – and I can hear its speech.
Emotion rises.  I can feel its rise.
Thought, emotion then converse.  I watch.
In time, they dwindle and depart.  I stay.
Another thought inquires, “So where's this I?”
 
2013, July 18th, Thu.
Manhattan, Chinatown

Identity

Identity
  
While walking down a street, familiar, I
Had come upon a man who waved at me.
I did not know this man – but still waved back.
But then he asked me, “Who the heck are you?”

I fled, confused – and looking back, I saw
That he was pointing at me, to another man,
And saying, so I thought, “That person there,
He waved at me but then he ran away.”

I turned a corner, picking up my pace,
And so collided with a woman large.
On bouncing back, I saw the woman was
A person I had known. I greeted her.

She looked at me and frowned. But then, she said,
“Oh Harry! How've you been? It's been a while!”
And saying this, she stood and smiled past me.
I turned around to see, but found no one.

Again confused, I could not say a word.
For where was Harry?  Who the heck was he?
And so, I fled again, confused as hell.
But glancing back, I saw she followed me.

I started running, looking back at her
To see if she was catching up to me.
But no, she soon was out of breath – and stopped.
I thanked the gods – but then I bumped my knee.

It was a dog, upon whose back I fell.
A great big dog that barked and glared at me.
I lifted hands to better save my face,
But found his paws upon my heaving chest.

And pushing hands aside, with forceful nose,
He opened wide his jaws – and then I saw
A great red tongue that leaped to lick my face,
As I fell back, so pavement hit my head.

I lay there, stunned, enduring tongue and drool,
Until a person came and called out, “Tom!”
At this, the dog departed, wagging tail,
As he had done while he was over me.

I tried to gather scattered wits and then
To comprehend my last indignity.
I knew no dog called “Tom” – and yet I felt
The moisture still upon my squinting face.

And as I limped towards my home, I thought,
“Am I myself, or am I dreaming this?”
And so, I tried to wake myself – and did,
And saw I lay on my disheveled bed.

2013 July 13th, Fri.
Brooklyn
  

Gerald Goldstein -- in Memoriam

                     
Gerald Goldstein -- in Memoriam
                   

Now he is gone, we know not where,

Much as we knew not whence he came.

He spent his final years in fear;

Perhaps we too will do the same.

I see him as I saw him first;

With time, I came to know him well.

For odd details, he had a thirst;

He gathered things he would not sell.

He picked up items from the road;

And never learned to say, “Enough!”

His house was packed, fit to explode;

He rented space to store his stuff.

With odd device, of every sort,

He grew enamored; but, being tight,

To Radio Shack he would resort,

Its dumpster-day his week’s delight.

Though Brooklyn born, and Brooklyn bred,

His diction showed no sign of that.

By heart and reason, he was led

To treasure what, to us, seemed flat,

But which, to him, had twist and bend

That needed gentle, loving care;

For to preserve, and gently tend,

What needed it, was his affair.

With this, he whiled his life away,

In gentle fascination ‘tranced

With how things worked, and why we say

What we don’t mean, but leave unparsed.

For he had gone from Science to Law,

And studied nights to earn degrees;

But found he lacked the drive and jaw

Demanded of New York J.D.’s.

A Juris Doctor, that was he,

Left physics for legality;

And so, he never did feel free

To loosely speak like you and me.

And yet, he never used his skills

To put in place, or poke a hole.

He shied away from fights and kills.

His was a kind and gentle soul.

He did not envy, hold a grudge;

Nor did he speak of others ill.

Where others pushed, he’d gently nudge;

His simple needs he did fulfill.

And so, contented, free of strife,

He tried to live a quiet life.

When all around was heat and hurry,

Slow and measured moved our Gerry.

His speech was clear, and quite precise;

He loved the pun and subtle joke.

His hands were golden, he could splice

What none could fix, with one deft stroke.

He paid attention to what’s dead.

His patience now is out of style.

Through the eye, he’d pass the thread;

And yet, he was quite free of guile.

His clothes were clean, but clearly worn.

He had no airs, and bothered none.

He went where others had not gone.

Of such as he, there was but one.

Those shallow, judged him by his shell.

To all our fads, he’d not conform.

But those who looked, could clearly tell,

Here was a man outside the norm.

   

What others did, he did not do.

What others thought, he did not heed.

He did, what he did have to do.

He heeded, what he thought worth heed.

He did not push, nor did he let

Himself be pushed, or pulled away,

From what, he felt, we oft forget,

Which is, to live a decent day.

     

To ailing mom, he was devoted.

He offered help when it was needed.

He did not waste, his word he kept.

With guiltless heart, he nightly slept.

This was the Gerry that I knew.

But still there is much more to tell.

He cared for mom, until she flew,

And life became a living hell.

For every ailment, known to man,

Seemed to strike him down with pain.

He found himself without a plan.

He could not lift his head again.

And yet there was a saint who cared,

A saint with faults, like he himself.

Much worse, indeed, he would have fared,

If he were by his lonesome self.

He lived afraid she too would flee,

And leave him, like his mother dear.

The comfort, that she now would be,

Was edged, always, with this great fear.

For those, with whom he’d worked his life,

Had gone their ways, and left him lone.

Such is this world, where each has strife,

And lone ones wait by quiet phone.

So Gerry lived, and did his job.

He did it well, as I’ll attest.

Then he suffered, much like Job.

God likes to put us to the test.

Well God, I’ll kick you in your rear!

In Brooklyn, you were out of league.

You picked on one, who’d gamely bear

Your insults without fuss or pique.

How can I capture, with my arts,

A man in full complexity?

He was a man of many parts;

This sketch is mere simplicity.

Now he is gone, and we are left.

A man’s a man, not Turk or French!

All my prattle has no heft.

When all is said, he was a mensch!

 

Arjun (Babui) Janah

< sjanah@aol.com >

Brooklyn, New York

2006.04.12 Wed.