Beyond the Bounds of Tense

 
Beyond the Bounds of Tense

The present moment—that is all
We have—and yet it flies.
Beyond the here and now—the rest—
Has more of myth than truth.
We long in vain for permanence
And cling to our beliefs.
How precious are our memories,
And yet, they hide the root.

The Buddhas and the Jinas saw
The unity of being,
The suffering of sentients,
The traps that we are in.
The followers of Abraham,
Believing in their god,
Perceived the faults that plague our lives
And labeled these as “sin”.

And so have other streams of thought
And faith in what transcends
The lives we live that start and end
Been part of human sense,
Providing vision, solace, strength, 
Supporting us in grief,
And giving meaning to our lives
Beyond the bounds of tense.

But only when we sink within,
Let all possessions go,
Including love and life itself,
Can truth be truly seen—
Or so we're told by seers whom
We may, or not, believe.
Can each of us, a speck of dust,
Be one with truth, serene?

2024 March 3rd, Sunday
Berkeley, California

Self and Other--The Cooler Spots in Hell

Self and Other  (The Cooler Spots in Hell)

The mantra is—it's I and me
And then perhaps some others.
And off to hell with all the rest!
We aren't sisters, brothers—

For even if by chance we were,
We now no longer are.
So each is free to cheat and steal.
All's fair, in hate and war.

And so we've made a hell for most,
And heaven for the vile,
Who sit upon their thrones of gold
And look at us and smile.

We hate the ones who're far away.
We hate the ones who're near.
We hate each other, even those
Who surely should be dear.

It's self that is the king, be it
The self of self or more.
The others are our enemies
Or those we should ignore.

And how is it we've come to this,
Where brother turns on brother?
We've bitten on the hook, whose bait
Is that of self and other.

Oh wake up from this dream, and see
The other too is you
As you are him or her or it.
Those bonds, again renew—

For lonely is the heart that lives
In isolation long.
Rejoin this world of joy and woe—
The one where you belong.

But see, we now are penned apart,
By pressure or by choice.
How rarely can one leap the fence
And then, in tears, rejoice!

We're told that we have freedom, yet
We now are worse than slaves—
For look at whom we adulate
And see how he behaves.

If only we could find within
That innocence of old,
And also all the wisdom lost,
In Man's pursuit of gold!

How many pounds and shillings earned,
At the dearest of expense?
How many starved, or burned alive
To raise the margin’s pence?

We prey upon each other and
We praise the ones who feast,
While mocking those who're feasted on,
In west and south and east—

For in those lands the natives too
Are preying on each other,
Although they still, on meeting, use
The greetings, “Sister!”, “Brother!”

But those are turned to empty words.
We use the behen or bhai, *
But then we set that all aside,
For each must sell and buy.

So each of us is caught within
That net that snares the world.
We see but self and other, so
We each are lured and hurled—

To land within the cooking pot.
And there we simmer, fry,
As all around we hear the ones,
Who suffer, wail and cry.

But look—how many stop their ears
And say that all is well.
They've found themselves the cooler spots
That still exist in hell.

2017 October 16th, Mon.

* behen, bhai:  sister, brother, in Hindi-Urdu and other languages of northern India and Pakistan
  
These terms are habitually used in some regions not only for siblings but more generally, including as a title or in greetings. This was meant to express sisterhood/brotherhood—as was, and in places still is, common in many cultures, especially rural ones, all over the world.
  

Naked

Naked

She came into this world without her clothes
and naked, she will leave this world, again.
But while she’s here, she’s told she should be clothed,
or else she’ll get her share and more of pain.

And there are places, where she hides her face,
and even feet are swathed and not for show.
And if by chance she shows her head of hair,
a punishment, she then will surely know.

******
 
Oh woman, how has man defiled your soul
and so his own, from fear and lust combined!
To his possessions, he has added you,
and so, your role, of servitude, defined.

And see, how you yourself have fallen in
the traps that men and women make for you.
For even those, who see themselves as free,
to man and Mammon pay their daily due.

******
 
We once had goddesses, to whom we bowed;
we now have gods, to whom we kneel instead.
Forsake, oh human, lords of lordly kind.
To virtue, kneel. To kindness, bow your head.

Be neither slave nor master. All your chains
are clothes you did not have at birth.
Remove those wraps and break, oh break, those chains,
before it's time for you to leave this Earth.

2015 April 3rd, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
   
Please see also the missed post:  Reed (The Dancer)  
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/01/reed-dancer.html
     

Cosmos-II

   
Cosmos-II
   
You say that you have lost your sense of self,
been sundered into pieces, scattered, strewn…
You ask me how you might collect yourself.
I wish I knew a method to rejoin
your broken bits. Instead, I’ll offer this.
   
If you were free to leave this Earth and roam
the depths, and with the solar wind could fly
beyond the planets and the comet-clouds,
you then might glimpse the truths that some deny.

When lost within the interstellar dark,
or even out between the galaxies,
there’s still that foam that bubbles up from naught
and gives you substance, likewise giving birth
to all that swirls and feeds the fiery dance.

And in the interstices, you might find
the workings of that universal mind –
the Brahma of the pantheists – that bears
the Yahweh-Allah feared by Abraham...

******

That desert god was jealous, as were those
the Greeks had placed upon Olympus high.
And if indeed the gods are judged by what
is deemed as their creation, surely then
they’re all a heartless bunch of nincompoops.
 
And yet, perhaps, within the endless void,
on seeing distant lights that flare and die,
you’d come to hear the murmuring of those,
who still persist in asking, “Why, oh why?”
 
And if there be an answer, you’d return
and share with mortals what that reason is.
And if there isn't, or it can’t be known,
you still might tell your tales of wondrous things
to us, who’re bound by our terrestrial birth.
  
To travel out, upon a flare, and see
our local sphere – and then, the dark, to view –
to turn towards the fading sun and be
where nothing is – might bring you back to you…
 
******
 
You’re lost and scattered?  So, the atoms are.
The light is speeding out to who knows where.
And yet, amidst that chatter – hear the song.
The atoms chant in all their alto keys.
You’re born to die – and yet you still belong.
 
So why such travels out, to realms of cold?
Why leave your planet’s womb to course the dark?
Such ventures, you might leave to natures bold,
and turn to journeys inwards, on this ark…

For all the truths you might discover there,
beyond the planets and the cloud of Oort –
You'll find them here, upon this spinning Earth
and in that self that viewing can dissolve –
to leave that void that still gives birth to all...

So I have offered you a dream and then
have told you that it's worth is null and naught,
except perhaps to see the trap in which
the ones who're lost and those who're found are caught.
 
2015 January 16th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York
 

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
  

Darkness and Light

  
Darkness and Light
 
“Forgive them,” said Jesus, “for they know not what they do.”
Or so the gospel says he said, two thousand years ago,
Across the seas, where Asia met with Africa and Greece.
 
And further back and further east, the sutras say Gotama,
Meditating, woke to truth and called us to awaken,
Who walk through life as if we dream, as captives to illusion.
 
The misery that we create, the madness we engender –
This lives, although we pass away, to plague the generations.
So vision stays beclouded and the nightmare still goes on.
 
But also, when we find our peace and turn towards the truth,
Our acts of kindness leave behind a little patch of calm.
And so there’s still the hope we’ll see and know what we have done.
 
Within the tempest, as it blows, in peacetime and in war,
Within our hearts, amidst the greed, the anger, fear and hatred,
There still remains the sanity – and memory of love.
 
“Forgive them,” Jesus said, “for they know not what they do.”
In hubris, men behave like gods.  Like Icarus, they fall.
And misery breeds misery, as wretches move in thrall.

And heeding Jesus, we forgive and let the burden go.
We pray that madness dissipates, that we regain our sight,
And that the darkness of the world gives way, at last, to light.

But prayer will not right a wrong or bring the dead to life.
It cannot heal a mortal wound or turn the night to day.
And so we pause and ask ourselves the reason why we pray.
 
Is there a need for suffering?  Is there a place for sorrow?
Perhaps it gives us more of depth, and humbles those of pride.
For who has not known sorrow may not truly know compassion.
 
We need the sunshine of the day, we need the dark of night.
And so perhaps the dark within is needed, so we see
And value more the sanity – and cherish more the love.
 
And there are shades of darkness too – there's sorrow and there's grief.
And both of these may cleanse the soul – but there is madness wild
And all the smaller devilries that cloud our hearts and minds.
   
And these are what obstruct our sight and so pollute our souls.
And what can clear away these things, I truly do not know.
But those of wisdom say to breathe and turn towards the light.

And so we only pray for peace, the peace within ourselves –
For courage when the fear is great, for calm when all is roiled,
So humbly we may lead our lives – and smiling, turn to die.
 
2014 September 20th Sat, 3:24 am
Bensonhurst, 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