Whither-II

 
Whither-II

The clouds were racing past the moon
that shone within a halo.
“Oh whither are you headed, clouds?”
I asked, in fascination.
They answered not.  They never do.
Such questions go unheeded.

I asked them once, I asked them twice,
I asked them yet again.
They did not answer—whither, whence
Or why—but raced ahead—
or was it back, or sideways?  Do
such things, for clouds, have meanings?

I wandered to the highway.  There,
I saw the cars were racing.
“Oh, whither, cars—and why this haste?”
I asked, in consternation.
They answered not.  They never do.
Such questions go unheeded.
 
2018 May 30th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
     

Mayar Dha~dha-মায়ার ধাঁধা-The Maze of Delusion

 
The truth is that every empire, nation, community, family and individual is capable of great cruelty, as also of great kindness. This has been demonstrated over and over again, and we are seeing it being demonstrated now, all over the world. We still need to speak out and act against the cruelty and to recognize and support the kindness.

However, those who see and feel beyond a narrowing of vision and of heart are always vilified. Those who work for the common good and against scapegoating, demonizing and division are inevitably labeled as foreign agents, traitors, etc. Sadly, it is the same in every country, in every age.

https://www.facebook.com/madhusree.mukerjee/posts/1488465891211160

https://www.facebook.com/arjun.janah/posts/10154561847215950

https://www.facebook.com/andrew.wickham.52/posts/10156083779321562 
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There are four sections of verse below:

• মায়ার ধাঁধা
  --in Bengali, in the traditional script;
• Māẏāra Dhām̐dhā
  --a Roman transcription, via http://translate.google.com;
• Mayar Dha~dha
  --a Roman transcription, using the scheme summarized at http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/02/bharot-xadhin-indias-freedom.html
  and in item 3 at http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2017/03/likhbe-xexe-je-writer-at-end.html;
• The Maze of Delusion
  --a very free translation into English.

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

মায়ার ধাঁধা

আর্য় বলে, ‘ভজ তাদের,
যাদের চামড়া গোরা৷’
এ দেশী বলে, ‘বিদেশী, তুমি
সব মন্দের গোড়া৷’

ওগো মূর্খ, গোণো এবার
পুরোনো পাপের আয়৷
বিরাট পাপী, রাজা হয়ে,
রক্ত চুষে খায়৷

******

কত যে দুঃখ, কত যে কষ্ট,
মায়ার ধাঁধায় পড়ে!
নিজেকে মেরেছ,  নিজেকে নষ্ট
করেছ যুগযুগ ধরে৷

ফিরে চাইলে,  দেখবে সব ই
অকারণে করা৷
এত সৃষ্টির স্বত্ত্বেও, শুধু
বৃথা ভুগে ভুগে মরা৷

শনিবার, ২২ এপ্রিল, ২০১৭ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক
-------------------------------------------------------------

Māẏāra Dhām̐dhā

Ārẏa balē, 'Bhaja tādēra,
yādēra cāmaṛā gōrā'.
Ē dēśī balē, 'Bidēśī, tumi
saba mandēra gōṛā'.

Ōgō mūrkha, gōṇō ēbāra
purōnō pāpēra āẏa.
Birāṭa pāpī, rājā haẏē,
rakta cuṣē khāẏa.

******

Kata yē duḥkha, kata yē kaṣṭa,
māẏāra dhām̐dhāẏa paṛē!
Nijēkē mērēcha, nijēkē naṣṭa
karēcha yugayuga dharē.

Phirē cā'ilē, dēkhabē saba i
akāraṇē karā.
Ēta sr̥ṣṭira sbattbē'ō, śudhu
br̥thā bhugē bhugē marā.

Śanibāra, 22 Ēprila, 2017 Khri
Bruklina, Ni'uẏarka
-------------------------------------------------------------

Mayar Dha~dha

Arjo bo`le, “Bho`jo tader,
jader camr’a gora.”
E dexi bo`le, “Bidexi, tumi
xo`b monder gor’a.”

Ogo murkho, gon’o ebar
purono paper ae.
Birat’ papi, raja hoe,
ro`kto cuxe khae.

******

Ko`to je dukkho, jo`to je ko`xt’o,
mayar dha~dhae por’e!
Nijeke merecho, nijeke no`xt’o
korecho jugjug dhore.

Phire caile, dekhbe xo`b i
okaron’e ko`ra.
E`to srixt’ir xottheo, xudhu
britha bhuge bhuge mo`ra.

Xonibar, 22e Epril, 2017 Khri
Bruklin, Niu Io`rk
-------------------------------------------------------------

The Maze of Delusion

The Arya made us understand
the curse of darker skin.
The patriot “knows” the foreign hand
is planting more of sin.

Oh foolish folk, now sit and count
the wages of your acts.
The greatest sinner now can mount
the throne and tout his “facts”.

******

How much of woe, how much of pain,
from racing through the maze!
We’ve injured self and soul again,
while caught in maya’s daze.

On looking back, we see that all
was done for no good reason.
So deep, this hole in which we fall
yet deeper, every season!

2017, April 22nd, Sat.
(translated May 12th, Sat.)
Brooklyn, New York

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https://www.facebook.com/madhusree.mukerjee/posts/1488465891211160 

https://www.facebook.com/arjun.janah/posts/10154561847215950

https://www.facebook.com/andrew.wickham.52/posts/10156083779321562
 

Our Greatest Enemies

    
Our Greatest Enemies 

I conferred with a local sage, to whom
I made complaints about the threats we face
from enemies.  But this is what he said.

“At times, our greatest enemies might be
ourselves.  And this is true of beings and
communities, of cities, nation states…

“A family can tear itself apart,
a neighborhood descend towards a hell,
an institution crumble from its weight.

“In civil wars, we murder neighbors, friends.
And our addictions are our lifelong jails,
in which we turn to mutilating selves.
   
“An entity that’s self-destructing can’t
withstand another’s blows that speed its death.
Defense begins with healing, first, ourselves.
 
“Oppression breeds resentments.  These will turn
to rubble every fort that serfdom builds.
So those who’re slavers might in time be slaves.
 
“Be vigilant towards yourself, far more
than towards another—yet be gentle, kind.
Who treats a being poorly must be blind.
 
“Reserve contempt for those whose evil is
unchecked by reason or remorse, but spare
the ones who err—as every being does.
 
“Look not abroad, nor look above for hope.
There’s hope in those around, though well concealed.
Begin with self—and nurture well that plant.

“And also do not judge, while ignorant,
the other tribes or nations.  Let them be.
Take care of what’s amiss, in where you live.”
  
******

I thanked him for his wisdom and I left.
But walking home I wondered why I’d gone
to hear this softie tell me all this shit.

Our enemies were real—Russia, China and Iran,
aligned to trick us and to do us in,
with dolts like Mr. Wise in government.

The current pope was none but Antichrist.
And Mexico was sending us their trash
that joined with Blacks to murder and to rape.

And I had enemies enough—at work,
among the neighbors—even family.
It’s best, I thought, to buy another gun.

*******

Our greatest enemies, I’d say, are those
who make believe we really haven’t any—
except, of course, our own benighted selves.

But those like me will keep their basements stocked
with ammunition, guns and more supplies
we'll need to deal with all our enemies.

They all are jealous of the things we have.
They hate our freedoms and despise our faith.
And that is why we've got to bomb Iran.

We need to exercise our force abroad
Before they get a chance to come at us.
We've nukes enough that we should put to use.

******

We've got to show the world that we are tough
And will protect our global interests,
So they had better never mess with us.

I'm hearing now the tape of his "advice".
The more I hear, the angrier I get.
I'll put the bastard's name and more online.

2015 July 21st Tue & 23rd Thu
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
---------------------------------------------------
  
Given the times we live in, I should state that the second half of this piece is satire.  Of course, some readers might say that of the first half.

Also, like all poems, this one, despite its imperfections, does need more than one quick reading.  Poems need some amount of reflection—not necessarily agreement, but comprehension and consideration.  I do realize that the times and pressures we live in may not be conducive to that.  
    
To some degree, poetry, like nature, by requiring or inducing this slowing down and reflection, can serve as an antidote to the speeding up we have been experiencing.  
  
This acceleration is a hallmark of commerce, especially of industry, which requires the worker to work at speed to produce maximum profit.  This attitude has been internalized by many of us, and shows itself in the impatience that often marks those who live or work in the cities.  I see this in myself and in those around me at work.
   
This hurry is, I believe, contrary to our own deeper nature and is detrimental to our survival and tranquility.  The mantra "Speed up. Time is money." perhaps needs replacing with "Slow down.  Life needs to be savored.  Attention needs to be paid."  
  
If more of us would follow this alternative, many of the unnecessary problems we face—from conflicts at home and in the workplace to those between nations, might be greatly reduced, along with all the suffering these bring about.  
  
Of course, it is difficult to stop in the midst of a stampede without getting trampled.  But if sufficient numbers slow down around us, beginning, perhaps, with ourselves, we might be able to enjoy a bit of sanity and attend more to the things that really need attending to.  

The lecture ends here.  ;-) You don't have to re-read my stuff.  Thanks for reading till here.  
  
Go in peace.  Shaantih.  Salaam.  Shalom.
        

Aenh (English version of Tuccho)

This is a free translation of the Bangla (Bengali) nonsense-poem, "Tuccho".

Aenh  

Arising in the dark, I went to the machine
And with its aid I looked for news of friends.
But finding only naught and nonsense there,
I then began to write these verses mad.

Some sit and calculate, as others sing.
Some rise at dawn to bathe and swim in ponds.
Some snore at noon, while others play at chess.
Some call out, “Momma!”  Others shout for “Dad!”

“Where’s the honey?  Say!” demands the bee.
I answer her, “It’s in the flower, sweet.”
The insects and the spiders rule.  We serve –
And look to them for all our sustenance.

There’s God, for whom the faithful sing.
But who is murdered, by the road, at noon?
Krishna hums, “The Christ has gone. Who’s left?”
The Buddha claims he’s Mahavir’s disciple.

In my knee – a sudden, piercing pain!
I cry out, “Daddy-oh!” and try a pickle.
Coitus, I’ve been told, is better yet.
But Shiva, when I ask him, answers, “Aenh!”

2014 April 1, Tue., 3:30 am
translated April 12th, 12:16 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  
Note:  The title, “Aenh”,  is my attempt at spelling a certain local nasal interjection. It is mainly used to dismiss a question or concern raised by another.  I have heard this sound at times, issuing, usually, from an older male, during my years at the schools in Brooklyn.  It matches in some ways (though not quite) the downward-flap hand gesture, signifying low regard or uselessness, that is prevalent among some of us desis (subcontinentals). 

This last gesture should not be confused with the twist and upward palm, "What's this?" or the sideways-flap dismissal that one also often sees, along with many other characteristic gestures of hand and eye, in parts of the subcontinent.  But the "aenh" of the Brooklynites and perhaps other Usans beats all of this as a perhaps irrevocable utterance of utmost disregard, tinged with disgust. It seems also to give vent to a world-weary cynicism that is both the antithesis and the inevitable companion of all the "drive and jive" that mark the United States. ;-)
 
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Here are some illustrations of the use of this device.

"What did you think of the valedictorian's speech?"
"Aenh."

"Do you think the newly arrived immigrant students, the ones who don't speak a word of English, will understand these instructions?"
"Aenh."

"How can we read and grade all these state exam papers in such a short time?"
"Aenh."

"Will the teachers have enough time to teach this curriculum if we lose one day each week?  And see, they're also going to drastically shorten the periods on Wednesdays to make time for the 'professional development' that the administration feels the more experienced teachers need.  How will the chemistry and other science labs work with the time reduced to 35 minutes, including set-up and take-down time?  What about safety violations? You know how some of the kids are.  How can we take time to prevent those when the students barely have time to rush through the lab?  Will they even have time to read the instructions? You know how some of them need help with this."
"Aenh."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
  
A more literal translation of the Bangla word, tuccho (Sanskrt tuccha), might perhaps be "unimportant", "insignificant", "inconsequential", "trifling", "held in low regard" or, in certain contexts, "contemptible".
  

A Hell on Earth

                
A Hell on Earth

We live in times, when all across the world
The people and their nations turn insane.
And some may say that this was always so,
But in our madnesses, there are degrees.

Wherever there are wars that do not end,
Wherever there is endless violence,
It’s clear that reason’s fled – and minds and hearts
Are sickened by a plague that feeds on men.

But even where the slaughter is far less,
At least of humans, in our cities, towns –
And even now in furthest villages,
Our evil scourges are alive and well.

For humans live as captive zombies might.
They run through hectic lives, in mindless haste,
Or fall in spells of utter, sad, despair
And even seek to exit life itself.

******
 
Amidst this madness, some might dare to say,
“Let's stop this thing, for this is cruelty,
A mad stampede that tramples those who’re frail
And those who pause to question or reflect.”

They're ridiculed or persecuted and
Are silenced soon enough by those who rush
To play the games that lead us all to hell.
The oven’s doors are closed to those within.

And in that oven, humans bake and burn.
They cannot think or speak, from murderous stress.
For even as we burn away the Earth
And all its species, so we murder selves.

So how, within this fatal fever, can
We find our peace, our bit of sanity?
Or is that mission too a sad defeat,
That lets the sickness work its evil more?

******
     
For if the nations and their peoples have
Been so possessed by madness that we turn,
To this, an eye that’s blind – and only seek
A shelter for our selves, then can this end?

Can Ms. or Mr. Lemming pause and yet
Remain alive?  Can nations not “progress”?
I do not know – and so I ask you this,
And pray you will not take it as remiss.

For wealth can never equal happiness,
And poverty is made by those who race.
And till we find the time and strength to ask
The questions that we don’t, this will not end.

But few have time – and even fewer, strength.
With workers squeezed, who still has leisure left?
And those retired, or those who’re affluent
Are either tired – or profit from the stress.

2013 Dec. 11th, Mon, 2:24 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
     

Never See the Light / Who's to Blame?

Never See the Light / Who's to Blame?

There are some, who'd change the planet. 
Those more humble, change themselves.
Of ourselves, we have some knowledge.  
We know little of the rest.
  
We can try to change what's local, 
Which are things of which we know.
Let the locals settle issues, 
As they know those issues best.

******
  
There is madness in the workplace, there is madness in the home.
Our children grow demented and our elders lose their minds.
And is this from calamity that Nature wrought – or war?
It's us.  We live in darkness, for we've shuttered all the blinds.

There is madness in our cities, and in places near and far.
We follow basest instincts – so a virtue is a vice.
And is this by an order that was given from above?
It's us.  We've turned so horrid, we've forgotten to be nice.

The positions that we're placed in, where there's little room for love,
Situations in the workplace, and the pressures on our kids,
They're the things that make for madness.  We are running in a herd,
And the ones who aren't running, they may end up in the skids.

So the soldiers in their battles, who will fight and die unheard,
They will slay the ones they're fighting, and will rarely question why.
They are following their orders and have lives that are at stake,
For the one, who ceases fighting, will be likeliest to die.

Are there exits from this madness?  Can we say, “It's a mistake!”?
Can the workers slow from working?  Can the soldiers cease to fight?
I do not know the answers to these questions, but I know,
That until we get the answers, we will never see the light.

So I'm asking you these questions, and I will not take a “No!
I do not wish to answer.  We are helpless in this game.”
For your life and mine are in it – and the children's, who are next.
If we do not ask or answer, then we know who is to blame.

For we each may do our duties, mind our business, not be vexed,
But the things that are unraveled, they won't ravel of themselves.
If we do not know the answers, we should seek for answers, or
The children will be saying that we only thought of selves.

*******
    
Let me pause awhile for breathing.  
Should I rage against what's crazed
Till I drive myself to madness 
And I leave you all enraged?
  
Let us pause to breathe -- and slowly.  
Can we right the local wrongs?
I shall leave you now to ponder -- 
Are we free -- or are we caged?

2013 October 20th, Sun.
Brooklyn 

Related Post:  The Small and Easy Lie
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/10/the-small-and-easy-lie.html 

Comments are welcome:  You can leave comments below.
      

Ted and Sarah – and Bachmann and Rhee

Ted and Sarah – and Bachmann and Rhee
    
I studied mathematics, science, seeking for the truth,
And traveled halfway 'round the world, to this, the U.S.A.,
Believing that I'd learn yet more, in verity's pursuit.
But after thirty-seven years, the truth is far away.

For here's a land, where people think that Jesus spoke in English,
The U.N.'s bent on world control, with helicopters black,
Obama is an atheist, a socialist, and Muslim,
And soon enough, their Jesus, speaking English, will be back.

And as for mathematics, science, although they still are extant,
These precious zones of sanity, in a world that's ruled by madness,
Are penetrated now by things, which are the opposites
Of reason, moderation, truth – as every day I witness.

And though we haven't brought back kings and slavery and serfdom,
And witches aren't being burned or devils exorcised,
You wouldn't know that from the things to which we've grown accustomed,
From which, returns of all those things might sadly be surmised.

Republicans would like us all to work until we die,
With others on the way to take our places on the cheap.
The Democrats throw workers bits and pieces of the pie,
While bowing deep to those who sit on dollars that they heap.

I've taught for twenty years and six in a borough close to Gotham,
And the madness of that city can be witnessed even here,
But the ones there with the power and the money and their “got 'em!”
Have no inkling about Brooklyn, even though it's sitting near.

There are those who speak for workers but have never labored much,
There are those who say they're patriots as they cheer for every war.
There are those who say, “The children!” but have never gobbled lunch
While staring at a clock, in sites where toilets may be far.

And I've seen the wars that issued from the ones who have the power,
The wars that were on lands afar and those within our borders.
And everywhere, the in-betweens could only die or cower,
For bosses knew that underlings obey, alas, their orders.

Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos, Indonesia,
Americas – South and Central, Granada and Panama,
Afghanistan, Somalia, Iraq, Afghanistan
Again – and Pakistan and Syria and Yemen...

So many wars, so many lives and nations blown asunder!
And even more of wars to come, for which McCains are thirsting.
More wars abroad, more wars within, with Klein and Rhee and Duncan
As generals, with Bloombergs and Obamas giving orders.
           



Michelle Rhee

   
We have had the War on Cancer and we've had the War on Drugs,
And they've each been so successful that we've wanted even more.
There's the War against the Terrorists, who once had been our thugs,
And the War against the Workers – but we've been through that before.

As a teacher, as a worker, I have seen it from below,
From the trenches, from the classrooms, where the feces from above
Have been landing, as the anuses are blasting ever more.
And yet, we are expected to be paragons of love.

Reformers and deformers – and they often are the same –
They fill us up with slogans, and we know that it's a game.
But we follow still our orders, and we rarely stop for shame,
And we're always on the lookout, for another one to blame!

What little do the powers, playing politics in D.C.,
Or the wealthy, in their penthouses in Manhattan,
Or Bloomberg, living mostly in Bermuda, know or care
About the ones who work – across the oceans – or the Hudson?

There's populism rising here, in this, the U.S.A.,
But mostly, it's the populism-right, of Sarah Palin,
That of Bachman, of Tea Baggers, of Rand Paul and Teddy Cruz,
With “Occupiers” ousted – and Obamacare for railing.
    

    
      

     

Congresswoman and former Presidential Candidate Michele Bachman
                                 

And the Empire, it is growing, though we've all been paying dear.
And the drones, they still are flying – and we find the N.S.A.
Has grown to be omniscient – a global eye-and-ear
That sees and hears what you and I are doing every day.

And tragedy has comedy embedded deep within,
And comedy is tragic when the jokers deal in death.
It's yang within the yin within the yang within the yin.
And so it was when Teddy and our saucy Sarah met.
             
 

Senator Ted Cruz and former Governor and Vice Presidential Candidate Sarah Palin
                
A boy meets a girl and a girl meets a boy,
And that's all there is in the end, it is said.
And there's whoopee and there's fighting – it's a pleasure, it's a joy,
Then there's babies  –  and at times, we may even think to wed.

Conservatives say Liberals are looser in their morals,
But Liberals say Conservatives, with money, are too tight.
And who is wrong and who is right, I leave for others' quarrels.
From both of them, I run away, when either heaves in sight.

On coming home from work, I saw a party on the street.
The beer was flowing freely, and the franks were roasting well.
And I could hear some singing – and, although it wasn't sweet,
It had a sort of rhythm – and a story, too, to tell.

“America, America – we mean the U.S.A.!
What matters it, if continents are named for this our land!
Our Mormons say that Jesus came and took our sins away.
We're red and white and blue!  What else is left to understand?

“Oh welcome, to the U.S.A., where you can earn your dollars.
And you'll never have enough of those, although you work your ass off!
And so, whatever be your hue, in politics or collars,
You'll fall for scams, as did the ones, who fell for Bernie Madoff!

“Our Limbaugh roars on radio, O'Reilly riles 'em daily!
Reality is distant, as the crazies lead the crazed!
Some nurse their dumbness dourly, while others flaunt it gaily,
And even though we're clueless, we blunder on unfazed!”

Rush Limbaugh and the flag

    

Bill O'Reilly,  intimidating

         
I heard – and hung my head awhile and trudged upon my way,
And thought, “There still are things to praise in this forsaken land,
For though it seems that blindness rules throughout the U.S.A.,
There still are those, of sanity, who see and understand."

But surely, long before we see again the light of dawn,
This night will darken even more – and karma, long in baking,
Will slowly rise and overflow, and all will then be gone
Of Empire and of posturing – in darkness of our making.

And who'll remember then our Ted, who'd mounted over Palin?
And who'll remember then Michele and others of her kind?
And will there be a Limbaugh – or O'Reilly with his railing?
Obamacare, we still might have – or still retain in mind.

2013 October 3rd Wed. morning, 4th night & 5th morning.
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

The Gallery of Ghosts

The Gallery of Ghosts

As we journey through our lives, we see
the ones, to whom we're bonded, pass away.
And so, in time, we each are left to walk
alone, within a gallery of ghosts.

And as we deal with loneliness and grief,
amidst the crowds – or trapped within our rooms,
we turn away from what the present brings,
reflecting on the ones, who now are past.

And some of us have duties still – to those
who're still alive, among the generations,
to animals or plants, vocations, self –
or jobs that keep us stressed, but occupied.

And some are thankful for those duties, which
return us to the present, even turn
us towards the future, rosy-hued or dark,
while others may resent intrusive tasks.

For some of us have given of ourselves
to those now passed, while they were still with us,
but others feel that they had fallen short
on duties then – and now must make amends.

And whether true or not, such matters are
decided by the self in solitude,
and as we walk within that gallery,
you'll see us then conversing, silently.

And surely, it's a shadow-play at best,
for how can we attend to those who're gone?
And yet, it seems they still can influence
the ones who live, remembering the dead.

2013 August 21st, Wed.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

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The Age of Packaging – Part II

       
The Age of Packaging – Part II 
             
in which the state of these United States (and perhaps of other countries) is described and reflected on, albeit with eye and mind of prejudice... 
           
The Age of Packaging is what we're in.
But there is more to say.  And we had thought
To leave that out, as it's dispiriting.
But pessimism has its uses, too.
So we shall venture now upon that road
And leave to you to follow us or not.

We shall endeavor now to wail a dirge,
With sordid details woven in that seem
To indicate the death was homicide –
Except that we're recounting the demise
Of what was left of sorry humankind,
And so, perhaps, it's suicide that fits...

And some of you, I'm sure, would disagree.
For soon, that dream we had, when realized,
Will let the village boy or girl access
The knowledge – and, perhaps, the wisdom – stored
And ever growing, of our human kind,
So all can use this – and can add to it.

And soon, that other aspect too
Of that same dream – that when their citizens
Converse – and see the others' sufferings,
The nations then might bomb and war no more –
This too, we hope, could be reality...

And that might be, but isn't yet, and those
Who're cynics – or are realists – might ask,
“When families and clans and villages
Resort to violence, can nations cease?”

And others yet, more hopeful, might reply,
“If provinces and cities find their peace,
And often do not care for race or creed,
Then nation-states may surely do the same,
Or else dissolve, in time, so men may move
About and do, what they have always done
To live, without the burdens of a state
Or nation or of empire on their backs.

“And as they talk, across the distances,
Their narrow prejudices then might yield
To broader vision, while what's local still
Is treasured, drawing vigor from the new.”

But all of this is dream and speculation.
We look around and view reality –
And though our sighting may be jaundiced, we
Perceive, that as before, each step we take,
Made possible by reason and by work,
Is then reversed – and all, that labor wrought,
Is turned around to deepen slavery.

This keeps us busy, as we need not be,
While even more distractions rise to cloud
Whatever vision gave us hope of clarity.

When life was simpler, and we ran with apes,
We cannot doubt that many still were caught
Within that web that beings weave, with selves
Emerging from that weaving, like those shapes
That close inspection sees are only threads
Of colors, magicked by embroidery.

But when that weaving too is done for us,
So we have even lost that freedom sole,
Then what remains, is to our ancient selves
As are the plastic prints to cloths of yore.

And so, while in the past one still might hope
To clearly see the woven self and so,
With gentle art, unravel all its knots,
What hope remains, when distant hands conspire
To tangle us so even gods despair?

And as we tire of all that comes our way –
In print or via copper, glass and through
The air itself, on oscillating fields,
We're even less inclined to look within
Those boxes black that run on magic code
That seems beyond our plebeian minds to ken,
To ask, from where the things that we consume
Have come – and how – whose labor was involved –
And whether what we're told by Congressmen,
By rabid ranters on the radio or
By salesmen – archetype of current age –
Is true or false.  A numbing apathy
Descends – and all we wish to sense
Are colors, sounds and titillations.  Pablums feed
Not only children, but our adults too.
We substitute, for facts, mythologies.

So all are turned to salesmen, pitching sales
Of goods and services and attitudes –
Plus wars, of course, as needed for the rest...
And all depends, at end, on packaging.

And only violence appears to wake
Our souls from somnolence.  We vent that rage
That stems from fear, frustration, ignorance.

We cannot see, through blinding prejudice.
We cannot hear the subtleties of tone,
With ears that have been blasted by the noise
That issues, amplified, from gadgets' mouths.
We gladly dance to tawdry piper's tunes
That lead us further into misery.

The package, when it's opened, then is seen
As having content that is clearly not
As we envisioned from the packaging.
So we're enraged, but rarely blame ourselves
Or even packagers, but someone else.

The system's rarely questioned much in depth,
By him, who is a modern fatalist,
Conditioned to be so, by all he's seen,
Despite the jive and all the packaging.

“A pinball game it is, this life,” he says,
And some will win, and hopefully, it's me,
But all of us are losers in the end.”

“So let us all consume, as best we can,
While running fast to earn, so we can spend,
Or if we're prudent, sock away that sum,
That's ever growing, for that future time
When we can either work no more or else
Are rich enough to finally relax.”

But then, too often, the unraveling:
The wealth has disappeared, along with health.
And what's now left is argument, divorce.
The dream's still distant. What is real, is debt.

And as with persons, so with larger realms.

“What happened?  This was not to supposed to be.
We cannot lose, for we're the winning kind.
It must be those and that and all the rest
That's come between us and the very best.”

And welcome, all, to world, as it's perceived
By optimists who flourish in the west
And surely, in our day, in east as well.
Mirages will be chased, as empires rise
And even as they fall to sordid death.

“So what, in this, is new?” you well might ask.
Our masses, long ago, to sheep were turned,
That did, as wolves-turned-herders, class of lords,
Commanded.  Violence was always used,
With law and church subverted for the ends
Of those who reigned and profited the most
From all the labor of the ones “below”.
This came to them along those feeding chains
That still exist.  But times have always changed,
With evils old acquiring newest names...

So now, it seems, the ones who do the best
Are those adept at selling, to the rest,
The products and the myths that propagate
And feed yet more the cancer that has spread
To all the globe, devouring all of life
And humankind itself.  For it's been found
That we've been numbed and dumbed enough to yield,
And gladly, to the art of packaging...

So commerce rules, as many had foretold,
And finance now is openly our king,
And as predicted, local business dies
As giants dominate the globe and run
Their races for resources, markets and
For humans, too, that robots can't replace.

And since so many care for price and show,
And little else, the jobs, to places go,
Where pay is least, conditions often worst.

And labor thus gets cheaper by the day
And yet must face replacement by the ones
Who need no wages, pensions, benefits,
Nor even sleep nor pause from constant toil,
But clank and whir – or function silently.

So many now are jobless. There's no land
Or village to return to.  Others strive
To join their ends – and work themselves to death.
Yet others thrive – or else make do on what
The race throws up – or government largess.

The ties of village and of clan are lost.
Traditions, cultures dissipate and die.
While some may celebrate the evils gone,
Some others see that evils new have come,
With horrors often even greater, yet
So packaged that they tempt unwary souls
And snare them in the nets they can't escape.

What once was virtue, now is seen as vice.
And newer vices rise, as virtues hailed...
So soul departs, with all of substance lost,
And all that's left is lust and violence.

There's more today of entertainment, food,
But less, by far, of depth and quality,
And dare we say, of plain humanity.
We live and die on “bread and circuses”.

The children are corrupted.  Innocence
Is quickly lost, impatience, shallowness,
Suspicion celebrated, trust misplaced,
Sincerity misunderstood, abused...

And yet, on all of this, the marketers
Are able still to put a glossy sheen,
As we can see in plastic packaging...

We do not know, what misery's behind
The food we eat, the clothes we wear, our drugs,
And all that we so willingly consume.
But there are those who suffer.  Yet we're told
They do so willingly – or else, it's God,
Who has ordained they serve our endless wants. 

And if we're scolded for this painting dark
That spreads the shadows, at expense of light,
And does not show the ones who benefit
From all that vision, driving labor, wrought,
We answer, “Surely, of those things, you've heard
Enough.  Discern advances genuine
From those that are yet more of packaging.

“Remember, we are beasts of local scope.
The more the distance is, the more the chance
Of scams.  To pipers, near or distant, do
Not dance – or if you do, step carefully...

“And open, if you can, the packaging.”

2013 August 4, Sun.
(additions made August 10, Sat.)
Brooklyn
   
The Age of Packaging -- Part I
    

Trayvon

Trayvon
    
If you happen to be saddled
With a skin that isn't pink,
You should watch where you are going,
For it's not, as you might think.

You might say, “There is Obama,
There was Powell right before...”
But you'd better sit and listen.
There are things that you should know.

If you're followed as you're walking,
Returning from the store,
Pretend that it is nothing
Or you might regret it sore.

If you're followed by a driver,
As you're walking on the street,
Remember, keep on walking.
In this battle, best retreat.

If you try to go where drivers
In their vehicles, can't follow,
Skedaddle then – and faster,
If you see, behind, the feller.

You might think that by accosting
Or by challenging the guy,
You might still escape the torture,
But you really shouldn't try.

If you dare to try and fight him,
Then you know you might be killed.
So try to keep on walking,
For your color is your guilt.

If you're lying there and murdered
Then your mother, she might cry,
And your father, he might mumble,
“Tell me Jesus, tell me – why?”

But they'll let the one who murdered
Go back home and keep his gun.
You should never dream of fighting.
If you're followed, simply run.

You might think they still might get you,
But at least you've got a chance.
But you won't be having any
If you stick around to dance.

You may feel your life is threatened –
That he'll shoot you if you flee.
But you'd better still be running,
Or you simply may not be.

So listen to me close, son,
However strange I sound.
And even if you're cornered,
Never – ever – stand your ground!

I hope that you've been hearing.
Be a coward, never fight.
For though there is Obama,
See your color?  That ain't right.

2013 July 22nd, Mon.
Brooklyn
 

Befuddled / Great and Grand

Befuddled / Great and Grand
  
I saw a man, with a belly large,
And I wondered why, by fate,
I'd chanced to meet, on my evening walk,
With a person who was great.

And next – a woman, wide of hip,
With buttocks rolling high...
And seeing such a lady grand,
I asked, of Fortune, “Why?”

But then, next morning, I espied
A gent of tiny size.
And so I knew, what one day gives,
The next, in turn, denies.

But on that eve, I saw a dame
Whose size was average.
And where she fitted, in the scheme
Of things, I couldn't gauge.

And puzzled as to what this meant,
I lifted hands to sky,
“You've sent me great and grand and small
And average – but why?

A woman, walking by my side,
A man of muscle eyed.
She oohed at chest and biceps big.
“Magnificent!” she sighed.

Was height or girth or weight the crux
That merits “great” or “grand”?
This matter deep, that worried me,
I wished to understand.

I dallied at the library
And looked up those who're "great".
I found that despots, so are named,
Who mayhem, most, create.

2013 July 9th, Sun.
Brooklyn

Death

 
Death

The casket's sealed – and then is lowered down.
The homilies and prayers now are done.
The flowers wilt and then are thrown away.
So one plus one gave one – and equaled naught...

So some may weep and wail at funerals,
And others there may stand and quietly talk,
As others gossip, even laughing loud.
And some may sit in silence, lost in thought...

But as the days go by – and months and years,
The ones who smiled may then shed bitter tears.
And those, whom death had left disconsolate,
May find that they've been healed by balms of time.

And others, who sat silent or were terse,
Might now expound, in speech or prose or verse,
And though unreason seems to drive the world,
May find, in death, a reason – or a rhyme.

2013 June 26th, Wed.
Brooklyn
 

Said a 'Ghandi' to a 'Ghurka'

Said a 'Ghandi' to a 'Ghurka'

Said a 'Ghandi' to a 'Ghurka',
“Our names have been misspelled.
It's a pity that we suffer as
These myths are not dispelled.

“For the eitches are not bidden
To be followers of gees.
There are eitches that are after kays
And eitches after dees.”

“So it's 'Gandhi' and its 'Gurkha',
And that's the written truth.
It's the way that we are spoken,
And our spelling follows suit.

“For their English isn't English
As it used to be before
Their Empire had included
The Indians and more.

“So their eitches may be silent
When they follow after gees.
But they'd better not be quiet
When they follow kays and dees.

“So it's 'Dhaka' now, not 'Dacca',
And it was always 'Noakhali'.
And the 'Khalistan' that wasn't
Was not named for goddess Kali.

“And if they were to travel
To the Ghats of east or west,
If they left their “Gats” behind them,
Thay would find it would be best.

“For the eitches that are standing
After gees may be announced,
As they once were done in English
That was thoroughly pronounced.

Said the Gurkha who'd been silent,
To the Gandhi who was not.
“I've a khukri here to silence
All the ones, who hear you not.

“For I know there was a Gandhi
Who was all for that ahimsa,
But when it comes to using eitches,
We are calling for some himsa!

“For we're sure that there'd be riots
If the Scots were robbed of lochs.
So should Gurkhas then be mangled,
Or be packaged in a box?
 

"Yes we know their ears can't hear it,
But they still should write it right.
For if they continue this,
We'll be looking for a fight!

“For we're sure they wouldn't like it
If we wrote the Thames as 'Tamhes',
Although the eitch is silent,
As it also is in 'Tomhas'.

“And if we wrote 'a bhoroug'
Or we wrote of  'gosths and goulhs',
Then some might laugh, but others
Would tell us, 'There are rules!'

“There's a gherkin, but we're Gurkhas,
So they'd better learn to spell –
Or they'll be joining all the murkhas
Who've a special place in hell!”

2013 June 15th, Sat.
Brooklyn

Notes

The Gurkhas are an ethnic group in Nepal and adjoining parts of India.  They earned a reputation as fierce warriors in the British Indian Army, being used in in WW2 against the Germans in North Africa and in savage battles against the Japanese in Asia.  The Gurkha soldiers were allowed to carry a traditional weapon, the sturdy, curved machete called the khukri. (This is pronounced, by most Nepalese, either as spelled here or, more often, as "khukuri".  Unfortunately, it is usually spelled as kukri in English texts.)

  

The Sanskrit word ahimsa (usually pronounced “ahingsha”) has been rather loosely translated as “non-violence” but is more accurately a state of mind, with himsa (“hingsha”) being its opposite – being the state of mind that harbors or nurtures highly negative emotions and thoughts against others.  Such a state of mind may be conducive to unkind words and acts and may even result in unnecessary violence.

The Eastern and Western Ghats (literally, “steps”) are the coastal hill ranges of peninsular India.

Dhaka (once spelled 'Dacca') is, of course, the populous capital of Bangladesh.  Noakhali is a southern, riverine district of that country.

Secessionist Sikhs in India were once calling (and fighting) for a “Khalistan” in the Indian half of the Punjab ( the land of five rivers -- Panj-ab -- in Persian).  This was conceived of as a “pure land” for the Sikhs. (The Farsi word ab is cognate to the Latin aqua, as panj is to the Greek penta.)

The Sikhs, being monotheists, are usually far from being followers of the Hindu goddess Kali, who is still worshiped widely in Bengal and adjoining regions of eastern India – as well as in places elsewhere, being an ancient, pre-Aryan deity, as was Shiva.  Both were assimilated, to some degree, into the Hindu-Aryan  pantheon, with Kali/Durga being central to the Shaktas and Shiva to the Shaivites.  

The two are seen interlocked in mithuna (coitus) as Shiva-Shakti in some temple sculptures. 

Similar figures, often of much fiercer mien, may be seen in the metal sculptures of the Tantric form of Buddhism that found its way to Tibet.

Kali may have possible connections to the “Black Madonna” of the Mediterranean region, still worshiped furtively by a next-door neighbor of mine (an aged southern-Italian woman)  in the Bensonhurst area of Brooklyn, New York, where I have lived for close to thirty years.

The Sanskrit word murkha is loosely used to mean  “fool/idiot/moron/imbecile/unlettered”.  But its proper meaning may be “ignorant, unlearned, unwise”.
 
 

The Way It Is

The Way It Is

The world is full of madness, cruelties –
And people seem oblivious and proceed.
They pay attention to the petty things
But either can't or will not see beyond.

It may be blindness, callousness or fear,
Necessity or duties that prevent
Our seeing or our acting as we would
If eyes and conscience stayed in good repair.

We can't be saints or martyrs, every one,
But if the ones, who know the right from wrong,
Are silent, then the ones, who don't, prevail.
The sins excused become “the way it is”.

How hard it is to go against the flow,
To speak or act, when others will not join.
The emperor parades without his clothes,
And “adults” have the “sense” to smile and bow.

How many zealots have we suffered from,
Jihads, crusades and endless “wars against”,
Exterminations of the ones who're meek,
Intimidations of the ones who speak?

Competing with the zealot is the lord,
Who thrives from greed, corruption, violence,
Whose hired thugs extract the pound of flesh –
Who yet assumes, with time, the throne “divine”.

Oh pity us, this wretched human race,
That's cannibal and feeds upon itself.
Our wolves can prey at leisure on our sheep,
Who strive to see that errant ones obey.

And yet, amidst the cruel madness, see,
There still are islands left of sanity.
There's duty, love and silent sacrifice.
There's kindness left – and there's sincerity.

For every ten, who say, “That's how it is.”
There's one, who says, “That's not how it should be.”
For every one, who seeks for fame and wealth,
We've ten, who labor cheap and namelessly.

2013 May 30th, Thu.
Brooklyn