Isolation

  
Isolation
 
We live on islands that are now connected
By pulses coursing swiftly through the lines—
Yet still, in much that matters, disconnected,
As fear and distance carve dividing lines.
 
So what was joined—and one—is split in two
And then in even more of pieces. These
Are pushed and pulled apart, as in-between
The chasms fill with ever-growing seas.
 
We spend our leisure time on mobile phones—
As work consumes the lives of those with jobs.
What time is left for looking in the soul
Or feeling in the heart that quietly throbs?
 
We seek to bridge the gulfs of distance, time—
And realize, too late, how hard that is.
And meanwhile, we neglect the ones nearby,
Who need the time for just a bit of bliss.
 
We each need solitude at times, but not
This fragmentation of the parts. The whole
Is part of what we are. A leaf that's plucked
Will shrivel. So, the isolated soul.
 
2022, June 13^th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
 

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.
  

Needs

 
Needs
 
The things that humans build and make,
in cities, factories—these
are often wasteful, monstrous and
disturbing to the soul.

And so we need the open space,
with sky—and water, earth,
and all the hues and sounds and scents
that heal and make us whole.
 
We need the plants, we need the beasts—
we need the rest of life.
We need the clouds, the rain and snow,
we need the open sky.
 
We need the dawn, we need the dusk,
we need the arcing sun.
We do not need to speed to work
and back—to race and run.
 
******
 
We need the curve of hill and branch,
the flow of water, wind.
With quadrants and with walls, we’ve penned
ourselves and we have sinned

against this world and all that lives
and all that gave us birth,
and all that still sustains this life
upon this whirling Earth.
 
We need the whispers of the winds,
the gurgling of the streams,
and all the softer sounds we heard
that soothed us in our dreams.
 
We need to savor what we do—
to labor slow, with love.
We do not need the overseer
who drives us from above.
 
******
We need the brightness of the day,
we need the heat and cold.
We need the darkness of the night,
we need the moon and stars.
 
We need to learn, we need to teach,
to care for young and old.
We do not need the speed, the din,
the factories and the wars.
 
We need to find or grow our food,
to spin and weave the string.
We need to feel, beneath our feet,
the earth, the grass, the moss…
 
We need to talk and touch and kiss,
we need to dance and sing.
We do not need to bend the knee
or bow to lord or boss.
 
2016 October 22nd, Sat., 1:47 am
Bensonhurst Park, Brooklyn, New York

  

Stay Awhile

Stay Awhile
 
I’m grateful that you came and I
Am sorry that you’ll go.
But good things always have an end—
And this I’ve come to know.

So when it comes to say goodbye,
We’ll wave to one another.
So did I once to my sister and
My father and my mother.

And once I had a spouse but now
I’m left myself, alone.
I now depend on strangers, since
It rarely rings—that ‘phone.

And so, I deal with those, with whom
Connections still are slight.
And some do wrong, while others try
To do what seems is right.

Don’t leave me to their mercies yet,
But stay with me awhile.
It’s good to hear your voice again,
It’s good to see your smile.

At times, I tried to think  ahead,
But fled to safer ground.
For I could see, where I would be
If I was still around.

But now, I'm here, as I had feared,
And so I fear no more.
I live—and day by day I bear
Whatever is in store.

And so I know how it will be,
As days and months go by,
And even years, until it's time
To close my eyes and die.

The seasons, they will come and go,
But all I’ll see is walls,
And not the sky and sun and clouds
Or rain or snow that falls.

They’ll wall me in, within a room,
With the TV as a friend,
And wheel me out, in summertime
Or when I meet my end.
 
But so it is, and so will be.
And what are we to do?
But stay awhile and chat, my friend,
So I can smile at you.

2016 April 12th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York 
   

In the Gray

In the Gray
  
In the gray that marks the winters
Of the coastal polar climes,
I’ve wandered on deserted streets
And mouthed my dismal rhymes.

In the silences of holidays,
I’ve passed by windows lit,
Conversing with my lonesome self,
With remnants left of wit.

And so it is with exiles
And so it is with those
Who’re born to die in prisons
Or live in those they chose.

We humans are a social lot—
And wounded loners need
Some company to soothe their souls,
So healing can proceed.
 
How many days and weeks and months
And even scores of years
We humans bear, removed from those
For whom we shed our tears?

In the gray that marks the winters
Of the lands towards the poles,
The migrants gain their living, while
They slowly lose their souls.

There is light and there is darkness.
There is evil, there is good.
And then—there is the grayness
That blurs what’s understood.

  

So we wander in our limbos
In the foggy shades of gray
And we wonder how it happened
That we lost, alas, our way.

“...and deliver us from evil.” 
In the school that I attended,
We would say this in the morning
And again when classes ended.

But we never said a prayer
That said, “Save us from the gray.”
In my dotage, still in exile,
I should say this every day.

2015 December 26th, Sat. 12:51 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York 
  

Dawn and Dusk

Dawn and Dusk  
  

Seven Arriving at Bliss, 2008 Jan.
https://todayeye.wordpress.com/category/elevated-subway/

The sunset and the sunrise—these are times
when the changing light appears to touch
the swirls within us.  So our moods can rise
and ebb, like ocean tides, with light and dark.

For most of us, the vision of the dawn
awakens hope and gives us strength to strive.
But when the sun is setting, then we sense
emotions darker, and we turn within.

And so this waxing and this waning is
a dance that weaves its way among the rest,
as yang and yin and day and night entwine
to make the fabric that we know as self.
 
We fear the dark, for we were once the prey,
descended from the trees, who could not see
the predators that woke to hunt at dusk.
And being apes, we still revive with dawn.

******

But now the workplace and the home are lit
when night has fallen on the land and sea.
We cannot see the stars, the galaxy,
behold the planets, catch the meteor’s streak…

And oftentimes, we never see the sun—
because we run to work before it climbs,
and venture back at dusk or later still—
while those on night-shifts sleep their days away.

******

Can we escape our natures that were built
through ages when we lived beneath the sky?
Can we adapt to be like bats that climb
at dusk from caves to forage through the night?

I do not know.  We’re plastic, we can flow.
We venture where no other beings go.
And yet our genes and instincts still remain.
To alter these, we need the centuries.

So when I could, I tried to greet the dawn
and view the dusk, with self as offering.
Alas, I now but rarely see the stars
and only in the summers feel the sun.

And so, I’ve lost, with others, much of that
which woke the life and soothed the soul in turn.
I'll try again to meet with dawn and dusk,
so I can be what I was meant to be.

Queensboro Plaza Sunset, seen from the elevated 7 line, 2008 Jan.
https://todayeye.wordpress.com/category/elevated-subway/page/2/

2015 August 6th, Thu. (first four stanzas)
& August 9th, Sun. (last six stanzas)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
   

Childless

 
Childless

There’s a loneliness, an emptiness, within the little flats,
For they’ve never had the children – no little angel-brats,
No pattering of little feet, no bawling in the night…
The occupants are getting old – and something’s not aright...
 
But now, alas, it’s far too late – they each are weighted down
By worries, cares and aging’s tolls – like others in their town.
And so it is around the world, as childless people age –
As singles or in twos and threes – and slowly, limits gauge.
 
“So who will care for her,” he thinks, “when I am dead and gone?
And what to do with what I’ve done – to whom to pass it on?
My cousins far away, who’re now unsteady on their feet –
They’re childless too…” He worries, while conceding the defeat.
 
But those who’ve had their offspring, labored hard and given years
To feed them, tend them, teach them, shedding blood and sweat and tears –
They wonder where their children are, who’re often far away…
And so December comes to all, who dallied once in May...

The birds and beasts are substitutes, and work that fills the day,
And in the night, on waking, thoughts that take them far away...
A wondrous world we live in, where we procreate or not,
And all we do returns to where it came and we're forgot...
   
2014 October 18th, Sat.
(last stanza added 19th, Sun.)
Brooklyn, New York
  

টের (T'er–Sense/Perception–translation of Presence)

      
This is a translation into Bangla (Bengali) of the poem Presence .
The version in the traditional script follows directly below.  After
that, there is a Roman transcription.  A summary of the transcription
scheme, serving as a guide to the pronunciation, can be found at
Bharot Xadhin.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
টের

কোনো এক শহরের অন্তরে, কোনো এক দপ্তর-বাড়ির ভিতরে বন্দী হয়ে,
কখনো আঁধারে দাঁড়িয়ে দেখেছি দূরে জানালার অলো৷
আলোর টানে চলেছি তার দিকে, জানালা দিয়ে তাকিয়ে দেখেছি – আকাশ৷
জানি না কি কারনে, তাই দেখে জুড়িয়েছে মন৷

কর্ম-জিবনের আঁকা-বাঁকা রাস্তা দিয়ে, কখনো বনপথে,
তবে বেশিরভাগ শহরের ফুটপাথে চলেছি আমি৷
নগরের অলিগলির ময়লা  থেকে, যেখানে আইন-বেআইন সাথি, ডেকেছে আমায়
দূরে দেখা উর্দ্ধ আকাশ, হাওয়াতে দোলানো গাছ৷

জানালার পাসে দাঁড়িয়ে, অথবা কাজের শেষে ক্লান্ত হয়ে বাড়ির পথে হেঁটে,
গাছের পাতার নাচ দেখেছি, শুনেছি তাদের রব৷
কিছুক্ষন থেমে, দেখে, শুনে, আমি পেয়েছি তখন সেটার টের,
যেটা মাটি ও আকশের মাঝে বয়েছে চিরকাল৷
 
প্রত্যেক জীব, রয়েছে এই জগত-ধারায়৷ জোযার-ভাটা-স্রোত
বয়েছে মন-হৃদয়-শরীরে, ঘসে-মেজে রেখেছে তাদের পরিষ্কার৷
তবে যখন আমরা একলা হয়ে পড়ি, সেই স্রোতের থেকে বিচ্ছিন্ন হয়ে,
ভূত-প্রেত আমাদের ধরে বসে তখন, জ্বালিয়ে পাগল করে দেয়৷

প্রাসাদে রাজা, কারাগারে কয়েদি৷ শ্রমিক তার ঘুপ্চিতে খাটে৷
এরা প্র্ত্যেকে বেঁচে থেকেও মৃত হয়ে চলে৷
একলা বন্দী রেখে করেছ যাকে অসুস্থ, পাগল –
ছেড়ে দেও তাকে বন-জঙ্গলে৷ যদি সে বাঁচতে পারে, সেরে উঠবে সেখানে৷
    
ইহুদী নববর্ষ: বৃহস্পতিবার, ২৫-এ সেপ্টেম্বর, ২০১৪ খ্রিষ্টাব্দ
নতুন য়র্কের ম্যানহাটানের চীনে পাড়ায়, ডাক্তারের অফিসে
(ইংরেজী থেকে বাংলায় অনুবাদ: শনিবার, ২৭-এ সেপ্টেম্বর)
    
 --------------------------------------------------------------------
  
T`er (translation of Presence)

Kono e`k xo`horer o`ntore, kono e`k do`ptor-bar’ir bhetore bondi hoe,
Kokhono a~dhare dar’ie dekechi dure janalar alo.
Alor t’ane colechi tar dike, janala die takie dekechi – akax.
Jani na ki karone, tai dekhe jurieche mon.

Ko`rmo-jibo`ner a~ka-ba~ka rasta die, ko`khono bono-po`the,
To`be bexir-bhag xoho`rer-phut’pathe colechi ami.
No`gorer oli-golir mo`ela theke, jekhane ain-be-ain xathi, d’ekeche amae
Dure de`kha urdho akax, haoate dolano gach.

Janalar paxe dar’ie, o`thoba kajer xexe, klanto hoe, bar’ir po`the he~t’e,
Gacher patar nac dekhechi, xunechi tader ro`b.
Kichukkhon theme, dekhe, xune, ami pe-echi to`khon xetar t’er,
Jet’a mat’i o akaxer majhe boeche cirokal.

Prottek jib, roeche ei jo`got-dharae. Joar-bhat’a-srot
Boeche mon-hrido`e-xorire, ghoxe-mejhe rekeche tader porixkar.
To`be jo`khon amra e`kla hoe pori, xei sroter theke bicchinno hoe,
Bhut-pret amader dhore bo`xe to`khon, jalie pagol kore de`-e.

Praxade raja, karagare ko`edi.  Sromik tar ghupcite khat’e.
Era protteke be~ce thekeo mrito hoe co`le.
E`kla bondi rekhe korecho jake o`xusto, pagol –
Chere dao take bon-jo`ngole. Jodi xe ba~cte pare, xere ut’thbe xekhane.

ihudi  no`bobo`rxo:  brihoxpotibar, 25-e sept’embar, 2014 khrixt’abdo
notun ior`ker me`nhe`t’an-diper cine par’ae, d’aktarer o`phixe
(ingreji theke banglae onubad: xonibar, 27-e sept’embar)
 
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------    
The above is a translation into Bangla (Bengali) of the poem Presence.  
The version in the traditional script is at the top. Following that, there is 
a Roman transcription. A summary of the transcription scheme, serving 
as a guide to the pronunciation, can be found at  Bharot Xadhin.
  

The Presence

  
The Presence
 
When trapped within a building, in the innards of a city,
I’ve seen, afar, a window – and, attracted by the light,
I’ve walked up to that window – and looked out at the sky.
And that for me was healing, although I knew not why.
 
In past peregrinations, in the course of work and life,
I’ve wandered in the wilderness, but mostly in the cities.
And while in urban gullies, where the laws abetted crime,
The trees and sky would beckon, as I mucked about in grime.
 
And pausing by a window – or while trudging home at dusk,
I’d see the tree-leaves moving – or I’d hear them rustling low.
And pausing then and looking – or listening to the sound,
I’d sense again that presence that links the sky to ground.
  
We’re each a part of Nature.  The tides and currents flow
Through minds and hearts and bodies.  They scour these vessels clean.
But when we’re isolated, from Nature and from men,
We’re each beset by demons and grow demented then.
  
The king within his palace, the prisoner in the jail,
The worker in her cubicle – can know a living death...
You can drive a man to madness, if you lock him in a cell.
Release him in the forest.  If he lives, he’ll soon be well.
 
2014 September 25th, Thursday (Jewish New Year)
Doctor’s office, Chinatown, Manhattan
----------------------------------------------------------------------- 
  
For a translation into Bangla (Bengali), please
see টের (T'er–Sense/Perception)
   

Loneliness

  
Loneliness

Loneliness, oh loneliness, you spawn of isolation,
How many find you empty, bleak, a field of desolation…
   
And few can last for long without some company of sorts,
At very least, the sky above, with all its changing shows,
Or for the ones, who’re blind, the sound of water, wind and life,
The scents and textures of the world, the tastes upon the tongue…
 
Yet some must live within the walls, confined to just a room
That shelters from the elements but also is a prison.

In the city, bustling, full of busy-ness and strife,
Amidst the hustle and the rush, you’ll find the unemployed,
And only they can fully feel the madness of the city,
Where strangers pass without a word, and even in an office,
A working lifetime well may pass with just a “Hi, hello.”

“Goodbye!” we say, in such a way, it’s robbed of all its meaning. \1
Yet only God, for those of faith, is with them as they leave.

Loneliness, oh loneliness, your beauty may be hidden,
But those who look will see it, when that looking is unbidden.
We’re born and live and die alone, amidst the company,
And so to loneliness alone we’re wedded, till the end.

2014 July 23rd, Wed,
Brooklyn, New York
  
1. "God be with you.",  "Allah/bhagwaan tere saath rahe."
    "Khuda hafiz.", etc. were meant to convey a deep emotion.
    The urban "goodbye", is increasingly used, instead, as a 
     dismissal.
   
 

Bleakness and Bliss

      
Bleakness and Bliss
  

Doodle-006

    
“Me and my loneliness…” a sister once wrote,
Phrasing her thoughts in the words that I quote.
They struck me, on reading. They stay with me still.
I try, with my verses, that vacuum, to fill…

Gotama the Buddha did methods devise
To merge with the silence, in ways that are wise.
And yet, we are lonely – and emptiness dread.
We try to be busy – until we are dead.

“Me and my loneliness…” a sister had written,
Expressing her mood in a manner unbidden.
She wrote this as prose – but the best of my verse
Is bested, by far, by those syllables terse.
  
******
   
If “Who is this sister?” is a question you ask,
Her privacy, then, with a riddle, I’ll mask.
Rhythm – her name.  In the heart of the atom,
She probes.  (“It’s for knowledge…” said Ava to Adam.)

All of our science and all of our art,
My verses of nuance, resembling a fart,
All in their total are bupkis to this –                               \1
“Me and my loneliness…” – bleakness and bliss...

Today, to the reader, I’m writing again.
But why I am writing, I cannot explain.
You with your loneliness, I with what’s mine…
In the eyes of a puppy, the essence divine…
  
2014 July 16th, Wed.
(last stanza added July 19th)
Brooklyn, New York
  
1.  bupkis:  nothing, worthless – a word, probably of
Yiddish origin, used by New Yorkers and others; also
spelled bupkus, bupkes, bubkes.
   

Morning and Evening

  
Morning and Evening
 

Sunrise

  














There’s early morning, beautiful,
With little birds that sing.
The light of dawn is that of hope,
As dreams can then take wing.

For what the night had conjured, then,
To realize, we try,
As long as we have bodies, minds,
On which we can rely.

There’s morning, noon and afternoon.
And then comes evening – slowly,
Nearer to the planet’s poles –
And swiftly in the tropics.

But sunset and the dusk are times,
Whatever be the clime,
When life, diurnal, starts to slow,
Approaching sleeping time.

A wave, that’s crested, then subsides
And hollows down to trough.
So also, sanguine humors now
Decline – we’ve strived enough.

So evening is a time to pause,
Reflect – and feelings, sad,
Are now expressed, as these replace
The brighter ones we’ve had.

As the sun’s decline, departure serves
To mime a mortal’s end,
At sunset, birds and humans seek
To turn – and homewards wend.

And species, social, then expect
To meet with friends and kin,
To share what each has gathered. Yet,
For many, no one' s in.

To empty rooms, we now return
To meet with loneliness.
And that, perforce, we try to do –
And so we all “progress”.

But even this, to many, is
By circumstance, denied.
They sleep by day and work at night,
As shifts are multiplied.

And some there are, who choose this life
For reasons of their own.
The light bulb makes it possible.
Accustomed, we have grown.

But light bulbs surely aren’t sun,
Which we, diurnal, need.
Illnesses, of body, mind,
Our modern habits feed.

Like birds, we humans are attuned
To beats of night and day,
But now we move to other drums –
From ancient rhythms stray.

And when we do, we pay a price
That cannot be avoided.
The legacy of eons past
May not be lightly voided.

Our daily rhythms, by the sun,
Our monthly, by the moon,
Through all our wanderings, were set.
They will not leave us soon.

And if we try to fight with these,
In webs, we feel enmeshed.
But if, with these, we can comply,
We feel alive, refreshed.

There’s sunrise, bright and beautiful,
That bids us to arise.
But then there’s sunset – solemn, sad,
That warns us to be wise.

Sunset in Goa, India

So yang and yin do work in us,
As we are cycles, all.
With us, as with the yearly round –
There’s spring – and there is fall.

2014 January 1st, Wed, 3:20 am
Skyway Dhaba, Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
(stanzas 8—12 & final added Wed. afternoon)

Note:  Click on the images to see them in their original sizes.  Click on the background to return.
  

Kaler Phondi

Kaler Phondi

Nodir dhare, chaeae boxe, jhilik dekhechi jo`ler,
Bo`rxa kale, xunechi dure kalo megher dak.
Karkhanate korechi cakri, xunechi go`rjon ko`ler.
Jo`njale xexe ahar khu~ji, t’hokrae kager jha~k.

Dupur be`lae, gache ut’he, per’echi peara, am.
Pata bhenge, xu~khechi to`khon brikkher xugo`ndho.
Xo`horer base, xu~khechi po`re dizel dhoa, gham.
Pulix theke pet’ani khe-e, karagare hoechi bo`ndo.

Cher’echi ga~e, poe`xar kho~je, xo`kol poribar.
Pe-echi cit’hi, ke~dechi dukkhe, roechi kajer bondi.
Pat’hiechi t’aka, maxer xexe, khet’e khet’e protibar,
Hariechi tobu, xo`bare ami – ei to kaler phondi.

Moner dukkhe, baki kichu t’aka d’obai xexe xo`b,
Pagol hoe, kajer xexe, nexae khu~ji mukti.
Nexar ghume, mrito priyo exe ko`re ko`loro`b.
Nexa cher’e, matha khure, xuni xei ba~car jukti.

******

Mone po`re bar-bar, jo`nmo jekhane.
Trene-base bhabi kal phirbo xekhane.
Bhexe jae maxgulo, boe jae bo`chor,
Kho`motar bhat’a axe – mojdur kator.

Ja kichu, gheme, kori tao rojkar,
Co`le na tate ar, kho`roc ajkar.
Ki kori, hae!  Phirbo ki dexe?
Chai hoe, nodi die phire jabo xexe…

Ei bhebe, cher’e di cakri o maena.
Tao dekhi, xo`b cher’e, xanti-t’a paina.
Gho`r theke rastae – bhik mangi khidete.
Khali pet’e durbo`l – xue pori mat’ite.

Pulix exe lathi mare, mare jore d’and’a.
Har gulo ge`lo bhabi.  Rat bo`ro t’hand’a.
Xonar ei banglae, hirer juger cihnno –
“Kaj kho~jo!” bo`le e`k, do`ea-maea bhinno.

Xombar, 30e  D’isembar, xo`kal 3:10
Benso`nharst’, Bruklin, Niu Io`rk
 

Monua in Boston (revised)

Monua  in Boston (revised)

My sister told me how, in her college days,

She’d traveled from South Hadley, a satellite

Of Amherst town, to busy Boston, where,

One winter’s eve, she waited for a bus –

And everyone that passed by, in that cold

And sullen night, seemed wrapped in such a fog

That none could see through it.  For each was trapped,

It seemed to her, within a private hell.

How much of this was she, and how much they,

Those strangers, passing, in that urban cold,

My sister – born to sun, of sky and heart,

I do not know – for this, she did not tell.

But what she saw were tense expressions – frowns,

That lack of recognition, which our towns

Impose on those who yield.  And this extends

To all around, as if all else were dead.

But this much, I can now surmise, with sight

That I then lacked – that she perhaps was wise,

From isolations that I’d never known,

And so could see, how troubled were those souls,

So locked within themselves – and round and round

In endless circles of frustration bound,

With self consuming self, without an out

From friendship, love, or care for what’s without…

It is this isolation – the living grave

Of urban life within efficient towns,

Where human contact and affections are

Redundant – where so many daily live

As jackals lone, whom Nature made as dogs –

That leads, I think, to higher suicide rates

In Scandinavia, where the Vikings live

In indoor warmth, in winters cold and dark.

They lack, perhaps, that rawest sustenance

That humans give, to others of their kind,

By their demands and their annoying ways

Which draw us out of selves – and into sun.

And if we see this, in the truest light,

We will not turn away, although our souls

May need a refuge, finding deep delight

In quietness – as in a silent night.

  

How much of this, my sister had surmised,

How much she hadn’t, only she could tell,

Who told me, Boston seemed a rung of hell.

I’m sure Bostonians might, at this, object.

And one experience, on a winter’s eve,

Should not be used to beat a city down.

But this I know, what Monua then perceived,

Had left its scar.  I heard – and I believed.

For Boston’s just a marker.  What she saw,

We all might see in cities ‘round the world.

Wherever men and women take to heart

The dictates of the demon-engine, there

We find the blight that rots us from within.

It leaves us sickened, faces turned to masks,

As each is writhing in what Dante scribed –

A place infernal, though we walk on earth.

Babui (Arjun) Janah

2006 June 4^th, Sun.
Berkeley, California
(revised & with the last two stanzas added,
2013 Dec. 19^th, Thu., Brooklyn, New York)
 In Memoriam
Monua Janah
1959 – 2004
   

Note on pronunciation:  My late sister’s name, Monua, has, in Bangla (Bengali), three smoothly joined and almost evenly stressed syllables, Mo-nu-a, with the three vowels being as in English “gold” (but shorter), “put” (but slightly longer) and “arm” (but shorter).

The first vowel gets, usually, just a slight emphasis – through a bit more of duration and loudness.  Since the last two vowels form a smooth diphthong, her name might also be thought of as having just two syllables, Mo-nua, with the “u” being, however, a distinct short “u”, (as in “put”) not a “w”. 
  

Exile

 
Exile

We left the lands that gave us birth
And chose to cross the seas.
And providence or choice decreed
The place, where we would cease.

And loneliness is now our lot,
But why should we complain?
We chose to leave our friends and kin.
What's left to then explain?

For many, work is all we have.
It keeps us occupied.
But often, it consumes our lives.
All else is nullified.

A few find satisfaction
In the work they do.
And others, seeking traction,
Find that's lacking too.

And when the working life's at end,
The vacuum then awaits.
No village there, nor neighborhood,
But walls that hold in place.

It's said, his home's a castle to
The Englishman – but then
It also is a prison, where
The Briton finds his end.

And so it is, in North and West –
And even, now, in East.
If misery loves company,
There's solace there, at least!

2013 March 23rd, Sat. evening
Brooklyn

   

Departure

 
Departure

She came at the end of the class and the day, and handed me the book I’d given her soon after the start of the term, almost seven months ago.

“But why?” I asked.

“I'm going to New Orleans.” she said—this quiet girl, who had worked these months without complaint—or even word.

Her voice was shaking and her eyes had tears.

“How long, Lan Fang,” I asked, “have you been here?”

“Two years.” she said.

Two years: a language, barely learned; a refuge, here at school, in this far land; a friend or two, perhaps—by chance or earned through effort; and progress—halting, slow—with books like the one that she now was dutifully returning.

How many nights were spent upon that book, deciphering the blur of foreign words?  How few— yet precious—her new friends and teachers...

And now, she would lose them, as she had lost the ones before.

How could I take that book?  Yet take it, I must.

I opened the book and saw another's name, whose visage floated up—a student gone and yet remembered, as a teacher does...

I shook my head and sighed.

 “Your parents too?” I asked.  She nodded yes.

“That’s good.” I said.  “I too will be with you.”

She stood quietly.

“Will you be here on Monday?”

 “No.” she said, and now more tears welled up.  Her voice was faint.

I searched and gave her tissues.  She took one, returned the other, bowed her head and left.

I strode towards the door and called, “Do write!  And let me know.  I will write, for you, a recommendation, when you’re needing one.”
 
She looked at me and slowly walked away.
 
Babui / Arjun
2012  March 23rd, Friday
(changed to prose form on 2015 Dec. 14th, Mon.)
Brooklyn
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Please see also:  Departure-II