The World Wide Web-2025-10-20-22

  
The World Wide Web
 
We’re now acquainted with the “World Wide Web”,
But keep forgetting there’s another one
That spreads its filaments across the globe
And snares us insects for the spiders’ meals.
 
As long as we are trapped within the webs
Of Mammon's spiders, spun with wage and tax,
With real estate, insurance, lease and rent,
And shares and interest, we will all remain,
 
Except for some who’re fortunate or “smart”,
The captive slaves of those who spin the webs
That all together serve to trap the rest,
However much they struggle, each in place.
 
******
  
But how to extricate ourselves, I ask,
From lifelong bondage? Each of us are part
Of this, the system, which, in peace and war,
Exploits the workers, trapped by how they earn
 
Their sustenance. We’re subject still to whims
Of bosses, markets—just as serfs had been
To all the “lords” who rode upon their backs
And fed on all the endless work they did. 
 
I do not know, for others tried and failed
Whose strength and knowledge far exceeded mine.
I only know the path we’re on is that
Of needless bondage and of endless pain. 
 
******
  
Let’s wake and rise and educate ourselves
On all the struggles past. They were not in vain:
So much of courage, labor, sacrifice—
So many lessons, which we need to learn.
 
The wizards weave their spells and lo, we see
The miracles the sciences and crafts have wrought.
And yet, for bare essentials, we depend
On systems dark, as all is sold and bought,
 
Including those elected, not to serve
The voters but their funders. Let us strive
For truth and justice, work to disregard
The cynics and refute the endless lies.
 
2025 October 20, Mon.
(last three strophes added  Oct. 22)
Berkeley, California
 

Prescription / Come sit with me / But still be gentle on yourself

.
Prescription / Come Sit with Me / But still be gentle on yourself
.
You say that you are troubled, weary—worn 
By all that you have borne and others bear.
You seek advice—and yet I fumble, since
I too am often lost in grief and fear.
.
But come and sit beside me. I am old
And yet no wiser now than in my youth.
So what can I prescribe that would suffice
To cure your ailments in a world in which
So much is broken and has gone amiss?
.
******
.
Impatience is a marker of our times,
Yet patience is what's often needed most.
Attention that is deep and is sustained
Can see beneath the surface and divine
The truths that words alone cannot express—
And so can serve to heal our sundry plagues.
.
Beware of lords and kings and autocrats
And those who always need to puff themselves.
Embrace the truly humble. Seek them out.
Appoint such men and women to the roles
Most critical, including in the home,
If possible, or else where needed most.
.
******
.
The self impedes, where duty beckons most.
So try to leave the self and all its weight 
Behind. Attend to work at hand. Rejoice
When you have found a chance to be of use.
.
But still be gentle on yourself. You are
As much in need of love and caring now
As when you were an infant. So it is
With all of us, however tough we seem.
.
So leave a little time for care for self,
So you can care for others with a will.
.
******
.
Value virtues old and tested, true—
Like patience, kindness, tact, and diligence.
The human world is built on care and love.
No infant would survive, no child would learn
Without at least a being who had cared.
.
Beware of “high and low”. Eschew the pomp
That so pollutes the public offices.
.
Along with virtues, vices still abound.
So greeds and lusts compound our negligence,
As apathy and hatred vie with these
To quell the conscience, breeding cruelties.
.
******
.
Be clear of sight—and sound of head and heart.
Amid the clamor, labor quietly.
Remember, work delivers its reward
In satisfaction, not in praise or cash.
.
Be grateful for the things that you receive,
However small, and count each blessing twice.
Forgive the ones who’ve hurt you. Mind them not,
For they distract you from the kinder acts
Of others. Try to pay your daily dues,
And sleep contented. Be at peace within.
.
What more is there to say? I trust you know,
Within yourself, what’s true and what is false.
Be open-hearted, minded. Listen, see.
Be undeterred by human frailties,
Remain at peace and persevere.
May all the buddhas guide you through your days.
.
******
. 
I’m done. So come, let’s walk a little while
And even here, amidst the rubble, smile,
As does that orphan, there, who limps and plays,
With memories of those who’ve left—and grief,
And hope remaining still, for brighter days
That may not ever come, except in dreams,
In which he still can hear his siblings’ screams.
.
2025 August 29, Fri.
Berkeley, California
.

Best and Worst

 

Best and Worst
 
We are blinded by hatred; we are blinded by greed.
We are blinded by what we've been taught.
We are swift in our anger, slow in our love.
Our minds--they are sold and are bought.  
 
The worst of the west, the worst of the east,
And the worst of the north and the south
Are the things that we take, from our births to our graves,
As burdens on paths that we walk. 
 
The best of the west, the best of the east, 
And the best of the north and the south
Are forgotten, my friends, as we near to our ends,
In our thought, in our action, our talk...
 
Let us see what is worst, let us find what is best, 
Let us drop then our weights and our chains.
Let us find then the peace and the wisdom we need,
And the light on the path that sustains.
 
2024 Nov. 30
Berkeley, California

Leftist Creed

  
 Leftist Creed

When empires, big and small, compete,
And slaughters, with injustices, repeat,
Then should we side with one or the other, or
Unite to work against the Left’s defeat—

The death, impending, of resistance to
The power and wealth that’s leading me and you 

To slaughter one another, while they both
Grow dense—and profit from our labors too? 

There still is true-and-false and right-and-wrong. 
Our histories of lies and deaths are long.
So why not learn from these and organize
Against the endless wars and all that’s wrong?

So let us seek the truth and do what’s right—
Not yield to impulse or to clouded sight,
Avoid the frictions based on chance of birth—
And so know when to greet and when to fight.

To see, within both friend and foe, the I,
That sits within oneself—that insight—why, 
It's there in children, found in other beasts,
And yet is lost to many a heart and eye.

2024 August 18th, Sun.
Berkeley, California

My Father’s Photographs of India

 
My Father’s Photographs of India

There's happiness and even joy
Within this world we’re in,
Yet measured out to just a few—
Or so it seems to me—

As humans, all together, shape
The human world and more,
With just a few in leading roles
And others pulled in line.

But when I look at photographs
My father once had taken,
Along with images of woe—
Of famines, riots, flights— 

And those of workers under stress
In factories, sewers, mines—
I see the faces—calm, composed,

And even smiling wide—

Of peasants in the villages
Among the hills and plains,
Of tribal folk in dignity—
Not bowed, but standing straight—

Of people living common lives—
But not in misery,
In poses, choreographed, it seems,
Within a flowing dance. 

******

The interruption of that dance—
The speeding of the pace—
The separation, competition—
Is what we humans face.

******   

Inequities of ages, borne
By those who worked the hardest—
Those still persist, but added on
Are pressures more destructive.

We each can shrug and say, “So what?”
Or say that this was destined,
Or pause, reflect, and ask if we
Have choices still for freedom.

That word—it once had resonance
And gave the people hope
In struggles that they fought and won
Or lost—while still persisting.

So every generation must
Do battle in its turn—
Not giving in to cynics or
To apathy or fear.

Yet those who care and those who dare
Are few and far between. 
The rest of us would rather shut
Our eyes to cruelest sins.

****** 

I see the images on screen
Of what is happening now—
And I am sickened to the core—
As long ago I’d been

When working with the refugees,
In nineteen-seventy-one,
Who’d left behind their homes and farms
To flee across a border.

How difficult it is for me,
Now even more than then,
To watch this manmade suffering,
And see no end in sight.

And yet, I look at photographs
My father took of those
Who died when people rose to greet
The “Naval Mutiny”.

And lo—the women, children, men,
Who lie there, stripped and dead,
With bullets through their heads or chests,
Are clothed in radiance.

2024 July 30th, Tue.
Berkeley, California

Freedom-2022-05-05

Freedom
 
Freedom is a vital thing
That’s dear to young and old.
Freedom is a precious thing
That can’t be bought or sold.
Yet freedom can be snatched away—
Or taken bit by bit.
When freedom’s lost or threatened, then
It’s time for actions bold.
 
There’s servitude, to those who wield
The whip, the rod, the gun;
Indenture, too—to those with snares
And webs of debt they’ve spun—
And labor, for the wage that’s earned
On terms befitting serfs.
And then there is dependence on
The beneficent one.
 
These all are forms of slavery.
To varying degrees,
We each are captives, happenstance,
Or humbled, on our knees,
To those adept at trickery
Or playing on our fears.
Arise, arise—to liberty,
So tyrannies may cease!
 
The tyranny of masters, be
They private or the states;
The tyranny of lenders, who
Extract usurious rates;
The tyranny of doctrines,
Administered by “priests”—
It matters not. Beware of those
Who “own” the others’ fates.
 

If Fortune gives you fortune, friend,
Or if you're fortune's earned—
Do use it humbly, kindly—
So your fortune then is turned
To that of others. If instead
Your fate is that of labor,
Then give, to others, service that
Will surely not be spurned.
 

The “owners” and the “workers”: both

Have rights—and both have faults.
Be fair, be just, in what you do—
With service—as with vaults.
Open up your eyes and heart.
Be wary—yet be kind.
Be neither slave nor master. Taste
Of freedom’s vital salts.
 
But wait! Beware, my patient friend,
Of those who say they act
In freedom’s name—and boast of this,
When what they do, in fact,
Is in pursuit of power, wealth—
But cloaked in freedom's garb.
Do not be fooled by merchants. Keep
Your soul—and sense—intact.
 
2022, May 5^th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Be Again as Fools

Be Again as Fools

https://www.edutopia.org/sites/default/files/styles/responsive_1240px/public/slates/

 
We've had enough of gizmos and of new, addictive apps.
We’re thirsting now for teatime with the old, familiar chaps.
We're weary of this slaving that enriches banks yet more.
We'd like to switch from racing ‘round to walking, nice and slow.
We'd love to be like puppies and like kittens. Dogs and cats
Are better at this living than our modern human rats.

We sit all day in cubicles. When home, we're staring still
At glowing screens that make us dull and also make us ill.
We're penned within our cities—where we cannot see the stars.
We live in violent "peace"—and then we die in needless wars.
We scurry and we're anxious, lacking time for grief and love.
We cannot feel the ground below or see the sky above.

Let us be no more as rodents that are trapped in metal cages.
Let us touch the trees as primates that had known them through the ages.
Let us sit beside the ocean or the stream or lake or pond.
Let us look and let us listen. Let our hearts be gentle, fond.
Let us weep—and join in wailing. Let us sing and let us dance.
Let us plan—and see our planning turned to nonsense then by chance.

Let us smile and join in laughter. Let the sun and rain and air
Then sweep away the prisons that we've built from lack of care.
Let us cease then with our buying. Let us savor night and day.
Let us open up our purses, so our savings blow away.
Let us leave the mines and offices, the factories and schools.
Let us free ourselves from Mammon, and then be again as fools.

We are tired of being clever as we're driven with the herd.
Let us feel the joy of tasting and of letting go a turd.
Let us leave the wretched cities—or turn them inside out.
Let us gather 'round in circles. Let us join our hands and shout.
Let us take then our vacations here at home. That vacancy
Is what we need to be again—the fools with sanity.

2017 November 4th, Sat.
Berkeley, California

(first 4 lines of 2nd stanza
& 1st 2 of 3rd added later,
in Brooklyn, New York)

  

The Walls of Sin

 
The Walls of Sin

I can weave my words in verses.
I can try to write in prose.
But until I see some action,
I will never find repose.

My words may lull my readers, 
Or wake them up from sleep,
But until the deeds have followed,
Their impact can’t be deep—

For words are far too easy,
And deeds are often hard.
For every verse I fashion,
I find a broken shard.

It tells of visions shattered,
It speaks of things undone.
How many are the losses
For every battle won? 
   
Our spans are so uncertain—
Except in that they end.
We seek some satisfaction—
Before we are at end.

What action do I look for?
Should it be yours or mine?
It’s an ebbing, of the madness,
That might need a grace divine.

But no god will come to aid us
And no leader, heaven-sent.
We can wait for gods forever.
We can follow—and repent.

I am looking for the vision
That can see the trap we’re in.
I am waiting for the action
From the heart that’s cleansed of sin.

For long, a tide’s been rising
That brings us more of lies.
We can work towards its turning,
But only if we’re wise.

We are busy with our duties
Or sundry pleasures, so
We limit heart and vision—
And query, even more.

Can truth be gleaned from fiction,
Or virtue born from vice?
Can warmth be found in beings,
Whose hearts have turned to ice?

If we see the faults of others
But not our own, we sink
Towards a dark suspicion
That stems from how we think.

If we note the act of evil
But not the ones of good,
We feed the fire within us
With more of kindling wood.

The anger and the hatred
Can burn away the soul.
Could Yeshua or Gotama
Make such a being whole?
   
We sicken from the slaughter.
We hide our hearts away.
So darkness is ascendant.
What hope remains for day?

But see, the ones who're shielded
From mayhem and from worse—
They too have lost their senses,
And they can't be cured by verse.
  
When people cease from hearing,
A deafness then prevails.
The orphans may be screaming,
But all their pleading fails.

When people cease from seeing,
Then blindness is their fate.
What end is there to hatred,
Except in more of hate?
 
We need a gentle cleansing
Of body and of mind.
We need to turn from hating
To relearning to be kind.

Towards the ones we care for,
We might be soft and kind.
But what about the others—
That we’ve put out of mind?

We can’t be saints or angels,
But should we yield to rage
That blinds us to the spirals
That churn through every age?

Should we close our eyes to madness,
Be cocooned, within our nest?
Should we tend to duties, pleasures—
And wave away the rest?

Do first, that which is local.
But then, look up and see
What's past and what is distant
And how they came to be.

The future is created
By what we now will do.
And all the past is present
In thought—and feeling too.

Can a being, who’s conditioned,
Be free of habit’s snare?
If we’re driven by the madness,
Can we learn again to care?
 
We are trained, from when we’re children,
By the candy and the stick.
So we grow up to be zombies
And we make each other sick.

But as those who are discerning
Grow in number, it will turn—
This tide that has been rising—
This fire, in which we burn.

Can we find an end to conflicts,
When we’re not at peace within?
Can we see the pain of others,
When we’re blinded by our sin?

It is feeling that will free us,
But not what is expected.
It’s the heart that is within us,
Whose call we have neglected.

It is thinking that will lead us,
But not the thoughts implanted.
It’s the sense, that was within us,
That the nonsense has supplanted.

It is action that will heal us,
But not the kind we praise.
It’s the action of refraining
From running through the maze.

This maze is our creation.
It’s the prison we have made.
When we cease from blindly racing,
The walls of sin will fade.

Observe your own reaction
That traps you even more.
Inhale, and see it rising.
Exhale, and let it go.

When the cattle are stampeding,
The one who pauses dies.
So also truth can perish,
When all around are lies.

But when there is a slowing,
Proceeding one by one,
Then truth is heard and spoken,
And sanity has won.

2017 May 31, Wed.
(parts in blue added 2017 June 4th, Sun.)
Brooklyn, New York 

Hell-III

  
These lines are meant to be sung out loud. If they appear irresponsible and irreverent, I beg pardon.  At times, a little playfulness is needed.
----------------------------------------------

Hell-III 

You can keep your mansion-house—
and all your magic toys.
You can keep your shiny car—
with all its speed and noise.
You can keep your shoes and boots—
and all your clothes, so dear.
You can keep your property—
that’s growing, every year.
You can keep your bank accounts—
and all your cards as well.
But leave for me my poverty—
and leave me out of hell.

2016 October 22nd, Sat. 2:45 am
Skyway Restaurant dhaaba
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

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

Related:

Hell-II:
 - http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/01/hell-ii.html

Divinity (originally Hell):
 - http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/08/divinity.html

A Hell on Earth:
 - http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/12/a-hell-on-earth.html
  

A Space Exists

A Space Exists
 
Between the push and pull of fear, desire,
A space exists for wisdom, peace and love.
And in this space the waves of grief and joy
And all emotions, thoughts can come and go.

And yet, beneath those surface waves, there still
Remains a zone that's calm and unperturbed—
For currents strong may roil below the waves,
But there are depths in which we still are free.

But when we try to hold, preserve, maintain
The transient joys, entrapped by fear, desire,
We bring then woes upon our heads and those
Of others, losing sense and sanity.

And see—we’ve built ourselves a monstrous world
That runs on fear and greed, and so is fraught
With all the evils that the two, conjoined,
Engender, wreaking madness, mayhem, woe.

The vices that have long been recognized
Are seen as virtues, virtue viewed as vice.
Until such views reverse, we won’t regain
That space in which to breathe and see again.

We cannot know what happens far away,
Or even in our city or next door,
Except from what we’re fed—that filtered feed
That’s then polluted by the feeders’ views.

And so we each are more and more entrapped.
We’re caught, conditioned; then, as zombied slaves,
We race upon the tracks that power the mills
Of Mammon that are grinding all to dust.
 
And though the tools exist, for some at least,
To see beyond the bounds of space and time,
So many still are blinkered in their views,
As goads, incitements work to steer the herds.
 
What hope exists, except that each can still
Attempt to shed these strong constraints of view?
No liberator comes; no hope exists
Except from what we each can try to do.

No revolution can succeed until
We see the wheel that each is turning too.
No evolution towards a saner world
Can be, without that pivot each must do.
 
A space exists between the push and pull
Of fear, desire, in which our vision clears.
To clear that space of snares and clutter, we
Can labor, with our grants of strengths and years.

We each can try, in small and humble ways,
To change the world that all of us have built.
It isn’t god or nature that dictates
What humans do. Our minds are snared and trained.
 
Without the promise that we will succeed,
Without the premise that the work is light,
We each can labor, breathing deeply, while
We work from darkness towards the hope of light.

There is the outer world and that within,
And each affects the other in its turn.
There is a little sphere that pens us each—
But in ourselves the bounds are ours to reach.

We can’t control what happens in this world,
We can’t foresee the future, yet we each
Can still enjoy, within ourselves, that peace
Residing in that space that each can clear.

No matter what tomorrow takes or gives,
No matter what the past has done or been,
There’s still the moment that we’re granted now
In which to turn towards dark or towards the light.

2016 August 25th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Congress

 
Congress

A congress that is sexual can be wonderful indeed.
So those who represent us might consider “having sex”,
as the newer generation so dismally now says it,
to receive that inspiration that no lobbyist can give.
And if by chance caresses lead to feelings, surely then
our Congress will be better, though it’s mostly made of men.

And if there is an afterglow, in which unreason flees
as mind and head connect again, there might perhaps be hope
that all of the conventions and the pressures fall away,
and the Capitol, deserted as the Congress is at play,
might function as intended by the best in slavers yet,
when the Congressmen, returning, find they’re reading every line
and voting with a conscience—and a vision cleared by sex.

2016 August 23rd, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York

  

Baul Jibon—বাউল জীবন—A Minstrel's Life—एक बाउल की ज़िन्दगी—یک باؤل کی زندگی

So far, this post includes the original, in Bengali script, an English translation, an attempt at translation into Hindi--and a machine-translation of that attempt into Urdu.  The three translations are at the bottom of the post.

I have also included three images, a link to an earlier poem and links to information and videos about Bauls, including two recordings (with English subtitles) by Parvathy Baul.

The periods (full-stops) and some of the commas in the Urdu version are misplaced, owing to text-flow-direction difficulties. (Urdu uses a modified Arabic script, written from right to left.)

Any feedback, comments and corrections--especially to the Bengali, Hindi and Urdu--would be most welcome.

In the first line of the second stanza, I have changed the tense, in the Bengali and English versions, to the present, altering the English line from

"I never worked at jobs or farms."

to

"I do not work at jobs or farms."

Bauls appear to live mainly by singing and, as many Hindu, Buddhist and Jain monks do, by begging.  However, it seems likely that they will have also, at times in their lives, worked in other ways--for a living or to help their families of birth.

Nevertheless, I have left that line in a sort of past perfect tense ("I have not worked at...") in the Hindi and Urdu versions.

To see the images in a somewhat larger and clearer view, click on any one image. Then use the arrow keys on your keyboard or click on the thumbnails.  To return to this blog post, click on the white X near the top right of the black background.
------------------------------------------------------------

বাউল জীবন
   

Baul Mohammad Islam Shah, on the Padma River, Bangladesh
photograph: Leonid Plotkin
http://www.leonidfotos.com/pictures/essays/men-of-heart/

 
ছেড়ে এলাম সবাইকে, গো,
ছেড়ে এলাম, ওরে৷
একতারাতে বাজনা বাজাই,
ঘুরে বেড়াই দূরে৷
  
করিনা গো চাষ, চাকরি,
করি নি গো বিয়ে৷
ভিক্ষে করি, শহর গাঁয়ে,
চিত্তের গান গেয়ে৷
  
মরন কালে গাইব আমি,
রূগ্ণ শ্বাসে, গান৷
একতারাটা থাকবে পড়ে,
চলবে পথে প্রাণ৷
  
মঙ্গলবার, ২১ জুন, ২০১৬ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক
------------------------------------------------------------

See also:

For Just a Penny or for Naught
 

Maula Pagol (Maula Baksh Shah)
http://sgbrecordings.com/gallery

http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/02/for-just-penny-or-for-naught.html
------------------------------------------------------------

The following are two video recordings of Baul songs, sung by Parvathy Baul (Mousumi Parial).The songs have English subtitles.

In the first song, note the blurring of the distinction between forbidden, amorous love and love for the divine, found in certain bhakti (devotional) songs of Vaishnavite Hinduism and also in other traditions, such as those of the Sufi poets of Islam and certain aspects of Christianity.

This is expressed, in this song, as the pining of Radha for dark-skinned lover, Krishna, at night and even as she goes about her daytime domestic duties.  She is advised to be secretive and clever in her trysts (perhaps only imaginary) with her lover.

The song talks about the wood-smoke bringing tears to the eyes of Radha as she tends the household cooking fire, and about her bathing and swimming in the pond or river. These were things typical of rural India.

The second song is followed by the singer's explanation, in English, of that song's content and emotional context.

Kichhu Din Mone Mone (Kichu Din Mone Mone)  (In Mind, Awhile)

https://youtu.be/tNh2kjmSzPw


Sri Choron Paabo (Xri Co`ron Pabo) (I Will Touch Your Feet)

https://youtu.be/pvKLPLl9zVw

Parvathy Baul (Mousumi Parial)
http://parvathybaul.srijan.asia/

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

For more videos and information about Bauls, please see:

https://www.facebook.com/1600702242/videos/1534062203751/
------------------------------------------------------------

A Minstrel's Life

I left then everyone, I did.
I left then everything.
I play now on the monochord.
I wander far and sing.

I do not work at jobs or farms.
Unwed, I did depart.
I beg in towns and villages,
And sing my songs of heart.

This monochord, I’ll leave behind
When I am dead and gone.
With my dying breath, I’ll sing and then
My soul will wander on.

Tuesday, 21st June, 2016 CE
Brooklyn, New York

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

एक बाउल की ज़िन्दगी

मैं छोड़ दिया हूँ, घरवाले को,

छोड़ दिया हूँ सब।

एकतार पर बजाता रहता हूँ,

जोश जब रहे, तब।

  

मैं किया नहीं हूँ, नौकरी, खेती,

शादी भी नहीं माना।

शहर में, गांव में, भीख माँगता हूँ,

गाता हूँ, दिल का गाना।

मरते हुए, कमज़ोरी में,

गाता रहूँगा फिर भी।

इस एकतार तो रहा जायेगा, लेकिन

दिल चलेगा फिर भी।

मंगलवार, २१ वीं जून, २०१६ ईस्वी,

ब्रुकलीन, न्यूयॉर्क

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یک باؤل کی زندگی

میں نے چھوڑ دیا ہوں، گھر والے کو،

چھوڑ دیا ہوں سب.

اےكتار پر بجاتا رہتا ہوں،

جوش جب رہے،تب.

  

میں کیا نہیں ہوں، نوکری، کاشتکاری،

شادی بھی نہیں مانا.

شہر میں، گاؤں میں، بھیک مانگتا ہوں،

گاتا ہوں، دل کا گانا.

مرتے ہوئے، کمزوری میں،

گاتا رہوں گا پھر بھی.

اس اےكتار تو رہا جائے گا، لیکن

دل چلے گا پھر بھی.

  

منگل، ۲۱ ویں جون، ۲۰۱۶ ء،

بروک لین، نیویارک

Cowards--Those Who Love the Lie

   
Cowards / Those Who Love the Lie
 
They might rouse you with their shouted slogans
And their marches to their bands,
Make you feel that you are special,
Living in the best of lands.
  
They might frighten you with warnings,
Slander you with shameless lies,
Beat you till they see surrender,
Or till light departs from eyes.
 
So many ways to rouse the passions,
So many means to have their way!
So many ways to scare and threaten,
To hide the truth from the light of day!
 
And yet, it's clear it's they who're frightened,
Even as they shout in rage,
Even as they beat and bludgeon— 
Frightened of the turning page.
 
For see—to east, the sun is rising
And light is dawning in the minds
Of all of those whose lives were darkened,
As all the spool of lies unwinds.

Courage then!  Be cautious, friends,
But bravely think and speak and act.
There's naught to lose that won't be taken,
And much to gain for those attacked. 

Our ones and twos, their mobs can silence
And the courts can do their will.
But when our thousands speak our minds,
Then who can stop the dawning still?

Cowards thrive the best in darkness;
Yet, a thousand times they die.
Boldly seek the truth. The risk is
Most for those who love the lie.
 
2016 February 23rd, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Winter’s Weight / The Prophet (an allegory)

Winter’s Weight  / The Prophet
(an allegory)

I had wandered, in the winters,
In the streets deserted, cold,
With the dreary skies above me
As I grayed from growing old.

For the one who’s old and single,
A winter can be bleak,
With neither spouse nor offspring
As a shelter from its reach.

But neither love nor kinship
Nor friendship can suffice
To free ourselves of a winter
That holds us in its vice.

A season, like a time of day,
Is a being and a mood.
In colder climes, the winter’s traits
Are often rather rude.
 
******
 
It blusters as it freezes us.
It dumps its loads of snow.
It takes what autumn might have left
And then it asks for more.
 
But seasons, much like times of day—
And moods, are transient things.
So winter, like a tyrant, reigns—
And then, the minstrel sings.
 
But till that little bird arrives
And perches on its tree,
We live with winter’s weight on us
And struggle to be free.

And some may look to forecasts in
Their hopes of warmer weather,
Or seek for a prophet, who’d show us how
To break from winter’s tether.

******

How many were the prophets false,
How many true were slain?
And yet we seek for “leaders”, who
Might free us from our pain.

In the winter, comes the "leader",
To a people turned to sheep.
He says, "Follow me to summer."
But the price is often steep.

There always are the foolish,
Who never will be wise.
Will he lead them to the slaughter
Or towards their paradise?

For it's only when we waken,
From the sleep in which we dwell,
That we know which way is heaven
And which will lead to hell.
 
******

I had walked the cold and silent streets
Of the cities of the north,
And wondered, would those songs return
That autumn’s winds sent forth.

On winter nights, I had seen in dreams
The colors of the spring.
I had huddled then beneath my quilt,
But my heart had taken wing.

How many "revolutions",
How many "springs" have turned
To bloodbaths and unreason—
And yet, the spirit yearns.

The tides of men have seasons
That last for many years.
And then there comes a prophet—
And hope that wells as tears.

******

I traveled to Manhattan
To hear the prophet speak.
And there I saw that Sanders
Was out of winter’s reach.

His hair, which age had whitened,
Was tousled by the breeze.
But though the wind was biting,
He stood and spoke at ease.

So winter’s weight was lifted
And grays replaced by hues.
The birds would be returning—
Although it wasn’t news.  *

And riding back to Brooklyn,
I sat within the train,
Resolved that, what the winter
Had stolen, we’d regain.
 
2016 January 16th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York 

*  Sanders’ gave his aggressive Wall Street Reform speech, which I attended, at the “Town Hall” building in Manhattan on Jan. 5th.  This, along with polls showing that his campaign was succeeding despite the mainstream-media blackout, did finally get him some long-due coverage in that media.

Bernie Sanders, giving his Wall Street speech,
at the "Town Hall" in Manhattan, 2016-01-05
photographs (very poor): A. Janah 

Sanders had given his talk, in which he had attacked the excesses of the financial institutions, many of them centered in Manhattan, at the historic midtown "Town Hall" building on 43rd Street.  This building, with its large auditorium, had once been a center for the suffragette movement.
 
After the talk, I joined a group of supporters who were waiting for him outside the building.  Once he had emerged, we followed Sanders, along with some media folk, as he briskly walked, hat-less and glove-less despite the cold, east along 43rd and then south along Sixth Avenue, crossing it at 42nd Street and then stopping for awhile, at an entrance to Bryant Park, to be interviewed. 
  

Midtown Manhattan, with Bryant Park on lower left, between 40th & 42nd Streets.

The "Town Hall" is on 43rd Street, between Sixth and Seventh Avenues.

After the interview, the prophet continued to walk rapidly east along 42nd, towards Fifth Avenue, followed by a sizable entourage.  But I walked back west instead to Sixth Avenue to take the D train back to Brooklyn.

You can click on any of the pictures to view all of them in a somewhat larger and clearer format, in a sort of gallery show.  Click on the white X at the top right of the black background to return to this post.
  

Sanders crossing on the streets of Manhattan, 2016-01-06
photographs (not the best): A. Janah

    

  

Sanders being interviewed by an ABC News reporter,
Bryant Park, Manhattan, 2016-01-06
photographs (somewhat better): A. Janah

   

  
  

   

     

  

The Murmuration

 
The Murmuration

I saw the starlings in the sky.
They wheeled and arced and seemed to weave
a giant form of sentience.

I stood transfixed and watched with awe
the flowing shapes that being took
that twisted, turned, dispersed, condensed…

And as I watched, I heard the sound,
the murmur of the beating wings—
a hundred thousand pairs of wings.

I heard it rise from a whisper, surge
and fade and rise and ebb again—
like waves within an aerial sea.

And all at once the cloud grew dark
and swiftly plunged across the trees,
as one by one they settled down...

A giant bird is created out of a starling murmuration in Scotland.
http://www.grindtv.com/random/starling-murmurations-create-fantastic-show-in-scottish-sky/

   
I wondered whether starlings had
their schools, in which they taught their young,
and whether tuition there was free.

And did the students there have tests
and were the teachers graded too?
Did Danielson hit starlings too?

I shook my head.  I’d seen and heard
the murmuration on a screen,
as schools were just about to start.

I thank you, Diane Ravitch and
the one who sent this, Susan Schwartz,
and Dylan Winter for the clip.

But most of all, I thank the birds,
who fly across the heavens, free,
as  humans were—and still could be.

2015 September 6th, Sun, 12:26 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York  
   

• http://dianeravitch.net/2015/09/06/this-beautiful-video-will-make-your-day/ (This leads to the video in the next link in this list.)
• https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=88UVJpQGi88  Dylan Winter and the Starling Murmurations
• https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XH-groCeKbE   Starlings on Otmoor
• https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DmO4Ellgmd0  Unbelievable Starlings
• https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8V6qUUWa4zk  Starlings in Rome (This attempts to describe how the starlings manage their coordinated performance and how they evade predatory birds.)
• https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UTFFJ8hTC_Q   Starlings Coming To Roost - Starling Murmuration in Cornwall England (This shows starlings roosting, in close-up.)

Sin

Sin

Lead us not into temptation
And deliver us from evil.
Amen.

We blame a class, a race or other group—
There are professions that are often blamed.
But it’s the nature of the human beast
That’s still the culprit for the mischief done.

For every virtue, every angel-trait,
We’ll find a vice, a sort of devil’s taint,
That mars the soul within a human or
Perhaps within all beings sentient.
 
If we had only virtues, then perhaps
We might be far too boring.  Light and shade
And vice and virtue, good and evil are,
Like yin and yang, in constant interplay.

So some might say that vice gives virtue place,
As hunger gives to plainest food its taste.
Without the sins that sinners multiply,
Could even saints be duly recognized?
 
And what, to me, is virtue could be seen
As vice to one whose values are reversed.
And yet, there still are basics that appear
To be the common ground on which we stand.

So save for prophetesses such as Ayn,
You’ll rarely find that people disagree
That selfish actions lead to evil ends,
While love and caring make for brighter lives.

For this, we might invoke a spirit that
Is root and essence of what’s seen as good,
And all that’s evil might be then ascribed
To visions clouded—or to a spirit dread.

But others might look back at what we were
When we were closer in our lives to apes
But rose and flourished from that sharing which
We still perceive as good—which touches hearts.

So "good", to them, is that which served us well
In eons past, when mind and body formed
To suit the circumstances then—for though
The times have changed, we still remain the same.

I will not enter into these debates.
I’ll only say that instincts old and deep
Respond to kindness—and that meanness brings
Yet other, meaner instincts into play.

To strive to be as supermen is fraught
With danger. We are always what we are.
We should be cognizant of what’s within
And seek a balance that sustains us all.

For when that balance is disturbed, we see
The sorrow that is not of earth or air
Or water, but is made by acts of men
And leads to yet more sorrows, turn on turn.

The earthquakes and the storms and floods may leave,
But fires rage and droughts and famines come.
Yet all of these, by men and all, are borne
With lesser pain than monstrous deeds of Man.

A fire may burn a forest down and yet
It leaves a part of it—and then with time
That forest lives again. What Man has touched
With devil's hands, no heaven can restore.

Be watchful then. Remove yourself from that
Which leads to conflicts with your inner god,
Who then is either silenced, leaving sin
To flourish, or cries out in pain within.

The ones, who cannot silence conscience, live
With ceaseless war within themselves, unless
They speak and act to change what often is
Impossible when others shrug and sin.
 
It wasn’t Adam or his partner, Eve,
Or a serpent leading both of them astray.
It’s we, who look to God to salve our sins,
Forgetting god and devil are within.

We lose our way and cannot find the path.
We lose our reason and we close our hearts.
It later seems that we were not awake
And so committed acts we shouldn't have.

The heart expands with kindness and with love,
Which spread like blessings when they’re acted on.
The heart contracts with meanness and with hate
And all our words and deeds of violence.

It’s difficult, within the fire, to be
As cool of temper as we’d like to be.
It’s hard, when we are stressed and desperate,
To be as kind and patient as we should.

So what are we to do?  Perhaps it’s best
To move away from all that meanness breeds—
To distance selves from where it’s fear and greed
That drive the engines of economies.

Although that’s easier said than done, to see
The source of evil, of disturbance, is
To step away from it, towards that calm
That gives us time and space to see and love.

We come like water and like wind we go.
So said Khayyam, Fitzgerald’s paraphrase
Purports.  If we should pray, perhaps we need
To ask for courage and for innocence.

So let us then release the things, to which
We hold, that rob us of our clarity.
That freedom might be difficult to reach,
Until we see we’re sullied by our vice.

There’s anger, greed and hate and jealousy.
And each of these, and even pride, has place
Within the workings of the mind that lives,
But each of these can lead us into sin.

For sin is not the thought that comes and goes
Or even stays awhile.  For thoughts may rise
And feelings too.  It’s when they’re nurtured and
They’re acted on that sin is birthed and born.

So let us heed what Buddhas past have said
To free ourselves of what some others call
The burden that we carry of our sins.
Let’s set it down and go upon our way.

We recognize a thought, a feeling and
We see, perhaps, its provenance as well.
We watch its rise and then we watch its ebb.
We do not ask that it should go or dwell.

We do not fear the feeling that we have,
And even fear, we know, has time and place.
We come like water, and we go like wind.
Forgive us, for we know that we have sinned.

And knowing this, we then might lose, perhaps,
Our hubris and might also find the strength
To heal from wounds that others might inflict,
Forgiving them, in our humility.

Lead us not into temptation
And deliver us from evil.
Amen.

2015 September 3rd, Thu., 2:30 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  

Dusk

Dusk

There’s a time before the nightfall,
when the heavens still are lit
and the western sky is glowing,
as the east is growing dark—
when the wind is but a whisper,
as it ruffles trees and dies,
but the crickets call in chorus,
as they clamor and subside.

That’s the time that we are silent,
as we listen and we watch,
as we turn and travel homeward,
reflecting on our days—
the day that’s just departing
and those that long have left,
as the sunset turns to gloaming—
and from work we turn to rest.

The greens of trees will darken—
and soon they’ll near to black,
and we’ll see them silhouetted
against the glowing sky—
with the lace of treetop leaflets
waving in the breeze—
and we’ll pause perhaps to watch this—
and breathe perhaps our sighs.

The household cats will waken,
as their ancient instincts call.
and we’ll see the wary felines,
as they’re stalking through the dark.
Then our instincts too will prickle,
and we'll pause to draw a breath.
Through the eons, we have traveled—
and the dusk, we’ve daily met.

View from Lighthouse Landing, Grand Rivers, Kentucky
by Sherry Boulton
https://www.facebook.com/kentuckyonly

 
And so even in the city
we can meet with dawn and dusk
and be moved by scents of morning
and by evening’s drifting musk.
These are times when we transition,
and we sense the flow of time—
that might yet appear suspended,
as the stars begin to shine.

The twilight is the lovers’ time—
and time for those rejected
to feel anew the hurt they felt,
as daylight ebbs to dark.
The dusk is full of memory—
with ghosts of long ago.
We then recall those visions
that the sun had chased away.

So every grief forgotten
and every sorrow learned
by us and those before us—
and those who’re still unborn,
we might perceive at nightfall,
for we lower then our guards.
And yet the dusk is healing,
as it enters in our hearts.

For every dusk is dying,
and death awaits us all—
and death is liberation—
like autumn’s leaves, we fall.
It takes away our worries,
our sorrows and our grief.
So dusk and death are fellows—
for both are best of thieves.

2015 August 18th, Tue. 8:39 pm
on the steps of a house, facing west
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York  
      

Crushed

Crushed     
    
When faced with all the madness of our times—
the racing, debt and isolation, some
succumb to fear and then are paralyzed—
or else they run, bewildered, through their years. 

But others, savvier, can learn the game
and play it shrewdly to attain their ends.
And these become, quite often, those who herd
and drive the others, stepping up the pace.

******
  
Until we free ourselves, we’re doomed to be
as cogs upon the wheels of fear and greed.
But when we try to struggle loose, we find
we’re crushed—as would a cog that’s not of steel. 
  
It’s only when the juggernaut is slowed,
as one by one we see and we resist—
it’s only then that we at last can be,
from this, our ceaseless whirling bondage, free.

2015 August 6th, Thu. 6:15 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

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Note:  Three pictures follow.  You can click on any one to see all three in a gallery.  The second image will be enlarged, the third even more. Click on the white X at the top right of the black background to return to the post.

At the end of the post are links to some clips from the film "Modern Times", in which Charlie Chaplin's character attempts to fit into the industrial age.  I might add more as I find them.
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Time
https://www.eskimo.com/~recall/bleed/0911.htm

Joining the Labor Force
http://www.newstatesman.com/sci-tech/2014/08/new-luddites-why-former-digital-prophets-are-turning-against-tech

Chariot Wheel, Konarak Temple, Orissa, India.   Patrik M. Loeff, 2008
https://www.flickr.com/photos/bupia/2320134539/in/photostream/

Clips from Chaplin's movie Modern Times

1) a short clip (14:43) with excellent clarity of picture and sound:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tfw0KapQ3qw

  

2) a very short clip (1:49) on a central episode in 1, with picture quality not the best:

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x1sgls_modern-times-1936_fun 

3) Modern Times (1936)—the full movie (1:23:17)—but with speech dubbed in French:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_jLHVT0-GgM

  

A Prayer-II

 
A Prayer-II
 
Let all the weight of history be shed, so we can live.
Let’s still recall that history, so all of us are free.
Let’s turn towards the spirit, away from all that’s vile,
Be freed from our compulsions, so each of us can see.

Let’s dwell within that being – that presence still, serene.
Let’s gather up our scattered parts, so each of us is whole.
Oh spirit that is everywhere and yet is nowhere seen,
We turn to you for sustenance of body and of soul.
   
2015 May 1, Fri
Brooklyn, New York
  

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