Winding Down

 
Winding Down 

The clock is wound—and then its coils unwind,
as “Tick-tick-tock!”, its seconds-hand goes ‘round,
until it’s all unwound—and then it stops
and waits for us to wind it up again.
 
So also it may be with each of us.
We each are wound—and then we each unwind,
as childhood, youth and middle age go by—
and then we might perceive we’re winding down.

And so we slow and stumble as we move,
as friction overcomes the driving force,
until at last the pulsing heart has stopped.
Then life is done and death is all that’s left.

Is there a hand that winds us up again?
If so, the spirit might perhaps revive—
but not the body or the burdened self
that sheds its baggage—and its claim to life.

2018 February 16th, Fri.
F train, running on the D line
between Atlantic Avenue and 
Fort Hamilton Parkway, Brooklyn

Before We Go

Before We Go

When the mind is agitated
and the heart is weighted down.
we only think of matters then
that make us fear or frown.

And then, when moments do arise
when fright and stress recede,
we might be filled with old regrets
and weep for those deceased.
 
We don’t recall those others then—
the ones we have neglected.
We leave no space or time for those
that our actions have affected.

It’s time to clear the clutter then;
it’s time to walk a while—
to breathe a bit of open air,
to look around and smile.

It’s time to say, “We’re passing through.
We’ll soon enough be gone.
Let’s tend to things before we leave
this planet that we’re on.”

And so the storm within may cease
awhile—and give us time
and space for things that matter more—
for heart—and reason, rhyme.

And then perhaps we’ll see a face
or hear a voice, and so
we might resolve to visit, call
or write, before we go.
 
And also then some things may come
to light, that the fog had hidden,
and we might see a path, a hope
that our panic had forbidden.

2016 October 29th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
    

O`bujh--অবুঝ--Ignorant

 
For Roman transcriptions and a "free translation" into English, in tabular format, set side-by-side with the original in Bengali script, please see: http://suniljanah.org/ajanah/poems/arjun/indic/o`bujh--tabular.html

That site also has a literal translation that preserves the syntax of Bengali, and a link to an audio-recording.  That recording should be useful to those who do not know Bengali but are interested in at least knowing how it sounds, as well as to those who are learning the language. -- Arjun

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অবুঝ

কোথার থেকে এসেছিলি,
কোথায় চলে গেলি,
সারা জীবন ভেবেও আমি
বুঝব না ক তা৷
  
আমিও যাব, তোর-ই মতন৷
রইবে বাকি ছাই৷
বলবে, যারা জানত আমায়,
‘বিদায় নিল, ভাই৷’
  
রাস্তা দিয়ে হাঁটি যখন,
শহর-পাড়াগাঁয়,
দূর থেকে তোর মুখটা দেখি,
চেঁচিয়ে উঠি প্রায়৷
   
কাছে এসে দেখি যখন,
বুঝি অন্য কেও৷
কত বছর বাদেও, তোকে
মরীচিকায় দেখি৷
  
যাব যখন দেহ ছেড়ে,
রইব কি আর ‘আমি’?
রইব জানি অবুঝ তখন,
যেমনি এখন আছি৷
  
বুধবার, ৩রা ফেব্রুয়ারি, ২০১৬ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক
    
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Please see/hear also:  http://suniljanah.org/ajanah/poems/arjun/indic/o`bujh--tabular.html

    

Blowing Dust

Blowing Dust (Draft)

It’s difficult, and yet it’s best, to learn
That all we have and everything we’ve built,
We each will lose—that all will be as dust—
The dust that blows, to which we will return.

And yet, when we and those we know are gone,
The birds will chirp to greet again the dawn.
And crickets will be loud at eventide,
As one by one the stars begin to show.
 
******
 
A long procession winds its way through time.
How many went before upon our paths?
How many still to come?  We walk alone
Amidst the crowds, and yet in company.

So as I wipe away the dust that clings
To books I’m packing, those I’ve read and those
I hope to read before I lose my sight,
I wonder at the dust—and wonder more.

Whose dust is this?  How many beings past
Are touched by me, who cannot feel my touch?
Could books attract the dust of scholars who
Had loved their books as I do mine—and more?

A foolish thought—and yet I wonder where
My sister’s ashes, that the river took,
Are wandering—and if perhaps, by chance,
A particle might settle on her book.

My parents’ ashes have been waiting long.
And still I hope that if I can retire,
I’ll free them, like I did my sister’s, while
I leave a sprinkling on the book they wrote.

******

My sister and my parents could not see,
In print, the books on which they’d spent their years.
And I but rarely leaf through them, because
I fear I’ll stain the pages with my tears.
 
A book, when extant, might extend a life
Beyond the death of body and of mind.
As books are read, the authors come alive
And speak to those that death has left behind.

And it’s the same with photographs and more—
And all the work we did that’s left a mark—
Perhaps within a mind or heart—before
Our turn to turn again to blowing dust.

How few are those, who have their books or art
Or other free creations published, known
Beyond a tiny circle?  Each yet leaves
Their little ripples that subside with time.

And that’s enough.  And even if we die
And none remembers that we were, it is
Sufficient that we lived our little while—
No more, no less than ants or leaves—and died.
 
******
 
Our mornings and our evenings come in turn.
We’re born to be interred or else to burn.
And in-between, we do what beings do,
To leave behind, perhaps, a trace or two.
 
A mortal should accept the mortal fate—
Which is to vanish, be deleted, go.
For all we were and all we did will be
As this—the dust on which I gently blow.

2015 August 11th, Tue, 8:15 pm
(fourth-from-last and third-from-last stanzas
 added August 12th, Wed. morning, third 
stanza added August 14th, Fri. morning)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York