All is Naught--and Naught is All

I am not sure what this signifies, if anything. It came to me somehow and so I have written it down.

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All is Naught—and Naught is All
 
What cleaves the self from what it sees as other
And separates, in time, the child and mother?
What grace might free us from the trap we’re in
That makes the brother turn against the brother?
 
I asked these questions, turning towards that sky
That sees us being born and sees us die.
I asked these questions. All I got was naught—
No answer as to what—or how—or why.
 
And left with this, as all who ask might be,
I asked myself—and then began to see
What words or sight or thoughts cannot convey—
The naught that births the timeless, boundless sea.
 
******
 
I pondered this, perplexed, and wondered why
I’d sensed this not by grace of sea or sky,

But from within my bounded self—and why
I should not view it as an useless lie.
 
And so I sank within again and found
An emptiness devoid of light and sound
That yet was filled with all the blazing stars,
With silence bearing still a sense profound.
 
“Within the naught, there does reside the all—
And so the all is nothing but the naught.
And this, when realized in depth, would be
The sum and essence of the wisdom taught
By pointing towards what can’t be said or thought—
The door to sight beyond what eyes can see
Or ears can hear. The fog in which we’re caught,
When cleared, reveals the link of naught to all.”
 
2023 October 23, Mon.
Berkeley, California
 

Pori-পরী

পরী

.

চুপি চুপি এসেছিলে তুমি, 

রাতের ঘুমের ঘোরে। 

চাঁদের আলোয় দাঁড়িয়ে ছিলে, 

আমার ঘরের দোরে। 

.

প্রথম আলোয় জেগে উঠে আমি 

এসেছি তোমার খোঁজে। 

নদীর তীরে দেখেছি তোমায়, 

কুয়াশা-ভরা ভোরে। 

.

দেখতে দেখতে ভেসে গেলে, হায়, 

জলের শীতল স্রোতে। 

হতে গিয়ে তাও হলো না তাই 

চেয়েছিল যা হতে।

.

কি কারণে এসেছিলে গো,

কি কারণে গেলে? 

কিছু টুকু তাও সান্ত্বনা পাই, 

সেটার জবাব পেলে। 

.

বৃহস্পতিবার, ২৪ জুন, ২০২০ খ্রি, 

ব্রুক্লিন, নিউ ইয়র্ক

.

What Wonders

What Wonders

When all we see is sorrow, let us then remember joy.
When all is utter darkness, let us then recall the light.
When all around is meanness, let us then remember love.
When all we hear is wailing, let us then recall the song.

And let us all remember that the moment is the prize
That yields its passing pleasure or yields instead its pain.
That moment, let us savor, let us greet it as a friend,
Who was with us when we started and will be at the end.

We are here between the atoms and the stars that light the sky.
We are stretched between the starting and the ending of the all.
We are less than motes in sunbeams, we are ants that crawl and die,
And yet we are as oceans that have depths that hold the all.

We are nothing that is special—no more than drifting leaves,
No more than dust that’s blowing—or specks of froth on waves.
And yet we sit and worry and grasp what we should yield.
But see—we ply our sciences and all our trades and arts.

Oh sing of this creation that needs no artisan!
Oh raise your arms in wonder and dance beneath the stars.
What filigrees are woven, what horrors and delights!
Oh savor this—your being, and your passing days and nights.

What wonder and what torture, what pleasure and what pain!
Our yesterdays forgotten, our tomorrows never known,
Our day, from dawn to sunset, our night in which we dream—
What meaning, in this marvel that’s the life that never stays?

I do not know the meaning and I doubt the ones who preach.
I’ve spent my life in learning and I’ve tried my best to teach.
But as my days are ending and I’m yearning for my rest,
I remember still your kindness, in this heart that you had blessed.

I still recall your singing as I still recall the dawn
As the dusk is now descending and I know that I’ll be gone.
I have seen the stony faces, I have sensed the hearts of stone,
But I still recall your smiling—and I know I’m not alone.

And so to those who hear me, I am calling from the past.
Let your present be your treasure, for the little while you last.
Remember still your pleasures, releasing all your pains—
And laughing at your losses, surrender all your gains.

2017 October 10th, Tue. 
  

What Chance

What Chance

You were waiting by a doorway
for the bus—and smiled at me.
And I at first ignored this—
until you came to mind.
I only then responded—
but your eyes were smiling still.

   

And later, you had dropped by,
for half an hour or so.
Our hands had touched, so briefly—
with a current passing through.

For a quarter of a century,
I have seen you come and go—
so near and yet so distant—
and always in my mind.

There’s a bond that long has linked us,
in the strangest kind of way.
It has kept us always tethered,
but always still apart.

I have seen your bloom, your fading.
I have memorized your face—
the curving of your eyelids—
your planes and shapes and shades.
 
There were dreams I had of holding
your form within my arms—
and I always then dismissed these
as idle thoughts that passed.
I even dreamt we had kissed, once,
but I smiled—and said, “What chance!”
 
2017 January 27th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York
   

Mitzvah

Mitzvah
 
Soft and gentle was that music,
Soothing to the souls who’d sinned,
Healing to the ones they’d wounded,
Like a whisper in the wind.

Faint and fading though it sounded,
Seeming close, yet seeming far,
Yet it still was soothing, healing,
After all the sounds of war.

Whence this music of the angels,
Floating in the summer breeze?
Who were they, who made that music,
Setting tortured souls to ease?

So we wondered, while that music
Lasted, captured by its art.
How and why this blessing, fashioned
So to touch and heal the heart?

Just as it had risen, softly,
So it ebbed and then was gone.
Years have passed, and yet within
Our minds it still is playing on.

Some have said it was a mitzvah,
A message from a source divine.
All I know was that I heard it,
And it now is yours and mine.

If a human hand had made it,
Guided by a gentler god,
Then I thank the maker for it,
And I’m grateful for that god.

2016 April 20th, Tue. 
Brooklyn, New York 
  

Yemenite Jew blowing the shofar (ram's horn), circa 1935
U.S. Library of Congress archives

Boy playing flute, Peru
Werner Bischof

 

Yemenite Jews studying the Torah in Sana'a, Yemen
https://uk.pinterest.com/explore/yemenite-jews/

Sitting Buddha
http://secretsofabutterfly.typepad.com/secrets_of_a_butterfly/2007/07/

 

Tranquil Buddha
http://secretsofabutterfly.typepad.com/secrets_of_a_butterfly/2007/07/

Kothar Theke Sneho?—কোথার থেকে স্নেহ?—Whence Came Love?

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/kothar-theke-sneho--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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কোথার থেকে স্নেহ?  

আকাশ থেকে জীবন এল,
মাটির থেকে—দেহ৷
জলের থেকে, হাওয়ার থেকে,
কোথার থেকে—স্নেহ?

যে সন্তান বেড়েছে মায়ের ভালবাসায়,
যে সন্তান রয়েছে এখনো তার আশায়—
দুজনেই বড় হয়ে পারবে কি দিতে,
শিশুরা না বলেও চাইবে যা নিতে?

******

কোথার থেকে আসে সেই ভালবাসা, বল্—
কোথার থেকে আসে—দয়া, মায়া, স্নেহ?
কোন দেবীর বুকের থেকে, মায়ের চোখে জল?
কোন ইশ্বর-আল্লা নেয় মর্ত মায়ের দেহ?

বল্ আমায়, কোথার থেকে এলি তুই কাল?
বল্ আমায়, কি কারণে পেলাম উপহার?
ছেড়ে যেতে চাই না তোকে—এখনো তুই ছোটো৷
এত দিন লড়ে, তাও মানব কি হার?

******
 
যে বাবা বৃদ্ধ হয়ে পরলোকে যায়,
যে বাবা শিশু ছেড়ে মৃত হ্য়, হায়—
দুজনের-ই নজরে আজ ধরে আছি ফিতে৷
ছিড়ে গেলে হারাব যা জন্মেছিলাম জিতে৷

আকাশ থেকে জীবন এল,
মাটির থেকে—দেহ৷
জলের থেকে, হাওয়ার থেকে,
কোথার থেকে—স্নেহ?
 
অর্জুন (বাবুই) জানা
বৃহস্পতিবার, ১০ই ডিসেম্বর, ২০১৫ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক

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Please see/hear also:  http://suniljanah.org/ajanah/poems/arjun/indic/kothar-theke-sneho--tabular.html.

    

What?

 
What?

I ventured out at twilight and I saw, beside the lake,
Where the woods were dark, and the water light,
What seemed to be, perhaps—
A man…

I’d seen a figure small—no more, in height, than just a child,
Walking, in the shadows of the woods
And out, where I could see—
And back.

And as I watched, across the lake, I saw it turn and look.
I froze—and when it saw me, so did it.
And time—and everything—
Stood still.

And then, it turned and went into the woods!  I stood and stared.
I felt a shiver, running down my back.
And so I turned—and ran—
And ran!

I only stopped when I was out of breath and far away
From where I’d seen what seemed to be a man.
But really, what was it?
A ghost?

I panted, bent and held my knees. I tried to catch my breath.
But then, before I could, I ran again—
Away, away, not looking
Back.

And I was lost by then, upon a field—and it was dark.
But when at last I stopped, I felt again
That tingle on my skin—
And turned.

It wasn’t there—it wasn’t there!  I felt a great relief.
I took a breath of air.  I almost laughed,
But couldn’t, lacking breath.
I sat.

The moon was out—a crescent, hanging low—and stars.
And as I watched, the sky was filled with them.
They twinkled, and it seemed
They laughed.

I rose up then and slowly sought to find my way towards home.
But still I knew I should avoid that place
Where I had seen it stare
At me.

On getting home, I quickly shuttered doors and windows tight.
I lit the lamp and saw, through window glass,
Its twin.  I could not see
Outside.

And when I crept in bed, beneath the quilt, I shivered still.
I hardly slept, and woke in sudden fear,
For every sound, it seemed,
Was it.

And so, I told myself, “You cannot sleep, except in bits.
You toss and turn. You wake and start at sounds.
You’re anxious, full of fear—
Of what?”

But as I said that “what”, I felt, again, that shock. I saw
Those eyes that locked with mine, across the lake—
Those eyes, that seemed to be—
Of what?

“Oh nonsense!  What a stupid fool you are!  A coward too!
It was a man you saw—a little man,
Who also turned and fled—
From fear.”

And so I tried to scold myself.  I felt some comfort spread
From zones of reason to the rest.
I breathed a sigh and sought—
Some rest.

And when I woke again, the dawn was there.  And with that light
I felt that fear of darkness disappear.
It seemed, it was a dream
I’d had.

So I dismissed it then, and rose and went about my day.
But when the sunset neared, I felt unease.
I could not go towards
That lake.

So every night, I close my doors and windows tight.  And then
I eat my dinner and I try to sleep,
But often wake again
In fright.

I wonder, “What was it I saw, at dusk, across the lake,
That walked out from the woods?  It looked at me
And I at it and then—
I ran.”

I wonder, “Does it also fear, like me? And does it fear
The one it saw, across the lake, at dusk—
That great big one?
Does it?”

I sense an ebb of tension then.  I even laugh.  I feel
A passing pity for that little thing
That seemed to be a man—
Or what?

This doesn’t last. I say, “Tomorrow, I will go again
To stand, at dusk, beside that lake and gaze
across.”  But then, I know
I can’t.

2015 May 2nd, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York
   

Mystery

  
Mystery
 
“There once was a creator…” the myths of yore began,
“And then came the creation…” and so the stories ran.
But whence this said creator – and where she now is hidden,
Were questions sans an answer – and often were forbidden.

The fabric of the universe is a thing of change and flow
And yet there are the matrices, the substances and more.
So through the ages men and women asked themselves “Who did it?”
That mystery of Genesis persists, though some dismiss it.

For now we're told, "Creators – and creation too – is out."
So these are now forbidden.  We can question, we can shout –
But for doing so,  we’re punished – and we're banished, as of old.
There’s no burning or beheading – but we do as we are told.

And so our new religions replace the ones before.
But we wonder – are we clearer now or clouded even more?
There’s energy, there’s matter, there is space and there is time,
There is ignorance and knowledge – and these beings that can rhyme…
 
When the fabric was being woven, who was handling then the loom?
Was the weaving automated?  Was there no one in the room?
It’s the same for all creation, including you and I.
We wove ourselves together. Don’t ask me how or why.
 
And when you’d been assembled, so your parts were all in place,
There came to be this person, with a name and with a face.
But if I were to wander, from cell to cell within,
To look where you are hiding, I’d find there’s no one in.
 
“Is so and so within you?” I might ask a working cell.
And if that cell could answer, what story would it tell?
It does not know this person, of which it is a part.
And neither do your organs – your liver, brain or heart.
 
This "I" is thinking, typing – but where does it reside?
We say – “within a cranium” – but no one’s there inside.
A giant swarm of cells there is, and each is humming low,
But where, in this, the “I” is hid, who dares to say they know?
  
For how does “who” arise from “what”?  What makes the infant scream
Her “Me, me, me!” and thump her chest?  Are “I” and “you” a dream?
No border can be drawn indeed, no line in time or space,
Where I or you begin from naught or end without a trace.
 
And yet we’re each convinced of “I” and “you” and “he” and “she” –
The beings that appear to have the right to persons be –
In human form or animal, perhaps as plants as well –
Or robed as gods and goddesses that in our heavens dwell.
  
So surely, to dismiss the "I" and "you" and all the rest
As fictions mere, shows disrespect and may not be the best.
But then the question still remains – of what, this "I" and "you"?
Is “spirit” then the answer?  I will leave that knot for you.

But do not swallow answers pat – the old ones or the new.
There’s more in this than meets the eye – or so’s my humble view.
The question here is deep, I think – yet usually avoided.
It’s worth our while to think on it – and not to simply void it.
 
2015 January 19th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
  

The Dancer (and the Reed)

The Dancer
(and the Reed)

On the sands, beside the ocean,
I did the dancer meet,
As the waves were drum-rolls sounding
And the wind was fluting sweet.

She danced of the creation,
Of the genesis, of sex –
She was god and man and woman,
She was nature – nothing less.

From the sweat, her face was shining,
Though the breeze was blowing cool,
With the surf behind her roaring
As she danced before this fool.

I was spellbound by her dancing –
That was sensual and divine.
I stood and watched her postures
And the play of gestures fine.

With her feet, she stomped a rhythm –
Primordial, heartbeat, lust –
And her torso swayed to lilting –
That of sky that calls to dust.

She was thunder, she was lightning,
She was wind, torrential rain,
She was each of all the seasons,
She was pleasure, she was pain.

She was joy and she was sorrow,
She was laughter, she was grief.
And my heart, by her, was stolen –
By this dancer, like a thief.

So the gods may ask allegiance
That the strongest can’t resist;
So the musk may rouse the senses
And on mating, then insist…

But the dance then rose in tempo,
As coitus too may do,
And it reached, in time, a climax,
With my heart convulsing too.

And then, as she was flowing
And was swaying, I was freed
And I floated, by that seaside,
Like a wave-tossed broken reed.

******

I think I fell unconscious
And I lay there for a time.
When I woke, there was no dancer –
So I've danced her back in rhyme.

But if you find her dancing –
By an ocean, on a beach,
Beware – for those who watch her
Will be captured by her, each…

Let my rhymes be then sufficient
For the ones, who’re weak of heart –
Though they be a pale reflection
Of the wonder of her art.

Her face was flushed – her beauty
Was like the morning mist,
Her lips were slightly parted –
Her face, by moisture kissed.

Her hips were circling slowly,
Her arms were waving high,
Her hands were weaving stories,
And her eyes were darting sly.

Was she air or was she ether?
For she leaped in wondrous arcs
And she landed like a feather,
Yet the sand flew out like sparks.

She was sparkling, like a fountain,
She was flowing, like a stream.
Was she a woman – or a goddess?
Was she real – or a dream?

I do not know the answers,
But that dancer, I can see –
For I’d seen, myself, her dancing,
By the breakers, by the sea…
 
There are things we can imagine.
There are others, that we can't –
That are spoken of in whispers –
Or in hymns the faithful chant.

I have witnessed such a wonder –
As I've seen, myself, my hand.
But whence and how and wherefore,
I do not understand.

2015 January 18th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
  
Please see:  The Dances of the Golden Hall, by Ashoke Chatterjee (text) and Sunil Janah (photographs), ICCR (Indian Council for Cultural Relations), New Delhi, 1979. 

This book, designed by Zehra Tyabji and printed at the National Institute of Design, Ahmedabad, has a short Introduction by Indira Gandhi and a Foreword by the violinist Yehudi Menuhin.
   

When the Winter Wind Is Blowing

 
When the Winter Wind Is Blowing
 
When the winter wind is blowing and the nights are freezing cold,
I will venture in the alley and I’ll look up at the sky.
And I’ll see, above the city, in the darkness, burning stars.
In the crystal air of winter, it will seem that they are near.

And though I cannot touch them, they will reach into my past –
A past I cannot speak of, a history unwritten,
That still is in awareness – that is distant, like the stars,
But is waiting for remembrance, like the shadow by my side.

For the self has not forgotten all the beings it has been.
And the mind has not forgotten all the visions it has seen.
Through the ages and the eons, they’ve been layered deep beneath…
So I’ll shiver in that alley, as I gaze up at the stars…
 
When this body-soul is vanished, and the traces of it lost,
Will another, from an abyss, in a cloudless season, see
The fires that burn in darkness, like the beacons that they are?
Will that being stare and shiver, in its wonder and its fear?

Through the eons and the ages, as the sun went up and down,
As it traveled north and southwards and as Luna waxed and waned,
The stars have crossed the heavens of this place we call the Earth.
How many eyes have seen them, from this planet of their birth?

How many more, on planets that are whirling 'round the stars,
Have gazed at them in wonder – from the distant, distant past
To the present – and in future will be gawking at them still?
How many eyes united, by their visions of the all?

When the winter wind is blowing and the water’s turned to ice,
I will see the star-fires burning, in the darkness of the night.
And in my recollection, there’ll be stirrings of the past,
And the part of me that’s speechless will be spellbound at the sight…
     
2014 December 18th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Cosmos

    
Cosmos
 
There was silence, there was singing, there was darkness, there was light.
There was waking, there was dreaming, there was danger and delight.
There was presence, there was absence, there was hoping and despair.
There was wounding, there was healing, there was damage and repair.

There was birth and there was dying, there was living in between.
There was pain and there was pleasure, there were things that were unseen.
There was tasting, there was scenting, there was feeling, there was heart,
There was mind and there was matter, there was science, there was art.

******
   
And all of this was there then, that is vanished now and gone,
In that world that we were born in, on that planet we were on.
What is left is still the spirit, that is waiting for rebirth
On a planet that is spinning, on its orbit, like the Earth.

On that planet, in the cosmos that is timeless, that is vast,
Will the beings there remember, what had happened in the past?
Will the harsher sides of Nature, will the horrors, will the wars
Be remembered or repeated – as on Venus, as on Mars?
 
******
   
Is there silence on the mountain, is there quiet in the dale?
In the forests that are lifeless, is there one to tell the tale
Of what happened on our planet, that is swinging ‘round its sun?
But hark – the wind is singing.  And listen – waters run.

In their time, the fields will blossom, and the valleys will be green.
And the lovers then will wander, in the seasons soft, serene.
They will gaze up at the planets, at the brightly shining moon.
It will happen, it will happen.  But it will not happen soon.

******
 
And who will be the beings that will couple in the dark?
Will the skies of day have fliers that will soar on high and arc?
Will the grazers then be tripeds that were never there before?
Will the oceans then have beings that have music, that have lore?
 
How wondrous is the cosmos that is spirit, that is dirt,
Where the stars are distant beacons and yet lovers gently flirt,
Where there’s naught that isn’t passing and where love and flowers bloom,
Where the beings rise and vanish, so that others may have room…
   
2014 October 30th, Thu., 3:01 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  

অন্ধকারে (O`ndhokare -- In the Darkness)

   
অন্ধকারে

মনে পড়ে সেদিনের কথা,
ছোটবেলায়ে শোনা গান৷
মেঘ ভেসে যায়, জোয়ার-ভাটা
জীবন-মরন চলে৷

জ্বালাই তবু, সন্ধ্যা-বেলায়ে,
প্রদীপটুকু, জান --
রাত্রি আসে, অন্ধকারে
কে যে কথা বলে৷
 
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In the Darkness

I remember the past, the songs I heard when small…
The clouds fly by, the tides of life and death go on…

And yet, at dusk, I light the little oil-lamp.
In the darkness, someone speaks.
 
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O`ndhokare

Mone po`re xediner ko`tha,
chot'obe`lae xona gan.
Megh bhexe jae, joar-bhat'a
jibo`n-mo`ron co`le.

Jalai tobu, xondhe be`lae,
prodip-t'uku, jan --
ratri axe, o`ndhokare
ke je ko`tha bo`le...

Mongol, 12-oi O`gast, 2014 kri.
Bruklin, Notun Io`rk

For a brief guide to the transcription used above, and 
to the pronunciation, please see the preface at:  
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/02/bharot-xadhin-indias-freedom.html
   

To Someone

  
To Someone
  
Although it’s been so many, many years,
I still cannot forget your eyes, my friend –
The times I looked upon those eyes and sensed
A link to what has neither start nor end…
  
Two eyes that meet, two hands that briefly touch –
That current that then suddenly connects –
How can we explain it?  Leave it be –
Acknowledging it happened, till the next…
  
But oftentimes, it’s only one that feels
That current or that heart that skips a beat –
And then, it’s best to bow and quietly leave,
So heart and mind, disturbed, can take their rest…
 
But now so many years have passed, and yet
I wonder, were those merely idle dreams –
Or were they real?  So I write this verse,
While knowing little is, as what it seems…
 
2014 July 30th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
     

Transients

    
Transients
    
The sun has passed its zenith, and
The birds have ceased their song.
And soon it will be sinking, with
The shadows stretching long.

And some may yearn to end the day
And others to extend it.
But where's the way to change the pace
At which we make a transit?

******

We wonder at the marvels of
The planet we are on.
We just arrived at dawn and yet,
By dusk, we shall be gone.

We still retain the memories
Of the hours that went before.
Will those suffice to deal with what
There’s still, for us, in store?

******

We’ve played upon the flute of life,
We’ve beaten on the drum.
We’ve won and lost our battles, but
Who totals up the sum?

We do not know, from where we came,
Nor where we next will go.
And as for how and why we are,
That too, we do not know.

******

But now the day is winding down,
As shows and watches do.
And so it is for galaxies
And so for me and you.

The sun had risen in the east.
The birds were chirping loud.
The sun is sinking in the west.
But what’s it all about?

2014 April 7th, Monday, 5:03 pm
Teachers’ Cafeteria, Basement
New Utrecht High School.
Two stanzas added April 9th, evening,
and another (the second) on the 10th night,
at home, Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

Dhoka (Played)

    
Dhoka                                                 Played     
  
Rater majhe exechilo pori,          An angel came in the dark of night
Bhore to cole ge`lo xe.                  And left before the dawn.
Roilo to`khon xo`ron xudhu     Within the shadows of the mind,
Moner a~dhare, he.                        The memory remained.
  
Xei harano xo`roner kho~je,      In search then of that memory,
Xo`pno-praxade ghuri.                 I wandered in my dreams,
Jakei dekhi, takei jigai,                  Asking those I met if they
Dekhejo e`moni huri?                    Had ever seen such grace.
  
Jo`toi khu~ji, pai na go, tai          But finding nothing, I then sought
Dupure, xagor tire,                          The ocean shore at noon,
Roder jholoke, dekhi je`no hot’at   And in the brilliance on the waves
Porir golari hire.                               I glimpsed her necklace bright.
  
Ce~cie ut’he, jha~p debo prae,    I rushed towards the sea, but then
Ke e`k dhore bo`le, “Boka!           A voice restrained me. “Fool!
Xo`pne exechilo bholate tomae,   She came at night to play with you,
Ebaro dieche dhoka.”                      As now she does again.”
  
rat 1:45, 6oi Epril, 2014 kri.             2014 April 6th, Sat., 1:45 am
Bensanharst’, Bruklin, No`bo Io`rk.    Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
   

Sex

    
Sex
   
A woman said,
“There have been times, that often stretched through years,
when sex, though still in consciousness, was like
the distant moon.  And there were other times,
when the act was like the sun that penetrates
and lights again the lamp that’s called desire.”
   
A man replied,
“Since puberty – and even from before,
when sex was like a scent I did not know,
it’s been with me, an ever-smoldering fire
that dims and brightens, rising up in flames.
It never truly dies, but waxes, wanes.”

Another said,
“This varies so, from man to man – and more
between the women – that to speak as if
it is the same, by gender, may be wrong.
The sexes, they are different – but so
is each from other – and from self by age.”

And yet another,
“You speak of sex, while some have such distress
that this is furthest from their minds, besieged…
Who thinks of sex in famines or in wars,
or when we're caring for the old, the sick,
the children and their messes?  Mating’s out.”

So each described this elemental urge,
as each might talk about the restless sea.
And some described the waves and others, tides –
and others spoke of variant presences…
And yet, its essence stayed, for all their talk,
for each of them, a thing of mystery.

2014 February 2nd, Sun.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

Evening Mass

                
Evening Mass
         
As I was walking by St. Finbar's Church,
I heard the organ and the evening mass.
I heard the converts in the basement sing.
I heard their voices as they rose and fell.
It seemed, in this our world, that all was well.

But, recalling then the history
Of those who sang of faith and mystery,
Remembering then, how their ancestors died
And for a bit of peace and justice cried,
I knew this world of ours was far from well,
More distant, yes, from heaven than from hell.

I heard the Guatemalans in the basement sing,
I saw some coming down the street to join –
In Sunday best, a little family...
I saw them cross themselves before the church
And quietly enter, by the side, to sing.

And I remembered then, how they had fled
Their country, ravaged by the endless wars,
How cash and arms had streamed from here to south,
How many then were hunted, massacred...
How those surviving lived from hand to mouth,
How many homeless ones had grieved alone...

And so they traveled north, where money went,
And some had papers, others never did.
They took up humble trades and quietly hid,
For they were quiet people, most of them –
Except on Sundays, when they donned these clothes
And gathered in the basements, there to sing.

A simple story, told by a simpleton.
The truth, you can be sure, is more complex.
But you will have to sit and talk with them
In Spanish or in Quiché.  Then you'll glimpse
The many threads that weave that history
Of silent ones – of faith – and mystery.

For these are “Indians” – not my Asian kind,
But folk of  these, the western continents.
And those, who've traveled far, from Central Am,
Are quiet folk, of stature small and slight.
But when you talk with them, you'll see, at times,
Some traces left – of a soft and ancient light...

And all the weight of ages – Maya, Spain,
The persecutions and the silent pain,
This past, you'll feel – or hear in cadences,
The muted tones of those who've suffered much,
But haven't walled themselves; they're forest folk,
And used to sounds of death – and silences.

So when they sing of Jesus on the cross,
They know of what they sing, for they have seen.
And when they sing of resurrection, they
Have tears that flow – as those, who're grieving, pray.
Far from their homes, in a foreign land, they sing,
The ones they left at home – or gone – remembering...

I heard them singing in the basement and
I briefly thought that I could understand...
And for a moment, there, by Finbar's Church,
My heart was touched and filled, with grace divine,
As pastors poured the sacrificial wine.

November 17th, Sun.
Brooklyn
  

A Woman, Young -- Part II

A Woman, Young -- Part II

A memory remains
of California sun
and that brief incident,
that crossing of the paths
between that woman and
myself --
the ones we were
that morning,
long ago.

Unaccustomed as I was, to women, young,
who'd follow me and offer me a ride --
and insist on it, a stranger though I was ---
I did not know then what to do
except to walk away ---
perhaps especially as she
was beautiful,
attractive and vivacious,
and, at least with me, that day,
flirtatious in a friendly sort of way,
with a sunny innocence that lit her eyes
and a smile that played, like sunshine, on her face.

I did not know then how I should react.
And so, I stumbled and I walked away.

It might have been for the best.

I wonder, still,
how it just might have been
if only I were not
the solemn one that I
felt bound to be
that sunlit day.

I wonder too, just who she was,
that woman, young,
whose form had been revealed to me,
in wondrous nudity,
in morning's light --
that woman who
had followed me --
perhaps because our eyes had met
and she had sensed, as I had done,
a history, unreachable --
a musk
without a name --
and perhaps
a destiny
that turned out
not to be...

I wonder who she was,
that woman, young,
whom I remembered suddenly
this evening, thirty years
and very far away --
I wonder who she was --
and is --
that woman, now perhaps
no longer young...

I did not ask her name,
nor offer mine,
and nor did she,
despite her friendliness...

I wish her well,
and I also wish that I could say,
"I'm sorry that I was
a dolt that day."

2013  October 31, Thu.
Brooklyn
  
A Woman, Young -- Part I 

http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/10/a-woman-young.html 
 

A Woman, Young -- Part I

      
A Woman, Young -- Part I
  
It was morning -- 10 o'clock or earlier.  I hadn't slept.
But I was young, and though I'd lectured for an hour or more,
I still had energy to spare.

I was walking out of the building where I'd lectured, when
I saw a woman, young, who stood where light was streaming in.
Her gauzy dress was billowing in the breeze,
and I could see her form, as if she wasn't wearing clothes
at all.

On exiting the building's door, I met that woman's gaze,
for just an instant.  Walking, then, across the sunlit yard,
I heard, behind me, footsteps, fast -- and found her by my side.

She greeted me.  I turned and answered, being just polite.
She was quite beautiful.  

A word or two of casual talk, and then -- she offered me
a ride.  I said, "I live nearby.  I usually just walk."

But she insisted.  So I sat, and as she drove, she asked,
"So what's your major?"  I answered, "Physics."
"Why do you have that book, then?" she inquired,
and gestured at the thing that sat upon my lap --
a book on mathematics, meant for freshmen
who weren't majoring in engineering, sciences
or math -- and needed a refresher course.

But we were at the buildings meant for faculty,
where I was rooming with a friend who taught.

"I'm saved!" I thought.  Some part of me
was just unwilling to acknowledge that
I now no longer could romance a girl
who might just be an undergrad, while I
had finished with my post-doc there at UCI,
and now had given my last lecture there in math,
and would be leaving soon for someplace far away.

I said, "We'll talk about that later, over coffee."

"But where -- and when?" she asked.

"I'm sure we'll meet each other once again.",
I said -- and saying this,
I waved and walked away.

I'd almost reached my building when I heard her car
-- and saw it curve and glide away.

I never saw that woman, young, again.

2013  October 31, Thu.
Brooklyn 
 

The Changing Moon

   
The Changing Moon
   
The moon has phases, which we see.
It changes everyday.
Its shapes have names.  Its size, in flux,
Has monthly wax and wane.

And yet, it is the selfsame moon
That hides itself when new,
That starts and ends as sliver and
Is shining round when full.

And there are other changes, which
The one who looks may notice.
And some are seen by all – and some
Are seen by the devoted.

Who sees a moon that's rising, sees
Another moon than he,
Who sees his shadow walk with him
Upon a moonlit way.

*******
      
The moon, at rise and set, appears
A giant, warmly hued.
The moon at zenith bathes the Earth
In coolest silver flow.

It changes so on its daily round,
And with the seasons too.
For there is still a moon of May
And that of late November.

The moon of autumn, winter, spring
And summer – they're the same.
Yet each has qualities that tell
Of season, day and hour.

The moon of autumn seems to brood,
The winter moon is sharp.
The moon of spring delights the heart
And summer's moon says, “Love.”

******
     
The sun's too bright to look upon,
Except at rise and set.
We look upon the changing moon
With wonder, as a friend.

For it can change or set our moods,
Bring calm to troubled minds...
And there will be a lovers' moon,
When you and I are gone...

For though the moon appears to change,
It still remains the same.
The ancients saw the moon we see,
And so will those unborn.

In times of peace, in times of war,
In times of hope, despair,
In loneliness, at birth and death,
That changing moon is there.

2013 October 18th Fri. evening
(some stanzas added 19th morning)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn