Reality

Reality

Do pardon us for holding up
Our hands at yet more pukes.
Denuclearize? Let's start with those
Who have the most of nukes.

WMD's? Who's got the most
Of these? And has used them too?
So why this game of make-believe
That lulls both me and you?

And why is that pundits rant
When leaders try for peace?
They did it to Obama. Trump
Is getting now his piece.

Fanatics? Who’s been backing those
With funds and arms and more?
How many lives have been destroyed,
How many nations more?

Democracy?  Is that our aim
In ventures far away?
Or is it power and money?  Who
Has guts to rise and say?

2018 August 3rd, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Angel’s Wings

Angel’s Wings

The monster of the west takes off its mask
And bares its demon face for all to see.
And now the deeds it did in darkness are
Exposed to light for those like you and me.

But does the public in the homeland flinch
At seeing that their nation long was ruled
By those of devilish heart and mind, who yet,
That public, with their call for “freedom”, fooled?

What freedom was it then, as it is now?
The liberty to ravage lands afar?
The freedom granted then, and vaunted still,
To crush resistance with the force of war?

Alas! The public now is split indeed,
But mainly, from the news we get, between
The ones who’d crush a country A and those
Who’d bomb a B for reasons most obscene.

And still those reasons aren’t fully shown.
What’s said in private, in the central rings,
Cannot be heard by those more distant, who
May think their devil still has angel’s wings.

And so we race towards apocalypse,
With minions cheering as we near the brink.
The hounds of horror, scenting mayhem, bay,
As those who fed them hear and nod and wink.

The hunt is on, across the globe, for those
Who still may dare to try to curb the beast.
The monster of the west has bared its face,
And who can stop or slow it in the least?

2018 April 30th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
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http://candlefrenzy.com/yankee-candle-angels-wings-candle/

  

Bhut (ভুত -- Ghosts -- translation of Shadows)

This is a translation into Bangla (Bengali) of Shadows.
 
A transcription into Roman script follows after the 
Bangla-script version that is directly below.
--------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
ভুত  (Ghosts)
 
হো আকাশে ছুটছে মেঘ, জ্বলছে সুর্য  নীলে৷
রাস্তার ধারে ফুটেছে ফুল, গাইছে যেন ভুমি৷

হটাৎ দেখি ধাঁধানো আলো, রক্ত এলো কানে৷
দেখি না কিছু, শুনি না কিছু, মৃত যেন আমি৷

******
 
আবার দেখি – ছেটানো দেহ, টগবগ করে উঠছে  ধোঁয়া৷
রইলাম কি জ্যান্ত  আমি – নাকি ভীষণ ধোকা? 

আমার দিকে হাসছে যে, রযেছে শুধু মুণ্ডু তার৷
ছটফট করে পুড়ছে  মেয়ে, মুখ চামড়া নেই  যার৷

পচছে দেহ, দূর্গন্ধ, খাচ্ছে মাছি-পোকা,
তারি মাঝে ঘুরে বেড়াই, কোথায় যাবো আমি?

******

সবাই মরা, জঘন্য, আমিও তাদের মাঝে৷
তাও তো দেখো – খেলছে শিশু, করছে নাকো ভয়৷

ওই যে দেখো – মেঘের খেলা৷  দুলছে হাওয়ায়ে ফুল৷
স্বর্গ এবার এখানে এলো, যেখানে নরক ছিল৷
  
ছেলে-মেয়েরা হাসছে, শোনো – ছোটবেলার হাসি৷
আমরা এখন ছায়া যেন – ভুতের রূপে ভাসি৷

বুধবার, ২৭-শে সেপ্টেম্বর, ২০১৪ খৃ
(ইংরেজী থেকে বাংলায়ে অনুবাদ, ২-রা সেপ্টেম্বর)
ব্রুক্লিন, নতুন ইয়র্ক 
   
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A guide to the Roman-transcription scheme used below can 
be found in the preface at Bharot Xadhin (India, Free).
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- 
       
Bhut  (Ghosts)
  
Ho akaxe chut’che megh, jolche xurjo nile.
Rastar dhare phut’eche phul, gaiche je`no bhumi.

Ho`tat dekhi dhadano alo, ro`kto elo kane.
Dekhi na kichu, xuni na kichu, mrito je`no ami.

******
  
Abar dekhi – chet’ano deho, t-ogbo`g kore ut’che dho~a.
Roilam ki je`nto ami – naki bhix`on dhoka?

Amar dike haxche je, roeche xudhu mun’d’u tar.
Cho`t’pho`t’ kore pur’che me-e, mukh-camra nei jar.

Pocche deho, durgo`ndho, khacche machi-poka,
Tari majhe ghure ber`ai, kothae jabo ami?

******
 
Xo`bai mo`ra, jo`gho`nno, amio tader majhe.
Tao to de`kho – khelche xixu, korche nako bho`e.

Oi je de`kho – megher khe`la.  Dulche haoae phul.
Xo`rgo abar ekhane elo, jekhane no`rok chilo.

Chele-me-era haxche, xono – chot’obe`lar haxi.
Amra e`khon chaya je`no – bhuter rupe bhaxi.

budhbar, 27-e o`gast, 2014 khri.
(ingreji theke banglae onubad, mongolbar, 2-ra sept’embar)
bruklin, notun io`rk
  
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
 A guide to the Romanization scheme used above can be
 found in the preface at Bharot Xadhin (India, Free).
 
The Bangla-script version can be seen above the Roman 
transcription that is directly above.
 
This is a translation into Bangla (Bengali) of Shadows.
  

Shadows

 
Shadows
 
I saw the sky was laughing,
I saw the clouds that blew.
I saw the sun was shining,
Amidst the white and blue.
 
I saw the flowers blooming
Beneath that sky above.
It seemed the Earth was singing
Of happiness and love.
 
And then my eyes were blinded,
By light, more bright than sun.
And then, my ears were bleeding
And I, with death, was one.
 
******
  
I see the bodies scattered
Beneath the roiling smoke –
And am I dead or living –
And is this just a joke?
 
A man, at me, is grinning –
His head is all that’s left.
A smoldering girl is writhing –
Of face and skin bereft…
 
The flies and maggots feasted
As corpses rotted slow.
And I, among them, wandered,
Not knowing where to go.
 
******
  
But now I’m dead and gruesome,
With all who once lived here.
And yet – a child is playing
And showing naught of fear.
 
For see – the sun is shining,
As flowers toss in wind –
And so, it’s back to heaven,
Where humans once had sinned.
 
The children here are laughing –
The innocence of youth –
And I and mine are shadows,
Unwanted and uncouth.

2014 August 27th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York

-------------------------------------------------------------
A translation into Bangla (Bengali) can be 
found at Bhut (Ghosts).
  

New Season -- revised

  
This is a revised version of New Season , which I wrote on October 29th, 2006, a few months into a two-year stay at my parents'  house in Berkeley, California.  That long visit was initiated by a heart attack (followed, during stent installation, by heart failure) that my mother had suffered, on August 26th of that year.

Almost two years after that writing, Joe's Demise appeared, on October 5th, 2008 -- out of nowhere, so it seemed.  This happened soon after my return to Brooklyn, at the end of August of that year.

Recently, on reading both poems again, I noticed that a section of the earlier poem contained a premonition of what is perhaps portrayed in the later one, Joe's Demise.  So, after revising New Season, I am presenting it below.

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

New Season -- revised

The air has cooled, but still the ardent sun
Retains his strength, as leaves of color fall.

Now comes November... Yet, along this coast,
It is as if we're waiting still for May...

The maples – they are mottled, green and red...
And lighter, warmer shades can now be seen,
Amongst the greens, on coastal slopes and hills.

We know, beyond those hills, and east to the sea,
For a full three thousand miles, the trees stand bare,
Except for dark and stolid evergreens... 

But here, the maples, oaks, the wine-leaved plums
And all their broad-leaved kin still wear the clothes
Of early fall, which lasts here into spring...

What a paradise was this, that Nature wrought,
Until we came and drove our freeways through!
Now shopping malls deface the sun-washed coast,
And rushing cars disturb the sleeping hills.

And yet, the conifers rise up to a hilltop ridge,
And little birds are perched on cables strung
Between the poles that stand as straight and tall
As when they slowly grew in forests deep...

And high upon those hills, you still might find,
Beside a stream, a mountain lion's print –
And quickly glance about and hurry down
Before the night descends on fragrant pines.

It is as if the works of men are but
Another shadow that is speeding through,
One more among the countless ones that climb
These coastal hills as clouds go racing by.

All this shall pass, like a storm that lays about
And then is gone.  So newborn grass will spring
From asphalt cracks, and rust will eat at bridges...

And trees will conquer buildings, as they've done
Since Olmecs, Mayas, Incas, Aztecs raised
Their monuments and left, as Khmers had built
In forests far across the globe, reclaimed
By plants, and all the life that they sustain...

But wait – perhaps, this time, it won't be so,
And things will take, instead, a turn that is
Quite different – for we have stressed this whole,
Of earth and sea and air, beyond its strength...

That whole may not recover.  Life, its part,
May never be the same upon this globe...

And if we do not curb those weapons dread
That we are hoarding, life may vanish from
This blue-green planet – till it starts again
From a seed arrived from a distant orb that's sent
Ejecta forth to find a home and spread...

All this goes through the mind, on a tranquil day,
When all seems changeless, still, amidst the flow...

Perhaps we need these little respites from
The rush of seasons – both of Earth and Man.
We then can note the changes that portend
Of seasons yet to come, whose depth and length
Exceed, by far, the turns of the yearly round.

October ends, and yet, in paradise,
The sun is warm, and hummingbirds in flight
Are finding time to pause and drink their fill.

So autumn here begins, and we have time
To think these thoughts of past and future, while
We savor this – the present's timelessness.

Babui Jana (Arjun Janah)
2006 October 29th, Sun.
Berkeley, California

revised, 2013 October 23rd, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Joe's Demise

Joe's Demise

It was five o'clock on Monday afternoon.
The sun had not yet set, but would be setting soon.
And Joseph Lieberman was sitting at his table.
His paperwork he'd done, as best as he was able.
He turned to see the clock, and then he saw,
Out of the corner of his eye, with startled awe,
A flash more bright than sun, that seared his eye.

Joe knew, within his heart, that he would die.
And yet, he staggered up – and with surviving sight,
He saw the afternoon had turned to night.
And then, a sound, that beggared all he'd heard,
And shove, that sent him flying, like a bird,
To smash against the wall, and fall to floor,
A crumpled, bleeding heap – and Joe, no more.

He'd lived a life of toil, a life quite clean.
He'd loved his kinsfolk, friends, been rarely mean.
No sin that's grievous, no unseemly blot,
Had marred the fabric of his life and lot,
Until this day, when karma, not his own,
Worked suddenly, to crush his flesh and bone.
Whence came this evil, evil only knows.

Where Joe once lived, the wind now softly blows.

Babui / Arjun Janah
2008 October 5th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
   
Note:   This came to me today (Sunday) between approximately 5:45
and 6:05 pm, at the Dunkin Donuts shop on 18th Avenue, near 86th
Street, Brooklyn -- from where, I do not know.

The Joe Lieberman, or everyman ("Joe Schmoe"), of this tale should not be confused with the well-known Joseph P. Lieberman, U.S. senator from Connecticut, to whom he may have been only distantly related.