Departure-II

 
Departure—II

“So tell me then, my father,
The reason you depart.
How long will you be staying
From all of us apart?”

“I am going now, my daughter,
To that land that’s over there—
To trade the things I’m taking
For the other things we need.

“I will climb upon those mountains
To that windswept pass on high,
And I’ll walk beside the glacier,
As the cloud goes streaming by.

“And I’ll follow then the streamlet
To the river’s gorge and hear
The roaring, rushing waters,
As they tumble cold and clear.

“Descending past the boulders,
Towards the valley—shaded, green,
I will view the river, coursing
Through the plains below, serene.

“To that land beyond the mountains,
I am going, through that pass—
But when I am returning,
I do not know, alas!

“But when I come from there, love,
I’ll come with things for you
And mom and all the others—
So be a good girl, do!”

“Go then, my dearest father.
Be careful on your way.
We’ll wait for you, our father,
And for your safety pray.”

Arjun Janah
2015 Dec 13th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
-------------------------------------------------

Please see also:  Departure
      
     

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

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

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.

    

We'll Walk Together

  
We'll Walk Together
  

Rising moon above Lac-Temiscouata,  Quebec, Canada -- Dave Brosha
Source: http://davebrosha.tumblr.com/page/2

  





















       
    
  
    
We walked again together, you and I,
While looking at the darkening evening sky –
And when the moon was slowly rising, then
I kissed you, on your cheek, a soft goodbye.
  
And then the parting, with the wistful smile –
And then, the distance – mile on speeding mile,
And then – the calls, the letters and the hope
That I’d return, in just a little while...
 
How often was the tape rewound, replayed –
How often was the heart, by time, dismayed –
As weeks were turned to months and then to years –
As backs were bowed and heads and hopes were grayed...
 
And yet, the love, the faith, the trust remained –
The embers glowing as the darkness reigned.
We walked, apart, the paths that duties drew,
While yet as one, as Luna waxed and waned.

And so, despite the years we spent apart,
We stayed together, heart to beating heart.
‘Twas no romance, no ups and downs, surprises...
The paths we took were plain, unspoiled by art.
 
But even when I finally did return,
We found that hell in which the workers burn.
As veterans find, who’re traumatized by wars,
Our lives are ashes in the urban urn...
 
But seeing that the years have grown in pain,
I look to those that still perhaps remain,
And with the remnants of my will I say,
Our friendship lasts – and so, we’ll smile again.
 
We’ll walk again together, you and I,
While looking at the brightening eastern sky.
And as the sun is slowly rising, then
I’ll hold you close and hear you softly sigh...
 
2015 January 31st, Sat., 8:15 pm
(3rd-to-last & 2nd-to-last stanzas
added February 14th, Sat.)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
 

Death – II

    
Death – II
  
I looked upon you, Death, and this I saw –

You too were serving, cog on turning wheel.

But since your duty seemed the darkest kind,

I asked you if you did resent or mind.

You answered, “No.  For every life I take,

Another then is born.   And though they cry,

The born do know that they, in turn, will die.

And often, I bring mercy – of escape.”

How torturous life would be, if not for Death…

How much more suffering, that sees no end…

So Death indeed is Mercy, though we feel

He robs us, sans remorse, whom he lets live…

******

   

And yet, and yet – when robbed of those we love,

When left abandoned, in our disarray,

How much we wish that we could turn and say,

“You’ve come too early.  Give us yet awhile.”

There’s shock and grief – and both may be delayed.

For each must cope – and some have duties grave.

And yet, when Death has done his work and left,

Who then can truly cope – or then be brave?

For Death is final.  There is no return.

And all that’s left is grief and memory.

And Death may come when we expect him least.

And none can hide, nor ask him for relief.

2013 December 25^th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York

 
Death

http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/06/death.html
 

Autumn

                     
Autumn
           
It's autumn and the yellowed leaves
Are dying, one by one.
The city's streets are littered
With their corpses, myriad.

The polar winds are blowing through
The city and we hear
The voices of the dead, as they
Are rustled down the streets.

******
  
A sickled moon is hanging
In the darkening autumn sky.
A sickened moon is waning and
It seems about to die.

And near that dying moon, there shines
A red and baleful star.
We shudder, as we see it, at
The horrors, dread, of war.

******
   
It's autumn and the winter, it
Is camped upon the hill.
It looks upon the city and
It seizes up its prey.

It breathes upon the city and
Its breath is dank and chill.
That winter will be coming and
Its will, we shall obey.

******
   
It's autumn, and the winter, it
Is camped upon the hill.
It's autumn, and the summer, it
Is lingering on the sea.

And winter will be coming, with
Its darkness and its chill.
Then summer, long departed, will
Have seemed to never be.

2013 November 7th, Thu.
Bensonhurst, 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 Puzzle

The Puzzle

She asked him why he left her, but he never did reply.
So she was left to figure out the real reason why.
And though the years have come and gone, that puzzle still remains,
That never will be solved by her, whose time has come to die.

How many years, how many years, of asking for the reason...
How many tears, how many tears, on day and month of season,
The day and month on which he left, as autumn then was ending...
And still she pays, as ending nears, the price for lover's treason....

How lightly men may leave the maidens whom they courted, won...
How sadly ends the dalliance so happily begun...
How deep the wound that rarely heals, though time attempts its cure,
How strange that some have hearts with space for one -- and only one.

How many pitfalls life may lay upon a mortal's way,
How many traps that snare the one who stops from saying, "Nay."
How many mothers warn their girls, who yet succumb to love,
How many men, who leave the maid, with whom they've had their way...

When she was young, she tried, in vain, to youthful heart defend.
Now death approaches and she nears her tortuous journey's end.
We wonder if she'll ever have a chance to live again,
And in that life, for errors past, another will amend.

2013 September 18th, Wed.
Brooklyn
 

The Gallery of Ghosts

The Gallery of Ghosts

As we journey through our lives, we see
the ones, to whom we're bonded, pass away.
And so, in time, we each are left to walk
alone, within a gallery of ghosts.

And as we deal with loneliness and grief,
amidst the crowds – or trapped within our rooms,
we turn away from what the present brings,
reflecting on the ones, who now are past.

And some of us have duties still – to those
who're still alive, among the generations,
to animals or plants, vocations, self –
or jobs that keep us stressed, but occupied.

And some are thankful for those duties, which
return us to the present, even turn
us towards the future, rosy-hued or dark,
while others may resent intrusive tasks.

For some of us have given of ourselves
to those now passed, while they were still with us,
but others feel that they had fallen short
on duties then – and now must make amends.

And whether true or not, such matters are
decided by the self in solitude,
and as we walk within that gallery,
you'll see us then conversing, silently.

And surely, it's a shadow-play at best,
for how can we attend to those who're gone?
And yet, it seems they still can influence
the ones who live, remembering the dead.

2013 August 21st, Wed.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

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Meetings

  
Meetings
  
Where shall we meet in the gloaming,
When shall I see you again?
There's so little of time remaining –
And yet it is time yet again...

******

Shall we meet by chance on a country road,
As the end of the day is coming?
And shall we dally there awhile,
With the crickets loudly humming?

Or shall I find you by a lake,
On another day, at evenfall?
And shall we linger by the shore,
As the frogs and the birds returning call?

Or shall we meet  in a wooded glen,
At the sunset hour, in another season?
And shall we stand there, in the dusk,
And wonder then if there's a reason?

Shall we cross upon the field,
At twilight, in another year?
Will you know that it is me,
And will I know that you are near?

******

We met and walked together awhile,
And then, in time, we parted.
But still, I think of you and smile,
Who far too soon departed...

I always feel that we'll meet again,
But then again we'll part.
And so it's always the end of the day,
When I sense that you are there.

But if I smile as the sun goes down,
Will I weep in the light of the dawning,
As I see you walking on the dew-wet grass,
And I know that you're gone forever?

How sad is the gloom of the evening,
How glad is the sun of the morn...
And yet, when I think of your passing,
I smile as I weep that you're gone.

******

Where shall we meet in the gloaming,
When shall I see you again?
There's so little of time remaining –
And yet it is time yet again...

2013 July 27th, Sat.
Brooklyn   
   

I Saw the Moon

     
I Saw the Moon
     
I saw the moon beside a cedar tree.
I saw her moving as she walked with me.
And if I'd ventured to the dancing sea,
Her silver trail upon the waves, I'd see...

The moon is aged and yet is ever new.
She's watched the ancients and she watches you.
How many past have stood and marked her rise,
Or seen her shining in a lover's eyes?
 
I saw that moon, at full, on night of birth.
And in her rhythms, like the sea and earth,
She's followed me, an ever-watchful eye,
In all her guises, from the changing sky.
 
I might presume this old, familiar friend
Will watch this mortal as he meets his end.
And I will now request that on that day,
Beneath her gaze, I'm sent upon my way.

So if, as likely, I will lie within
A room, enclosed, with memory and sin,
I do beseech, whoever's at my side,
To take me where I sense her lunar tide.

And if there's none to help me leave this earth,
Remembering the moon I saw at birth,
And how she slipped behind the cedar tree,
From remnant coils, I'll lift my spirit free.
     
2013 July 19th, Fri.,  around 9:30 pm,
walking home from Gravesend Bay
along Shore Parkway,
between 17th & 18th Avenues,
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
(second stanza added later)
    

By the River

    
By the River
    
By the river's side, we met,
By the currents flowing.
We did not know, from where we came
Or where we would be going.

I still remember well the day
Our meetings there had started.
And I remember too the night
That we, in sorrow, parted...

How cool, the shade of leafy trees
On sun-kissed afternoons...
How wonderful, those nights we lay
Beneath the shining moon...

To every life, there comes a time
When darkness turns to light.
And so it was, that interlude
Of your and my delight...

We looked upon the waters then,
Reflecting moon and sun,
And on the dancing waves, we saw
The threads of being run...

We looked across the river and
We saw the other side.
We wondered if we'd ever cross
That river, flowing wide...

How many dreams we entertained,
How many thoughts we shared,
How many little things to show
That each, for other, cared...

How pleasantly those nights had passed,
Those days of dreaming then...
How sad it is, to think that we
May never meet again...

Oh how I long to see again
That river wide – and you,
To walk where river breezes blow
And kinship old renew...

The strands that intertwine and part,
In time are joined anew,
But memory is lost with death,
And so are I and you.

By the river's side, we'll meet,
By the waters flowing.
We will not know, from where we came
Or where we'll next be going...

2013 July 19th, Fri.
By New York Bay,
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
(added later: 4th stanza)
  
Note:  The following three stanzas were also added later, to follow before the last.  But they were subsequently excised and moved below.  They are kept there for those seeking some attempted explanation for that last stanza.
   
The river is the same and yet
Its waters, never old.
So we will pass away and yet
Our tale will be retold.

The river is the same and yet
The waters, ever new.
To others we will yield, who are
The newer I and you.

For even waters seeming new
Are from that mother risen,
To which they all at end will flow –
The deep and ancient ocean...
  
Also, a disclaimer:  This, like any other such from my pen or keyboard, is a romantic fantasy, no more...;-)
  

The Poet

The Poet
  
I saw a man, who'd dug a grave
And then lay down within.
I greeted him, “How do you do?
Is that a grave you're in?”

“It is.” he said.  I ventured then
To ask the reason why
He'd dug this grave (as I had seen)
And now, within, did lie.

“I am a poet, failed.” said he.
“Whatever else, I'd tried,
I'd made a mess of.  So, at end,
On poems, I relied.”

“Oh wonderful!  A poet!  Why,
I am delighted, sir!
For you're the first I've ever met.
An honor, you confer.”

And bowing low, in deep respect,
And also, so's to see,
I peered into that grave and saw
No trace of poetry.

“And where, oh poet (first I've met),
Are poetics of yours?
I've heard, a poem, when applied
At night, dyspepsia cures.”

At this, that poet muttered low.
His words, I strained to hear.
And in my notebook, I did scribe
Those noble words. They're here.

“I'll freely speak to you, because
You know so little, friend.
It's fitting that a dolt like you
Is witness to my end.”

And raising then his voice, he
With verses did regale,
Recounting what amounted to
A rather tawdry tale.

And all of what he said, I wrote,
At graveside taking seat.
And everything I heard from him,
I therefore can repeat.

“I started writing jingles when
I could do little else.
For though their quality was poor,
I'd learned that poetry sells.

“But I was told, 'There's better ways
For you to spend your time
Than this. Your poems rarely scan
And seldom even rhyme.'

“ 'It's time for you to look ahead
And put yourself to use.
Such verses as you write amount
To nothing but abuse.'

“And so, I tried my best to see
The future, as they'd said,
But what I saw was dismal and
It filled my heart with dread.

“And when I'd tried to see ahead
And found that all was black,
I wished there was a way that I
Could go, reversing, back...

“Since I'd survived the past and it
Was old, familiar ground,
I thought that I'd be better off
Back there, for a second round...

“But being told that there's no way
To travel back in time,
The only thing that I could do
Is write yet more of rhymes.

“I then was told to look around
And see what others see –
A world that's waiting enterprise
With opportunity...

“But looking left and right I saw
There's peril everywhere.
I wished that I could run away
Where people better fare.

“But since they said that danger lurks
Wherever I might go,
The only thing I found that worked
Was writing verses more...

“I saw the worries on the faces
Of the people 'round,
And I'd begun to worry that
My mind was far from sound.

“But being told, by learned folk,
That worries can't be fled,
I scribed more verse, on paper, screen,
And even in my head.

“By then, I'd reached a point where
I'd written so much verse,
That verses were a burden too –
And getting, daily, worse.

“Oh woe betide the wastrel who's
Addicted in this way!
From versifying, I now wished
That I could run away...

“And so I sought out doctors of
Disorders of the mind –
For such as these, if you would look,
In plenty you will find.

“And I had asked, of physics such,
'Have you a cure for ailment
That makes me write in verses till
It's time for my confinement?'

“But I was told, for poetry,
There isn't any cure.
I asked if they were certain and
They said that they were sure.

“I asked myself if I could live
Addicted so, to verse.
The answer came from deep within:
A negative – and terse.

“The answer that I got was this:
A short and simple 'No.'
And then I realized it's time
For me to quit and go.

“For poetry deranges minds
And turns our brains to mush.
It chatters and it sticks its tongue
At those who say, 'Now shush!'

“It's better far to leave this world
Than stay and be afflicted
By such a thing, as that to which
I sadly am addicted.

“And since the doctors I had seen
Could see no way to fix it,
I now have dug this grave so I
Can make, in it, an exit.

“So if you come tomorrow, you
Will see me lying dead.
I hope that you will help to see
No homily is read.”

I'd scribbled all the poet said,
In the notebook that I carried.
And now, besides that poet's grave,
To pay respects, I tarried.

I waited till the sun went down,
And insects flew, that bite.
And slaps and curses then I heard
From poet, out of sight.

And peering in the dark, I saw
A pair of glowing eyes.
“Is this the poet's ghost?” I asked
Myself, in some surprise.

And gathering up my courage, I
Did venture then to say,
While looking at those glowing eyes,
And slipping, slow, away...

“Oh are you he, and still alive,
Who's final words, I've written?
Or are you he, no longer live,
And yet, by insects, bitten?”

I heard a growl, and then I saw
A hand reach out at me.
I thought it fit that I should leave,
And hastily did flee.

But when, to graveside, cautiously,
I tiptoed, in the morn,
I found that though the grave was there,
The poet, he was gone.

I wondered for a while at this,
And went then on my way.
But why that poet wasn't there,
I wonder, every day.

And I return, at times, to check
That grave that he had lain in.
And though the grave has long been filled,
A fig-tree, there, is growing...

Was it a spirit that I'd met,
Who spoke to me in rhymes?
Or was he just a man like me,
Reflecting on his times?

But as I wonder, lo, I find
There jingles, through my mind,
Such verses as that poet warned
Might all one's wits unwind...

So could it be, that on that eve,
As insects small were biting,
His poetry-pest, who'd drifted free,
Had found his “dolt” inviting?

So I reflect, on incident
So singular that I
Have written this, so someone might
Explain, before I die.

2013 July 15th, Mon.
Brooklyn 
  

The Darkened Hall

The Darkened Hall

The curtain's fallen. The players all have left.
And yet I sit within the darkened hall,
The voices of the play still echoing...

And if I sit enough, perhaps I'll see
The curtain rise -- and see the play begin --
Another play, perhaps, and yet the same,
As I sit watching in the darkened hall...

2013 July 6th, Sat
Brooklyn
 

Eventide

Eventide

The day was quietly leaving – and the night was at the door.
It was raining, softly, softly, as the light was ebbing slow.
From the water in the gutters, the lights, reflected, shone,
As all across the city, those lights were turning on...

I was treading, slowly, softly, on my aging, sneakered feet,
And I'd hoisted my umbrella as I walked the city street –
For the rain was softly falling while the light was ebbing slow,
As the day was quietly leaving and the night was at the door...

I heard a neighbor talking as I passed her darkened house.
I could hear her quietly talking as I walked beside her house.
I could hear what she was saying, for my tread was soft and slow,
As the trees grew dark and looming as the night came in the door...

So the tide, it ebbs and rises – and the moon, it waxes, wanes.
And the city slows at evening as it's touched by gentle rains...
The night, it enters softly as the day has quietly left.
As the tide of light is turning, we remember those who've left...

The day, it had departed as I entered in my house.
And I waited, in the gloaming, for the coming of my spouse...
I would wait till it was midnight, then I'd call her on the 'phone,
As she left her ailing parent and she traveled home alone...

I wished that I could do as she had done so many years,
Remembering the ones I left behind while shedding tears...
But I waited there in silence and my cheeks and eyes were dry.
It was only for the living that I've ever had to cry...

2013 July 2nd, Tue.
(last two stanzas added July 3rd Wed.)
Brooklyn

How Beautiful-II

How Beautiful-II

How beautiful and dark, your eyes,
How beautiful, my love...
I see in them the dark of night
And all the stars above...

How deep, that dark within your eyes,
How deep and dark, my dear...
I see in them the galaxies,
The planets far and near...

How melting warm, your eyes, my love,
That warm your lover's heart...
How innocent, your eyes, my love,
That speak of Nature's art...

I saw such eyes before, my love,
I saw them in a deer...
I saw them from afar, my love,
But now I see them near...

When you and I are gone, my love,
This vision will remain,
Be it in fall or wintertime,
In spring or summer's rain...

When this, our world, is gone, my dear,
This spinning orb, this Earth,
This dark I see, within your eyes,
Will see a planet's birth.

And on that planet, as it spins,
And circles through the vast,
A lover will, within such eyes,
Discern two lovers past...

How beautiful and dark, your eyes,
How beautiful, my love...
I see in them the dark of night
And all the stars above...

2013 June 28th, Fri.
Brooklyn
  
How Beautiful
 

Radha-Krishna

Radha-Krishna

The rain clouds – they have gathered and they've blotted out the sun.
The rain clouds – they are gathered but the rain has not begun.
It is warm and it is humid, and the cloying air is still.
So the breezes are not blowing – but we hope that soon they will.

We wait in expectation of the breeze that ruffles leaves,
We wait with skin that's fevered and with mind that still believes.
We wait in meditation for the rain that's coming soon.
We wait, with perspiration, on this torrid afternoon.

Will the god of thunder, lightning bless the city with his rain?
Will our hopes and our beseeching be regarded – or in vain?
Will the tempest shake the branches, will the heavens break and pour?
Will we only sweat and suffer, unrequited, even more?

So the maiden waits for lover, who is tardy in his love.
So the shaman does his rain-dance, for the being up above.
Yet the leaves are still in silence, and the tempest is deferred,
As throughout these heated islands, all our prayers go unheard.

Will he hurry to his Radha, who is waiting for his touch?
Will he answer adoration?  Is she asking for too much?
She is parched and she is fevered. She is restless and in pain.
Will her quencher, who is Krishna, be her jilter yet again?

You can hear the flute he's playing, in the distance, in the dark...
To the tune that he is playing, with his Radha, we can hark...
But alas, she is uncoupled – and she waits for him in vain.
He has found another gopi.  There is little to explain.
























It is summer – and we swelter, here in Brooklyn, in the Bronx,
In Manhattan, Staten Island and in Queens  – as do the monks,
Who will suffer and be silent, as they offer of their hurts,
While we suffer as did Radha – as we offer of our words.

2013 June 24th, Mon.
Brooklyn

Note:     gopi:  cowherd-maiden / milkmaid
 

The Summer Solstice / Not Asking Why

The Summer Solstice / Not Asking Why

The summer solstice comes but does not stay.
The sun that arced to north now treks to south.
As sunswept June replaces faded May
So will December see November out.

And in the winter, on that longest night,
The stars will shine like jewels in the sky.
And in the morn, we'll see the rising light
Has shifted slightly north, not asking why...

The water rises, peaks and then it falls,
As wave and tide respond to wind and moon.
As skies grow dark from clouds, a peacock calls.
The time to mate, he knows, is ending soon.

A stone that's thrown ascends, in graceful arc,
And then descends towards the waiting ground.
And so does light of day secede to dark,
As season follows season, 'round and 'round.

How many shining suns in peacocks' tails,
How many stars that burn in solitude...
By southern cross and star of north she sails,
The ship that bears the free to servitude...

How many drums are beating, soft or loud,
With rhythms – pulsing, pulsing swift or slow...
How many forms are taken by a cloud,
How many lives, in which we come and go...

The summer solstice comes but does not stay.
As new comes in, the old is ushered out.
So empires rise and reign and then decay.
So suns are born that shine and then go out.

This June will soon be yielding to July,
And summer will give way, again, to fall.
And fall will yield in turn, not asking why,
As winter will to spring – and we to all.

So Nature's limbs revolve – and so do we,
As instinct tells us what to do in turn.
And yet, at times, it falls to you and me
To question why – before we fill the urn.

We yearn for what has passed and won't return,
We long for solace – that of constancy.
The butterfly is touched by morning sun –
And we have moments, rare, of ecstasy...

The summer solstice comes but does not stay.
The guest departs before he's had his tea...
We basked in sun upon the longest day,
Not asking why we came, by chance, to be...

2013 June 22nd, Sat.
Brooklyn
  

By the Sea

By the Sea

I wandered like a jackal by the sea,
Searching for my dinner, endlessly,
While finding morsels here and there to munch,
With feces, dry, enough for jackal's lunch.

I wandered, slowly, by the sounding sea,
And knew that little time remained to be.
And from that sea, these phrases soft I heard,
“The body leaves, but there remains the word.”

I wandered lonely, by the wind-swept sea,
With thoughts of us and them and you and me,
And wandered how, from sea of floating turds,
There still might rise, perhaps, immortal words.

And so I sat to scribble down some verse,
Not knowing what was bad and what was worse,
But trusting that, perhaps, from mangled line,
A future jackal might make dinner fine.

And so I looked upon the rolling sea –
And drifting there, I saw, were you and me
And those departed, drifting in that sea,
With wind-swept waves that murmured endlessly.

And then I knew, while sitting on that bench,
Beside the sea, that from the sordid stench
Of sewage, there can rise, with passing time,
The trees, the grass and this – my waving rhyme.

I wandered then, beside that roiling deep,
And knowing I had nothing left to keep,
I was content to let my verses go
And homewards turn, with footsteps measured, slow.

2013 June 16th, Sun.
Brooklyn
  

To Our Gary (to Gary Brazel)

To Our Gary

There's satisfaction left in teaching yet,
As may be seen, in some who've lasted long.
Amidst the madness of the endless race,
We still have islands left of silent peace.

There is the labor that is endless, yet
Is done with care to smallest filigree –
No declarations loud, no evidence
Except what may be found by eyes that see...

We saw you Gary, heard you as you worked,
Although you labored unobtrusively.
How many children entered, every year,
Those wondrous rooms, whose doors you opened wide...

We'll miss you Gary, miss that space you filled,
Your silent presence that was comforting...
Your students, they will ask, when you have left,
For you – and we'll, for once, be silent then...

But then, we'll say, perhaps, that you've retired,
So you can do those others things you loved,
To travel far, perhaps, with family –
To walk in wooded hills – in joyful peace...

Your classroom, where you taught, will still be filled,
The desk, where you had sat, still occupied.
And teachers young will come, as we retire,
And some will use the work you've left behind...

So teachers come and work for many years –
And teachers leave, and others take their place.
But each, who gives of labor and of love,
In ways unique, we never can replace...

You left the race that we have had to run,
Creating quiet worlds for those you taught.
We wish that we could emulate your work,
But know there'll never be a new Brazel.

Your name may be forgotten, when we've left,
Except by all those thousands that you taught.
Your work will live in them, our quiet friend,
Whom we'll remember as we age and end.

Perhaps you'll write a book that some will read,
With all those things in it they did not know.
So humans learn and then they pass it on.
And some are there, who take and add to it...

So knowledge grows within our species, yet
There also grows that great forgetfulness...
So madness rules, although the hope remains
That sanity and sense will yet prevail.

2013 June 13th Thu., 3:26 am
Brooklyn