Barking Dogs

 
Barking Dogs

We’ve bred our dogs to bark, so they
Alert us; trained them to obey.
But this has made some infantile.
And humans too, we’ve made this way.

How many might the layers be
That form the full reality!
Impatiently, we skim—and judge. 
What lies beneath, we rarely see.

How easy, then, with swift surmise,
To demonize—and heroize!
Ignoring all that's intertwined
Has led us long on paths unwise.

******

There is, around us, misery—
That’s plain enough for all to see—
That’s caused by being in a rush—
Not taking time to pause—and be.

For if we did, we’d realize,
Perhaps at first with some surprise,
Our “demons” and our “heroes”, both,
Are naught but us—when stripped of lies.

We need not take the gangster’s side,
Nor cast the victim’s pleas aside.
We each should act, with full resolve,
Yet know there’s more than just a side.

****** 

To better see then, in the round,
What other ways have seers found?
I cannot say. Some delve within;
Some harken to the softest sound.

In times of peril, beings act—
But even then, there’s still the fact
That guidance comes from sight—and not 
From blind obedience to a tract.

The calls of prophets, ideologues—
Are somewhat like the calls of frogs.
So music too can touch the soul—
And yet be used to rouse the dogs.

2023 March 25th, Sat.
Berkeley, California

To Be What We Can Be

 
To Be What We Can Be

Should we wait around for leaders, so
We then become the sheep we'd like to be—
Or even dogs that bay—but still obey?

Or should we be the ones who lead the way—
As others follow, turned to hounds or sheep?
Or should we find the wisdom to refrain
From leading or, by others, being led?

******

Should we join, with glee, the surging mob—
Or like the cows and horses do, stampede?
Or should we recognize that this can lead
To things we later view with deep regret?

******

How hard it is to think and then decide
And know that we alone will bear the weight 
Of error or the lash of consequence?
It’s easier to follow than to lead—
But harder still to be what we could be.

******
The dogs, the herded cattle, horses—these
Were once as free as our ancestors were—
Until we bound and bred them to obey, 
As we have even done to full-grown men
And women. Stop. Let’s be what we can be.

2023 March 18th, Sat.
Berkeley, California
 

ভীতি-২০২২-১১-১৯

 
ভীতি (২০২২-১১-১৯)
 
খুশির সঙ্গে ব্যথা কিছু,
চাহনার সঙ্গে ভয়—
এমন জোড়ায়, জীবন যাপন
সাধ্য-সম্ভব হয়।
 
ব্যথা যাদের লাগে না, তাদের
অঙ্গ খসে পড়ে।
ভয় যারা পায় না, তারা
সবার আগে মরে।
 
অবিরামের ব্যথা তবে,
অবিরামের ভয়—
দেহে-মনে, জীবন ধরে,
সহনীয় নয়।
 
******
 
একজন যাতে দাঁড়িয়ে লড়ে,
আরেক তাতে ছোটে।
একের সাহস, অন্যের ভীতি—
কোথার থেকে জোটে?
 
তাই দেখো, কেউ খতরে চলে,
ভয় করে না, মরতে।
কি খোরাকে সাহস তার-ই,
যে জানেনা, ডরতে?
 
বৃদ্ধ যেমন ভয়তে ভরা,
তেমনি কোনো নবীন।
ভয়ের কারণ কি যে—সেটা
বুঝতে পারা কঠিন।
 
******
 
জীবন-পথে যখন একা,
বিপদে অস্ত্রহীন,
মনে হয় তখন, শঙ্কার চোটে,
দেহ শক্তিহীন।
 
আছে কি কোনো ওষুধ-দওয়াই —
ভীতির রোগের ভোজ?
সস্তা হোক, বা যতই দামি—
করা যায় কি খোঁজ?
 
স্বাসের ধ্যান। ব্যামের সাফাই।
কীর্তন গেয়ে মুক্তি।
প্রতি প্রথায়, শান্তির খোঁজের
ধারার সাথে যুক্তি।
 
******
 
যেটা করার, সেটা করা—
এটাও মূলে আছে।
এই শিল্পের দখল পেলে,
শান্তি বুকে আসে।
 
বাকির সাথে, কি পাওয়া যায়,
পথের দিনে-রাতে?
ক্ষতির চোটের শিক্ষা বটে,
দুঃখ, ভীতির সাথে।
 
এদের থেকে না পালিয়ে,
সহযাত্রী ব’লে,
মুখের দিকে তাকিয়ে তাদের,
বসাতে হয় কোলে।
 
শনিবার, ১৯ অক্টোবর, ২০২২ খ্রি.
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউ ইয়র্ক
 

The Bird is Never in the Nest

Note: The initial post has been lightly edited and some stanzas have been added. The total number of stanzas now stands at nine.

Despite the apparent frivolity of the couplet rhymes, this is meant to be a serious piece.

For most of us, this should take several re-readings to sink in. Of course, this is so for for most poems.

The statements made  should neither be dismissed nor accepted without further thought, nor should the questions raised be considered to be merely rhetorical. They are worth due consideration.

That said, neither the validity of some of the statements nor the answers to some of the questions might be determinable in a lifetime. These have been debated for thousands of years without resolution.

Indeed, words will never suffice in these matters, except as pointers.

Peace.

Orjun (Babui)
অর্জুন (বাবুই)
Arjun
अर्जुन / ارجن
-------------------------------------------------------
 
The Bird is Never in the Nest
 

That self, that goes by “you” and “me”,
We’re told, by seers, is fantasy.
And that “immortal soul” within,
That often seems so mired in sin,
Is also, by the wise, dismissed
As less substantial than the mist.
Yet all of us might still agree
That mind is real—that wanders free
Without, within, with wondrous ease—
And yet, at death, appears to cease.

But where, in all your swarm of cells,
A trillion strong, is one that tells
Me where it is that you reside—
That place, in which that “soul” can hide—
Or “self”—or even where that mind
That thinks—and “heart” that’s loving, kind
Or “made of stone”—might chance to be.
And so it with “you” and “me”
And “him” and “her” and all the rest.
The bird is never in the nest!

Can matter be the roost of mind—
However hard it is to find?
We look at dusk, we look at dawn.
Perhaps it came—and now is gone?
We cannot find that “I” or “me”—
That thing, sans which we cease to be.
Yet surely mind exists—and so
We learn there’s much we’ve still to know.
Perhaps the mind is like the flame
That’s oil and air—yet not the same.

To cast its light, the lamp may need
The air and oil—yet is, indeed,
Not just the two.  So mind requires,
It seems, this body that respires—
And yet, like flame—and even air—
It isn’t “ours”.  It’s what “we” share—
This mind that lights both “you” and “me”,
And “him” and “her”—in which we see
And hear and feel and question why
We need these things like “you” and “I”.

Behold the storm—with all its clouds
And winds that hide the sun in shrouds
And all the rain that falls—and ask,
"Where lies its self?"  That starts a task
That will not yield an answer.  So
It is for “you” and “me”—but more.
There’s likely not a gram of earth
Or water, air, that gave me birth,
That I could still now claim as mine,
Nor erg that pulsed in newborn spine.   \1
 
And neither could you find a place
Where I begin and the rest displace.
There is no line or boundary
That could resolve this quandary.
So you and I are storm and wave.
No matter how we try to save
The things we might pretend are ours,
They all will be dispersed as showers.
You have no start or end in space
Or time, despite a name and face.

For tell me where the wave has end
Or start?  We each might still pretend
That each exists—that mind and soul
And body, self, are one and whole.
But like the storm and wave, we each
Are only parts. Upon a beach,
A wave may crash, and yet we see
Another, welling from the sea,
That is the same.  Like storms, we grow
And then we fade—as all is flow.
 
We're born and live awhile and die,
And rarely get to question why.
But some might say an entity,
That lives, has an identity.
The script that’s in our DNA
And the weave of what our elders say
Give each of us that function, form—
That version of the larger norm—
That memory that, like scriptures read,
Provides the long and linking thread.
 
So atoms, quanta come and go,               \2
As currents, through our bodies, flow,
That could be matter, could be light,
Yielding pleasure, pain, delight,
But information still persists              
And, all of entropy, resists.                      \3
And some declare—the self and soul
And even brightly burning coal
Are phantoms, while the mind is spirit,
With all the rest as dreams within it.

  

2016 June 26th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York 
  

Monua Janah: 1959-2004
http://suniljanah.org/sjanah/exsf00/vexsf00.htm
Lamp animation: John Innis, 2005

  

   




I would like to thank my friend, Vivek, for some useful editorial suggestions. 
     -- Arjun
------------------------------------------------------- 

Notes:
 
1.  An erg is a very small unit of energy, once much used by physicists. One erg is about 1/400,000 of a heat-calorie and so about 1/400,000,000 of a food-calorie (kilocalorie).

2.  Energy, like matter, has a granular structure.  A quantum is an extremely tiny natural "packet" or pulse of energy.  For electromagnetic radiation, the energy in a quantum is proportional to the frequency of the electromagnetic wave.  The energy in one quantum of green light is about 4 x 10^(-14) erg.
   
3.  The entropy of a system is a measure of its disorder, or of our lack of knowledge about it.  The word "information" in the previous line is used loosely, as in everyday speech, in the sense of "knowledge", not in the precise technical sense of "negentropy" of coding and communication theory, although these usages are connected.
   

Love's Labor Lost--Broverbs for Valentine's Day

Love's Labor Lost?
(Broverbs for Valentine's Day)
    
We can sit and scribe our verses
From now until we die,
But who, if asked to read them,
Will find a reason why?
 
We can sow our seeds of wisdom--
And weep, that all our toil
Was wasted, since the seedings
Were all on barren soil.
 
We can spend our waking lifetimes
In struggles, pay the cost
From what we left neglected,
Yet see our labors lost.
 
We can teach and we can nurture;
We can fuss, as carers must.
We can build, with patience, structures--
And see them turn to dust.
  
****** 
  
So when we're in the twilight,
With darkness drawing near,
We then might slow from slaving
And pause to shed a tear.
  
But then it's time to wipe it
And wistfully to smile,
For if, with heart, we labored,
It was surely worth our while.
 
And if some satisfaction,
Some pleasure in the task,
For a year or for an instant,
Was ours--what's left to ask?
 
Let's leave what's past to others,
And what's to come to fate.
The present time is precious
And not for waste in hate.
  
****** 
  
There's joy in our creations,
However small they be.
We bring them through gestations
And then we set them free.
 
Like children, they may flourish.
Like seedlings, they may die.
How many are our hatchlings--
How few will live to fly?
 
We seek for recognition.
A smidgen should suffice.
We warm our hands with praises--
For soon, we'll meet with ice.
  
Our children may be stolen.
With broken hearts, we cry.
But if we know they're tended,
With souls content, we die.
  
******
  
We labor for the joy of it.
We labor for our bread.
We labor for the smile we get,
From duty and from dread.
  
And when we shirk our labor,
We're often in torment.
Some say they live for pleasure,
Yet rarely are content.
  
Our lives are often muddles.
What hubris, then, to say
It's pleasure, love or duty
Or work that clears the way.
 
We can live for just this instant;
We can live for what we lost;
We can live to build the future.
In each, there's always cost.
  
******
 
And those, who're truly humble,
Of their virtues, might be proud,
But equally, of those failings
That they rarely speak of loud.
 
For those, who see no failings
In themselves, are surely blind,
And those, who see them clearest,
Are souls of deepest mind.
 
A vice that's partly conquered
Is like a foe defeated;
It's best to leave it extant,
Lest hubris be repeated.
  
The greatest pride of humans,
We're told, is that of pride.
Yet pride, in honest labor,
Is a lion each can ride.

****** 
 
In all things, there's a balance;
There's yang that waits in yin.
Too little--and we're tortured;
Too much--and we're in sin.
    
What's savored best at leisure
Is rarely sensed in haste.
Who never knows of hunger,
Can scarcely know of taste.

So too, a length of failure
Lends flavor to success.
And each is best, not scanty
But neither in excess.
   
Let's take what we are given--
And that, with gratitude.
Why pine for what was owed us?
We owe, in plenitude.
 
2016 February 14th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
   

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
     

Hopeless?

 
Hopeless? 
  

Sun behind a cloud 
Brooklyn, 2015-08-01, © Arjun Janah

   
      



There are times, upon our journeys
On the trails of chance and choice,
When our work is dashed to pieces
And we're left without a voice.
    
When the world has lost its lightness
And our hurts and worries grow,
We might seek relief in drinking
As we drown in endless woe.

When our lives are filled with darkness,
And our hopes and dreams have fled,
We might hide in our addictions
Or be paralyzed with dread.

The birds of dawn may twitter
But our limbs have turned to lead.
Our mornings then are hopeless,
So we lie and rot in bed.
 
In trivial things, we fritter
Our precious lives away.
Our nights are crazed and restless
And so is every day.

In life and work despairing,
By those we loved betrayed,
We might yield then to the darkness,
With all our moorings frayed.

But if, amidst afflictions,
We quietly do resolve
To change our lives’ directions,
Our nightmares might dissolve.

When our sails are slack and drooping,
As our winds have ceased to blow,
We can wait and wait for breezes
Or settle down to row.

******

There are many things we can’t control.
There are just a few we can.
And if we walk a step each day,
That lets us know we can.

There are forces strong we can't resist;
There still are those we might.
And if we throw a punch a week,
We'll stay then in the fight.

There are times of joy and hopefulness,
There are times we’re robbed of hope.
In the worst of times, we still can strive
Or only sit and mope.

Out happiness and our sadness both
Are met in part by chance.
A forward step, a sideways step,
A backward—that's the dance.

It's cowardly to run away—
Unless we know we'll die.
Let's share the sprouts we've found of truth
And shield them from the lie.

It's neither wise to quickly yield,
Nor stay and fight to death.
We should remember our defeats
When victories are met.

Be humble then in victories.
Do not, on failures, dwell.
Successes small can give us strength
To bear those failures well.

The middle way is often best,
But each must find her own.
Through deep despair and hopelessness,
That median might be known.

The fever comes and rises and
It seems it will not go.
And yet in time it ebbs and leaves.
What's "hopeless" isn't so.

The darkness comes and we despair
At more and more of night.
But till the end, we still have hope
And memory of light.
   
2015 July 25th, Sat. 10:46 pm
(1st, 6th, 8th, 10th, 13th, 17th & 
18th stanzas added Aug 1st, Sat.)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

Sun behind a cloud
Brooklyn, 2015-08-01, © Arjun Janah

   

The Play—II

 
The Play—II 

The planet spins – and days and weeks
And months and years go by.
The play proceeds. We mouth our lines
And rarely question why.
 
We each could speak of our defeats,
Of all the battles lost –
Of how we struggled hard and how
We paid the bitter cost…

Or should we speak of victories,
However few the count?
For that might then fulfill our need
For cheer, in small amount…

******

But all we lost has long been gone
And never will return –
And  what we gained was either lost
Or will be, in its turn…

So let’s not talk of our defeats
Or victories in the past –
Our lives are acts that soon will end,
For time is flowing fast.

So let us each be silent then
And sip the present’s wine –
For be it sweet or bitter, it
Is pressed from grapes divine.
 
We build our lives and watch them wrecked.
And yet, we still can smile.
There’s time, within the play, to sit
And chat for just a while.
   
So every breath is precious, be
It drawn with joy or sorrow.
We each were born but yesterday
And will be gone tomorrow.

******

And though our battles might be lost
Or won and then reversed,
The others, still unborn, will come
And tread the paths traversed.

So as we view the present scene,
Reflecting on the past,
The future comes.  This act that ends –
It will not be the last.

But when that final curtain falls
And life on Earth has ended –
Will aught of consequence remain,
As men have long pretended?
 
2015 March 23rd, Mon
(first & last three stanzas added March 28th, Sat.)
Brooklyn, New York
   

Winter’s Rain

  
Winter’s Rain
  
The steady drip of rain on winter days
is better than the snow, for those who fear
the shoveling and mess that snow can bring.
 
And if my job had less of misery,
I then might welcome this as grace
that wets the earth and feeds the lakes – and so
prepares us for the coming of the spring.
 
But now, I walk the city’s pavements hard,
with grays of skies reflected in the streets –
and grimace.  “More of winter’s woe.”, I think –
and sourly wish I’d stayed between the sheets.

But while I walk and hear these phrases rise
and ebb like sighs within my mind, I think,
“By writing these, I’d burden others too,
who might perhaps be needing some relief.” –
and so I turn my mind to better things.
 
The grays of winter, in the polar climes,
could be our payment due for autumn’s leaves
and our deposit for the blooms of spring –
a happy thought, to mull and store away…
 
And thinking next of summer’s greenery,
I walk the streets and savor winter’s rain…
 
So such things yield – to weak philosophy.
 
2014 January 3rd, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Metaphysics

  
Metaphysics
 
Is the universe a solid, if we add to space the time?
Then all’s predestination.  Yes, my verses still have rhyme,
but more – because, in choosing, I really have no choice.
The word I use to rhyme with is chosen – and this voice
is saying what it’s saying, because the future’s known.
So none of us may claim to act with a will that is one’s own.
 
But if, beside the time, there is at least another thing
that varies, then each instant is a bird upon the wing.
The future of the universe can never be predicted,
for every tiny particle, even undetected,
can vary in the path it takes – and there’s no way to know.
The universe is fluid then, with myriad ways to flow.
 
And since, besides, each little flow can alter yet another,
and if, in probing how to flow, each flowing speaks to brother,
the universes that might rise affect then one another,
And so, of all complexities, we have, in this, the mother!
But since I play at poetry, and not in metaphysics,
it’s time to exit quietly and end these weird lyrics…
 
2014 December 21st, Sun. 11:08 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
   

The Last Defeat

 
The Last Defeat
 
Since highways serve to smooth the workers’ rides,
Who still takes rougher roadways anymore?
Amidst the rushing and efficient swarm,
What place is there for those who pedal slow?

There comes a time, when we admit defeat
And merely hope to cease from further strain.
But even then, we might be forced to stay,
Where work’s reward is even more of pain.
 
A life consumed by labor might result,
At journey’s end, in greater sorrow yet –
For those departed, while we labored, grief,
For all our fruitless years of work, regret.

But could there still be consolation, when
Our efforts turn to blowing dust and sand?
When men are robbed of satisfaction, hope,
Could there be things, they then might understand?

In isolation, emptiness, we taste
Of striving’s bitter, acrid ashes – yet,
Although we know our lives have been a waste,
We feel for those, whom others might forget.

And so, when we have nothing left to give,
And weariness, discouragement is deep,
It’s time, perhaps, to wake to light and dark –
And all the grays ignored by those asleep.

In blissful ignorance, we might have thought
Our fellows better than they truly are –
But then we see how truly hard it is
To staunch the tides of craving and of war.

However hurtful that awaking is,
We then might chance to see the subtle grain –
And seeing this, lift up, again, our heads,
Accepting, even grateful for the pain.
       
Some paint the world in colors hopeful, bright –
And others use the dark and somber hues.
But then, the hills and valleys of our lives
Reveal to us the wider, deeper views.

The hopeful dawn gives birth to light-filled day,
And then there’s dusk that brings the dark of night.
The light and colors change with every hour,
And sadness isn’t absent from delight.

For every joy, in measure, there is pain.
For every sorrow, there is pleasure still.
We take the cup of life, we drink of it,
We set it down and wait for it to fill.

And when at end we taste the final draft,
It might be bitter or it might be sweet.
But we’ll remember those we drank before,
And smile, perhaps, before our last defeat.

2014 September 3rd, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Reflections on Dukkha

   
Reflections on Dukkha
 

Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. with Thich Nhat Hanh, a Vietnamese monk, 1960's
image source: http://easyyolk.blogspot.com/2011/07/living-buddha-living-christ.html

 
We see, around us, things that make us sad
and angry, while there’s little we can do –
injustice, needless pain and suffering –
and we ourselves may be affected too.

And seeing this, some sink in dark despair,
or simply shrug and go about their life.
There’s only so much we can fix, repair –
or vainly seek to stem the tides of strife.
 
And some of us might see and yet not see –
or turn away from what discomforts them.
And others might find refuge in their gods –
or take recourse to lie or stratagem.

Philosophies exist, in ancient lands,
and even newer ones, that seem to help.
“It’s fortune, karma.” or “That’s how it is.”
Acceptance helps the sad, beleaguered self.

And some would say, "There's night that follows day.
There's hunger and there's satisfaction, and
without the first, would food retain its taste?"
We suffer – and we start to understand...

And others yet may speak or write – and some
may even act – in ways they think are best
or can imagine and achieve – and then
may fail or may succeed upon their quest.

And some see villains, whom they seek to crush,
and others relish being rescuers.
But few are they, who try to understand
the causes and connections, seeking cures.
 
For much of what we see, the sorrow spread
by actions, words and thoughts compulsive, are
pathologies that stem from ignorance –
or vision clouded by the smoke of war.

Gotama woke from this, our lifelong sleep,
and saw our sorrow and the root of it.
And so he bid us to awake and watch
the fog arise and leave – dissolving it.

But who can do it?  We are trapped by self
and all that’s built around to cage us in.
So passions rule, or calculations cold,
and newest sin is heaped on older sin.
 
But if we are aware, that all is not
as we imagine it – and that there’s light
within the deepest darkness, then we’ll pause –
and in that pausing, find the gift of sight.

“The other cheek” is what the gospel says
we should be turning to the ones who strike.
Yet who can do this, who is not a saint,
when death and utter devastation strike?

Of all that is compulsive, be aware.
Amidst the madness and the rushing, pause.
Release the breath and feel again the heart.
Let kindness be, without a need for cause.
   
2014 August 26th, Tue & 27th, Wed.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
   

Defeats

   
Defeats
 
A mother or a father might expend their lives
on raising children, who might then show gratitude
or not – or even harm the ones who nurtured them.

A woman might spend years upon a spouse
and have him leave her for another and
an artist might have labored long on work –
with little recompense or naught – and then
awake one day to find it stolen or
to find that punishment is his reward.

And what recourse have they, who face such things, except
to turn, when reason fails, to that philosophy
that others past had turned to, in their own defeats?

We labor hard and fail, and that’s defeat.
We rise from where we fell, to try yet more
and then succeed – or not.  And this, we know,
is hard enough, but when accomplishment,
for which we’ve paid with years of labor, is
appropriated, scorned, destroyed – what then?

It’s then we're tested, like the metal in the fire,
that’s heated till it glows, incandescent,
and yet retains, awhile, its own integrity.

The Buddhists and the Stoics have advised
that victory and defeat, like pleasure, pain,
are waves upon a sea whose depths are still –
and so should be acknowledged and observed
with tranquil eyes that see their transience
and that of the chimera called "the self".

The ones we love – they suffer and they die, before
or after we have left – and though we ache at this,
this knowledge may be used to act in gentleness.
 
2014 August 14th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
   

Reflections -- II

          
Reflections – II
    
There is a current deep that we can sense.
We cannot speak about it with our words.
But with that current, we can mutely flow –
Or lose our sense of it and loudly splash.

The one surrendering to the water feels
That fluid lift her surely up again.
But he, who seeks to raise himself above
The surface, finds his struggle is in vain.

We all have fights we cannot, should not shirk,
Unless we choose to still our consciences.
And each of us must fend for selves and those
Who may depend on us to live and breathe.

But there are conflicts which we make ourselves
And which we then inflict on others ‘round.
Ambition, pride, our selfishness and greed,
Our misperceptions – make this turbulence.

So let us yield our petty jealousies,
Our envies, our ambitions small and great.
And let us breathe, resolve to do what’s right
And turn, from darkness, gently back towards light.
  
Our sight is clouded and our hearing dulled.
We cannot feel, with skin or heart – or think.
Our reason and our wisdom, we have lost.
And why is it that we have lost these things?

The demons that afflict this world abound.
They prey on us and so we do not see.
Our child is ailing or our mother's ill,
But we are sightless or are deafened still.

What form of madness may afflict us each,
We only know for sure when it has passed,
And some of us may never know or care.
So drunkards do their damage – and forget.

There’s fear that drives us into little hells.
We wonder how we can escape from this.
We feel we cannot change the world ourselves.
Yet each can breathe – and then can gently try.

There’s much that three can do that one cannot.
But there’s a concord needed, so that three
May find that common purpose. This can be,
When each is open and is listening.

A trust betrayed can rarely be regained.
And so, we should be careful in our deeds.
For how can there be confluence, when distrust
Has built the barriers needed for defense?

A vessel, filled with water, makes, when thumped,
A softer sound than one that’s partly full.
And much of noise and violence abates,
When all have drunk enough to fill their souls.

And here, we’re speaking, not of alcohol
And other things that have their merits yet
Have also faults that plague imbibers, but
Of essence – joy and deepest suffering.

But when we’re emptied by an ebbing tide,
Then thoughts arise, like sounds within our head,
And we attempt to fill ourselves again,
With silent essence – or with nonsense loud.

So all the verses that I write arise
From discontent and from that loneliness,
To which our disconnection leads our selves,
Those fictions that can gain in strength from strife.

What’s self, what’s not, is fixed by such a line
As is imagined, yet does not exist.
It dissipates to porous nothingness,
Whenever we examine it up close.

We’re made of this and that, in interflows.
And our perception, of ourselves and things
As separate from all around and what
Was there before or will be there, is false.

But who, except the sainted, yields the self,
That last illusion, stronger than the rest,
Whose shattering or dissolution comes
As pain or joy, as torture or relief?

So beings such as you and I arise
As do the nations – and we struggle, fight
When self is threatened, fortifying self –
And so are doomed to our imprisonments.

The humbled, stripped of wisdom too, may seek
To gain their stature back and then take pride
In stupid things – and so are fooled again.
Within an emperor?  A troubled child.

How often have the tantrums of the "great"
Or all their shrewdness caused the rest such grief
That men and women, lifting arms to skies,
Have sought, from infants such, deliverance?

But there are things in which we may take pride,
But quietly – no need, that others know...
Our wee successes give us nourishment,
And so we live on satisfactions small.

When some achievement, in the human sphere,
Gives confidence and strength to us again,
We should remember then our losses past
And so regain our precious humbleness.

Some things we all may know, some other things
A few of us discern. But then there are
The things that men and ants may never ken.
And those could be the most of all there is.

So if we're like the whorls an oar may make,
We're born in pairs and dissipate with time.
But who and where our whirling twin may be,
We do not know.  We turn until we fade.

But we could also be like summer storms
That rise and rage and then are swiftly gone.
They leave behind the wreckage of the trees
As well as blessings that give life again.

What ruin have we wrought – or blessing brought?
We do not know, we live and do and die.
And all our work appears as ashes, yet
From ashes rise the firebirds once again.

Ah, love – that blessing that the heart that sees
Confers on what is sighted – what compares
With you, except that wonder that we feel
On watching, being – as the dance proceeds?

This world, of wonders and of horrors mixed,
Of loves and hatreds – who has sense enough
To know its purpose – or has wisdom still
To live a life, whose damage is the least?

Oh let us breathe once more of this, the air
That others past have breathed, that yet remained
As fresh as when the ancients breathed of it,
Until we fouled it with our devil-mills.

And let us drink of that, which others drank,
Which yet remained as pure as it was then,
Until we poured, within those waters clear,
Those effluents that now have poisoned it.

And let us softly walk upon this earth,
On which so many past have walked, which yet
Remained as fertile, till we made that earth
Ingest the toxins that our mills emit.

And let’s resolve that when we leave there’s naught
We leave behind to let another know
That we were here, except a whispering,
A fragrance or a glimmer in the dust...

The foolish seek achievement and create
The horrors that have made, of life, a hell.
The wiser seek effacement, as they work
To heal the wounds ambition always wreaks.

Who seems, to most of us, to be a fool,
Could well be wiser than we'll ever be.
And he, or she, who's worshiped now as wise,
May do, in hubris, what no fool has dared.

When all around are rushing, slow a bit.
The sun and moon appear to take their time.
The seasons take their turns, the babies grow
With all our nurturing – and then they age.

This was – and is – and will forever be.
Within this dance, we move in rhythm, rhyme
That yet allow for breaks and runs and twists.
The moment is – in which we all are free.

2014 May 17th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Encounter–II--A Little Bit of Rice

                                
Encounter – II  /  A Little Bit of Rice
                               
I was wandering in the country, when I met an aged man.
And it seemed that he was starving, so I offered him some rice.
He sat down then to eat it, and he ate it very slowly.
Each grain of rice, he savored, as he put it in his mouth.

I watched him as he sat there, but I felt that I would cry,
So I moved away and circled – and when I had returned,
I saw that he had eaten only part of what I'd given,
Which itself was but a smidgen, as I hadn't much myself.

And I saw that he was wrapping, in a leaf, what he had left.
So I asked him, was he saving it for eating later or
Was there someone, who was waiting, whom he'd saved a portion for.

But he only smiled and nodded, for his language wasn't mine,
And I watched him as he hobbled down a dusty country path.

I was hungry, so I settled down and ate my rice myself,
With a bit of precious lentils that I'd salted – and a pickle.

And I felt that I was guilty as I'd only given rice
To that aged man who seemed not to have eaten for a while.
And as I sat there eating, I remembered still his smile.

I sipped then on the water, that I'd carried in a bottle,
And I rose and walked to westwards, towards a village that I knew.
And I saw the sun was sinking – and my heart was sinking too.
For the stores I had were dwindling – and my stores by then were few.

But that aged man was walking, as I walked, within my mind.
And I saw that he was smiling, for that little bit of rice.

2013 November 4th, Mon.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 
Some Earlier Encounters

The Teacher -- 2013 Sep

Encounter -- 2013 July

Strange Encounter -- II -- 2011 Nov

The Watcher -- 2006 Sep

Strange Encounter -- 2006 April
   
       

Interwoven

   

Interwoven

                  

The past, the present and the future are

As interwoven as the tribes of men.

Who posits, simply, “That and they are other!”

Forgets his birth and therefore shuns his brother.

So men are blinded and they go to war.

And yet, in battle, each can other ken,

When slaughter's done, and plunderer then finds

A little note that him, of home, reminds.

******

We leave our homes and often travel far,

We think that now is different from then,

But actions past, that rippled out, return

And at our journey's end, we homewards turn

Our ethics may no longer serve to bar

Such actions as might harm our fellow men,

But everything we do has consequences

That only are revealed in future tenses.

2013 September 1, Sat. 3:50 am..
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

Transience – II

 
Transience – II                                                       \1
        
We cling to life and to possessions, yet
We come with nothing and we go with naught.
The things we think we have are passing through
And so are we – for dust returns to dust.

The things we live for, all the things we do,
May blossom for a little while or not.
But like the blooms that toss upon the breeze,
They'll fade away in time and then be lost.

And all our pride, resentments, anger are
Like storms that roil the surface of a sea,
With waves that wreak their vengeance and are gone.
Let love, compassion work their ways in calm,

For kinder thoughts and words and actions may
Have less of force and yet have more of depth.
Why add to all the suffering, yet more?
Let our remembrance be a brighter one.

We are but mortals and we all are weak,
And some are blinded more than others are.
Forgive the ones who seem to wrong you, so
You may, in turn, from some, forgiveness seek.

The ones that rouse our anger, feel our wrath,
Tomorrow may be gone, like yesterday.
That turning of the cheek, we'll rarely rue,
But should we leave with debts of wronging due?

****** 
             
And even those we love and those, who give
Us of their love, are ripples on the lake.
So who can stop them, as they go their way
And leave us with our grief and memories?

So while they live, let's give to those, who're dear,
And even to the ones we might neglect,
Their due, before they leave or we depart,
Of our attention and our care, respect.

So many live today within a rush,
With constant stress and pressure from around,
And so forgetting, as the madness mounts,
What sanity and life are all about.

We came from naught and will, to nothing, go.
Let's pause from rushing, for a little while,
And ponder this and see absurdity,
So we can savor then a laugh or smile.

To laugh at others, all of us can do.
To laugh at self is truly freedom true.
If you feel sorry for your present state,
Then shed a tear for those less fortunate.

******
            
And if we're overcome or paralyzed,
Let's take a breath and do what needs be done.
Our lives are passing and our time is brief,
And yet there's time for life and for belief.

There's true and false and even right and wrong.
And though we've no reward on heaven, earth,
We still can will to do what's honest, right,
And till the end, for love and reason, fight.

However much the woe, there still is joy,               \2
And in our laughter, we can hear the grief.
This world will be, when you and I are gone.
Let's leave the self awhile, to breathe and be.

Like waves at sea and like the clouds above,
Are you and I, and all the changing world.
The hills are waving in their rhythms slow,
The empires rise and then, in time, they go...

Our days are numbered and our nights are few.
As night and day are mortal, so are we.
For all that's born lives out its life and dies,
From stars to ants, including you and me...

Behold, at night, the starry sky and see
The galaxies that gyre like whirlpools 'round.
We are no more than motes on motes and yet
We have this life to live and not regret.

2013 August 11th, Sun. & 12th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York  
    
Notes:
  
1.  Please see also:  Transience
   
2.  This stanza was probably influenced by the quote from William
Blake that my friend Amitabha Sen sent me from Chicago.  This
was in response to my last sending, Nature's Nature:
   
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know
Through the world we safely go.
Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine;
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.

-- William Blake
   
See http://www.bartleby.com/41/356.html
to get Blake's poem, Auguries of Innocence.

Then (from Edit-->Find) look for:

man was made for joy and woe

The first 4 lines of that poem, by the way,
may be among the most remarkable in the
English language.  Do take a look.  They may
be very familiar to some of you.  But, if you
have the patience, it may be worth your while
to read Blake's long poem in its entirety.

-- Babui / Arjun
 

Nature's Nature

Nature's Nature
    
I sat this afternoon, awhile, in a café,
And looking through the window, I could see
A building right across the corner, which
Had walls of glass, with tint of darkest green.

I saw the glass reflecting clouds and trees,
With topmost branches waving in the wind.
And as I watched, I felt a sense of peace.
I knew this leaf would wave a while and leave.

How often in the past, when darkness seemed
To overcome whatever hopes I had,
Had Nature spoken through the skies, the trees,
The moving water,  leaving me at ease...

And though I've heard her raging fiercely and
Have seen the ravage that she left behind,
It seems that Nature's nature has a side
That calls to that within, which is serene.

******

Our worries come in turn and trouble us,
And in the end depart, and though we try
To deal with them, there's little we can do,
At times, but breathe and do what can be done.

But we forget our transience and size,
Until we face the universe again,
And so, this afternoon, I caught a glimpse
Of Nature, dancing – and rejoined her dance.

******
 
I remember how we used to walk,
When we were small, on afternoons each day,
To where the British once had joined up ponds
To make the lake, by where we'd run and play.

And ever since, on walks on afternoons,
I feel contented only when I reach
A pool or lake or river or the sea,
Reflecting sky, where I can sit and be.

And if such place is lacking, then I seek
An open space, or hilltop, where the sky
Reminds me of the sky I used to see
On clambering to rooftops as a child.

A window that is open to the sky
Is such delight, for sky-struck ones like me,
That if I had but nothing else except
A window, I'd be happy as I die.

2013 August 11th, Sun. evening
Jireh Guatemalan Restaurant, at 19th & Bath Avenues.,
(first four stanzas only, with the others added Sun. night, at home)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn