Beloved, Where Are You?

Beloved, Where Are You?

The sun is warm upon the skin,
The sky is blazing blue,
And I am walking in the sun
And thinking still of you.

The little birds are chirping as
They fly from tree to tree,
And feelings, long held captive, now
Are rising, wild and free.

The winter has departed and
The spring is here to stay.
It seems that we were walking in
The spring, but yesterday.

The trees are dancing in the breeze,
As they had danced before.
But you, who’d stood and smiled at these,
Are now with us no more.

The greens of newborn leaves are flames
That rise towards the blue.
The sky and earth are singing—yet,
Beloved, where are you?

2018 May 24th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
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Note: Any connections that such hinted romances may have with the scribe's own life (which has been mostly ordinary and unromantic) are tenuous at best. 
  

Autumn Afternoon

Autumn Afternoon

The summer should have ended. It is now mid-September, but the warmth remains. It’s only in the early mornings that we feel at times the season’s warning chill.

The memory of winter, faded through the year, revives. The laxness of the summer’s days is now replaced by tightening. The reaper comes, although the trees and all resist.

An autumn afternoon, within the park: the sun is slanting through the leafy trees; it could be summer, but the heat is gone, the shorts are scarce—and the grounds are strewn with leaves.

The adults and the children stroll and play—as elders, on the benches, contemplate. The sky is bright, although the sun swings low. The grass has faded from the lack of rain.

A breeze stirs up the dust. It’s lit by sun that falls, in shafts, upon the yellowed grass beneath the trees. Those trees are mostly green, with just a few that now are losing leaves.
 
The days have shortened. Soon, the sun will set. Then all the lamps that line the path around the central lawn will glow, as dusk descends—and children leave the park to those like me.

2016 September 17th, Sat., 6:20 pm
Bensonhurst Park, Brooklyn, New York 
(2nd & 4th stanzas added Sep. 18th)
 

The Best of Times

 
The Best of Times
 
My summers, in these northern climes,
Have often been the best of times,
When I could nap again at noon
And wonder at the rising moon.
 
On summer afternoons, I’ve made
My way between the sun and shade.
I’ve reveled in the grasses green
And stared at clouds that float serene
Within that arcing summer sky
That I’ll remember till I die.
 
I’ve walked beside the shining sea
And learned again to simply be,
As, blowing cool, the ocean breeze
Has set my heart and mind at ease.
 
I’ve watched the waves and seagulls dance
And seen, afar, the storm’s advance.
I’ve seen the fiery lightning’s flash
And heard the booming thunder’s crash.
And time and time and time again
I’ve sheltered from the summer rain.
 
My summers in the northern zone
Were mostly spent while quite alone.
And yet, I hardly would complain
If I could live them, each, again.

My summers, I have taken slow,
With often nowhere else to go,
Except where I had worked the year.
And yet, those summers still were dear.
My summers, in these northern climes,
Have often been the best of times.

2015 July 6th, Mon., 7:05 pm
Gravesend Bay, Brooklyn, New York
  

Morning Glory

     

Morning Glory

  

Haywood County, NC (image from web)
from a Facebook post by Sharon Lawson

The dawn was breaking over hills of blue.

It touched the hilltops and the mists below.

From where I stood, it seemed that giant waves

Were frozen still in near and distant rows.

   

And right before me, in a splash of sun,

The colors of the leaves were seen to glow—

The greens and reds, the lights and darks beside,

As in the distance, hills and sky communed.

   

The sky? Can I describe it now with words?

I will not try, except to say it was

 A wonder—cirrus touched with rose of dawn,

In early morning's blue and indigo.

  

2015 June 6th, Sat, 10:47 pm

Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

   

March Encounter

 
March Encounter

So March has end, with hints of better days.
The twigs are taut with buds, but winter stays.
For though the city streets were washed by rain,
There’s snow that’s coming – so the forecast says.

I see an elder, trudging down the road.
He's stooped by winter and his heavy load.
I look at him, as in a reverie,
And I am him, in a transcendental mode.

He walks the streets and sees the buds and dreams
That winter’s gone, with all its harsh extremes,
And gentle spring is here, with smiling warmth...
So glaciers thaw and turn to babbling streams…

He bears his memories still of winters past
And wondrous summers that had faded fast.
And in his autumn now, he's walking slow
And wondering if this March will be his last...
 
But what is that, which sits within his head,
Where naught should be but there is snow instead,
Compacted into ice, and sullied, dark,
Awaiting spring, but still encased in dread?
 
I look away, for such a tie can lead
To knowledge that is misery indeed...
Let winter leave and spring arrive in haste,
So plants and beasts can have the warmth they need.

2015 March 29th, Sun.
(4th stanza added April 1st, Wed.)
Brooklyn, New York
  

The Winter Comes – II

 
The Winter Comes – II
 
We age, we falter, lose our strength and die.
And some of us may idly wonder why.
But each of us, in this, have little choice –
These truths persist – that many would deny.
 
And some escape, awhile, the costs of age,
And when they see they can’t, they’re filled with rage –
And others may accept them, noting death
And all that comes before, with mindsets sage…

The leaf will yellow, wither then and fall –
And death, in time, will issue each its call,
For everyone that’s born, in turn, will die –
So aging, sickness, death, await us all…

While walking slowly once beside the sea,
I entered in a sort of reverie –
And thought I heard a voice, speaking low…
And this is what that spirit said to me –

“Oh live the life you’re given and rejoice,
Be grateful for your blessings, giving voice
To gratitude – in speech and in your deeds,
For in these things we still have each a choice.”

I listened then – and ever since, I’ve tried,
Despite the blow, despite the chance denied
That came so many times, to me and those
I knew and loved, to still be gratified…

For death has never held for me, the dread
That others might perceive in it, and yet
So many things are still unkempt and will,
I know, remain undone when I am dead.

And those, for whom the winds of chance have laid,
On me, a duty, though I’m disarrayed –
I would not leave them prey to woes that I,
By minding duty, could perhaps have stayed…

We age, we sicken, lose our health, descend,
As others then neglect or condescend...
And some, perhaps, might lend a helping hand –
Or not.  We struggle, lonely, till the end.

But walking on the street, in autumn, I
Can see the leaves, that one by one, will die,
Upon the trees – and strewn along the street.
Who grieves for them?  And who dares wonder why?

The conifers are green throughout the year.
With antifreeze evolved, they need not fear
The seasons cold.  But even they will pass  –
And who, for a fallen pine, will shed a tear?

Ah – life and death, like yang and yin entwined…
Who knows, whence life arises, whence the mind –
And where they go, when autumn’s winds have blown?
The winter comes. Take solace – and be kind…

For when we’re gone, the freezing winds will blow
And cover then the remnant leaves with snow.
But in its time, there’ll also be the spring –
And little birds will sing, as grasses grow…
 
2014 October 26th, Sun., 2:12 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  

The Graceful Dead

  
The Graceful Dead
 
While walking up a road today, that still was lined with green,
I saw a tree, for which the fall had come, that stood serene.
It soared, aflame, it seemed, against the clouded autumn sky,
In glory, clad in leaves – that one by one would fall and die.
 
And now, I take in hand my pen, recalling, as I scribe,
How many were the colors, which I scarcely can describe –
The fading greens, the yellows, pinks, the many shades of red –
The colors of those aging leaves, which soon would all be dead…
 
And when I walked below that tree, I saw the fallen leaves
On sidewalk, street – and curbside, deep in multicolored sheaves.
How graceful were those fallen leaves – in aging and in death…
If only we could age as well – to be, by angels, met…
 
The world is full of cruelty.  If men would disappear,
It still would be a cruel world, beset by lust and fear.
And yet, this world has beauty, grace.  How wondrous was this tree
That stood alone, ablaze – and yet – in grace – and living free.
 
2014 October 18th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
   

Fleeting

     
Fleeting

A gentle breeze is blowing and the sun is shining bright.
The little birds are singing and the clouds are floating by.
A day, it seems, in paradise – and yet a day on earth,
A day for joy and happiness – and not for asking why.

And yet, the present time reflects, like water does the clouds,
The past with all its history – and whispers, what’s to come.
So joy is tinged with misery, and happiness with woe.
And I begin to understand, why father turned to rum.

I walk below the rustling leaves, I listen to their sound.
I see the dappled ground below, I watch the leaves that fall.
The sky is blue and white above.  In the distance, is the sea.
I wonder where my sister is – and I hear my mother call.

Oh happiness, that lights upon a shoulder like a leaf
And then is blown away by chance and fate’s persistent breeze –
Some chase you all their lives and find you still are far away,
While others, you may land upon, who stroll about at ease…

2014  October 13th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
  

There in the Hills

 
There in the Hills
  

Noah "Bud" Ogle Homeplace built in the late 1880's, located on
the Roaring Fork Motor Trail, Great Smoky Mountains, U.S.A.
Source: https://www.facebook.com/ldcoffeypics

  

  














There, in the hills, where the grasses are green,
There I will live, in the valley serene.
There, in the morning, I’ll climb up the trail,
To be with the mists and the clouds, as they sail.
 
There, in the noontime, I'll sit in the shade
And chew on my morsels, with water I brought
From the spring on the hillside, so cold and so sweet.
And there I will sit and be lost in my thought.
  
2014 September 6, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
   

In the Eye of the Cyclone

     
In the Eye of the Cyclone

We’ve had a stormy night and now the leaves
Are scattered, dead and dying, on the streets.

The winds of war are blowing strong again,
And in their eddies, dead and living swirl.

The wars of men had ended, they were told,
And yet, they’re lying wounded, dying, dead…

******
 
When caught between the sides, they ran or hid –
And when those paths were closed, they turned and fought.

The end result appears to be the same –
The odds are for injustice, darkness, death…

The great typhoon, the hurricane, destroys –
And spawns tornadoes that assist its work.

******
 
I walk the city streets, that now have sun,
And wonder where to hide and where to run.

For even though we’ve long been in the eye,
The whirling wall is moving hourly nigh…

I look upon a little leaf and see
A little girl, who will no longer be.

2014 August 13th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
   

Another Leaf

     
Another Leaf
 
In the city’s loneliness,
alone, among the crowds,
she spent her final years and then
she sickened and was gone.
 
And only one or two were there
who called, before the message
said, “disconnected”. That was that.
Her e-mail goes unanswered.
 
How many like her? “Well, that’s life.”
the city dweller says.
“We meet at work and on the streets
and go upon our ways.”
 
Relatives?  She did have some,
but all in distant places.
Friends?  She’d some. But then they died,
or moved to better climates.
 
The super threw out all her stuff.
What else was he to do?
And walking on the sidewalk, I
picked up a thing or two.
 
A picture.  She was with a boy.
“Her son, perhaps?” I wondered.
“But where was he?” An idle thought.
I left it on the sidewalk.
   
******
   
I’d seen her walking, slowly, by.
I used to say hello.
She sometimes would respond and pause
to lean upon her walker.
   
The summers, autumns, winters pass.
The springs are celebrated.
But who remembers her, who so
to live and die was fated?
  
The autumn nears, and brittle leaves
are drifting on the road.
I step upon a leaf and hear
it crunching underfoot.
   
I stop and with regret I look
at the little leaf I crushed.
But then I think, “That leaf was dead.”
and leave its bits behind.
 
2014  August 10th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
   

The Golden Light

  
The Golden Light
  
The western sun, with slanting rays, has struck
The treetops with its wash of golden light,
Set backlit leaves aglow against the blue –
And all the shades of green intensified…

We spend our lives enclosed within our rooms,
Whose walls and ceiling shield us from the sky.
That sun and shade can alter human moods,
Is evident on such a day as this...
  
A summer afternoon, in late July,
With August almost here, and so the sense
Of a season fleeting, like a little bird
That’s perched – but leans and tenses to take wing…
  
I sweep the leaves, and even more the bark
That splits and falls from summer’s growing tree.
A little while, it has, to grow and stretch –
To drink of sun, before the season ends…
  
How different, the views we hold of sun,
Of clouds, of rain, of cold and warmth,
Depending on our birth and domicile
At latitudes and altitudes on Earth...
  
But here, in a zone that’s termed as temperate,
I wait, all winter long, through snows and cold,
For spring – and then for summer’s dreamy time,
And even for the days of sweltering…
  
And yet, I’ve learned to flow as a season goes,
Adjusting to the lengths of day and night,
And finding, in the seasons, every one,
The things of beauty that can give delight…
  
And so, I sweep the leaves and bark – and pause
To wonder at the glory up above,
To breathe the season in – and breathe it out,
This summer afternoon in late July…
   
2014 July 28th, Mon
(2nd stanza added July 29th)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York 
   

With Dying Leaves

   
With Dying Leaves
  
I walked upon a winding path in autumn in the woods.
The leaves were crunching underfoot, a chill was in the air.
The afternoon was still that day, and I could hear the birds
That called out clear from far away – I could not tell from where.

I walked upon a winding path beneath the soaring trees,
With leaves that ranged in colors from the greens to burning reds.
And some of these were drifting down, as I was slowly walking,
Looking at them lying there, like corpses in their beds.

But even those in withered states were blest, in their repose –
Composed, and left with beauty, grace, as humans rarely are,
Whenever it is time to leave – for some may go in peace,
But others mostly don’t, as we're forever roiled by war. 

I walked upon a winding path – as all our lives we do.
It was autumn, with the fallen leaves like corpses on the ground.
And some were crunching underfoot, as some of us are crushed.
And far away I heard the birds – a distant, peaceful sound.

And I remember fragrances – the scents of dying leaves
And other scents that issue forth from woodland in the fall.
If only our departures were as fragrant as were these,
We wouldn’t mind, we wouldn’t mind – our dying, not at all.

2014  May 3rd, Sat., 3:40 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York.
 

Peeking Shy

 
Peeking Shy
  
The city now is bathed, at last, in light,
With skies of blue and drifting clouds of white.
On rain-washed sidewalks, laughing children run,
As lime and brick reflect the strengthened sun.

******
 
The branches of the trees are rich with twigs,
With myriad buds that yearn for warmth to sprout.
And even somber conifers appear
Attired today in somewhat brighter greens.

And though the air is bracing, we can feel
The turning tide, with summer trailing spring,
That youngster, peeking ‘round the corner, shy,
As winter tries to chase the brat away.

And so we’ll have another week of swings,
But then, with April grown to puberty,
We’ll see the city clad in springtime hues,
With trees in bloom and tulips rising gay.

And so the shy, emboldened, take their place,
As those who blustered slowly fade away.
As with the seasons, so with all of us:
The equinox – and then the solstice comes.

******

But through the cold and dark, we've longed for this,
For April sweet, when lovers meet and kiss.
And if they shiver, then it's from delight,
As children run on sidewalks bathed in light.

2014 April 6th, Sat. 3:20 pm,
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
 

Signs of Spring

    
Signs of Spring

Bird and Blooms of Spring – from Rosangela Bile’s Facebook post

I saw, today, a little bird,
And then I saw another.
I saw a tree was taut with twigs
And buds – and then another.

And though the little buds were closed,
With not a leaf in sight,
I felt the air was balmier.
The sky was filled with light.

And as I watched a little bird,
It chirped and took to wing.
And when another did the same,
I knew – we'd soon have spring.

2014 March 30th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York  
-----------------------------------------------------------
  
Related:  We Call for Spring
   

As the City Streets Burn

The month of March, as I remember it, is usually warm and sunny in Kolkata.  For the rains, that are mostly absent from September onwards, one must wait for the south-east monsoon winds that bring, to the Bengal delta, around mid-June, the dark clouds from the Bay.  Then there are the torrential downpours that last through July and part of August.  

But I have been away from Bengal for over a half-century now, so some of my memories are faded and blurred.
  
-- Orjun / Babui 
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

    

As the City Streets Burn

Photograph by my aunt Chandrabali Ray, as posted by her on Facebook.

Please see Chandrabali Ray's post of a plant blooming on her terrace in Kolkata.

From the morning mist and the dew of night,

We wake and we bloom, in the burning light.

And the little one flies, as our colors and scents

Are the signals she seeks, with her insect-sense.

She alights for a moment, and she sips of our sweet,

And we gift her with pollen, in our manner discreet.

And off then she flies, with our gift on her side,

And we’re glad that it’s getting that aerial ride.

And she ‘lights in a while, again, on our twin,

And then there is sex, which is hardly a sin.

And then there is life – that will wait for its turn,

As we bloom on the terrace, as the city-streets burn.

2014 March 24^th, Mon.

Brooklyn, New York
   

The Dancers

         
The Dancers
      
I was walking home this evening, with the sky of dusk aglow,
And the shadows growing darker as I walked the streets below.
And walking in those shadows, a brightness caught my eye –
The glass upon the windows, reflecting lighted sky.

They shone like shields of soldiers, in the days when bronze was best,
And they stood in radiant order, reflecting to the west.
But looking at them burning, I saw there, in between
The lighted sky and darkness, a row of trees, serene.

They’d lost all trace of foliage, and stood there, naked, bare,
But clearly clad in beauty, like dancers nude and fair.
In silhouette I saw them, against the pastel glow,
With branches spreading skyward, as each was dancing slow.

And as I neared a dancer, I saw, against the sky,
As if in gay abandon, her tresses shaken high –
A tracery, a filigree, a net of twigs so fine,
That waited for the springtime, in silent arcs divine.

I paused and looked in wonder, and saw, on every twig,
The buds that were so tiny – and yet, with promise, big.
How patient were these dancers that moved with seasons slow…
How graceful were those arches, against the twilight glow…

I looked – and then I started to trundle, once again,
My burden  that was heavy – but somehow lightened then.
And when I reached my burrow, I let the papers lie,
And wrote instead these verses – I know not surely why.

2014 March 18th, Tue.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

The Tribes of Trees

          
The Tribes of Trees
       
How many tribes – of plants – and even trees!
So let me speak awhile of only two.
These tribes, I've seen – and wondered at them both
Through all my life – and so perhaps have you.

The conifers are somber, dark and dense.
And when we're near them, we ourselves are tense.
For they must battle Nature, where they stand.
Their gravity, survivors understand.

The broad-leaved ones are laughing in the light.
And in their laughter, some of us delight.
Their leaves are motion, like the waves that play
Across the sea that shimmers through the day.

How stoic are the pines and firs and spruce,
How strong, how graceful are the cedars tall...
How changeful are the maples, oaks and more
Who wake in spring and slow to sleep in fall...

The evergreens have leaves that never freeze.
But trees deciduous shed their tropic leaves,
Remembering, through winter, summer's sun.
In resurrection, she, who sees, believes...

How bleak would winter be, without the greens
Of conifers that stand and witness all...
How tame would be the spring, without the ones
That wait for it – and blaze again in fall...

The tribes of trees are varied, more than men,
And those of us, who seek their company,
Can find a tribe that seems to that reflect
That dwells in us and joins in symphony.

And surely, tribes of trees and men have place
Beneath the sun that feeds the trees and us.
And yet, we slaughter both so wantonly,
Despising those who make the slightest fuss.

2013 November 9th, Sat.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

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
    

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