Our Turn

Our Turn

There is right and there's wrong—and then there's the dollar.
It comes with a leash and it comes with a collar.
It comes with a biscuit and a ride on the ark,
And when bidden, we'll bite and when bidden we'll bark—
But not at our Master.  We're fed by his hand.
His kicks, we will take, as you all understand.

We can smile and spin.  We can twist and shout—
But the truth, in the end, will always out.
It might take a year or a thousand more,
And there isn't a god who is keeping score,
But we know in our hearts that the truth is this—
We quaked and we crapped at the Serpent's hiss.

For the sake of the silver, as Judas had done,
We sold out our honor, and the Devil has won.
When our Master decrees that a nation should fry,
Then who has the gumption to stand and defy?
But in time we will see, when it comes to our turn,
That the Devil will laugh, as he watches us burn.

2019 April 25th, Thursday
D train from Manhattan to Brooklyn
   

Nation States

Nation States

A country, like a town or province, is
a thing we humans make to fill our needs.
The things we cannot do by just ourselves,
we let the city, province, country do.
Towards these tasks, we pay our taxes and
elect the folk who manage these for us.

So it should be, in sober viewing, yet
we have exalted this and have imbued
a country with the qualities we once
reserved for deities—or kings who claimed
to be appointed by divine decree.

How foolish that appears, and yet we see
our politicians thumping on their chests
and seeking to be kings—and pouring scorn
on anyone who seeks to question this,
as hails and fists are raised for hero-kings.

If these were only carnivals, we then
could simply shrug, as some of us may do
at other spectacles—like all the games
where sport and commerce vulgarly combine.

But hatred, bigotry and all that flows
from human vices—these are tapped, released.
And violence follows swiftly, mounting more
as lies are spread and can’t be questioned, so
we see a spiral that descends to hell.

******

The nation states are birthed and bred in blood,
as empires are—and mass religions too.
And this is so in almost every case—
as each “exception” shows, when opened up.

And yet we yield to tribal impulses
and swear allegiance to a flag and state,
as soldiers march to beating drums, saluting
those who send them out to slay and die.

So also, lines are drawn that may divide
a province or a city.  Families flee,
as sorrow turns to anger, then to hate—
and neighbor turns on neighbor in revenge.

What started this and what sustains it still?
At base: survival; economics; those
who strive for power; vice; and ignorance.
One could say more, but let this here suffice.

******

When a person’s life is threatened, then
the person acts and so defends the self.
When he or she is verbally abused,
mistreated or exploited, then again
the “I” awakes and reasserts the self.

And so it often is with nations—these
arise as concepts when oppression reigns
that victimizes humans based on things
that they are born with or acquire in youth—
the marks of races, cultures, which they then
perceive as common and as threatened, so
they band together to defend themselves.

But then in turn, if people then succeed
in overturning orders, so that they
are now within the group that reigns, they then
may often push yet others to despair—
and so another nationhood is born.

And that’s a story that’s repeated, though
it’s hardly all there is to nation-states.
For that, you’ll have to read the books, because
the things we've written here are just a sketch.

So you can read of Europe's wars of sects
that lasted centuries, what issued thence—
and more, to puzzle out yourself the curse
that makes us battle those who're much like us.

******

We humans seek some others, whom we blame
for all the problems that we humans face.
By doing this, we shift the blame and then
rejoice in meting out the punishment.

So all our baser urges then are vented,
as we “unite” against this “proven enemy”.

And knowing human nature, those who strive
for wealth and power utilize these things,
as idiots gather in their mobs and rage
and wars break out—in this and every age.

So also, wealth and power, threatened, seek
deflection of the threats.  A foe is found,
perennial or new, that then distracts
the lumpen masses and obscures the truth.

******

The love of the land and people of one’s birth
or domicile is natural.  Love is good—
and even better when it is informed,
so knowledge and compassion both are guides.

But blind obedience and belief can lead,
like willful ignorance, to all that’s cursed—
and these together breed the troops that greed
and zealotry require to do their work.

Ambition in a man or woman is
at times a good thing.  Often, it is not—
for those of great ambition tend to climb
on others as they drive yet others on,
not heeding all the harm that hubris brings.

******

The tribal folk knew well their tribes, but we
belong to nations that we do not know,
because they were created recently
or are too large for us to know with ease.

Let’s get to know the country where we live—
the land, the peoples and the histories—
for we will find there’s more than one of each.

Let’s learn the names of places, plants and beasts
and speak the tongues in which the people speak.

Let’s sit with common folk and share their food,
the joys and woes that beings always have—
and let us do this, not for just a part
or portion of the land and people, but
as great a fraction as our lives permit.

And if indeed we truly do these things,
we then will surely find there’s much to like—
and also things we might be leery of.

And so it always is, with everything.
 
******

And if we do this, we will find the lines
that mark the borders—those are meaningless,
for genes and cultures both have flowed across,
as tends to happen when we humans meet.

And so within us are the genes of those
we’re told to view as foes—as enemies.
And in our tongues we find the words as well
that made the journeys over distances.

And so in food and music, so in clothes
and so in arts and crafts and sciences.

So does this mean that passports, visas will
now disappear, along with fences and
the armies and the wars that nations wage?

If it only it were so!  But yes—in time.

The cities of a country do not war,
and neither do its provinces—and so
in time the humans of the world will see
a country is the place they chance to be.

******

A city may have quarters, if it’s old—
or even new, where different settlers live.
This should not mean that people do not mix
and over time create such citizens
as view the city as their quarter true.

What mayhem there could be, if one declared,
“Brooklyn is for A’s, Manhattan B’s,
the Bronx and Queens and Staten Island—they’re
reserved for C’s and D’s and E’s.”

Yet that’s the basis for the “ethnic state”—
the worst thing that a nation-state can be.

******

Beware the empire in its red advance.
Beware its reign, with even more of blood—
and know that blood will flow at its collapse.

Resist the empires. These have drained the lands.
But do desist from building blinding walls.

Beware the madness of the nation state
that takes a fiction and creates a tribe—
and even more, beware the state that marks
the “self” and “other” with the stamp of tribe.

Let's love our countries as we do the earth,
but know we share the overarching sky
that sees us insects crawling down below
and claiming this or that as theirs, as if
we ants could own it, through our ignorance.

There is no virtue that a nation owns.
There is no vice that only is a tribe’s.

We’d see the blood on every nation’s hands,
if only we could read the histories
that lie unwritten by the ones who died.

2019, April 6, Sat. 
Brooklyn, New York
  

Vote for Trump?

Vote for Trump?

The middle class is in a slump,
and so we turn to Donald Trump.

He boasts about himself a lot,
about that “German gene” he’s got
that makes him, oh so very “smart”,
a master of the swindler’s art.

He’ll make “America great again”
by taking us all back to when
this country had been bathed in light,
because the voters all were white
and men—like him, our Donalt Drumpf.

Then sports like Trump could freely hump,
while Mexicans and Muslims, Jews
and Africans would keep their views
to just themselves—and knew their place,
as workers do, to their disgrace.

"He'll make America great." you say—
for sleaze and jive will have their way
and make us see that night is day.

He blusters, lies and bullies, and
this thing, we have to understand—
if he's President, and you're in his way,
he'll have you quickly put away.

He takes the credit, shifts the blame.
He sniffs the wind and plays the game.
He's out to "win" and feels no shame.
He'll tell you what you want to hear
and then you'll pay the price that's dear.
   
Alas! He speaks a bit of truth
and says he'll give the Bigs the boot,
but he is all about his dick,
and since his temper's really quick,
when challenged, he might hit a button
and bring us straight to Armageddon.

He fancies girls, which would be fine,
but even takes to her, a shine,
who is, by all accounts, his child—
and if we think that that is wild
and say so—why, he then will sue,
which can't be borne by me or you
or others—yes, including those
he chose to grope. So I propose
we vote, November, not for Trump,
but show that we detest this chump,
and vote instead, in places blue,
for Stein—a vote we will not rue.

2016 October 15th, Sat. 11:37 pm
(2nd-4th & 6th-7th stanzas added Nov. 4th, Fri.,
5th stanza added Nov. 7th, Mon.)

Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
------------------------------------------

Please see also:  Ignorance 
   
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/11/ignorance.html 
  
That piece does not name Trump, but applies to him, and also has many pictures of him, each a classic, along with one, at the end, of wiser folk. The text of "Ignorance" does require an unhurried, deliberative, even meditative frame of mind. But you can always just look at the pictures of our potential president and his betters instead. ;-)
  

    

Hubris and Debt, Fools and Ghouls (and Trump, Obama and Clinton)

Hubris and Debt, Fools and Ghouls
(and Trump, Obama and Clinton)

Hubris and Debt, Fools and Ghouls
(and Trump, Obama and Clinton)

So many wars that will not end!
So many products still to vend!
We’ve murdered people, murdered whales.
We’ve raised the stocks and boosted sales.
What’s left of fabrics still to rend?
And who can hope to heal and mend?
We’ve birthed the storm. So hear the gales,
As hammers pound on coffins’ nails.

How many left, who still are sane,
And not in jail or judged insane
By those who dance as puppets do,
While saying, “Dance!” to me and you?
And if we don’t, we suffer pain,
And find our efforts are in vain,
For labor must be service too,
To those who reign, as masters do.

How sad that this, our human race,
Must serve as serfs, with each in place
To work, produce—and buy, consume,
And all those qualities assume
That are expected, while we race
And vie for each coveted place.
We work—to fly and to consume
And then return—and jobs resume.

For now, vacations too are sales.
Our kids are swayed by seller’s tales.
They buy the gizmos, clothes and cars,
Cosmetics—even buying wars.
As elders quaff their wines and ales,
So youngsters guzzle sodas, sales.
As long as we are buying cars,
We also will be starting wars.

Who knows of science and history
And is intrigued by mystery?
Who dares to think and question why
We come to live and work and die?
We learn, in schools, our “history”,
But truth remains a mystery.
We lack in patience and in depth,
But not in hubris or in debt.

Where patience can be judged a vice,
There nasties rule, and those who’re nice,
Are seen as useless, worthless fools,
Who can’t be fashioned into tools
That aid those, who, ignoring price,
Would make decisions in a trice.
But who, we ask, are more the fools—
The slow—or those who serve the ghouls?

A few may feast on human flesh,
But others do on labor, fresh.
Our role, for them, is just to work,
To never raise our voice to irk
Their majesty, or rip that mesh
In which both France and Bangladesh
Are trapped. They view us as a quirk,
And squash us, as they smugly smirk.

Our role is labor and consumption,
Paying taxes, lacking gumption,
Lowing, bleating with the herd,
Being redneck, worker, nerd,
Being conditioned, drained of passion,
Trained to follow swings of fashion…
Injustice?  If we’ve ever heard,
We’ve learned to flush it, like a turd.

The cannons boom, the bombs descend,
The drones deliver and ascend.
The helicopters dive and strafe.
And who, from all of this, is safe?
The fighters die, the migrants wend
Their way—and souls and bodies vend.
From poverty and death and rape,
They flee—but find there’s no escape.

Where capital, at speed, can flow,
There labor follows, stressed and slow.
The money drains from villages,
As those who did the tillages
Must find their ways to cities.  So
The workers, to the anthills, flow.
But both in towns and villages,
The ghoul is there, who pillages.

He feeds on interest and rent,
And bribing is his special bent.
He views the worker as a chump.
He shows his underlings his rump.
The migrants, to his mills, are sent.
For a nickel’s work, he pays a cent.
And yet, if he is Donald Trump,
On migrants, he can take his dump.

“They’re rapists, murderers!” he cries.
And many chumps believe his lies.
And who is there to counter Don,
To  ask, “What planet are you on?”
Why, there’s Obama, gals and guys,
And Hillary, who tries and tries.
But Wall Street says, “No Sanders- Warren!”
She bows and curtsies.  She’s no moron.

2016 July 24th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York

   

Freedom?

 
Freedom? 
  

http://www.forbes.com/sites/jacobmorgan/2015/01/16/do-we-need-hierarchy

We say, “This is a country free.”
And yet, I’m sure, to a high degree,
That almost everyone I see
Is an “owner” or an employee.

And though some might be both, we know
Our minds are set where income’s more.
And each of us, in verbiage, thought
And action, are, in mindsets, caught.

https://www.cuinsight.com/common-money-mindsets-hold-back.html

For every “owner”, you will find
A thousand of the other kind—
The ones who work, with hand or mind,
For bosses—gracious or unkind.

And which of these, I ask, is free?
And what’s the measure or degree
Of freedom that could ever be
The portion of an employee?

And even he, the boss of bosses,
With minions counting gains and losses,
Must carry too his gilded crosses.
Upon his bed, he turns and tosses.

So when we say that freedom shines
And show contempt for one who whines,
Remember—freedom isn’t guns
Or bombs that make a thousand suns.

Freedom is the lack of debt
And not being caught within the net.
You’ll find your freedom—this, I warrant,
When poised to be, where bosses aren’t.

https://memegenerator.net/instance/25900078

Kayapos dancing, with shorts and sandals on, Brazilian Amazon, by Thomas L. Kelly
http://www.thomaslkellyphotos.com/STOCK/TRIBES/Kayapo-Tribe/i-FqdBkCg

 
But even if you struggle free,
By climbing up the power-tree
Or breaking loose, what happens then
To all, who still are captive men?

A captive woman too must dance
As much in Yemen as in France.
And now, despite the "women's lib",
For women, freedom's still a fib.
 
Some dream that freedom will arrive
On owning Benzes they can drive.
And others aim yet higher, while
They wreak their damage, mile on mile.

There can’t be freedom, when the banks
Get richer, while the men in ranks
Are marching, so that profits flow
To those, who’re wanting even more.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/bill-quigley/ten-examples-of-welfare-for-the-rich-and-corporations_b_4589188.html

 
There can’t be freedom, when there’s war
That issues from the place you are—
Or comes, like dread disease, to visit,
Bringing woe and horror with it.

http://mamaruko.deviantart.com/art/War-is-Fun-172851282

When corporations give the orders,
As humans still are penned by borders,
While money speeds like light, with ease,
Then serfdoms grow and freedoms cease.
 

http://tabaaninga.canalblog.com/archives/2007/08/02/5790494.html

So women in the past have marched—
And others, who had long been parched—
To drink of freedom’s heady draft.
And yet, they’re snared by Mammon’s craft.

http://rrrrodak.blogspot.com/2009_11_01_archive.html

 
So sons of slaves might wonder why
They still must work, until they die,
At jobs they’d rather leave, but can’t,
While hearing still that jive, that rant.

The daughter of a worker slaves
And pinches pennies, scrapes and saves,
But still, with earnings low, may find
A world that hardly rates as kind.

“We’re free!” the politician blares,
And yet our heads are filled with cares.
We’re free, in certain states, to buy
Our guns—but not to question why.

We see that science, much maligned,
Has been, by engineers, aligned
To suit the needs of plebes and those

Who buy, at Bloomingdale’s, their hose.
 

http://www1.bloomingdales.com/shop/product/spanx-shaping-sheers-in-power-line-super-high-waist-914?ID=478659

And so, we’re free to buy the stuff
That’s made by workers treated rough
In distant places, and we’re free
To claw to climb the hierarchy.

And science and tech have brought us things
Like ‘planes that speed on windswept wings
And ‘phones that each of us can carry
And bounties for the military.
 
We’re free: to use, instead of rocks,
Our fiery bombs, with thunderous shocks;
To burn alive, our fellow species;
To strew the planet with our feces!

If this indeed is freedom, why,
Do give me freedom, then, to die.
If freedom truly comes, then whisper,
“That dummy missed it by a whisker.”

But if, as likely, it remains
As distant, query, "Who then gains,
When workers, working ever faster,
Speed the race towards disaster?"
 

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/526850856385202506/

“Produce, produce!” the teachers teach.
“Consume, consume!” the pundits preach.
Who then has time to think, reflect?
To Mammon’s priests, we genuflect.
 
“Free-dumb! Free-dumb!”  Hear that shout
And ask yourself, what it’s about.
Can ignorance let freedom be
What it should mean to you and me?
 
2016 June 25th, Sat. & June 30th, Thu.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
 

http://whatwouldjackdo.net/2013/05/if-this-is-what-freedom-looks-like-to-you-lets-call-it-what-it-is-freedumb.html

         

Winter’s Weight / The Prophet (an allegory)

Winter’s Weight  / The Prophet
(an allegory)

I had wandered, in the winters,
In the streets deserted, cold,
With the dreary skies above me
As I grayed from growing old.

For the one who’s old and single,
A winter can be bleak,
With neither spouse nor offspring
As a shelter from its reach.

But neither love nor kinship
Nor friendship can suffice
To free ourselves of a winter
That holds us in its vice.

A season, like a time of day,
Is a being and a mood.
In colder climes, the winter’s traits
Are often rather rude.
 
******
 
It blusters as it freezes us.
It dumps its loads of snow.
It takes what autumn might have left
And then it asks for more.
 
But seasons, much like times of day—
And moods, are transient things.
So winter, like a tyrant, reigns—
And then, the minstrel sings.
 
But till that little bird arrives
And perches on its tree,
We live with winter’s weight on us
And struggle to be free.

And some may look to forecasts in
Their hopes of warmer weather,
Or seek for a prophet, who’d show us how
To break from winter’s tether.

******

How many were the prophets false,
How many true were slain?
And yet we seek for “leaders”, who
Might free us from our pain.

In the winter, comes the "leader",
To a people turned to sheep.
He says, "Follow me to summer."
But the price is often steep.

There always are the foolish,
Who never will be wise.
Will he lead them to the slaughter
Or towards their paradise?

For it's only when we waken,
From the sleep in which we dwell,
That we know which way is heaven
And which will lead to hell.
 
******

I had walked the cold and silent streets
Of the cities of the north,
And wondered, would those songs return
That autumn’s winds sent forth.

On winter nights, I had seen in dreams
The colors of the spring.
I had huddled then beneath my quilt,
But my heart had taken wing.

How many "revolutions",
How many "springs" have turned
To bloodbaths and unreason—
And yet, the spirit yearns.

The tides of men have seasons
That last for many years.
And then there comes a prophet—
And hope that wells as tears.

******

I traveled to Manhattan
To hear the prophet speak.
And there I saw that Sanders
Was out of winter’s reach.

His hair, which age had whitened,
Was tousled by the breeze.
But though the wind was biting,
He stood and spoke at ease.

So winter’s weight was lifted
And grays replaced by hues.
The birds would be returning—
Although it wasn’t news.  *

And riding back to Brooklyn,
I sat within the train,
Resolved that, what the winter
Had stolen, we’d regain.
 
2016 January 16th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York 

*  Sanders’ gave his aggressive Wall Street Reform speech, which I attended, at the “Town Hall” building in Manhattan on Jan. 5th.  This, along with polls showing that his campaign was succeeding despite the mainstream-media blackout, did finally get him some long-due coverage in that media.

Bernie Sanders, giving his Wall Street speech,
at the "Town Hall" in Manhattan, 2016-01-05
photographs (very poor): A. Janah 

Sanders had given his talk, in which he had attacked the excesses of the financial institutions, many of them centered in Manhattan, at the historic midtown "Town Hall" building on 43rd Street.  This building, with its large auditorium, had once been a center for the suffragette movement.
 
After the talk, I joined a group of supporters who were waiting for him outside the building.  Once he had emerged, we followed Sanders, along with some media folk, as he briskly walked, hat-less and glove-less despite the cold, east along 43rd and then south along Sixth Avenue, crossing it at 42nd Street and then stopping for awhile, at an entrance to Bryant Park, to be interviewed. 
  

Midtown Manhattan, with Bryant Park on lower left, between 40th & 42nd Streets.

The "Town Hall" is on 43rd Street, between Sixth and Seventh Avenues.

After the interview, the prophet continued to walk rapidly east along 42nd, towards Fifth Avenue, followed by a sizable entourage.  But I walked back west instead to Sixth Avenue to take the D train back to Brooklyn.

You can click on any of the pictures to view all of them in a somewhat larger and clearer format, in a sort of gallery show.  Click on the white X at the top right of the black background to return to this post.
  

Sanders crossing on the streets of Manhattan, 2016-01-06
photographs (not the best): A. Janah

    

  

Sanders being interviewed by an ABC News reporter,
Bryant Park, Manhattan, 2016-01-06
photographs (somewhat better): A. Janah

   

  
  

   

     

  

Kaker Gan—কাকের গান—The Cawing of the Crows

  

The late poet of Bengal, Kazi Nazrul Islam, had written:

Hinduism and Muslimism can be borne.  But their topknotism and beardism are unbearable, for these lead to violence.  Topknotism is not Hinduism, perhaps it is punditism/brahminism.  So also, beardism is not Islam, it is mullahism.  It is about these two clumps of hair, marked with their “isms” , that we have, today, so much of hair-pulling.  The violent conflict that has started now is also a fight between topknotism and beardism.  It is not a fight between Hindus and Muslims...  Humans do not quarrel over light.  But they do so over cows and goats.

-- [Rudra Mangal (Rudro Mo`ngol), Written Works, Volume 1, p.707]

The verses below, in the traditional Bengali  script, are  followed by two transcriptions into Roman letters.  After  these, there is a loose translation into English. 
    
কাকের গান
  
টিকি ও দাড়ির লড়াই,
আলোর থেকে ঘুরে,
আজো চলেছে, তাই
শুদ্ধি রয়েছে দূরে৷

সাতাল্লিশে দুই –
ভারত, পাকিস্তান৷
একাত্তরে  তিন৷
তাও ত কাকের গান৷

তাও ত টিকি নরে,
তাও ত দাড়ির ঝোঁক৷
চুলোচুলির ফলে,
খুনোখুনির শোক৷

জানি না নজরুল নাকি,
লিখেছিল কেঁদে কাল:
যতদিন চুলের কানুন,
ততদিন মাটিতে লাল৷

শোনেনি, শোনেনি তারা,
ব্যথিত মানুষের ডাক৷
মোল্লা, পণ্ডিত যারা,
রয়েছে এখনো কাক৷
  
রবিবার, ১লা নভেম্বর, ২৹১৫ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক
------------------------------------------------
   
Kaker Gan   (transcription 1: follows standard pronunciation)
   
For a summary of the transcription scheme used here, please see the the preface to the post at  Bharot Xadhin (India Free). 
  

T’iki o dar’ir lo`r’ai,
alor theke ghure,
ajo coleche, tai
xuddhi roeche dure.

Xatallixe dui – 
Bharot, Pakistan.
E`kattore tin.
Tao to kaker gan.
  
Tao to t’iki no`re,
tao to dar’ir jho~k.
Culaculir pho`le,
khunankunir xok.
  
Jani na nojrul naki,
likhechilo ke~de kal:
Jo`todin culer kanun,
to`todin mat’ite lal.

Xoneni, xoneni tara,
be`thito manuxer d’ak.
Molla, pon’d’it jara,
roeche e`khono kak.
  
1-la No`bhembo`r, 2015 Khri.
Bruklin, Niu Io`rk
------------------------------------------------

Kākēr Gān   (transcription 2: follows traditional spelling)
 
This is the "machine transcription" for Bengali that is available 
(along with "machine translations" that are not yet palatable) at 
https://translate.google.com/ .  I have edited that transcription lightly 
to remove those"a" letters (usually at the ends of words) that are silent 
in current spoken Bengali. These are implicit in the traditional syllabic 
script but are made explicit in the machine transcription.  I have also 
added periods (full stops), along with capitalization in the English style.
  
Tiki ō dāṛir laṛā'i,
ālōr thēkē ghurē,
ājō calēchē, tā'i
śud'dhi raẏēchē dūrē.

Sātālliśē du'i --
Bhārat, Pākistān.
Ēkāttarē tin.
Tā'ō ta kākēr gān.

Tā'ō ta ṭiki narē,
tā'ō ta dāṛir jhōm̐k.
Culāculir phalē,
khunākhunir śōk.

Jāni nā najrul nāki,
likhēchilō kēm̐dē kāl:
Yatadin culēr kānun,
tatadin māṭitē lāl.

Śōnēni, śōnēni tārā,
byathit mānuṣēr ḍāk.
Mōllā, paṇḍit yārā,
raẏēchē ēkhanō kāk.

1-lā Nabhēmbar, 2015 Khri.
Bruklin, Ni'uẏark
------------------------------------------------
 
The Crows’ Song  (The Cawing of the Crows)

The beards’ and top-knots’ battles,
Retreating from the light,
Are raging still.  And sadly
Correction’s not in sight.
  
In two, and then in three bits,
As pyres and graveyards fill,
The land has been divided.
Yet crows are cawing still.

And still the top-knot wiggles,
And still the beard’s the trend.
The fashions change with seasons,
But when will slaughters end?

Was it Nazrul then who wept once
And penned these lines in dread?
“As long as hairstyles rule us,
The ground is wet with red.”
  
They did not, would not hear then
The cries of those in pain—
Those mullahs, pundits, others,
Who still, as crows, remain.

2015 November 1st, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
    

Nations Proud and Pure

 
Nations Proud and Pure (Draft)
  

Children cheering Axis leaders, Japanese poster, 1938
source: ?

“The strong should rule the weak,” she said,
“And those of sharper mind
Should govern those who're duller, so
We won't be left behind.
 
“But first, we have to purify
And cleanse our land, our race!
The parasites that we have borne
Are filth we must erase.”
      
“We need a state,” the prophet said,
“For every tribe and sect,
So each of these will then be pure
And cleansed of past defect.”

“The choicest lands should be reserved
For those of the highest races,
While all the vilest vermin are
Assigned to the blasted places.

"And if there is contention, let
The battles then begin,
Which those, who are the strongest and
The shrewdest, swiftly win.
 
“In countries blest there might of course
Be space for servants humble
Of lower races for the work
At which the high might grumble.

“So if by chance a nation lets
Another people stay,
It should be clear who rules the land
And who should just obey.

Benito Mussolini and Adolf Hitler, 1930's-1940's
source: ?

“For the highest nations know they are,
In all the world, the best.
And if this is acknowledged, they
May tolerate the rest.

“Miscegenation is the root
Of every region’s woes.
Preserve your culture and your race
By shutting close your doors!

“Your strength is your security!
So use both arms and lies
To silence and to swindle those
Who matter less than flies.

“So set, upon a throne on high,
For worship, self divine.
And right below reserve a place
For those you call as ‘mine’.

“It isn’t just your family.
It’s more your culture, race
That should, by rights, be seated at
That special second place.

“Let ethics be a thing reserved
For those within your sphere.
For plants and beasts and races vile,
You shouldn’t waste a tear."

Spain's Francisco Franco
source: ?

And saying this she looked around
At all who’d raptly listened.
And she could see that every eye,
With zealous fervor, glistened.

“We need a state,” the prophet cried,
“For every human tribe!”
As everyone arose and cheered
Her rousing diatribe.

“But even in one race there are
The weaker and the stronger.
It's fit the strong should rule the weak,
For states would then last longer!”

In every head there danced, that day,
A vision: there’s a cure,
For all the ills of humankind,
In nations proud—and pure!

And each of them, returning home,
To kinsfolk near and dear,
Revealed that dream—that promise of
A future cleared of fear.

No more of persecutions or
Of slights or tolerating
The boorish ways of simians or
Yet more illicit mating!

And each of them was filled with joy
In fond anticipation
Of a nation pure, with limpets cleared
Or sent to their damnation.

Argentina's Jorge Rafael Videla
source: ?

Chile's Augusto Pinochet
source: ?

2015 July 30th Thu., 4:30 pm
Skyway dhaba, Bath Avenue
(1st, 2nd & 5th-from-last stanzas added
Aug 8th, Sat., along with the images)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
-------------------------------------------------

Note:  The opinions expressed in this piece are not those of the writer. 
 

Expectant

   
Expectant

We've learned that there's a snowstorm headed
this way, towards our city.
I walk the streets and find a haze –
a mist, that's settled in.

The city waits, expectant, tense.
We've had disasters – one
of human making, others wrought
by Nature's caprices.

******
 
This morning, by the steps of City Hall,
our newest mayor stood.
He there declared the ending of an age
and boldly heralded a new.

The city waits, expectant, for the storm.
It also waits for more.
There's hope, however timorous, that should help
as citizens shovel out from snow.
 
2013 January 1, 11:00 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

Bill De Blasio's Ceremonial Inauguration as Mayor of New York City 

http://www.wnyc.org/story/bill-de-blasio-inauguration-march-toward-fairer-more-just-more-progressive-place-full-transcript/
 

The Walmartization of the U.S.A. -- Part I

The Walmartization of the U.S.A.
      
This country’s fathers’ paramount desire
was this – pursuit, unlimited, of wealth.

But Jefferson, whose land and slaves were surely
wealth enough, wrote “happiness” instead –
and not because he’d had his fill, but since
he thought the previous word might cause offence
to those who held to Christian norms in speech,
while doing all they could to be as rich
as one, whom Jesus once had pictured as
a camel, seeking passage through the eye
of a needle.  But heaven never was their goal.

A paradise on earth was what they sought,
the reason why they sailed from England’s shores,
with dreams of land aplenty, land that could
be cleared of forests, sown with seed, from which
would spring the harvests, first of food but then
the ones of cash – for landlords, they would be...

And when this dream was challenged by the king,
the landlord over all, who sought his share,
the share he was accustomed to, that fed
the hierarchy of brigands that he headed,
the new lords in the colonies rebelled,
and sent the rabble forth against the king.

And if my tale be slanted to your eye,
Then to your questions I will give reply,
“The truth, of what had happened in the past,
is lost to us. The facts, we may surmise
at times, from what the ones, then living, wrote.
The motivations are unclear at best,
and much of truth has long been put to rest.

“So those, who won, may write of it one way,
while those, defeated, write another tale,
and few are they, dispassionate, who watch
and then have means to let us know their views.

“So you can read, of seventeen-seventy-six,
in local books, from writers of this land
or those from England or from France and see
that each, who saw what happened, be it here,
or from afar, had painted pictures quite
dissimilar – and prejudiced by minds
inclined to one or other creed – and that
the class, to which the writer had belonged,
had played a part in what that writer saw.”

But struggles did not cease with ’76.
Indeed, they then began in earnest and
we see this country racked, like others were,
by endless strife and slaughters with no end.

But I will overpass two centuries
and focus for a while on present times.
In doing this, the longer view is lost
and all the past obscured, that feeds the now.
So I must beg forgiveness for this sin
and then proceed, to pointing with my pin.

I am an immigrant, like those before
but only landed here upon these shores
a year before the bicentennial, that
of nineteen-seventy-six, when Johnny Cash
regaled the multitude upon the Mall.

‘Twixt  Monument and Capitol we stood –
and when the fireworks at the end were done,
we sought the port-a-potties – and I climbed
upon the bus, the way I’d learned to do,
in Dilli, through the window;  then, to home –
or what then served for it, a basement flat,
from which I’d walk a mile or so to school,
and back and forth again and back each day,
four trips in all.  But we were younger then
and ignorant – and work was near to play.

And some of us were earnest, then as now,
while others then were learning of the game
and playing it, as presently, sans shame.

And what’s that game?  Why, simply, it is this –
to focus on oneself, on loss and gain,
to play to win, to bow to those above
and work the ones below, to serve with lip
whatever is the norm that holds in speech,
as did our Jefferson, while holding fast
to that which counts – for self – and acting so
that wealth, which here is happiness, is more.

So is it not the same in every land?
It may be so.  But rarely is this raised,
as here it has been, to a moral code.
But then, I may again be more than wrong…

For I would have to live in far Shanghai,
in London, Zurich and Mumbai,
to sit in offices in Tokyo,
in towers high in Hong Kong and Dubai…

And some, who read this, some of this have done,
so they can judge my verses on the run,
and if they criticize, comment, suggest,
I will be grateful for their interest,
while wishing still that others too could write,
who’ve lived their lives in Cairo, Budapest
or Timbuktu – or far from city lights,
in fields where sun rules day – and stars, the nights.

And to our Jefferson (and I say "our",
while humbly conscious of the arrogance
that this might seem to be reflecting), I
should offer my apologies.  I judge
him from a distance great and so I pick
at faults he might or might not have possessed.
   
So those of stature may be picked upon
by midgets, who may nibble at their toes,
and turn their virtues into vice and say,
"Where most say 'Yes.', we relish saying 'Nay!' "

To all descendants of that man (of all
the races that we seek to superpose
on this our species), I will turn – and say,
"The great have faults – perhaps those made them great.
The lesser then must bear what greater did,
for better or for worse – or seek, in turn,
to change, however slightly, current's course.
And this, some do by action – some, discourse."

< to be continued >

2013 November 29th, Fri.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

The Walmartization of the U.S.A. -- Part II 
  
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/12/the-walmartization-of-usa-part-ii.html
 

Gotama and Gauss

           
Gotama and Gauss
     
I dreamed, Gotama met with Gauss,
And left serenely, when he heard, “Heraus!”
It was a scene that could have seen some drama,
But did not see it, thanks to clear Gotama.

I also dreamed that Nietsche, meeting Gandhi,
Had hurled, at him, whatever then was handy.
And in my mind, this painted quite a picture,
With Gandhi dodging what was hurled by Nietsche.

And Marx was met by none than Sri Chaitanya,
Who chanted, “Charles, I prayed to God to find ya!”
Was Karl then ruffled, or provoked to sparks?
He muttered, “God – and you – get failing marks."

Though Kipling wrote that East and West won't meet,
I saw them meeting, though it wasn't sweet.
But sour or not, the western mind forgot.
The east remembered, as has been its lot.

I wandered then to western Asia, where
The "twain" have met, who each find hard to bear
The other's ways -- and where the prophets cried --
And far too often, via torture, died...

Muhammad meets with Jesus and with Moses.
And each of them has hooked, “Semitic” noses.
And each insists that his is the religion
Of the god they share, who scorns the others legion.

I wonder, should I join in this discussion,
But exercise, instead, a safe discretion.
Can humble folk like I, with these, dispute?
Where blood has flowed,  it's prudent to be  mute.

I bow then to these prophets three and pray,
"I wish you gentlemen a wondrous day.
I hope that humans all will take the best
Of what you offer -- and forgo the rest."

I traveled then to colder, northern climes,
Where things were moving fast, with modern times,
And revolutions and their deaths were seen
In spans so short as seemed, to some, obscene.

And in my dream, I saw that Lenin, he,
With Thatcher and with Reagan, chanced to be.
But Deng had come, with sundry things to sell,
And I awoke, for Mao was roaring, “Hell!”

But then I slept again – and Nehru smiled,
For he, with charm, had Jackie O beguiled.
Onassis then was dallying with Callas.
Michelle and Dubya danced away in Dallas.

So revolutions come and go, but this,
What humans do, to pass their days, persists.
And some say, "This is all." and others, "No!"
But most remain unsure, which way to go.

I tossed and turned in moral indignation,
And snored again in abject resignation.
Confucius and Lao Tse appeared and left,
And I again awoke – of all of them bereft.

I prayed then to the spirit of Tagore,
But saw, beside him, stood rotund Al Gore.
And as the white-beard sang of Nature's smile,
The round one lectured, “Her, we now defile.”

The sight of Nature, smiling, being raped,
Disturbed me much.  Her heaving breasts, I draped,
Within my mind, and slapped our bestial kin
On his behind, for such audacious sin.

But those of finance then arose in fury,
And I was killed, not seeing judge or jury,
By a missile fired from a drone that flew away,
In a sky of blue, on a Himalayan day...

But I survived – or else was resurrected,
Or else my waking was, of dreams, constructed.
And so, unlike the others, killed from high,
I sit and type these verses, asking, “Why?”

Gotama answers clearly, “It's because.”
And Gauss says, “I don't rhyme with words like “gauze”.
And Nietsche chases Gandhi all around,
While Marx cannot, by those who seek, be found.

And now – a spirit, sere -- it is Osama,
Of recent, killed, by order of Obama.
He has the eye, of one who knows that money
Can buy such things, as only he finds funny...

And Saddam too is risen from the grave.
He's spitting curses fit to cow the brave.
And Dubya's dodging shoes like he's a pro.
Yay, Dubya!  That's the way to go!

But Modi glowers fiercely.  He is bearded.
He gives a speech.  The millions, who have heard it,
Are cheering wildly.   I awake, in fear,
And see, it's dusk – and night is drawing near.

And so I huddle back within the covers,
And soon enough, a sprite, returning, hovers.
It's Omar, who has pity on our souls
As we pursue our e'er receding goals...

There are such things, as were, before we came
And will remain, when we have played the game
And left.  And pebbles, such, we find,
Upon the shore, that please our mortal mind.

And when we find companions, for awhile,
Who've seen what we have seen and smile,
The thrill of recognition of the truth
Is briefly shared, by those, whom such things suit.

If Bhaskara and Euler were to meet,
And Ramanujam too was there, to greet
Al Beruni, Gauss –  would Khayyam's wine
Then overflow his cup, in sphere divine?

So Euclid and Pythagoras are seated
With Al Khwarizmi. Talk is heated.
But I can see, they're smiling through it all.
That Eden past, such gentle smiles recall.

So Tolstoy sits with Gandhi and Tagore,
And of such trios, I see more and more.
And Ho Chi Minh has come to Chhattisgarh.
He wishes, there, with others, to confer...

Returning then, to Gauss and to Gotama,
And to that scene that could have seen of drama,
I wondered how these towering thinkers two,
Could be, like us, as errant humans too.

For though Gotama had disposed of ego,
He still was saddened at being ordered out.
And wondering, where a seer could go,
He saw a beer-hall, entered, ordered stout...

And there he sits, while sipping of the brew
Which others, who are bhikkus, must eschew.
Does he remember, still, that meal that led
To illness -- that, which left him cold and dead?

Perhaps.  But as he ponders, Gauss calculates,
And each new finding, quietly celebrates.
So east is east and west remains as west,
And each does that, which surely it does best.

But as it's time to wake, I do espy
That Lear and Carroll, walking, pass me by,
And Ray the father, laughing, walks with them.
But I must leave, and stifle my "Ahem!".

2013 November 15th, Fri. & 16th, Sat.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 
Note added:  The phrase "Ray the father" in the last stanza is ambiguous.  It was meant to refer to Sukumar Ray  (Xukumar Ro`e), the father of the film director Satyajit Ray (Xottojit Ro`e) -- and the grandfather of  Sandip Ray (Xondip Ro`e), also a filmmaker.  Sukumar Ray died at an early age, but produced several literary works, including Abol Tabol,  a classic volume of playful Bengali nonsense verses.  These are unique, and yet reminiscent of  the  poems of two Englishmen -- Edward Lear and Lewis Carroll (the mathematician Charles Dodgson).  
        
The Wikipedia article on Sukumar Ray has some insertions that need copy-editing.  A documentary film on him, directed by his son, Satyajit, with Sandip also mentioned in the subtitles, is available as video on YouTube.  It is well worth watching.  

Sukumar Ray also wrote a children's novel, Ho`jo`bo`ro`lo` (Hajabarala), inspired by Carroll's Alice in Wonderland.  It is alleged that  Steven Spielberg's film, E.T., was based on a screenplay by Satyajit Ray, meant for a Hollywood movie that never was.  Satyajit Ray used to illustrate his screenplays with sketches, and it is likely that the appearance of  the extraterrestrial in Spielberg's film derives  from one of these. 

The spelling of the the Rays' names, including the last name,  may be misleading to non-Bengalis, as regards pronunciation.  The conventional spellings (in both Roman transcription and in the Bengali script) are closer to representing how the names would be pronounced in, say, Hindi or (for the first names) in Sanskrt. These conventional spellings do not properly represent how they are currently pronounced in standard Bengali.

 With x representing the sh cluster of English spelling, and  t being a dental, as in the Latin languages, the pronunciations of the names may be better represented as Roy, Xukumar, Xottojit and  Xondip.  I had transcribed the last name, earlier, more systematically,  as Ro`e, but Roy will suffice here -- as there is an English name (as in Roy Rogers) that is pronounced as the Rays' last name should be pronounced. 
    

New York City De-Bloomed + Bloomberg's Gone

New York City, De-Bloomed

Bloomie's gone, with all his snooties.

Let's hope that Bill won't catch his cooties!

De Blasio's here, and though ungroomed,

We're glad our city's now de-Bloomed.

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

Bloomberg's Gone!

Bloomberg came and Bloomberg went.

He'd bought himself an extra term.

You'll find that there's no argument:

He leaves our city more infirm.

Of hubris he had plenty, so

He thought that he could run the show.

A democrat, small "d", he wasn't.

A little king, he ruled from high.

His manners, they were quite unpleasant.

And so, we're glad to say, "Goodbye!".

He thought that he could fix our schools,

And failing, called the teachers fools.

"But those who think they know the answers,

Or that the answers can be bought,

They're the fools!"  So sing the dancers,

Who, in Bloomberg's trap, were caught.

"Oh hi, oh ho!  Oh heidiho!

Bloomberg's gone!   He's mayor no more!"

But Bloomberg, he is sly and crafty!

He's a shyster with the dollar!

He squeezed us all, for he's no softy,

Squeezed us workers for the dollar!

His worth, at start?  It was four billion.

And now?   It's over thirty billion!

His friends and he made out like bandits.

Our labor did their coffers fill.

His lawyers, they secured the conduits.

And that is why we've chosen Bill.

No more, no more of your accountants!

Begone, Mike B. -- and keep your distance!

You spent your time in the Caribbean,

But kept your eye upon your fortune.

Your words for us, who labored, plebeian?

"Work more, you dummies!  Don't importune!"

Your ways, they made us ill with nausea.

And that is why we chose De Blasio.

2013 November 5th, Tue. (Election Day)

Brooklyn, New York