The Appetites of Sin

 
The Appetites of Sin 

 
Beware of those who need unending praise
And those who seek to measure worth in wealth
Or else in power—lethal twins conjoined
That still, as ever, lay the world to waste.

 
Along with thirsting ego, marches greed—
And these together drive that raging lust
That seeks dominion over one and all
And drives in turn the wars and other deeds 

 
Of vile deception and of cruelty
That wreak destruction, sowing misery
And all the mayhem that is sickening
But serves to feed the appetites of sin. 

****** 

Avoid the boastful and the devious—
And those who seek to label and despoil,
For just as those who’re humble seek to heal,
These others get their joys in evil deeds.

 
The path of healing and of peace exists
But needs from each of us the pause and turn
That starts to see and moves away from all
That blinds the sense and hardens so the heart. 

Be not misled by those who draw a line

Between the “self” and “other”, celebrate 

The “primes” and spurn and demonize the rest.

Resist deception. Move away from hate.

2025 September 8, Monday
Berkeley, California

Biden’s Bombs-War and Money

.
Biden’s Bombs / War and Money
.
Biden’s bombs, Biden’s bombs—
Two thousand pounds apiece—
They blow the kids to smithereens, 
And serve to keep the peace.
.
If Trump returns, he’ll send more bombs 
To Israel and say,
“We’ll send them to the Saudis too, 
If they agree to pay.”
.
And hearing all the folk who shout
That this is genocide 
And fearing that in politics
This might be suicide,
.
Biden, Blinken both declare,
“We need to end the strife.”
But keep on sending bombs and planes
To end what's left of life.
.
******
.
War and money, war and money—
Whatever be the weather—
You’ll find that each provides for each. 
They always go together.
.
We've made our zones of peace, within
Their circles wide or small,
Where business booms. Outside the zones,
We find the free-for-all.
.
And that is where our bombs are dropped—
And conflicts are inflamed,
As money drives the wheels of war, 
And “terrorists” are blamed.
.
Wealth and power, wealth and power,
Unabated greed:
Death and dread and suffering—
These are what they feed.
.
******
.
Religion and democracy—
It’s not about that stuff.
It’s all about the land, the oil…
We’ll never have enough.
.
So don’t believe the evening news;
It’s sadly filled with lies.
When eyes and minds and hearts are blind,
Then truth, with justice, dies.
.
“Why should we care for Palestine
And people far away?
But Israel is different!”
Is what the people say.
.
But Biden's bombs are ours too. 
Our taxes pay for those.
The Congo, Yemen, South Sudan?
They aren't far. They're close.
.
2024 May 22nd, Wed.
Berkeley, California
.

Xo'bkichui ki becakena-সবকিছুই কি বেচাকেনা

 
সবকিছুই কি বেচাকেনা?
.
বৃদ্ধের কাছে এসেছো, 
আশার অপেক্ষায়?
এদিকে তো আশা আমার 
লোপ হয়েছে প্রায়।
.
সবকিছুই হচ্ছে শেষে 
ব্যবসা করার উপায়।  
বাকি যেনো এলেবেলে—
সরিয়ে দেওয়া যায়। 
.
ব্যবসা আবার কি কারণে? 
ধনের জোগাড়, ভাই।  
এটার জন্য, আরো কিন্তু 
অনেক কিছু চাই।
.
চাই চাহিদা, খোলাবাজার, 
কেনাকাটার শখ।
তা না হলে, ব্যবসা কোথায়—
খাঁটি হোক বা ঠক?
.
সস্তা তেল আর কয়লা, ধাতু,
সস্তা বিজলী, জমি,
সস্তা শ্রমিক—এ না হলে, 
হবে কি কেউ ধনী?
.
ও হ্যাঁ। জমির দামটা যদি বাড়ে,
তাতেও ব্যবসা হয়।
লোকের স্রোতে, জমির দামে
হচ্ছে কবে ক্ষয়?
.
অন্য উপায়? সব-ই শেষে
খাজনা-সুদের জোরে।
দুটোই তো ভাই গুন্ডা-ডাকাত
দলের সৃষ্টি, ওরে!
.
ঋণ আর ভাড়ার নেওয়া দেওয়া— 
এতেই জগত চলে।
জগন্নাথের রথের টানা,
বন্দী জীবের বলে।
.
শ্রমিক, সৈনিক পাচ্ছে বেতন, 
খাটছে, লড়ছে তাই। 
হোক বা না হোক চাষটা সফল, 
খাজনা, সুদ তো চাই।
.
শক্তির, ধনের সিঁড়ি আছে, 
খাজনার, সুদের ধাপ।
সৃষ্টিকর্তার আইন, নাকি—
মানুষ জাতির পাপ? 
.
******

.
বড়লোকদের দোষ দিও না। 
দোষ তো প্রতি জনে।
অনেক রকম ব্যামো আছে, 
মানুষ জাতির মনে।
.
তবে সবচেয়ে বড় ব্যারাম, 
শক্তিধরের লোভ।
‘সম্পত্তি’ আর ‘আমার, তোমার’—
এতেই যত ক্ষোভ।
.
মানুষ জাতি স্বাধীন ছিলো—
যেমন চড়ুই শালিক।
জমির ফাঁদে পড়লো খাঁচায়।
ডাকাত হলো মালিক।
.
রাজা-গজার কাল চুকেছে।
ধনিক, পরম পতি।
প্রগতির এই যুগে, দেখো 
উন্নয়নের গতি।
.
মানুষ জাতি খুব-ই চতুর!  
দেখবে, দেশে দেশে,
উদ্যোগ আর বাণিজ্যের বানে, 
শুদ্ধি গেছে ভেসে।
.
সবকিছুই তো বেচাকেনা। 
পুরুষ, স্ত্রী ও তাই। 
মানুষ-দেবের সৃষ্টি এটা। 
কি আর করা, ভাই?
.
এমনি ভেবে, হাল ছেড়ো না, 
পোদ্দার যতই হাসে।
খাঁটি জিনিস, মায়ের দয়ায়, 
বিনা টাকায় আসে।
.
খালি হাতে এসেছিলে,
যাবেও খালি হাতে।
দুঃখ, খুশি—দুটোই খাবে, 
যেটাই পাবে পাতে।
.
চেষ্টা ক'রো। ভয় পেয়ো না। 
মধু, তেতো চেখো।
যেটাই আসে জীবন পথে, 
সেটার থেকে শেখো।
.
জয় বিজয় তো আসবে যাবে।
চলবে জীবন লীলা।
বিমল রেখো মনটা শুধু, 
খেলছো যখন ক্রীড়া।
.
******

.
ধন উপার্জন? করবো না, ভাই, 
এই ব্যাপারে মানা।
সংসারে যে বাঁচতে হবে,
তা তো সবাইর জানা।
.
কিন্তু এটা হয় না যেনো
মাতলামি বা নেশা।
কামের নেশা অনেক ভালো।
তাও কি কারোর পেশা?
.
হ্যাঁ হ্যাঁ, জানি। সেটাও আছে।
উদাহরণ বাজে!
প্রত্যেকের-ই নেশা আছে—
মালে হোক বা কাজে।
.
মানুষ জাতির এটাই আকার।
হয়তো সেটাই ভালো।
কিন্তু, একটা নেশার চোটে, 
নিভছে বাকি আলো।
.
নিভছে আশার আলো, তবে
বইছে আগুন-ঝড়।
মুখ ফুটে তা বললে, ওরে, 
পড়বে মুখে চড়।
.
খিদায়, বোমায় মরছে যত, 
ততোই বড়াই, ঠকের। 
দুঃখ, ব্যথা বাড়ছে যত, 
ততই চড়াই, স্টকের।
.
এসব বুঝেও হাল ছেড়ো না,
দুঃখে যেও না ঝুঁকে।
দয়া, কৃপা স্মরণ করে, 
আশা রেখো বুকে।
.
প্রতি জীবে শয়তান আছে, 
প্রতি জীবে সন্ত।
দুঃখ, ক্লেশের ঢেউয়ের নিচে,  
বইছে সুখ অনন্ত।
.
মরন-শোকে, মুক্তির খোঁজে, 
যেও না মক্কা-কাশি। 
নিজের গাঁয়ে, খুঁজলে পাবে 
ছোট্ট শিশুর হাসি।
.
কারখানা আর গঁজের চাকায়, 
মরছে রাশি রাশি। 
তাও তো দূরে ডাকছে, শোনো, 
সেই রাখালের বাঁশি।
.
শনিবার, ২১ সেপ্টেম্বর, ২০১৯ খ্রি 
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউ ইয়র্ক

Beware, the Planes!

 
Beware, the Planes!
   
And some now fly in jet-planes through the sky,
While others labor closer to the dirt.
And surely none would either space deny,
But who does more of harm to this our Earth?

Some fly across the continents and oceans
For reasons every human understands.
But others fly, as part of world-elites,
To propagate the ills that plague our lands.

Yet these, who fly in arcs across the blue,
Are adulated by our pundits wise.
There may be sky enough for pundits too,
But is there oil enough – as waters rise?

“The wealth-creators” is the term that’s used
For flyers high – they make, we’re told, the wealth.
Yet one more term, in ignorance, abused!
Do tell us, why we still should worship stealth?         \1

The theft of labor – that is nothing new.
On that was built the empires of the world –
But never on the scale that now proceeds,
As all the planet is, in hellfire, hurled.

We each were one among the myriad,
As person or as species, part of a whole,
With all our conflicts, still in harmony,
And playing, each, an individual role…

For each has senses – so that each perceives
What’s best for each and for the others too.
If a cell or other being does not care
To listen, then – it's deafness, it will rue.

Can this, our world, bear such an overrun
By one deaf species, maddened, cancerous?
And does this species have, as destiny,
This lunacy? For what’s become of us?

We have the financiers, the ones with cash,
And those who serve them, in their penguin suits –
And then the masses, laboring for bosses –
And then, there’s jet-planes, bombs – and marching boots.

For who can stand against the megatons?
And who can down the devil-drones that fly?
Omnipotent, omniscient are those
Who fly above – while village orphans cry.

The brigand kings, their lords, the emperors,
And all the ruthless feeding chains below,
Were gone, we thought, with “rights divine” and worse.
But now we’ve more, to whom we all should bow?

The empires gave, to each, a place, indeed,
In which, at rung on ladder, each could toil.
A few could climb, on others, towards the top,
While most, near bottom, worked the planet’s soil.

But now our emperors are globalized.
We’re cogs in gears, within their great machines.
And where’s the place, where we can flee their reach
Or hide our children from their venal schemes?

Our kids, corrupted by what’s marketed
From all around, ignore the words we speak.
They eat of fire – so they each then burn,
And in their turn, yet more of havoc wreak…

So classes new are born and take their place.
They toil, consume – as profits rise, like cream.
What’s left of cultures, profiteers deface,
As missiles, guns and jails enforce this “dream”.

Whichever nation tries to dam this tide
And so survive, however small its bay,
Is flooded, by the dollar, as the plane
That flies on high ensures that all obey.

A state that tries to sing a different tune
Is quickly crushed – or suffocated slow.
It's demonized – until we all agree
That states like it should bleed to death and go.

Its leaders, pressured, may then means devise
To stay in power – means of brutal force.
And this adds powder to our media’s guns.
Our leaders stay upon their ruthless course.

For what they do – or what our allied states
May do – are not revealed to us.
Who bulldozes the shelters that are left
Or bombs from high – except the goons we trust?

And there’s resistance – here and there, we see
The workers, peasants or the tribesmen rise.
And then they’re crushed, with hammer-blows, while we
The sorry truth, but rarely might surmise.

We scarcely know, what happens down the street,
Much less, what occurs in another city.
So when the flyer makes his distant deal,
Who’s there to watch – or those, who suffer, pity?

Our minds determine what we humans are.
Who captures minds, directs what humans do.
And so are media used to start a war –
Or make us work to buy a product new.

For guns and bombs alone do not suffice.
Along with fear, they’ve yet more tools to use.
For every human virtue, there’s a vice
That works – to capture, weaken and abuse.

And seeing their societies rot, we see
That some, alarmed, for reasons right or wrong –
To privileges, rights, as case may be, preserve –
Have grown suspicious of the siren song.

So there’s resistance of another kind,
That rears its head and howls with ancient fury.
To violence, it answers loud in kind.
A “holy book” is made the judge and jury.

Go read the Torah, Bible or Koran.
Hear Krshna weasel Arjuna in rhymes.                   \2
Of what was lauded in those ancient texts,
You’ll hear the echo then, in present times.

In our Manhattan, as the workers toiled,
The towers rose in grandeur in the skies.
And then they fell. But others rise again.
So who has won? A widow softly cries.

In the autumn sky, a plane that arced and dove.
And Sodom then it was, in Mammon’s city.            \3
So zealots here repeated, as they did
In Bamyan, an ancient, sorry story.

But it was wealth that challenged wealth that day
And does – across the globe, as angels dark
Do battle, as the people cringe and die.
Beware, those streaks that through the heavens arc!

2014 January 18th, Sun. &  25th, Sat. 
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York 

1. The word "stealth" has been used here in its original (now archaic) sense.
 
2. The reference is to the Bhagavad Gita, in which the god Krshna persuades a reluctant warrior, Arjuna, to try to slay, in battle, his childhood mentors, relatives and friends.

3. Bamyan, in Afghanistan, was where the huge statues of the Buddhas stood, until they were dynamited by the Wahabi extremists, not long before they successfully attacked the Manhattan towers as well as the Pentagon.  The fierce monotheistic zeal recorded in the old Hebraic texts survives and manifests itself in this and other ways. This zealotry is also utilized, as always, to reach towards worldly ends.   

Please see also:
  
The Wealth Creators  

http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/01/the-wealth-creators.html


 

Our Business Cannot Fail

     
Our Business Cannot Fail
  
We’re getting tired of parties,
And the local food is shit.
This isn’t what we’re here for,
So we’re getting tired of it.

We can see you like to grovel.
It’s your culture, we are told.
But it isn’t what we’re after
And it’s getting kind of old.

You can bow or you can curtsy,
You can give our hand a shake.
But we really would prefer it,
If it’s profits we could make.

For we’re here to do some business,
Get some business – get our drift?
If we do not get that business,
Then there’s going to be a rift.

So it’s you and us together --
And you’ll sign and we’ll depart.
For it isn’t, for you, healthy,
If we’re forced to move apart.

For it’s you and us together,
So you live to tell the tale.
Or it’s you against our business.
And our business cannot fail.

Yes, it’s business that we’re after,
And it’s business that we’ll get.
If we do not get our business,
It’s this bullet that you’ll get.

You can show your teeth or glower,
And our hands, you needn’t shake.
For to break your teeth, we’ve power,
If our profits, we don’t make.

So here it is.  Now sign it.
And it’s time you start your hustle.
You had better get them working,
For you know that we have muscle.

You had better get them working,
So they’ll earn for you, your dollar.
We can make you rich, eh, partner?
We can also make you holler.

You’ve got to drive the workers,
You’ve got to make them work.
You’ve got to show the shirkers
That they simply mustn’t shirk.

It's time for you to hustle,
And it's time for you to please.
So quit your smiling, buddy,
For we're here to give the squeeze.

We gave you what you wanted
And we’ve waited for a while.
But all that you’ve delivered
Is your oily little smile.

But we’re here to do some business
And it’s all about the cash.
And if you can’t deliver,
Your noggin, we will bash.

2013 Nov. 21st, Thu.
Brooklyn
  

Never See the Light / Who's to Blame?

Never See the Light / Who's to Blame?

There are some, who'd change the planet. 
Those more humble, change themselves.
Of ourselves, we have some knowledge.  
We know little of the rest.
  
We can try to change what's local, 
Which are things of which we know.
Let the locals settle issues, 
As they know those issues best.

******
  
There is madness in the workplace, there is madness in the home.
Our children grow demented and our elders lose their minds.
And is this from calamity that Nature wrought – or war?
It's us.  We live in darkness, for we've shuttered all the blinds.

There is madness in our cities, and in places near and far.
We follow basest instincts – so a virtue is a vice.
And is this by an order that was given from above?
It's us.  We've turned so horrid, we've forgotten to be nice.

The positions that we're placed in, where there's little room for love,
Situations in the workplace, and the pressures on our kids,
They're the things that make for madness.  We are running in a herd,
And the ones who aren't running, they may end up in the skids.

So the soldiers in their battles, who will fight and die unheard,
They will slay the ones they're fighting, and will rarely question why.
They are following their orders and have lives that are at stake,
For the one, who ceases fighting, will be likeliest to die.

Are there exits from this madness?  Can we say, “It's a mistake!”?
Can the workers slow from working?  Can the soldiers cease to fight?
I do not know the answers to these questions, but I know,
That until we get the answers, we will never see the light.

So I'm asking you these questions, and I will not take a “No!
I do not wish to answer.  We are helpless in this game.”
For your life and mine are in it – and the children's, who are next.
If we do not ask or answer, then we know who is to blame.

For we each may do our duties, mind our business, not be vexed,
But the things that are unraveled, they won't ravel of themselves.
If we do not know the answers, we should seek for answers, or
The children will be saying that we only thought of selves.

*******
    
Let me pause awhile for breathing.  
Should I rage against what's crazed
Till I drive myself to madness 
And I leave you all enraged?
  
Let us pause to breathe -- and slowly.  
Can we right the local wrongs?
I shall leave you now to ponder -- 
Are we free -- or are we caged?

2013 October 20th, Sun.
Brooklyn 

Related Post:  The Small and Easy Lie
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/10/the-small-and-easy-lie.html 

Comments are welcome:  You can leave comments below.
      

A Ramble and a Rant – Part II

This may be of particular interest to those from the Indian subcontinent.

A Ramble and a Rant – Part II

Part II – A Rant

If truth be told, the peasant, tilling land,
Has often fared no better and no worse,
When those who'd ruled from 'Pindi were replaced  \1
By those who ruled from Dhaka in their stead.

What matters it, if the Queen of England reigns,
Or mughal, maharajah?  It's only when
The Company had squeezed the golden goose         \2
To close to death, that sepoys did revolt.

To Brits, it was rebellion.  Natives saw
A chance for liberation from the yoke.
But the old colonials long have left and yet –
The brown sahibs remain.  Another joke!

If there's a choice, between the local big,
And one afar, it may at end be this:
The one at hand can only squeeze so far,
And where he drinks, he also, there, needs piss.

******
< start of explanatory portion, added Aug. 26th,  for stanza directly above >

So landlords buy, of what the artisan
Produces, and they also hire, at times,
The ones who're seeking work, to dig a pond
To stock with fish, or build yet one more house.

But when a cousin of that landlord builds
A factory, in Howrah, then the cash                         \3
From sales of grain to the city then will go
To earn for him the promised interest.

And so, in turn, some peasants too will move
To work in city factories or build
The quarters there for better-offs -- or join
The beggars on the footpaths or the slums.

So local wealth departs, by labor earned,
And workers follow, seeking then for work.
But if the city isn't far away,
Then hope remains that some will still return.

But when the wealth moves further, even out
Beyond a country's borders, fencing men
But not the flow of cash, to far New York
Or London, then it is forever lost.

And sons of landlords follow, daughters too,
And even more of cash is sent abroad,
So they can study and then settle there,
As native country bleeds yet even more.

And yet, with workers who are peasants still,
Remembering the ones they left at home,
Some capital may flow, from all their toil
In lands of oil and sheiks, to green Sylhet.            \4

And so do trickles continue to flow
From cities in the U.S. to the south,
Where villages, deserted by the men,
Are living now on cash that comes by mail.

And so it is in China, in the north,
As only old and children there remain,
And even in old Mexico, you'll find
The plateau's air is fouled by city's breath.

And what do cities, even capitals,
Pretend to know or care about the hicks?
Where there's a vote, with pesos it is bought,
Or with rupees. Where carrots fail, there's sticks.

So summing up, the local brigand is
A better bet than one who's far removed,
Who neither spends his wealth on local fare,
Nor cares what local men may think of him.

You say the Syrians slaughter now their own,
The Congo's been a place of genocides --
And that may be, and you can shine a light,
But stay away with bombs and troops, I pray.

Our governments have done, in places far,
What they would never do, in present times,
In their own capitals or places where
They still might be accountable.

< end of explanatory portion added Aug. 26th >
******

There's balance  – and a circulation, which
A Dilli or a London or D.C.
Escapes.  How long was it, before
Our bombs abroad were echoed in New York?

How many millions died, in fiery hells,
In nations far, who'd never done a thing
To harm a hair on blond or auburn head?
How many lies were told, that still prevail?

The soldier, like the teacher in the school,
Is blamed – or else the generals.
The ones, who sent them into combat, live
At ease, with both the dead and living mute.

Who dares to say the battle's lost – or war?
We click our heels, salute and go to teach.
Who cares that men are dying, needlessly?
We're paid to do.  Let those, who're jobless, preach.

There is no lack of problems, in a land,
The foreigners will never understand.
Nor does it lack that class of lords and lackeys,
Who'll take the bribes and side with global bullies.

A superpower, in a land that's torn,
Is like the bull within the china shop.
So Soviets were, in high Afghanistan.
And so were we, as Khmers saw rain of bombs.

How many Indonesias, Vietnams,
How many troubled lands of east and west!
How many more of Lebanons, Iraqs,
Before we let the tortured nations rest?

It's time to let them live and fight it out,
If not for moral sense than for ourselves.
The oceans will no longer serve as dikes.
What's done afar affects us, in the end.

We have our troubles too, no end of them.
Our wars distract us from the matters here.
It's only when we truly see, that sense
Prevails, dispelling myths – and greed and fear...

I'd tell the ones, who've suffered from our bombs
And constant meddling in their land's affairs,
“Remember this – the more you bicker, fight
Among yourselves, the longer we can stay.

“And if you have to choose, between a lord
Who is corrupt, or is a zealot, then
Prefer the first, for he may rob and reign,
But does not seek to rule your mind and soul.

“But better yet, dispose of both of them!
You need your kings and presidents and worse
As much as farmers need their lords of land,
Or deer depend on wolves for wherewithal.”

But who am I to tell or to advise?
The ones afar are caught in struggles fierce,
That are connected deeply with our own.
They'll struggle through, without my glib advice.

Enough! I woke, with mind and soul disturbed,
And plainly wrote, whatever came to mind.
I leave this now, for readers to peruse
And find me mad – or put to future use.

2013 August 8th, Thu.
(stanzas 5-17, within the dividers “******”,
inserted to explain or illustrate the 4th stanza,
added August 26th, Mon.)
Brooklyn

A Ramble and a Rant -- Part I  

Notes

1. The capital of Pakistan, following its independence in 1947, was initially Karachi, the large port city on the Arabian sea, near the mouth of the Indus river in the southern province of Sindh.  With the increasing dominance of the Panjab, the capital was shifted first, in the early 1960's, to 'Pindi (Rawalpindi) in the north, where the Panjab plain meets the Himalayan foothills, and what was then the NWFP (North West Frontier Province), inhabited by Pathans (Pashtuns/Pakhtoons)) and others.  Around 1966, it was moved to the neighboring, newborn, planned capital city of Islamabad.  So Islamabad was the official capital at the time of what was essentially a military coup, in March of 1971, against what would have been the newly elected government led by Mujibur Rahman's Awami League, which had its base in mainly Bengali-speaking East Pakistan, separated from W. Pakistan by well over a thousand miles by the width of the Republic of India.

The brutal crackdown by the Pakistani army, starting in March of 1971, in that eastern wing of Pakistan, the stirring up of religious animosities, and the ever-present scarcity of land and resources in the fertile but overpopulated delta region, led to a great number of hapless, frightened, malnourished and footsore refugees streaming across the borders into neighboring states in India (which I witnessed first-hand as a relief worker there) and quite a bit of local resistance, including from a lightly-armed guerrilla force, the Mukti Bahini (Liberation Army).  Most of the Awami League leaders, however, those not arrested along with Mujibur Rahman, fled across the border to Kolkata. The final full-scale war, involving the Indian army, that led to the creation of  Bangladesh, occurred at the end of 1971.

Although Islamabad was then the capital of Pakistan, I have referred to 'Pindi in the verse line, as that was where much of the W. Pakistani army headquarters and generals were centered.  The two cities are situated, I believe, cheek to jowl.  I gathered then, from talking to many of the refugees (mostly Hindu, but with a fair number of Muslims as well) that the lot of ordinary peasants, especially the landless ones, might not change that much if and when the W. Pakistani rulers, reigning from Islamabad-Rawalpindi, were exchanged for Bengali ones ruling from Dhaka, just as the departure of the British had, at least at that time, left much of the peasantry unaffected all over the subcontinent, still subservient to, indeed, effectively enslaved by, the feudal landlord hierarchy that had been established since before the Mughals. 

For me, this was a revelation, which I might not have had had I not journeyed, in the summer of 1971, full of youthful idealism and misplaced Bengali nationalism, 900 miles southeast by train with a Gandhian group from Dilli to Bongaon, a small town on the Ichamati river, which separated the eastern Indian state of W. Bengal from what was then E. Pakistan.  But after talking to the refugees (many of whom had received their only organized help, on their own side of the border, from the Communist Party and the National Awami Party) and after rowing surreptitiously across the Ichamati, as cannon boomed, to visit a badly shelled and nearly abandoned village, where we met a few remaining aged inhabitants and some wary youths who were part of the local Mukti Bahini, I came to this conclusion, which was, at the time, a rather sad and life-changing one for me.  I hoped then that I would be proved wrong.

2.  The reference is to the British East India Company, and to the Uprising of 1857 in the subcontinent, led by the native sepoys (soldiers) employed in the Company's army.  The rebellion was brutally suppressed.   However, the British Crown then took direct control of India, making it a centerpiece of the British Empire, taking a slightly longer view and  shrewdly reining in, to some degree, the rapacity of the colonial enterprise there.

3. Howrah is a suburb of Kolkata (Calcutta), in the state of W.Bengal, India.  It houses the main railway station and is linked to Kolkata by the Howrah Bridge, built in British times across the Hooghly river, a broad local estuary of the Ganges, navigable by ocean-going ships.

4.  Sylhet is a north-eastern district of Bangladesh, bordering the Indian states of Meghalaya, Assam and Tripura.  It is a lush, hilly region, with tea, oil and gas being major industries. Sylhet, like a few other parts of the subcontinent, has long had a large expatriate population, many of whom work in the U.K. and in the Gulf states, sending remittances home.
  

Egypt's Sin

  
Egypt's Sin

In Giza now, the pavement's stained,
With blood of those who died.
The vultures wheel in Cairo yet
We dare not say they lied --
The ones who did this monstrous thing.
So Saudi "aid" will flow.
The Emirates will also give
But all the world will know
That Egypt has been murdered now.
The Copts will slowly flee,
As innocents will die for naught
And all the world will see.

The blood in Egypt marks the end
Of era that had been.
For even royal heads will roll
To pay for Egypt's sin.

*******

Two wrongs together cannot make
A right, it has been said.
So Morsi slapped up Egypt more
And Sissi shot her dead.
Egyptians, rise!  Do not forgo
What's right, but wake and see.
The ones that murder Islamists
Your murderers will be.
The Islamists are but a ruse
To rise again to power.
The Socialists, they'll wipe out next.
So each will have his hour.

So Hitler did, as Germany,
With new-found pride, applauded.
What happened next is history.
Can Egypt now afford it?

2013 August 19th, Mon., 4:31 am (first section)
(second section added August 20th, Tue. 8:15 am)
Brooklyn, New York

Yet More Advice 
 

Yet More Advice

Yet More Advice
     
 (There are references, in parts, to the most recent horrific events in Egypt.  Remembering all the sacrifice and hope of the "Arab Spring", let us hope that courage, reason, humanity, sober idealism and sanity prevail over fear, irrationality, brutality, cynicism and insanity. )
                                                     
If you find a vassal country takes a path that you dislike,
It's your duty to divert it, with a bold preemptive strike.

But when bleeding troops and money, you had better think of ways,
By which to wield your influence.  A little thinking pays.

You can call for free elections and for freedom of the press.
If you don't like who's elected, push for freedom to repress.

And some advice to vassals too – don't take your boss for granted.
They'll let you hang tomorrow – if circumstance demands it.

So if you are the rulers there, depend not on what's distant.
Depend instead on power raw, and seize the precious instant.

If you've ruled a nation long enough (being really who's in charge),
You know that to retain it, there are duties to discharge.

Elections can be dangerous, the people then have say.
The military then must move – express a forceful “Nay!”

You can engineer conditions that will have them up in arms –
The populace – and those who are dependent on your alms...

You can tolerate the ones who're hip, and even spoon them honey,
But you've got to draw the line with those, who're sniffing for the money.

If you buy your suits in London and your wine is shipped from France,
You can't brook interruptions in your dinner or your dance.

Your children are at Stanford, and you've got to pay the fees.
So there's little choice, except to promptly deal with the disease.

The masses, you've contempt for – for they're backward and they're vile.
Can you let them enter in your rooms – and settings then defile?

They are talking of an Allah, and who knows where that may lead?
There are demons there in plenty, who on such as you may feed.

And if they taste of power, then it's curtains for your crowd.
It's then Paris, Rome or London.  But you mustn't say this loud...

For your fiefdom, it is there, where the Nile is flowing broad,
Where the Pharaohs and the Ptolemies had ruled, with spear and sword...

It's best to do it short and sharp, to cow them with your terror,
For laxity in this regard would be a serious error.

And if the slaughter continues – no matter, be resolved.
Such things will be forgotten, once you've got the problems solved.

It doesn't matter who you are – your politics, I mean.
It's power – that's what matters, and the rest becomes a sheen.

You can be a bearded mullah, wear a yarmulke or not,
But if you once buy into power, then you'll leave the rest to rot.

There are those who look to oracles, or pray to the divine,
But in politics, no miracles can build for you a spine.

So you've got to bite that bullet – with its taste and smell of grease.
You've got to swallow then your spit and pull that trigger –  please!

Astrologers may tempt you, you can have your palms be read,
But when it comes to enemies, you'd better have them dead.

There are graves enough for ditherers, or those who were uncertain,
It's better to be murderers, than ousted, that is certain.

The masses may be restive, but let's understand this truth:
They'll bear your rule in silence, if you show you're lacking ruth.

But know the ones to squeeze and also know the ones to culture.
The spoils of war and peace are used, to loyal vassals nurture.

Pay tributes to the ones above, from those below, get same.
In finance, as in bedrooms, there's no place or point in shame.

You've got to have that instinct for subservience to power.
Today it is the U.S.A., tomorrow's another's hour.

That boss you had for many years is aging now, you see.
It's time to cultivate the one, who's itching, boss to be.

With power, as with money.  And the two may go together,
Or for a while may wander, till they reach their ends of tether.

You can shelter in a Dilli, in a Tokyo or Beijing,
But when you feel them quiver, then to old New York take wing.

And if Washington is shaking, then you'd better look around.
Whatever be your politics, let your finances be sound.

There are those who see the world as did the Buddha or the Jinas,
But the others see a chance to lose – or grasp and be the winners.

So there's no place for scruples or a doleful frame of mind.
Why seek for liberation, when your fortune, you can find?

The Century of Labor's past – another one is here.
It's time for entrepreneurship and casting off of fear.

Divisions sow, of every type.  It's best when they're divided.
The working class consists of sheep – by wolves of cunning herded.

Take the best of East and West and North and South – amalgamate!
Then you needn't fear a debacle, as in the Watergate.

You could kowtow to a Pinochet, a Reagan or a Mao,
But in dealing with the obstacles, can you follow still the Tao?

Pay obeisance then to Mammon – and to Lakshmi and Ganesha,
So you can say, "...diversified, by every kind of measure...".

****** 
  
You should wipe out now the Islamists (the moderates as well),
And label all as terrorists.  And some may see and tell.

How many will be listening?  There are interests at stake!
The sleepers, they will sleep through it. A scattered few may wake.

But make the price of waking steep.  And show them that you can,
With prison, maiming, murder and, of course, the legal ban.

The courts bow down to power, as the Pharaoh wields the sun.
And power comes, as Mao had said, from the barrel of a gun.

So show them all what terror is.  Riyadh will then applaud.
And from the Gulf will come support, to fire your flaming sword.

The Islamists have had their use.  Now use them as a ruse
To gain control – and then proceed, to ticking bombs defuse.

For after you have dealt with them, or even well before,
With the Communists and Socialists, you should settle full you score.

For vermin such, the time has come, to end their numbered days!
And all who matter will be glad, when you, their kind, erase.

So courage, then, oh generals!  The world relies on you!
Your Egypt will be prosperous.  And so, of course, will you!

And those who dither, from their doubts, will surely see the dawn.
They've interests – and so will come, with F16's, to fawn.

2013 August 16th Fri. & 17th, Sat.
(last 10 couplets added Aug. 19th, Mon.)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

More Advice

Advice
 

The Age of Packaging – Part II

       
The Age of Packaging – Part II 
             
in which the state of these United States (and perhaps of other countries) is described and reflected on, albeit with eye and mind of prejudice... 
           
The Age of Packaging is what we're in.
But there is more to say.  And we had thought
To leave that out, as it's dispiriting.
But pessimism has its uses, too.
So we shall venture now upon that road
And leave to you to follow us or not.

We shall endeavor now to wail a dirge,
With sordid details woven in that seem
To indicate the death was homicide –
Except that we're recounting the demise
Of what was left of sorry humankind,
And so, perhaps, it's suicide that fits...

And some of you, I'm sure, would disagree.
For soon, that dream we had, when realized,
Will let the village boy or girl access
The knowledge – and, perhaps, the wisdom – stored
And ever growing, of our human kind,
So all can use this – and can add to it.

And soon, that other aspect too
Of that same dream – that when their citizens
Converse – and see the others' sufferings,
The nations then might bomb and war no more –
This too, we hope, could be reality...

And that might be, but isn't yet, and those
Who're cynics – or are realists – might ask,
“When families and clans and villages
Resort to violence, can nations cease?”

And others yet, more hopeful, might reply,
“If provinces and cities find their peace,
And often do not care for race or creed,
Then nation-states may surely do the same,
Or else dissolve, in time, so men may move
About and do, what they have always done
To live, without the burdens of a state
Or nation or of empire on their backs.

“And as they talk, across the distances,
Their narrow prejudices then might yield
To broader vision, while what's local still
Is treasured, drawing vigor from the new.”

But all of this is dream and speculation.
We look around and view reality –
And though our sighting may be jaundiced, we
Perceive, that as before, each step we take,
Made possible by reason and by work,
Is then reversed – and all, that labor wrought,
Is turned around to deepen slavery.

This keeps us busy, as we need not be,
While even more distractions rise to cloud
Whatever vision gave us hope of clarity.

When life was simpler, and we ran with apes,
We cannot doubt that many still were caught
Within that web that beings weave, with selves
Emerging from that weaving, like those shapes
That close inspection sees are only threads
Of colors, magicked by embroidery.

But when that weaving too is done for us,
So we have even lost that freedom sole,
Then what remains, is to our ancient selves
As are the plastic prints to cloths of yore.

And so, while in the past one still might hope
To clearly see the woven self and so,
With gentle art, unravel all its knots,
What hope remains, when distant hands conspire
To tangle us so even gods despair?

And as we tire of all that comes our way –
In print or via copper, glass and through
The air itself, on oscillating fields,
We're even less inclined to look within
Those boxes black that run on magic code
That seems beyond our plebeian minds to ken,
To ask, from where the things that we consume
Have come – and how – whose labor was involved –
And whether what we're told by Congressmen,
By rabid ranters on the radio or
By salesmen – archetype of current age –
Is true or false.  A numbing apathy
Descends – and all we wish to sense
Are colors, sounds and titillations.  Pablums feed
Not only children, but our adults too.
We substitute, for facts, mythologies.

So all are turned to salesmen, pitching sales
Of goods and services and attitudes –
Plus wars, of course, as needed for the rest...
And all depends, at end, on packaging.

And only violence appears to wake
Our souls from somnolence.  We vent that rage
That stems from fear, frustration, ignorance.

We cannot see, through blinding prejudice.
We cannot hear the subtleties of tone,
With ears that have been blasted by the noise
That issues, amplified, from gadgets' mouths.
We gladly dance to tawdry piper's tunes
That lead us further into misery.

The package, when it's opened, then is seen
As having content that is clearly not
As we envisioned from the packaging.
So we're enraged, but rarely blame ourselves
Or even packagers, but someone else.

The system's rarely questioned much in depth,
By him, who is a modern fatalist,
Conditioned to be so, by all he's seen,
Despite the jive and all the packaging.

“A pinball game it is, this life,” he says,
And some will win, and hopefully, it's me,
But all of us are losers in the end.”

“So let us all consume, as best we can,
While running fast to earn, so we can spend,
Or if we're prudent, sock away that sum,
That's ever growing, for that future time
When we can either work no more or else
Are rich enough to finally relax.”

But then, too often, the unraveling:
The wealth has disappeared, along with health.
And what's now left is argument, divorce.
The dream's still distant. What is real, is debt.

And as with persons, so with larger realms.

“What happened?  This was not to supposed to be.
We cannot lose, for we're the winning kind.
It must be those and that and all the rest
That's come between us and the very best.”

And welcome, all, to world, as it's perceived
By optimists who flourish in the west
And surely, in our day, in east as well.
Mirages will be chased, as empires rise
And even as they fall to sordid death.

“So what, in this, is new?” you well might ask.
Our masses, long ago, to sheep were turned,
That did, as wolves-turned-herders, class of lords,
Commanded.  Violence was always used,
With law and church subverted for the ends
Of those who reigned and profited the most
From all the labor of the ones “below”.
This came to them along those feeding chains
That still exist.  But times have always changed,
With evils old acquiring newest names...

So now, it seems, the ones who do the best
Are those adept at selling, to the rest,
The products and the myths that propagate
And feed yet more the cancer that has spread
To all the globe, devouring all of life
And humankind itself.  For it's been found
That we've been numbed and dumbed enough to yield,
And gladly, to the art of packaging...

So commerce rules, as many had foretold,
And finance now is openly our king,
And as predicted, local business dies
As giants dominate the globe and run
Their races for resources, markets and
For humans, too, that robots can't replace.

And since so many care for price and show,
And little else, the jobs, to places go,
Where pay is least, conditions often worst.

And labor thus gets cheaper by the day
And yet must face replacement by the ones
Who need no wages, pensions, benefits,
Nor even sleep nor pause from constant toil,
But clank and whir – or function silently.

So many now are jobless. There's no land
Or village to return to.  Others strive
To join their ends – and work themselves to death.
Yet others thrive – or else make do on what
The race throws up – or government largess.

The ties of village and of clan are lost.
Traditions, cultures dissipate and die.
While some may celebrate the evils gone,
Some others see that evils new have come,
With horrors often even greater, yet
So packaged that they tempt unwary souls
And snare them in the nets they can't escape.

What once was virtue, now is seen as vice.
And newer vices rise, as virtues hailed...
So soul departs, with all of substance lost,
And all that's left is lust and violence.

There's more today of entertainment, food,
But less, by far, of depth and quality,
And dare we say, of plain humanity.
We live and die on “bread and circuses”.

The children are corrupted.  Innocence
Is quickly lost, impatience, shallowness,
Suspicion celebrated, trust misplaced,
Sincerity misunderstood, abused...

And yet, on all of this, the marketers
Are able still to put a glossy sheen,
As we can see in plastic packaging...

We do not know, what misery's behind
The food we eat, the clothes we wear, our drugs,
And all that we so willingly consume.
But there are those who suffer.  Yet we're told
They do so willingly – or else, it's God,
Who has ordained they serve our endless wants. 

And if we're scolded for this painting dark
That spreads the shadows, at expense of light,
And does not show the ones who benefit
From all that vision, driving labor, wrought,
We answer, “Surely, of those things, you've heard
Enough.  Discern advances genuine
From those that are yet more of packaging.

“Remember, we are beasts of local scope.
The more the distance is, the more the chance
Of scams.  To pipers, near or distant, do
Not dance – or if you do, step carefully...

“And open, if you can, the packaging.”

2013 August 4, Sun.
(additions made August 10, Sat.)
Brooklyn
   
The Age of Packaging -- Part I
    

Fluids In Fury

 
Fluids In Fury
   
When the wind is shrieking on Antarctic seas,
And the waves have grown to mountains on the move,
Then skillful whales have ways to still survive,
But humans are transfixed by fearful awe.

How powerful is air that's moving fast,
That drives destruction in the twister's whirl,
Or churns the sea and throws it at the land,
In great cyclones that circle 'round their calms.

So wind and water move and terrify,
As substance soft, ethereal turns to that
Which lifts and tears apart the works of man,
With pressure, speed then serving demon-wrath.

Bernoulli wrote and went upon his way,
But what he scribed remains the truth today,
Though some may doubt, until they start to see
How 'planes may fly and houses may explode.
 
And solids too can melt and then can flow,
Or in unmelted state vibrate and more.
So earth can swallow up a city or
Can tear it down to rubble in a trice.

And when the moving earth disturbs the seas,
Then ocean roars, as giant wall, at speed
Across the land, reclaiming as her own
The beings that had left her long ago...

Observe the power of the fluid state.
Behold the mountains that are frozen waves
That yet are moving, ever slowly, as
They crest and break in rows across the land.

But all these motions -- of the land, the sea,
The whirling air -- are driven by the sun
And by the heat that issues from the earth,
Itself a would-be sun within its heart.

And if you were to travel to the star,
Whose distant fury fuels wind and wave,
And if you could survive, what sights you'd see --
As matter, squeezed, yields radiant energy!

Then all of Earth's long history would seem
A tiny ripple in this flowing sea,
In which the whirlpools known as galaxies
Are spiraling to nothingness...

So matter is but energy, we're told,
Imprisoned and yet serving what's released,
And both in turn are issued from the word
That is a cousin to our time and space.

And though, within each atom of our cells,
The world dissolves as does the self in us,
And though we live upon the precipice,
It's in the fluids' fury that we see...

But where there's motion, there is stillness, yes.
Where all is passing, there is timelessness.
Abandon all, upon volcano's edge,
And spread your arms and whirl towards your death...

For only when we're free of fear, we live,
However briefly, yet in radiance.
Take courage then and dance with wind and wave.
The song of life is sounding in the vast.

2013 July 26th, Fri.
Brooklyn
  

The Husband's Creed

  
The Husband's Creed
       
 Let me leave you here, my dear,
For just a little while.
And when I'm back, I'd like to see
A dinner and a smile.

An hour or two, perhaps a day,
A month or more, maybe...
How do I know, don't ask me more.
To tasks of household, see.

The duties of a wife, you know –
And that is all you need.
I will provide you wherewithal,
With which to children feed.

But do not ask me what I do
When I step out that door.
With what I say, be satisfied –
And do not ask me more.

I am a man – and men have needs,
As you, perhaps, were told.
Let that suffice.  Let those, who serve,
Refrain from questions bold.

So let me leave you here, my dear.
I'm sure you've work to do –
And I have mine.  We're married now
And I'll be watching you.
   
2013 July 21st, Sun.
Brooklyn