Faith

Faith

When bribes and threats combine with endless lies,

And death and dread destroy our bodies, minds, 

What then sustains the life, the will to fight,

The strength to bear the blows—and all the pain?

What could it be, except conviction, faith—

The love that still sustains and still reminds

Our wretched souls that there can still be light

And all our endless work was not in vain?

******

So even if we do not live to see

The darkness yield as dawn ascends the east,

We still can strive so that that hour can be

That lights the eyes of those considered least.

So some deride the faith that gives us strength,

And others say it hardly will suffice

Against the foe of overwhelming might. 

And yet we turn to virtue, turn from vice.

****** 

So faith informs our hearts and minds and deeds.

Despite our errors, frailties, and needs,

We turn from hatred, turn from hardened hearts—

To practice courage—and the caring arts.

The outcome often can’t be known—and yet 

Our faith sustains us. Though we can’t forget

The pain inflicted by the heartless foe,

Our faith does not allow the hate to grow.

2025, February 21st, Fri.

Berkeley, California 

Dues

Dues

When the sweetness drains away,
and all that’s left is bitterness,
when we’re beaten down, alone,
our labors turned to blowing dust,
when we’ve lost our confidence,
stretched and broken on the rack,
then our minds are full of fears,
our hearts and bodies crushed.

When hope has yielded to despair
and courage changed to cowardice,
when we’ve lost our discipline
and wasted so our hours and years,
with wits and strengths, convictions drained
and ardor turned to helplessness,
then all our light has waned and left,
and darkness rules our lives.

******

But in that bitterness, we seek
the flavor, then, of truth,
and in the midst of darkness, there
might be again a spark,
so feeling still the weight of life,
with all its lightness gone,
we still can grope until the end,
unyielding, in the dark.

When life has lost its meaning
and death is our release,
then what remains for us to give,
except our very selves—
until we pause and see that we
have more to suffer yet—
and so remain—to still remit
our dues, before we leave.

2016 September 25th, Sat.
(3rd stanza added Sep. 26th)
Brooklyn, New York
  

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
   

Snow on City Trees

Snow on City Trees

    

In every region of the Earth, we see

That Nature teaches men humility.

The nations of the northwest rule the planet –

A source of pride for every John and Janet.

Then winter scowls and shows the northern tribe

It can't be stopped by force or bought by bribe.

The polar vortex whirls, as gutters freeze

And blizzards drape, with snows, the city's trees.

It snowed all day – but now at night it thaws.

And as I walk, I see the trees and pause.

They stand unmoving, yet they seem to fight,

With darkened forms, against their burdens white.

The evergreens are bent with powder-loads

That slide and scatter on the snow-plowed roads.

The trees that spread and arc appear in flower,

As if to mock this blustering season's power.

A skeletal tree is limned in dark and white.

Bereft of leaves, it still gives stark delight.

With tracery of twigs against the sky,

It does the winter, with aplomb, defy.

The trees are comfort for my weary eyes.

Their patience lives, when all our hubris dies.

I thought they're fighting.  Now, I see they're not.

With snows, they're dancing – at a leisured trot.

If men, like trees, would dance with Nature too,

It might be pleasanter for me and you.

2014 February 3rd, Mon.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

Genghis Khan Has Come To Town

             
Genghis Khan Has Come To Town
                                 
Awake, oh citizens of the ancient city,
When you were sleeping, waiting for the dawn,
A horde had gathered and, before the sun,
Had entered this, your city, as the gates
Were opened by the gatemen, they who saw
The army stretching to the distant north…

Awake, oh citizens, awake and see
The Mongol horde is here, with all the rest.
And many are their tongues -- but they are one,
United in their lust for conquest, loot,
For women that they’ll rape or take as slaves…
Awake, for Genghis Khan is in your town!

And when you see the soldiers, look away,
But when you see their lordlings, then bow low.
We have survived invasions, plagues, before.
So to this tempest bend, and it will pass,
And then we’ll nurse our injured, bury those
Who gave their lives – and carry on.

But sing the praises now of conquerors.
In Mongol, sing – for I will show you how.
We all will sing, as we had done before,
We’ll sing the praises of our conquerors.
We'll imitate their ways and learn their tongues…
Sing now, “Genghis Khan has come to town…”

2013 November 24th, Sun.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
   

A Window to the Sky

  
A Window to the Sky
   
Imprison me within a cell – but leave
A window there, that's open to the sky,
And I shall live a while – and even smile. 
But if you seal that view,  I soon will die.
   
2013 July 18th, Thu.
Manhattan, Chinatown

How Wondrous

How Wondrous

How wondrous is a living tree,
Resplendent in its leaves...
In summertime, it spreads its shade
And from that sun relieves,
On which it feeds, eschewing what
We animals must do,
Devouring naught that lives, unlike
The likes of me and you...

How beauteous, a living tree,
With branches spreading high...
How varied are its greens, when lit
By light of laughing sky...
How sweet, the scent of blooms, to those,
Who pass by it in spring...
How succulent, its fruits, for those,
Who light on it on wing...

How beauteous, the tree remains,
When standing in the nude...
How sensuous and strong, those limbs
In frozen interlude...
How poignant is the tree in death,
Majestic as it falls...
And even when it's dead, it speaks,
As little bird that calls...

2013 June 28th, Fri.
Brooklyn
  

Trees--Part I--Deciduous Trees in Spring

Trees – Part I

(Deciduous Trees in Spring)

How varied are the leaves of roadside trees
That grace this city that is hard and bleak,
Lending softness, soothing urban eyes,
Recalling sylvan past to memory...

Their sizes range from tiniest to large,
Their shapes, from feathery to boldly splayed,
With concave polygons and fractal forms –
And quite distinct from conifer and grass.

For planted here are mostly “broad-leaved” trees,
Whose unprotected leaves, in wintry climes,
Are shed in fall and then return in spring –
With hues, in seasons both, inspiring rhymes.

******
 
And now, the shades of green are darkening,
With some still light, as was the tender growth.
And yellow flames are seen in canopies
And shades of red in maples and in plums.

How wondrous are the colors of a spring
That deepen as the summer sun arcs high
And ripen into riot of the fall –
That's swept away as winter's broom clears all.

And here, amidst the ever-changing forms
Of trees deciduous, conifers maintain
A somber dignity, as adults may
As all around them children run and play.

******
 
How many kinds of life can coexist –
And even trees are manifold in form.
And yet, the madnesses we suffer from
Insist that all, to single mode, conform.

So I, who daily walk upon the streets –
And when returning home have time to see,
May owe my remnant sanity to these,
The motley trees, content to simply be.

By humans chosen, planted in their rows,
Unbalanced, stunted by our savage saws,
They still regain their balance and their grace – 
And though they're hemmed, grow wild and beautiful.

2013 May 18th Sat.(1st 6 stanzas) & 23rd Thu. (last 3)
Brooklyn, New York
Arjun Janah < sjanah@aol.com >
  

To My Father

To My Father

You will not die, my father, you will live.
My mother, she has gone, my sister too.
But they, like you, were never mine to keep...

I now am far, although I would be near.
What's happened in the past, we can't reverse...
By worldly shackles, I am now constrained.

But live, dear father, live -- and see again,
Although the pain of loss may be acute,
And that of living too you do endure,
The story is not done. 

And I would wait
And so might you, if fortune so permits,
So we can meet again -- and be, perhaps,
A father with his son again...

******
 
And if, perchance, our meeting be delayed,
Then live -- for those who've given you their love,
And find the strength to walk -- and work again...

And if, by fortune's hand, you take your leave
Or I, before we ever meet again,
Then know that you were loved -- and that you gave
Not knowing it, perhaps, what gives me now
And others, sustenance...

******
 
We are but two among the multitude,
And all that we have suffered, others have
And others will, as is the mortal lot...

And yet, we weep at prospect of our loss
And at the losses that we each endure.
So weeps the world -- and yet it smiles again,
And so it was before we trod this Earth,
As it will be when we are memories...

*******
 
But live, my father, live, for you have yet
So much that's left -- do live, for better days...
The ones who tend you now, the ones afar,
Beseech you that you live -- and rise again.

Babui
2012 June 20th, 1:11 a.m.
Brooklyn