Tides and Seasons

   

  

Tides and Seasons 

The seasons come; the seasons go in turn,

As Autumn, Winter, Spring, and Summer dance

As they had done, with other seasons too,

In days gone by, preceding me and you.

  

How many worlds within this universe!

How many universes come and gone! 

How many beings, born to live and die,

With no one knowing whence or whither, why!

  

The seasons of our lives can last a while

Or swiftly pass. We’re left with memories

Of faces, scenes, and cares and passions past

That stay with us as long as breathings last.

  

The Ocean’s tides and those that rise and ebb,

Within us each and also all around,

Have varied strengths and varied rhythms, yet

They harmonize in ways that we forget.

   

The balances that pulse and oscillate

Around the means are what our beings sense

And so we dance with these—the seasons, tides

That bring us life with all its turning rides.

   

2026 February 24th, Tue.

Berkeley, California

  

To'khon ar e'khon-তখন আর এখন

  

তখন আর এখন

 

ডাল-পাতা সব দুলছে ধীরে, 

মৃদু বাতাস বয়। 

নীল আকাশে মেঘ দেখি না, 

গ্রীষ্মকালের জয়। 

 

দূরের দেশে রয়েছি আমি, 

আধা-শতাব্দী ধ’রে। 

তাও যে আজও দেশের আকাশ

মনে ভাসে, ওরে! 

.

ঋতুর সাথে বেশের বদল, 

ভোরের, সাঁঝের রং,

কালবৈশাখীর ঝোড়ো হাওয়া, 

মায়ের শ্রীয়ের ঢং—

.

পর্বত-সমান মেঘের চূড়ায়, 

চোখ-ধাঁধানো ফাঁক। 

নীল-সাদা সেই গগন-ক্ষেতে 

চীলের চড়তি পাক। 

 

ছাতে চড়ে ঘুড়ি ওড়াই,

প্রতিদিকে আলো। 

গ্রীষ্মকালের কড়া রোদে

পুড়ে হলাম কালো।

 

বর্ষাকালে, মেঘের সেনা,

বাজের ভীষণ ডাক। 

যুদ্ধের শেষে, হাজিরা জানায় 

ঝড়ে-ভেজা কাক। 

 

আজ রয়েছি, সেসব ছেড়ে, 

প্রশান্ত-সাগর-তীরে। 

বিকেল বেলার রোদে, দোয়া:

শান্তি আসুক ফিরে।

 

বৃহস্পতিবার, ১৫ অগাস্ট, ২০২৪ খ্রি.

বার্ক্লি, কালিফোর্নিয়া

 

Tides

 
Tides

The rhythms of the skies and seas,
The cycles of our lives,
The beats within the lines I write,
The pulse of breath and blood…

As women feel, in their fertile years,
Their monthly rises, ebbs,
So we each can sense the beating heart,
The in and out of breath…

******

The days and nights—they alternate.
The moon—it waxes, wanes.
The seasons come and go and then
They come and go again.

We're carried by the tides that surge 
Around us and within.
So life proceeds, with birth and youth—
And then with age and death.

But these—the seasons of our lives—
They never will return
Within a generation, yet
Will rise and ebb in turn

For others, just as they have done
For generations past.
So let us breathe and be in peace 
Until we breathe our last.

******

But where we see there’s sorrow, should
We choose to look away—
Or strive instead, with every breath,
To ease the weight of pain?
 
For how can we remain at peace
As others suffer, die—
And truth itself has been dispatched
Or hidden by the lie?
 
******
 
The tides of justice turn in time
But not without our aid.
However small we are, we still
Can help to turn the tide.
 
Together, we can try to turn
Towards sanity and peace,
So justice, long denied, is served,
And manmade sorrows ease.
 
2024 Aug 3rd, Sat.
Berkeley, California
 

Backyard in the Northern Summer

 
Backyard in the Northern Summer

The backyard’s long remained untouched,
Except by cats, raccoons,

Whose paths are marked by grasses bent
Beneath, beside the trees.

The many shades of green ascend
Towards a sky of blue.
The sun is almost overhead
And bathes us with its brilliance.

****** 

In tropic climes, the summers could 
Be times of misery. 
In northern lands, we welcome them
For the blessings summers bring— 

Relief from winter's cold and dark,
Relief from snow and rain—
A chance to see the sunshine and
To feel its warmth again. 

****** 

And there, within the dappled shade
Where weeds and grasses grow,
The breeze is moving shadows, leaves
Amidst the green and coolth. 

Little beings shelter there,
Living out their lives.
And some are roused, and others sleep,
As sun traverses sky. 

****** 

A life of work and hurried haste,
Of rarely seeing the sky,
And now—this languor in the sun
In a backyard, wild, untended— 

Where hummingbirds at times are seen
And squirrels, jays compete,    
And one can savor bits of peace, 
While aged and in defeat. 

2024 July 15th, Tue.
Berkeley, California

  Tap image to see in larger size.  

Use Esc or back arrow to return.

These backyard photos were taken on 2024 Aug 6, about 3 weeks after the writing of the text. In between, the grass had been cut and the bigger wild plants pulled out. So the backyard had finally received some tending.  I had also been washing, drying and sunning bed clothes in preparation for visitors. 

Peace and War

. 
Peace and War
.
The silence and the summer sun
On California’s coast,
The rustling of the leaves of trees,
The distant, passing train,
.
The letting go of everything 
Of which I once could boast,
The touching by the cooling breeze,
The easing of the strain,
.
The blue of sky, the green of leaves,
The warmth of sun on skin,
The calling of the bird I hear, 
The sway of grasses tall—
.
These all combine and so provide,
Within this world of sin,
A music of the eye and ear
That brings relief to all.
.
******
.
And yet, the all-devouring greed
Will rarely pause to taste
Of all of this that beings need,
While laying more to waste. 
.
So wealth will flow, accumulate,
And bombs will fall and burst,
As burnings rise, along with hate,
And children die of thirst.
.
****** 
.
I call to those who've closed their blinds
To open windows wide
And look, with open minds and hearts,
Across the harsh divide—
.
To see that children, everywhere,
And women, are the same—
That sentients feel of grief and pain,
As humans should of shame.
.
2024 July 15th, Mon.
Berkeley, California
.

Buker bhalobaxa-বুকের ভালবাসা

 

বুকের ভালবাসা

রাজ্য, রাষ্ট্র আসে, যায়, 

বেলার ছায়ার মত— 

যুদ্ধ, বিবাদ, জয়, পরাজয়, 

হত্যাকাণ্ড যত।

দিনের সূর্য ওঠে, নামে, 

রাতের চন্দ্র তারা—

জোয়ার-ভাটায় দিন কেটে যায়,  

ঋতু, বছর সারা।

কত কান্না, কত হাসি, 

কত দুঃখ, সুখ—

জন্ম-জীবন-মরণ মালায় 

কোটি কোটি মুখ।

এই জীবনের স্মৃতি আসে—

যেনো গতকাল। 

দেখতে দেখতে দিন চলে যায়— 

এই আমাদের হাল।

ফুলের গন্ধ, সাঁঝের ছায়া, 

দিন-দুপুরের আলো। 

জলের শব্দ, গাছের দোলন, 

বুকের বাসা, ভালো।

 

শনিবার, ৩০ মার্চ, ২০২৪ খ্রি.

 বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফর্নিয়া.

Po'taka lal-পতাকা লাল

 
পতাকা লাল

ভোরের আলোয় এসেছে আশা,
এসেছে সাহস, শান্তি। 
সাঁঝের বেলায় ফিরেছে ভীতি, 
ফিরেছে আলস, ক্লান্তি।

আঁধার-আলোর জোয়ার-ভাটায়
ভেসেছি জীবন ধ’রে। 
পেয়েছি দৃষ্টি, পেয়েছি শক্তি, 
দিয়েছি ভক্তি, ওরে! 

জীবন-সন্ধ্যের প্রবাহে, ক্রমশ,
চিত্তের করুণ হাল। 
পেয়েছি ফিরে, তবুও, ধীরে, 
পুরনো পতাকা, লাল।

শুক্রবার, ৯ ফেব্রুয়ারি, ২০২৪ খ্রি. 
বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফর্নিয়া

Delight

  
Delight

Every season has its flavor,
Every time of day its own.
Each has been my friend and savior,
When I’ve wandered, all alone.

Though I’ve always been a loner,
Once with books but now with none,
When I’ve stepped outside a dwelling,
I have rarely felt I’m one.

Earth and sky have sent their greetings,
Trees and clouds and slanting sun.
I have watched their swifter changes
And their seasons, one by one. 

****** 

The world within us and the one
Around us pulse with rhythmic flows.
So the daily, monthly cycles.
So the year that comes and goes.

When, at dawn, the sun arises,
Hope awakens, gives us life.
When, at dusk, the night advances,
Souls retire from stress and strife.

So the seasons come and go—
Summer sun and winter snow—
The smile of spring, the mellow autumn—
Each in time within the flow. 

2023 November 2nd, Thu. 
Berkeley, California 

No'mo, no'mo-নম, নমঃ-Reverence

 

The English translation follows the Bengali original below.

____________________________________________________

নম, নম:
 
বাড়িতে বসে, গেছি যেনো ম'জে।
দেহ মন দুই দুর্বল।
মনে চিন্তা আসে, বুকে ভীতি।
না মরেও, মরি বারে বারে।
 
সন্ধ্যের আগে বেরোতে পারলে, দেখি
আকাশে আলোর লীলা।
গাছ উঠেছে সূর্যের খোঁজে।
মাটিতে ছড়ানো পাতা।
 
মৃদু মৃদু বইছে ঋতুর হাওয়া।
গালে তার শীতল হাত।
মনে মনে ‘নম, নমঃ’ ব'লে,
নত মাথা তুলি আবার।
 
মানুষ, খেটে রোজগার করে।
বেড়ে চলেছে দাম।
তবুও, চিত্তের সেরা খোরাক
ফাউতে পাওয়া যায়।
 
বুধবার, ১২ অক্টোবর, ২০২২ খ্রি.
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউ ইয়র্ক
____________________________________________________
 
Reverence
 
Stuck at home, it seems I am decayed—
Enfeebled both in body and in mind.
The mind is filled with worries, the heart with fear—
The thousand deaths, it seems, of cowardice.
 
If I can venture out before the dusk,
I see the play of light across the sky,
The upward thrusts of trees that seek the sun,
The leaves of autumn strewn upon the ground…
 
The breeze of autumn blows, at times, and I
Can feel its touch upon my neck and cheek.
I utter words of reverence and then
I straighten up and raise my head again.
 
We humans slave to earn our sustenance.
The price of everything is going up.
But should we then forget that the best of foods
For heart and soul are freely still dispensed?
 
2022, October 12, Wed.
Translation into English: Oct. 13
Brooklyn, New York

Times and Seasons

Times and Seasons
 
Our dawns were then like rising tides,
Our dusks were gentle ebbs—
And every time of day had moods,
Reflected in our minds.
 
******
 
Our days and nights were full of hope,
As joy was in the air.
Though suffering was all around,
We did not then despair.
 
The times have changed and we have aged,
Yet dawns and dusks proceed—
And seasons come and seasons go
Of sun—and fear and greed.
 
Our days have darkened and our nights
Are not of restful sleep.
We slide towards the precipice
And glimpse the waiting deep.
 
******
 
The seasons of our lives, once lived,
Do not return again.
And so, while still in fading light,
The darkness is embraced.
 
2022 June 24^th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York

Autumn Night

Autumn Night

The leaf is dry. It skitters down the drive—

A sound that breaks the silence of the night

And wakes us then to all the softer sounds

That come to being, once we pause to hear.

And so I listen to the swoosh of trees,

The traffic on a distant city street,

A tap upon a flagpole—and the breath 

That’s barely heard and yet sustains this life.

I’d swept the yard and driveway, stopped to rest, 

And heard the leaf and felt the evening chill—

And sitting now and looking at the sky,

I think of all our transience and our dreams.

And from that sky, the baleful eye of Mars

Looks down upon us all and seems to say,

“Your autumn comes and you and I are near

And yet you’re just as foolish as in spring.

“And I will move away and come again

And see some others in your place and then

Some others still and others yet again—

But never any end to foolishness.”

I listen to the wind that plays with trees

And hear a neighbor and his son converse—

For just a bit—and then that wind again

And yet another lonely, scuttling leaf.

So autumn comes and Mars and Earth have neared 

For just a while and then will part again.

And some will play at wars and others then

Will tend the wounded. So it always is.

And even Ares sickens of the game—

Or so it seems, as plagues and autumns reap.

But now my sweeping and my rest are done.

I’d like to linger, but I must go in.

2020, October 8th, Sat.,

Brooklyn, New York

Brooklyn at Dusk

Brooklyn at Dusk

It was mid-November, here at Brooklyn’s edge,
Where land and ocean meet—and city folk,
Returning home, can see the sky again.
And so I’d paused awhile, beside the door,
As I had done so many times before.

The day was ending and the air was chill.
The clouds had covered up the sky in grays.
I watched them moving, slowly, west to east.
The trees had very little left of leaves.
They stood outlined, with all their limbs revealed.

And as I watched, the light of day was drained
And in its place there came the gloom of eve.
I felt a sadness, yet I sensed a calm,
As all the hustle of the city ebbed—
And one by one I saw the stars again.

2018 November 20th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Ritu-2018-Fall-ঋতু-২০১৮-শরৎ

 

ঋতু  (২০১৮, শরৎ)

আমাদের বর্ষাকালে, এদেশে
বৃষ্টির অভাব থাকে।
তাইতো এরা, সেটাকেও, জুরে,
'গ্রীষ্ম ঋতু' ডাকে।

এদেশের শীতকাল বড় দীর্ঘ,
মেঘে ঢাকা, অন্ধকার।
শীতের চোটে, ভুগে ভুগে কেউ
অন্তরে মানে হার।
  

এদেশের রীতি, এদেশের ঋতু, 

অন্য ধরনের, তাই

কেঁপে কেঁপে শীতের কষ্টে, আমি 

বসন্তের দিকে চাই।

******

এল বসন্ত, ফুল-আলো নিয়ে। 

গাছে গাছে, নতুন পাতা। 

তপ্ত গ্রীষ্ম এল তার পিছে। 

রোদ থেকে বাঁচাল, ছাতা।

সেই অতিথি রইল থেকে, 

চায় না যেতে আর। 

গরমে ভুগে, বলি তাকে 'যাও', 

শোনে না কথা আমার।

গ্রীষ্ম গেল শেষে, ভাটায় ভেসে।

এসেছে আজ শরৎ, দোয়ারে। 

মেঘলা দিনের আকাশের নিচে, 

ফুল মণি দুলছে জোয়ারে।

******

কিছু দিন মাত্র, ফুলের নৃত্য।

চিরকাল, আসা যাওয়া। 

ঝুড়ি-ঝুড়ি পাতা, নিয়ে যাবে কাঁধে,

হেমন্তের মুটে হাওয়া।
  

সূর্যকে ঘুরে ঘুরে, ছুটছে গ্রহ। 

আসছে যাচ্ছে ঋতু। 

জমবে সড়কে, শীতের বরফ। 

ডরে ডরে চলবে ভীতু।

শীতেরও জন্ম-মরন আছে।

আসবে বসন্ত আবার। 

নব জন্মের খুশিতে তখন 

ভরবে চিত্ত সবার।

সোমবার, ৮ অক্টোবর, ২০১৮ খ্রি 

ব্রুক্লিন, নিউইয়র্ক

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

Related: 
https://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2018/10/ritu-2018-fall.html
  

Seasons-Fall, 2018-Jahreszeiten-Herbst, 2018

The English original is followed by a German translation--basically a machine translation made via http://translate.google.com, with a few changes by hand.
-----------------------------------------------------------

Seasons (Fall, 2018)

It's October, and a cloudy day.
The Summer's heat has gone away
And Autumn's flowers now are seen.
They glow beneath a sky of gray.

And soon these blooms will fade and die
And we will look up at the sky
And see the snowflakes drifting down,
As Autumn also bids goodbye.

And Winter too will yield its place,
As this our planet wheels through space,
And then we'll see again the Spring,
Reborn, with a fresh and smiling face.

October. Summer tarried long,
But now is gone. We now belong
To Autumn. Soon the leaves will blow—
As do our lives. I end my song.

2018 October 6th, Saturday
Brooklyn, New York
-------------------------------------------------------

Jahreszeiten (Herbst, 2018)

Es ist Oktober und ein bewölkter Tag.
Die Hitze des Sommers ist weg
und die Blumen des Herbstes werden jetzt gesehen.
Sie leuchten unter dem grauen Himmel.

Und bald werden diese Blüten verblassen und sterben,
und wir werden in den Himmel schauen
und die Schneeflocken nach unten treiben sehen,
als auch der Herbst sich verabschiedet.

Und auch der Winter wird seinen Platz zurückgeben,
während unser Planet durch den Raum rollt,
und dann werden wir wieder den Frühling sehen—
wiedergeboren, mit frischem und lächelndem Gesicht.

Oktober. Der Sommer hat lange gedauert,
aber jetzt ist weg. Wir gehören jetzt
zum Herbst. So werden die Blätter wehen—
wie auch unser Leben. Ich beende mein Gedicht.

Samstag, 6. Oktober, 2018
Brooklyn, New York

Beloved, Where Are You?

Beloved, Where Are You?

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

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

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

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

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

2018 May 24th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
---------------------------------------------------

Note: Any connections that such hinted romances may have with the scribe's own life (which has been mostly ordinary and unromantic) are tenuous at best. 
  

Silly Sally in the Spring

Silly Sally in the Spring

As I was walking in the sun,
I heard a woman sing.
It was my neighbor Sally, who
Was singing of the spring.

And here’s the silly song I heard
My neighbor Sally sing.

“What a glorious, glorious day!
What a glorious day in May!

“The flowers, see, are blooming in
the yards along the street.
The cold and snow are gone and oh—
The warmth and sun are sweet!

“Like children, silly adults too
Are simply having fun—
So some like me are singing and
are dancing in the sun!

“The sky is blue and clouds of white
Are slowly sailing past.
The winter has departed and
The spring is here at last!

“In Brooklyn, here in Bensonhurst,
The ocean breezes blow.
In slanting sun, the newborn leaves,
Like jades and sapphires, glow.

“What a glorious, glorious day!
  What a glorious day in May!”

I heard this song that Sally sang,
And then decided—what the hell!
So like my neighbor, Sally, I
Danced a jig and sang as well.

And others, sillied by the spring,
Joined with us as evening fell.

“What a glorious, glorious day!
What a glorious day in May!
  …”

2018 May 7th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York  

   

So Is It Spring?

So Is It Spring?

We see the tulips, so we know that this
Is springtime, though the winter tarries still.
And here's a tree that dresses now in white—
And down the street, another, blushing pink.
And others yet are still without their leaves,
But spread their twigs to taut, expectant buds—
Or tiny leaflets, shyly peeking out.

And seeing all of this, we know that spring
Is here, though winter works its stubborn will—
So nights are close to freezing and we wear
Our heavy garments, huddled, to our work.

And here and there, on bushes evergreen,
We see the newest leaves, in varied hues
And backlit glory, as they rise and glow
Like votive candles, in the afternoons—
And so, from this and more, we know that spring
Is with us, though the winter does not leave.

So children now are playing in the streets.
And in the parks, the squirrels peek from trees
And little birds are chirping, “This is spring!”,
As mothers wheel their still well-bundled kids.

****** 

  

The season stays and tries to work its will,
As nights are crisp and close to freezing still,
So weather men and women talk of snow
As April's done and May is at our door—
And out in Minnesota all is white,
For winter, peeved, is venting still its spite—
But here in Brooklyn we are sensing spring,
And fancies, like the birds, are taking wing.

“But is it spring?” we ask, and wonder why
The winter, old like us, will still not die,
But lingers, as we do, although our times
Are up, and all that's left—are weary rhymes.

So leave, old winter, leave—and take us too—
For spring is here to drive us out—with you.

2018 April 21, Sat.
Bensonhurst Park
Brooklyn, New York

Bensonhurst Park, Brooklyn, New York. 2018 April 21 Sat.
(On a good computer screen, click on the image for a better view.)

   

Nature’s Wiles

Nature’s Wiles

It’s Friday the thirteenth—a lucky day,
It seems, for April’s half is nearly done
And Winter, which had overstayed its time,
Has journeyed North awhile. And so we’re blessed
With sunshine and with warmth—so long delayed
That we are wary, as a lovelorn lad
Might be, when winked at slowly by a wench,
Not knowing what this means—and fearing much.

And yet, we all have been in Summer’s bed,
Except for those who haven’t met her yet,
And so we try to ease our winter frowns,
Reluctant still to smile at Nature’s wiles.

The birds are chirping, but in muted tones
And men and women walk, with coats in hand.

2018 April 13th Fri
Brooklyn, New York
 

As Trees Stood Waiting

As Trees Stood Waiting

As Winter neared its end, I saw a tree,
Denuded, waiting patiently for Spring,
With limbs outstretched towards the white and blue
And towards that sun in which the trees delight.

It was the sun that whispers of the time
When roads will shimmer in the summer's heat,
And leaves will flutter as the branches sway
In pleasant breezes blowing from the sea.

And as I stood and squinted at the sky,
I saw the balance and the grace in trees,
Whose trunks and branches reach towards the light,
As roots we cannot see dig downward, deep.

I looked awhile in wonder and in awe
At this—this beauty on the city's street,
And then resumed my walking towards the train,
As trees stood waiting, near to Brooklyn's shore.

2018 April 9th, Mon. afternoon
D train from Brooklyn to Manhattan
 

Baba (Dear Father)

Baba (Dear Father)

The summer solstice came and went—and now
the date approaches when you left this life
and so returned to nothingness again.

So mother too had left, a month before—
like you, before the school-year came to end
and set me free, for August and July—
too late, that year, for her—and then for you.

And so your daughter too had gone—before
you both—and left us all disconsolate.

******

Now school is ending—and there’s time to pause,
returning home—to sit within a park,
the playground of a school, bereft of trees—
with tar and concrete, where there should be grass.

So here I sit and bask in summer’s sun—
or swelter, as those summers come to mind,
beneath those skies that arced in brilliance,
beneath that sun that burned our darkened skins—
and in that land where you and I were born.

******

How close and distant were the father, son—
how rare and dear the tears that you and I
had wept, across the years and continents.

By culture, I was bred for reverence—
and more for elders than for all the gods.

But here I sit and weep, in quietude,
with little children’s voices wafting by,
remembering you, who once was little too—
and flew your kite, beneath that tropic sun.
 
******

How many children cry for parents lost,
how many parents for their children gone—
how many for a sibling or a friend,
or elder, younger—who is now no more…

So little time for joy—or even grief,
amidst the hustle of the city’s streets,
amidst the passage of a harried life…

How precious then, this time at summer’s start—
to pause and find the time to think of you.

2017 June 22, Thursday, 4:31 pm
playground, Public School 186
between 76th and 77th Streets, off 16th Avenue
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York