Congress

 
Congress

A congress that is sexual can be wonderful indeed.
So those who represent us might consider “having sex”,
as the newer generation so dismally now says it,
to receive that inspiration that no lobbyist can give.
And if by chance caresses lead to feelings, surely then
our Congress will be better, though it’s mostly made of men.

And if there is an afterglow, in which unreason flees
as mind and head connect again, there might perhaps be hope
that all of the conventions and the pressures fall away,
and the Capitol, deserted as the Congress is at play,
might function as intended by the best in slavers yet,
when the Congressmen, returning, find they’re reading every line
and voting with a conscience—and a vision cleared by sex.

2016 August 23rd, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York

  

Queries re. Sex

   
Queries re. Sex
 
Is it Cupid then who couples
With his sister as she sighs?
Was it incest too, when Adam
Caressed his Eva's thighs?
 
As the pharaohs did before them,
So Ptolemies also led
The brother to the sister
On the scented royal bed.

But a wedding is a wager
That might not amount to aught.
So did Cleo serve her brother
With a service that was naught.

She would rather bed a soldier
Or a slave, for just a night,
And she then would have him slaughtered
Before he saw the light.

As she dallied with her Caesar
And with Anthony in turn,
Did she do it more for Egypt—
Or the power—or the burn?

******

Could the mallard, that is raping
The loudly quacking duck,
Be the soul that she was seeking
Or a lout—her loss of luck?

Could the lion, that is thrusting
In the lioness in heat,
Till she snarls at him to end it,
Be contented in retreat?

If the eye gives ease of entrance
To the ardor of the men,
Do the ear and skin and nostril
Feed the lusts of women then?

As the minds of some are shuttered,
So their instincts have their day,
Are the minds of others wakened,
So their passions then can play?
 
As a man might be discouraged
By a woman's coldness, so
Could a woman be incited
By a man who treats her sore?

******
 
Could the pinnacles of passion
Erode to ruts of rutting?
Could the peaks that men imagine
Amount to mounds of nothing?

Are the bitches standing stoic
As the dogs release their seed?
Does the sigh that is contented
Fulfill the lovers' need?
 
Is it passion that is primal
Or the letting go of fear?
Is it fitness that's enduring
Or the frailties that endear?
 
But the Deutschmark and the dollar—
All the lucre of the land—
Are they symbols too of power
That can snare the one-night stand?

Yet, could workaholic women
Find their pleasures in their work?
As a job nears consummation,
Do they quiver, gasp and jerk?
   
******
 
Are the humors of the humans
Reflected in the ants?
Could a bee be orgiastic
At the climax of her dance?

The queen-bee has the babies.
The others serve the needs
Of the queen and all her offspring.
Are they virtuous in their deeds?

Do the drones line up in order,
As the queen bee mates in turn?
Is the death that then awaits them
The payment that they earn?

Have we humans been castrated
In our minds, except the few
Who can wield their wealth and power
From the penthouse with the view?

Have the monks and nuns been neutered
By the mantras muttered?  Must
The priests who stray be 'prisoned,
As they've acted out their lust?
 
******
 
Have the plants been relegated
To be passionless, because
It's the feeders who have tingles,
When they've time enough to pause?

Or do they still have passions
That are slower, like the tides?
Does the tiding change the flavor
Of the sap on which it rides?

Do the anthers and the stamens
And the pistils sense the breeze
Or the insect that is feeding
On the nectar, at its ease?

Does the fly that scents the orchid
And then sees in it his mate,
Have a notion, as he's mating,
That he will not procreate?

Who can match the show of flowers?
Should the women show their parts?
As the fragrance wafts from blossoms,
Could their scents be Cupid's darts?
 
******

Are the spasms of the spineless
Superior to the spurts
Of the vertebrates, whose vigor
Must be lessened, lest it hurts?
 
Do the mussels, as they're mating,
Feel the pleasure that is felt
By the couples copulating
Till their minds appear to melt?

Does the octopus, accepting
The sacrament of semen,
Have the cresting of sensation
Of the arced and pulsing women?

Can we match the snails who're jousting
To decide who'll be the male,
As they slather each with sliming
Till their calcite spears impale?

Could the male who mounts the mantis
And is eaten from the head,
While his rear persists in pulsing,
Be in bliss, although he's dead?

******

Can an act of procreation
That dispenses with a mate
Have as much in it of pleasure?
Could it thrill and satiate?

Does a cell, as it is cleaving
To become its daughters two,
Feel a frisson from the rupture?
Is there rapture in this too?

Does a cactus, as it's budding,
Have a satisfaction thus?
Are there pleasures, in a being,
That are quite unknown to us?

Is there sex without the sexes?
Of the sexes, could there be
Not just two, as we're accustomed,
But in places more than three?

So a trysting might, in Venus,
Require a sort of dance,
As the figures weave the fabric
That is woven in a trance.

2016 February 8th Mon.
and March 3rd, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York
  

On Marriage

On Marriage

It seems a marriage gains in strength and lasts,
when eros wanes and plays a lesser part.
For in its time that tide may ebb and yet
the fullness of the bond be unimpaired.

And if that mixing wild of metaphors
has given pause, could one alone suffice
to paint in words a wedding’s aftermath –
that light embrace in which the spouses dance?
 
Their thoughts, their words and most of all their acts
of caring build the friendship and the trust –
the rooms and girders of the house in which
the eros is a guest that comes and goes.
 
A guest that's welcome, one that gives delight –
but still a guest who's free to leave or not –
so all should be, including man and wife,
despite the ring and all it signifies.
 
We seek for permanence – to feel secure,
to give another shelter in our warmth.
And yet we know the winds that blow about
could take with them the ones that we have loved.
 
A structure built on eros might collapse
more easily than one that’s built on trust.
The guest is here tonight, tomorrow gone.
The house remains and waits for her return.
 
******
 .
In all the tumult and the ceaseless flow,
the dwellings couples make are ripples mere.
Yet in that space, however small it seems,
there still is room for all the universe.
 
For each has strength – and when the two are one,
the strengths they each possess are multiplied.
And weakness, each may have. The friend, the spouse
may know it well and yet not stint in love.
 
And two can make a space that one cannot –
a space in which to nurture that which comes,
a space that’s not reserved, with room enough
for laughter, love and all the grief and woe.
 
But some of us are single – never wed
or though once wedded, now no longer so.
And some may pine for what they missed or lost,
and yet survive and even be of cheer.
 
We need our company – we need our friends,
but friendship true is hard for us to find.
And married bliss – or married hell – are things
that few may ever have or bear for long.
 
And when we’re single, we return to homes
that often lack in human company.
A product, this – of that insanity
that empties villages and even towns…

******
   .
But those who marry and remain as joined –
they know the wedding marked a turning point.
They once were two – but then were made as one,
for better or for worse, till death’s divide.

The wedding is remembered and the years
before and after.  Children might be born
or not – and grow to adults, leave, return.
The spinster still outlives her sisters all.

For that divide will come – for some, with death,
for some, before – and only half remain,
with memory that's bittersweet, until
that remnant half in turn to nothing goes.

By chance, we're born.  By chance, we meet and wed,
perchance to then give birth, to nurture, tend –
and then to part, so one is left behind
to mark the time and wait for chanceful death.

So marriage?  “It’s a wondrous thing.” we’re told
by some, “It’s just a vestige of the past.”
by others.  Whom should you and I believe?
I've said my piece before – and now should leave.

And so I end my ode to marriage, though
my knowledge might be scant, and others say,
"He knows as much about it as a priest
who's celibate and yet gives brides advice."

2015 January 29th, Thu.
(some stanzas added Jan. 31st, Sat.)
Brooklyn, New York
  

The Dancer (and the Reed)

The Dancer
(and the Reed)

On the sands, beside the ocean,
I did the dancer meet,
As the waves were drum-rolls sounding
And the wind was fluting sweet.

She danced of the creation,
Of the genesis, of sex –
She was god and man and woman,
She was nature – nothing less.

From the sweat, her face was shining,
Though the breeze was blowing cool,
With the surf behind her roaring
As she danced before this fool.

I was spellbound by her dancing –
That was sensual and divine.
I stood and watched her postures
And the play of gestures fine.

With her feet, she stomped a rhythm –
Primordial, heartbeat, lust –
And her torso swayed to lilting –
That of sky that calls to dust.

She was thunder, she was lightning,
She was wind, torrential rain,
She was each of all the seasons,
She was pleasure, she was pain.

She was joy and she was sorrow,
She was laughter, she was grief.
And my heart, by her, was stolen –
By this dancer, like a thief.

So the gods may ask allegiance
That the strongest can’t resist;
So the musk may rouse the senses
And on mating, then insist…

But the dance then rose in tempo,
As coitus too may do,
And it reached, in time, a climax,
With my heart convulsing too.

And then, as she was flowing
And was swaying, I was freed
And I floated, by that seaside,
Like a wave-tossed broken reed.

******

I think I fell unconscious
And I lay there for a time.
When I woke, there was no dancer –
So I've danced her back in rhyme.

But if you find her dancing –
By an ocean, on a beach,
Beware – for those who watch her
Will be captured by her, each…

Let my rhymes be then sufficient
For the ones, who’re weak of heart –
Though they be a pale reflection
Of the wonder of her art.

Her face was flushed – her beauty
Was like the morning mist,
Her lips were slightly parted –
Her face, by moisture kissed.

Her hips were circling slowly,
Her arms were waving high,
Her hands were weaving stories,
And her eyes were darting sly.

Was she air or was she ether?
For she leaped in wondrous arcs
And she landed like a feather,
Yet the sand flew out like sparks.

She was sparkling, like a fountain,
She was flowing, like a stream.
Was she a woman – or a goddess?
Was she real – or a dream?

I do not know the answers,
But that dancer, I can see –
For I’d seen, myself, her dancing,
By the breakers, by the sea…
 
There are things we can imagine.
There are others, that we can't –
That are spoken of in whispers –
Or in hymns the faithful chant.

I have witnessed such a wonder –
As I've seen, myself, my hand.
But whence and how and wherefore,
I do not understand.

2015 January 18th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
  
Please see:  The Dances of the Golden Hall, by Ashoke Chatterjee (text) and Sunil Janah (photographs), ICCR (Indian Council for Cultural Relations), New Delhi, 1979. 

This book, designed by Zehra Tyabji and printed at the National Institute of Design, Ahmedabad, has a short Introduction by Indira Gandhi and a Foreword by the violinist Yehudi Menuhin.
   

Two Na**d Women

        
Two Na**d Women

Doodle-007-Discord

I saw a lady, walking nude –
A dame of Nordic stock.
And people stared as she went by.
They giggled, gaped in shock.

But she was shod – in fu**-me shoes,
With leather straps 'round calves.
And as she passed, I saw tattoos
Between her buttock-halves.

But though I squinted then to see
What the markings meant,
She strode away – and out of sight –
Unclothed – but fed, content...
  
******
   
I later saw a woman, who
Had not a shred of clothing.
She sat, despairing, in the street,
Subjected, there, to loathing.

She'd neither shoes nor sandals and
Her face and frame were gaunt.
Her eyes were filled with anguish – eyes
That will, my nightmares, haunt.

And as I walked, embarrassed, by,
And offered her no hand,
I saw, upon her wrist, some marks
I could not understand...
  
******
   
The first I saw was pink of skin,
The second, she was brown.
The first was smiling to herself,
The second made me frown.

I wondered what the tracings meant
That graced the first's behind.
It mattered not – that cryptic sign
On her I'd left behind.

And in another dream, I saw
The two, reversing roles.
I wondered what that signified
And whether parts were wholes... 

Doodle-002a-Concord

    
2014 July 20th, Sun.
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
   

Intercourse

          
Intercourse
  
I've loved the dawn, when sky and earth appear
As lovers waking from a sweet embrace,
From night of loving and of sleep refreshed,
With hope within their hearts for a bright new day.

I've cherished evenings, when the sun appears
To kiss and penetrate the land or sea –
The father and the mother of us all,
Rejoined, in a little death, so all can be...

******
 
And though these are but our illusions grand,
As the planet spins about its axis, yet
The more that we, with reason, understand,
The less, it seems, our inner eyes can see...

So there are times when we should pause to hear
The music of the land and sky and sea,
And join again in that primordial dance,
So we can sense, what it is like, to be...

******

I've sat in summer in the tropic sun,
At noontime, soaking in the radiance,
With such a flush upon my baking skin
As women feel, who then have languor sweet.

At midnight, walking underneath the stars,
In the crystal air of a northern winter night,
I've shivered from the bitter cold and yet
Have then exhaled, with a sweet and deep delight.

2014 February 15th, Saturday, 5:30 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
 

Cud

Cud

A woman, in her passion, cries
Out not for god or lover –
For though she mouths the names of both,
They only serve as cover.

The patient, in his agony,
He moans – but not for others.
His groaning is his comfort, bare.
So pain and lust are brothers.

And when a poet recreates,
On paper, hurt or passion,
His inner space, he ventilates
By channels of tradition.

******

For every poet sane, you’ll find
A dozen more, demented.
To sanity, I lost my claim
And never have regained it.

So do not search, within my verse,
For reason past the rhyme –
For madness is this inmate’s curse
And so he does his time.

And though a writer may have hope
His work will find some favor
In those who read him when he’s gone,
For now alone, I labor.

******
  
This poem that I’m writing is
A cloud that’s floating by.
I’ll watch it till I lose it in
The ever-changing sky.

The stanzas that I write are like
The leaves upon a tree.
They flutter in the breeze and then
They wither, falling free.
 
The verses that I scribble are
As waves upon the sea.
They’re born – and undulate a while –
And then they cease to be.

******  

I taste the grass of verity
And chew it like a cow.
Some write for a posterity,
I savor here and now.

So some of what I’ve written is
The sound of satisfaction –
The feel and scent and taste of grass –
In bovine stupefaction.

But when the cow has lost her calf,
She calls for it, in pain.
We hear her lowing in the dark
And know – it is in vain.

******
  
When tempests come, they bend the trees
And make the branches cry.
And in the midst of wars, you hear
A grieving mother’s sigh.

So some of what I’ve written is,
In essence, just a wail.
You’ll hear it rise and ululate –
And lose it in the gale.

For every leaf that withers, there’s
Another, in the bud.
For every poet, gone his way,
Another, chewing cud.

2014 February 6th, Thu
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

Sex

    
Sex
   
A woman said,
“There have been times, that often stretched through years,
when sex, though still in consciousness, was like
the distant moon.  And there were other times,
when the act was like the sun that penetrates
and lights again the lamp that’s called desire.”
   
A man replied,
“Since puberty – and even from before,
when sex was like a scent I did not know,
it’s been with me, an ever-smoldering fire
that dims and brightens, rising up in flames.
It never truly dies, but waxes, wanes.”

Another said,
“This varies so, from man to man – and more
between the women – that to speak as if
it is the same, by gender, may be wrong.
The sexes, they are different – but so
is each from other – and from self by age.”

And yet another,
“You speak of sex, while some have such distress
that this is furthest from their minds, besieged…
Who thinks of sex in famines or in wars,
or when we're caring for the old, the sick,
the children and their messes?  Mating’s out.”

So each described this elemental urge,
as each might talk about the restless sea.
And some described the waves and others, tides –
and others spoke of variant presences…
And yet, its essence stayed, for all their talk,
for each of them, a thing of mystery.

2014 February 2nd, Sun.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

Benediction (On Muns and Hex)

          
Benediction (On Muns and Hex)
   
When we were young, we were admonished,

By priests at school:  we would be punished

If we indulged in certain pleasures

That led to spillage of our treasures.

     

“A salmon mates – and having mated,

Starts to die, for this is fated.

To salmon, humans are related.

If you’ve had sex, you’ll be negated.”

So yogis sought to save their seed,

And so, to vital engines feed,

In hopes that this would give them strength,

And lives of more-than-usual length.

******

  

So priests and pundits warned, in schools,

That such indulgence was for fools –

That those, with carnal pleasures sated,

To exits, quick, were relegated.

But what of those, who weren’t sinners,

Who prayed before they started dinners –

Those nuns, whose entrances were gated,

Who chastely, for their Lord, had waited?

Would nuns, upon this planet, linger –

Who hadn’t even known the finger,

And only in their dreams had dated –

Till they, with Him, their Lord, had mated?

******

    

But since we know that nuns do die,

Could their chasteness be a lie?

Could it be, though some resisted,

From pleasures banned, they’ve not desisted?

But hark!  As I am penning verses,

I hear the Host-in-Heaven’s curses.

These lines, on which I have persisted,

Have made me, on a memo, listed.

“Re.” it says, “the agitators

Who seek to know if nuns are maters,

With men or selves, the Lord insisted –

‘Target action!’   Team has missed it.”

******

    

But while I’m waiting for the lightning,

Which really isn’t all that frightening,

I’ve begun to question whether,

To truth, these teachings have a tether.

Could each, perhaps, live slightly longer –

And even wax a little stronger,

If she partook of sizzling spices,

Which sadly have been cast as vices?

So now, I’ve learned it’s all a fiction!

We all need more, not less, of friction,

Where it matters.  A nun’s addiction

Is, in truth, her benediction.

    

2013 December 14^th, Sat.

Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

     

More About Sex--Playing Coy--Buns, Bosoms and Hair

More About Sex / Playing Coy / Buns, Bosoms and Hair
                           
When my mind was near-exhausted, and my body was fatigued,
I then paused to write some verses, which, of all my torpor, reeked. 
I figured that, with “I” collapsing, Mistress Muse herself might flow
And in my lines, her form of beauty, quite bereft of clothing, show.

Alas, although I write this line as “I” is past collapsing,
I see no trace of her who should, to nudity, be lapsing.    
So I should end this poem now, if you permit that name for it,
And since Ms. Muse is playing coy, I might perhaps take blame for it.

But ending, at the proper times,
My verses, with their pounding rhymes,
Has never been my strongest point.
In this, I tend to disappoint.

So dear Ms. Muse, who’s playing coy,
Your presence, we would all enjoy,
Especially if (Am I being rude?),
You’d sing your songs while in the nude.

Aha!  She’s scolding!  Could it be,
Ms. Muse, herself, yes even she,
In matters that she deems as rude,
Is much inclined to be a prude?

But now I hear a woman’s speech,
A mortal, who presumes to teach
Another mortal, me, the manners
Requisite, displayed in banners.

“Men are low!”  the banners cry,
“We wonder why they do not die!
It’s time we stop from doing jobs
That we have done for those nabobs!”

And those assembled, women all,
With voices loud, for justice call.
Their slogans they repeat, and chorus,
“Men are vile – and worse, they bore us!”

And one by one, they raise complaints,
Reminding men of all their taints.
And singly, or in groups, they rise
And sing of men who aren’t wise.

“They do not see our faces, eyes,
And while they’re spouting out their lies,
They only look for boob and tushy,
Favoring regions round and cushy.

“A man-child sucks upon a nipple,
And some, when older, seek to tipple.
But all men crave, till end, to suckle,
Seeking bosoms till they buckle.

“They find no use for grace or mind.
They fasten on to bust, behind.
Some see our legs -- but then raise eyes
To see what else, between them, lies!

“To call them human is a stretch.
At best, they serve to fix and fetch.
And yet, it’s we who serve as donkeys
For these dimwit, hairy monkeys!

And some shout, “Down with men who’re rapists!”
I applaud, but “Those, who’re apish,
Should be slaughtered!”  I demur at,
Fearing we may all incur that.

The orator, beneath the signs,
For silence, in her hauteur, signs.
“It’s women who should rule this world.
And men should be, in gutters, hurled!

“We women, we have slaved for long,
Before we ever wore a thong,
Before we even dreamed of knickers,
Baring bottoms, hearing snickers…

“Long before our brassieres
Competed with our derrieres,
We have slaved for men, although
We’re better – as we all should know.

“We’re the ones with babes to bear.
The stallion mounts upon the mare
And then departs.   He satisfies
His lust -- and duties then denies.

“And men!   They have this tendency,
In matters sexual, to be
So crass, that we, the better sexed,
Do wonder why we still are vexed.

“For men are simply beings low,
Whose bestial cravings clearly show.
It’s time we put them in their place,
Perhaps in a subhuman race.”

And then I heard a group of nuns,
In habits, with protruding buns,
Proclaim, while rocking their behinds,
“These thoughts have long been on our minds!”

They stomped their feet and wiggled buns,
This group of callipygian nuns.
And slapping then their hips, they cried,
“We nuns have things unchaste decried!

“It’s time that we establish rules
With which to deal with men, who’re fools
In matters that are delicate,
More so, for those who’re celibate.”

And all of the assembled crowd,
Said lustily, in voices loud,
“It’s time for us to end their jigs!
For men are either dogs or pigs!”

On hearing this, I was perplexed.
Are women so, by mankind, vexed?
No wonder then that Mistress Muse,
My pleas, has chosen to refuse!

And thinking then of hounds I’d known
And boars I’d glimpsed (alas, unknown),
I wondered if we men should smile,
For dogs and pigs are not so vile…

I’d started on my verse, collapsing,
Into doggerel, relapsing.
And all that mostly came to mind
Were glimpses, past, of round behinds…

And then, as twin reflections, those,
That on pubescent torsos rose,
So’s to balance rear attractions,
Creating thus, in mankind, factions…

But though a woman’s form was fair,
At center was her best affair,
That called to men through several senses,
 When women used to air their menses…

But now, alas, a woman’s draped,
With fears, when nude, of being raped.
And some, who see them as possessions,
This covering up, they take as missions.

And so, perhaps they have it right,
These women.   Men -- they aren’t bright.
The things they crave, they try to hide,
While seeking eyefuls on the side.

But charms, when hidden from the light,
May cease, in time, to give delight.
For Nature meant for parts with hair
Access to healing light and air…

But see, by writing vapid verses, being then by buns accosted,
We men can still remain awake, even when we’re quite exhausted. 
And though Athena stays aloof, Aphrodite takes her place,
For she delights in showing us the teasing parts below her face.

And if, at this, some women sniff, while others frown or even glower,
And some advise that versifiers take, perhaps, a freezing shower,
I declare, that while collapsing, seeking bare Athena’s song,
I encountered, in my musings, Aphrodite, sans her thong.

2013  November 25th, Mon.
(with some stanzas added Nov. 27th, Wed.)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

All About Sex

    
All About Sex

Flirtations, romances and flowers and hearts,
The nuances, flavors, of amorous arts –
If all of these bore you, then let me remind you,
They really are all about sex.

Now I've got your attention, be you woman or man,
As anything sexual, said flippantly, can,
For where Venus is present, in the past or the present
Or future, she beckons – it's sex.

And the sexes may differ, but in this, they're the same –
They spring to attention at the touch of that flame,
Be they young or much older, be they timid or bolder –
At the touch of the flame that is sex.

But the arts of arousal, for the sexes, diverge,
As they each have their senses that urge.
For the men, it is vision, despite the derision
Of women – who're also for sex.

But they much prefer hearing, through feminine ears,
The words that arouse them and chase away fears.
And some may be fooled, but the others have ruled
That a man has to pay for his sex.

And it isn't a dollar, or ruble or yen,
Which may be a lot for the stingiest men.
It's a life that is asked for, and that's how it's paid for.
And now, you've learned all – about sex.

******
                 
But the women, on hearing this nonsense, may yell,
“There's more to that thing than you've ventured to tell!
Or could it be this – ”  and the women now hiss –
“that you don't know a thing about sex?

“For the men may spring up – it's just one of their acts.
And parts of us do – but we mostly relax.
And there's sight and there's hearing, but there's also that nearing,
There's touch and there's scent – and there's sex!

“For the men may be thinking that the males are the studs,
But in matters that matter, the truth is – they're duds!
For though they have feared us and though they've repressed us,
It is we who know more about sex.

“For what we relinquished, as patriarchs ruled,
And women, as sexless, were drilled and were schooled,
Is our rightful domain, and will always remain
That of women – the realm that is sex!”

And the men, who were silent, at the thought of the dollar,
Now in finding their voices, may join in, to holler,
“We're tired of this crap, from this prancing old chap,
For what does he know – about sex?

“For it's sex that we've wanted, since reaching our teens.
And though, oh too often, we hadn't the means,
Since our teens, we've been surging, and so we are urging,
That you stop all this talk about sex!”

******
        
So the men and the women, in this, are united,
That I tamp down the flame I ignited.
But though it is rude to be publicly lewd,
I wish I could dwell more on sex.

For I'm told by my spies that they have detected
A tower or missile that Mars has erected,
And they tell me there's moisture where Venus has pasture,
Yet it's time to put end to this sex.

But I'd opened a window – and if I now close it,
To whom will you bring the deposit?
But I can't be a banker to every dear wanker,
Though I've led you along with the sex.

And if some would be arcing and seeking release,
I wish there were ways, by which I could please,
But others, more "moral", are giving me oral
Instructions to cease with the sex.
   
So alas, it is time, because they all urge it,
To zip up the verse.  If I'm leaving you turgid
On reading this ditty, then it's really a pity,
But I'll leave you alone with your sex.

And I also should say, as I bid you goodbye,
That I'm sorry that I cannot lie.
If you think I've been rude, because I've been crude,
Remember, it's all about sex.

2013 November 11th, Mon.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

A Woman, Young -- Part I

      
A Woman, Young -- Part I
  
It was morning -- 10 o'clock or earlier.  I hadn't slept.
But I was young, and though I'd lectured for an hour or more,
I still had energy to spare.

I was walking out of the building where I'd lectured, when
I saw a woman, young, who stood where light was streaming in.
Her gauzy dress was billowing in the breeze,
and I could see her form, as if she wasn't wearing clothes
at all.

On exiting the building's door, I met that woman's gaze,
for just an instant.  Walking, then, across the sunlit yard,
I heard, behind me, footsteps, fast -- and found her by my side.

She greeted me.  I turned and answered, being just polite.
She was quite beautiful.  

A word or two of casual talk, and then -- she offered me
a ride.  I said, "I live nearby.  I usually just walk."

But she insisted.  So I sat, and as she drove, she asked,
"So what's your major?"  I answered, "Physics."
"Why do you have that book, then?" she inquired,
and gestured at the thing that sat upon my lap --
a book on mathematics, meant for freshmen
who weren't majoring in engineering, sciences
or math -- and needed a refresher course.

But we were at the buildings meant for faculty,
where I was rooming with a friend who taught.

"I'm saved!" I thought.  Some part of me
was just unwilling to acknowledge that
I now no longer could romance a girl
who might just be an undergrad, while I
had finished with my post-doc there at UCI,
and now had given my last lecture there in math,
and would be leaving soon for someplace far away.

I said, "We'll talk about that later, over coffee."

"But where -- and when?" she asked.

"I'm sure we'll meet each other once again.",
I said -- and saying this,
I waved and walked away.

I'd almost reached my building when I heard her car
-- and saw it curve and glide away.

I never saw that woman, young, again.

2013  October 31, Thu.
Brooklyn 
 

The Puzzle

The Puzzle

She asked him why he left her, but he never did reply.
So she was left to figure out the real reason why.
And though the years have come and gone, that puzzle still remains,
That never will be solved by her, whose time has come to die.

How many years, how many years, of asking for the reason...
How many tears, how many tears, on day and month of season,
The day and month on which he left, as autumn then was ending...
And still she pays, as ending nears, the price for lover's treason....

How lightly men may leave the maidens whom they courted, won...
How sadly ends the dalliance so happily begun...
How deep the wound that rarely heals, though time attempts its cure,
How strange that some have hearts with space for one -- and only one.

How many pitfalls life may lay upon a mortal's way,
How many traps that snare the one who stops from saying, "Nay."
How many mothers warn their girls, who yet succumb to love,
How many men, who leave the maid, with whom they've had their way...

When she was young, she tried, in vain, to youthful heart defend.
Now death approaches and she nears her tortuous journey's end.
We wonder if she'll ever have a chance to live again,
And in that life, for errors past, another will amend.

2013 September 18th, Wed.
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
   

Remembering / Infidelities

Remembering / Infidelities
  
The pigeons, having courted, hatched their eggs,
Are busy feeding their insistent young,
And so are little birds that dart from trees,
Whose limbs are now with verdant vestments hung.

But beasts are blessed and cursed with memory –
And they can see the future too at times.
And so, while still in summer's hot embrace,
I lie with other seasons in my rhymes...

While walking underneath a brilliant sun,
As summer spreads its spell of warmth and light,
I still remember well the spring, the fall,
The winter's cold – the dark of longest night...

******

For summer's end, by orbit is ordained,
As every day the sun goes slowly south.
And this is known to birds as well as men –
With winter's breath on twig in sparrow's mouth...

The seasons dance in circles 'round and 'round,
And each has qualities that are its own.
In winter, I will walk this street again,
Remembering the summers I have known...

******
 
It's said that men are polygamous, while
The women are a monogamous lot.
I doubt that this is true, but then I smile,
Remembering I've stirred proverbial pot...

For though I have been faithful to my spouse,
As much, perhaps, by circumstance as will,
I still have lain in every season's bed,
And striven, there, to comic roles fulfill.

And since I then retained those memories,
I once recited verses in my sleep.
And those, who heard, then looked at me in doubt,
As all my secrets they could share – or keep.

2013 July 14th, 5:30 pm–6:30 pm
(walking on Bath & Benson Avenues
between 18th & 19th Avenues – and 
seated at the Guatemalan diner at 
the corner of Benson & 18th)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

Her Secret Vice

  
Her Secret Vice
  
“What's your hobby?” asked her friend.
“You heard me. Speak, and don't pretend.
I told you mine was postage stamps,
A pastime I acquired from gramps.
But you have never told me. Speak.
I've asked you several times this week.”

She could not speak, for quite a while.
But then, she tried to force a smile.
“Your game is up.” She told herself.
“It can't be kept to just yourself,
This thing you do, your secret shame.
Perhaps she'll understand, not blame.”

And thinking of her secret pleasure,
She found her courage, in some measure.
She'd bowed her head – and looking low,
Had studied well, companion's toe.
But now she tried to meet her eye.
“It's mathematics, on the sly.”

She'd murmured, what she could not shout.
At last!  Her secret now was out.
But searching in the hearer's face,
She saw the worst – a maid's disgrace.
And flustered, she looked down again,
While feeling, in her heart, that pain...

She'd hoped her friend could take, what men
Could not divine – or ever ken.
And so, she'd spilled her secret vice.
But see, her friend had turned to ice.
She saw her look of shock and horror,
And so was filled with sudden terror.

She wondered if she might be blamed
For feeling frightened and ashamed.
She wondered how to fix, what she
Had done – or how and where to flee.
She even wondered, if her life
She now should end, with pill or knife...

“But no,” she thought, “that's foolishness!
Let others think their nastiness.
For if my hobby gives me joy,
Why should I not, this gift, enjoy?
Was I not made by the Creator
To be, like Her, a calculator?”

And saying this, to soothe her pain,
She thought of pleasures past again.
The calculus was exquisite
For those, with skills prerequisite.
But even novices find joys
In playing with their basic toys...

And for the ones, who're more advanced
And have, in rings, with tensors danced,
Or played with algebras of Lie,
They know, what glory this can be.
What joys compare, upon this Earth,
With proofs – or giving theorems birth?

And so, with bashful, downcast eye,
She took her pleasures on the sly,
Remembering her sessions past,
In fields, with groups, that seemed to last
Beyond what humans could endure
And yet emerge, in essence, pure...

But glancing at her shell-shocked friend,
She knew her respite had to end.
But how, alas, she could explain
What she had done, escaping pain,
She did not know. But should she try,
Or wait till other asked her, “Why?”

2013 July 8th, Sun.
Brooklyn

Radha-Krishna

Radha-Krishna

The rain clouds – they have gathered and they've blotted out the sun.
The rain clouds – they are gathered but the rain has not begun.
It is warm and it is humid, and the cloying air is still.
So the breezes are not blowing – but we hope that soon they will.

We wait in expectation of the breeze that ruffles leaves,
We wait with skin that's fevered and with mind that still believes.
We wait in meditation for the rain that's coming soon.
We wait, with perspiration, on this torrid afternoon.

Will the god of thunder, lightning bless the city with his rain?
Will our hopes and our beseeching be regarded – or in vain?
Will the tempest shake the branches, will the heavens break and pour?
Will we only sweat and suffer, unrequited, even more?

So the maiden waits for lover, who is tardy in his love.
So the shaman does his rain-dance, for the being up above.
Yet the leaves are still in silence, and the tempest is deferred,
As throughout these heated islands, all our prayers go unheard.

Will he hurry to his Radha, who is waiting for his touch?
Will he answer adoration?  Is she asking for too much?
She is parched and she is fevered. She is restless and in pain.
Will her quencher, who is Krishna, be her jilter yet again?

You can hear the flute he's playing, in the distance, in the dark...
To the tune that he is playing, with his Radha, we can hark...
But alas, she is uncoupled – and she waits for him in vain.
He has found another gopi.  There is little to explain.
























It is summer – and we swelter, here in Brooklyn, in the Bronx,
In Manhattan, Staten Island and in Queens  – as do the monks,
Who will suffer and be silent, as they offer of their hurts,
While we suffer as did Radha – as we offer of our words.

2013 June 24th, Mon.
Brooklyn

Note:     gopi:  cowherd-maiden / milkmaid
 

Passion

Passion
   
I heard the evening moan in deep delight,
As the sun went down and the day gave way to night.
And later, I could hear her beating heart
That raced as she succumbed to her lover's art.

Pregnant, with the sightless seed that grows,
Nurturing that child within her dark,
I heard the evening, turned to night, that keened
As the shining moon arose and sailed, serene.

And through the night, I woke and slept again,
Until the light of dawn gave birth to day.
So Winter's passed un-mourned – and lusting Spring
Has wooed and won the Earth in the month of May.

And as the sun mounts up and sends his shafts
To pierce the Earth that's moist from the evening's rain,
The root will delve, the stem will seek the sun,
As the sighted child is born from lust and pain.
   
2013 May 11th Sat and 12th Sun, 
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
(some definite articles added 2016-05-21)
    
1st stanza and 1st 2 lines of 2nd stanza
  – May 11th, Sat. evening, walking east along 67th Street
  – and then south-east down New Utrecht Avenue, beneath the elevated D line
2nd stanza (last 2 lines) & 3rd stanza 
  – Sat. night, at the asphalt playground by the 71st Street station
4th stanza 
  – May 12th Sun, early afternoon, at home