Jho'r'-ঝড়

 .

ঝড়

 .

সাগর-বিস্তারে ঢেউয়ের খেলা,

গভীরে প্রবল ধারা।

দূর দিগন্তের ঝড় এসে যায়,

ঢেকে দেয় নভ, সারা।

 .

ঘরে ঘরে হয় তর্ক-বিবাদ,

দেশে দেশে হয় কলি।

ধন-ক্ষমতার যজ্ঞে সদা

নিরীহ জনের বলি।

. 

নৌয়ের পালে সুখের হাওয়ার

বদলে, দুঃখ, ক্লেশ।

ঝুঁকির ভ্রমণ, জীবন-তরীর,

শুরুর থেকে শেষ।

 .

তুমুল ঝড়ে বিপদ আসে।

ধূসর, গগন-ভূমি।

নীল আকাশের আশায় থাকে

পিঁপড়ে—আমি-তুমি।

. 

রবিবার, ১৬ জুন, ২০২৪ খ্রি.

বার্ক্লি, কালিফোর্নিয়া

.

The Myriad Stars

.
The Myriad Stars
.
On moonless desert nights, the stars are seen
As countless fires burning in the sky—
As beacons, signals from the ancient past,
So distant, cold—yet timeless and serene,
Unchanged, unbothered through our puny spans.
.
******
.
The sun, the moon, the planets, and the stars
Appear to us as watchers in the sky.
But this is mere appearance, nothing more.
So all the histories of life on Earth
And other planets, scattered through the vast,
Go unobserved, for all those “eyes” are just
As blind, to all, as yours and mine can be
To all but what may cross, by chance, our paths. 
.
And yet, each part of space and time appears
To listen and to talk to other parts—
So every action is indeed observed
And every word I write and every thought
And everything you sense and feel is part
Of something that transcends both “you” and “I”.
We each have risen up like ripples from
A sea in which we will, in turn, subside.
.
* * * * * * 
.
So birth and death and all that’s in-between
Are tiny parts within a fluid whole
Where mind and matter, light and feeling mix,
As planets whirl in orbits ‘round their suns,
Within whose innards tiny atoms fuse
To light the giant fires that we perceive
On looking up at night as all those lights
Uncountable—the distant, burning stars.
.
* * * * * * 
.
And some believe our lives are governed by
The stars, as seasons of the year are tied
To what appears to be that moving dome
That does its stately circles, year by year.
And others, such as me, may disbelieve
And yet observe the tides of sun and moon
And sense the rhythms of the lungs and heart.
Each cycle is, of other cycles, part.
.
The stars are born and die, like you and I—
And each of us is like a tiny whorl,
Within which whirl a zillion other whorls.
And so, in fractal fashion, each of us
Reflects the whirling of the universe.
And so the dervishes go ’round—and deep,
As yogis hold their poses, slowly move,
And Tai Chi masters dance in sensing arcs.
.
****** 
.
On desert nights we still can see those lights—
Those eyes that seem to watch our every move—
That see us kill and die in senseless wars—
That see the species, empires wax and wane—
Beneath the heavens with their myriad stars.
.
2024 April 14th, Sun.
Berkeley, California
.

All is Naught--and Naught is All

I am not sure what this signifies, if anything. It came to me somehow and so I have written it down.

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

All is Naught—and Naught is All
 
What cleaves the self from what it sees as other
And separates, in time, the child and mother?
What grace might free us from the trap we’re in
That makes the brother turn against the brother?
 
I asked these questions, turning towards that sky
That sees us being born and sees us die.
I asked these questions. All I got was naught—
No answer as to what—or how—or why.
 
And left with this, as all who ask might be,
I asked myself—and then began to see
What words or sight or thoughts cannot convey—
The naught that births the timeless, boundless sea.
 
******
 
I pondered this, perplexed, and wondered why
I’d sensed this not by grace of sea or sky,

But from within my bounded self—and why
I should not view it as an useless lie.
 
And so I sank within again and found
An emptiness devoid of light and sound
That yet was filled with all the blazing stars,
With silence bearing still a sense profound.
 
“Within the naught, there does reside the all—
And so the all is nothing but the naught.
And this, when realized in depth, would be
The sum and essence of the wisdom taught
By pointing towards what can’t be said or thought—
The door to sight beyond what eyes can see
Or ears can hear. The fog in which we’re caught,
When cleared, reveals the link of naught to all.”
 
2023 October 23, Mon.
Berkeley, California
 

Moruddip-মরুদ্বীপ

মরুদ্বীপ

সিমেন্টের ধূসর ফুটপাতে হেঁটেছি, 
কালো পিচের রাস্তা ধরে,
ব্যথিত পায়ে, ক্লান্ত দেহে, 
ম্লান চিত্তে, কত দশক ধরে,
বিদেশের শহুরে মরুভূমি-পথে।

সফরের মাঝে এসেছি কখনো
ছোটো কোনো মরুদ্বীপে,
যেখানে পেয়েছি কিছু বিরাম,
পেয়েছি সলিল, সান্তনা।

সেখানে, দুর্লভ কোনো বেঞ্চে বসে,
কম-দূষিত বাতাসের শ্বাস নিয়েছি।
প্রকৃতির সুগন্ধের সাথে শুঁকেছি
গাড়ির ইঞ্জিনের পাদের ঘ্রান।

******

তখন মনে হয়েছে যেনো
হয় শহরের চলতি কোলাহল 
কোনো কারনে বিদায় নিয়েছে,
নয়তো নিজেকে আমার ইচ্ছামতো
বদলাতে দিয়েছে। সকল হট্টগোল,
পাগলামি, ঠেলাঠেলি, তাড়াহুড়ো যেনো
সরে গেছে। রয়েছে শুধু—শান্তির স্বাদ।

রাস্তার গাড়ির আসা যাওয়া
যথাকালে যেনো হয়ে গেলো— 
মনোরম তীরের ঢেউয়ের ধুয়া।
উঁচু থেকে উড়োজাহাজের গর্জন 
হ’লো—দূর সমুদ্রতীরের ডাক।

আবার যেনো শুনতে পেলাম— 
এই জগতের শ্বাস-প্রশ্বাস।

******

তাই আজ, শরতের বিকেলে,
বাসা থেকে অনেক দূরে—
তাও পুরনো ঘরে ফিরে—
একটি বেঞ্চি খুঁজে পেয়ে,
তাতে আসন দখল করেছি।

সামনে দেখি, কিছু দূরে,
সূর্যের ঢালু কিরণ এসে 
পাইন-গাছে ঢেলেছে আলো।
সেই আশীর্বাদে যেনো
গাছটা পূর্ণ, পুলকিত।

আমি যেখানে বসে আছি,
সেখানে আরামে এক খেলা চলছে।
ছায়াযুক্ত কয়েক যুবক
নেচে-নেচে খেলছে আলোয়।
বল্-টাকে, একে একে হাতে তুলে,
পাঠাচ্ছে, ধনু-রেখো-পথে,
উঁচু বাস্কেটবল-হুপের খোঁজে।

বাস্কেটবল কোর্টের মেজেতে দেখি
নীল-সাদা-সবুজ রঙ।
মনে আসে এতে, আহা,
সেই হারানো দিনের কথা,
সেই আকাশ-অরণ্য-জল, 
সেই ধরিত্রী—প্রিয়, নির্মল।

পশ্চিমে, সূর্যের আলোয় আঁকা,
ক’টা চেনে-বাঁধা কুকুরের সহ,
এক দল মহিলার চলাফেরা।

আরো দূর থেকে শোনা যাচ্ছে,
শরতের রোদে, শিশুদের খেলা।

******

এই জগতের লীলার মাঝে 
একটু বিরতি, একটু বিরাম, 
কিছুটা আলগা হওয়ার কাল—
কুকুরের সাথে, মানুষের সাথে,
এই বিকেলের রৌদ্রে নাচন—
নয়তো শুধু আলোয় স্নান।

এমন সময় দেখি যে আবার—
দেখছে হেঁসে, আমার দিকে,
সেই পুরনো বন্ধু আমার—
নগরের ভিড়ে হারানো আমি।

******

জানি, এই দিনের আলোর শেষে,
সন্ধ্যে আসবে, ফিসফিসিয়ে। 
তারাভরা আকাশগঙ্গা যেমন, 
তেমনই জ্বলে উঠবে তখন
শহুরে রাস্তার আলোর মালা।

দিনের ম্লান আভা যখন
পশ্চিমে মৃত্যুশয়নে—যখন 
বাকি মানুষ ঘরে চলে গেছে—
শুনতে পাবো আবার তখন,
এই আমার পুরনো বাসায়,
ঝিঁঝিদের সাঁঝের সঙ্গীত।

এইভাবে, নগর-সাগরে, আজও,
এই বাকি ছোটো দ্বীপে,
সেই চিরন্তন চক্র চলে।

জীবন ধরে, পেয়েছি এতে
ঝড়ের মাঝে রেহাই কিছু,
বিরোধের মাঝে শান্তি।

আমারই মতন, আরো কত জন
ফিরে পেয়েছে প্রাণ?
দিনের আলোর শেষ বিদায়ে
শুনেছে ঝিঁঝির গান?

এমনই মঠে, বুদ্ধ ব’সে,
পেয়েছিল নির্বাণ।

ওহ্লোন পার্ক (হার্সট আর মাক্গী রাস্তার মোড়ের কাছে)
বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফোর্নিয়া
বুধবার, ৪ অক্টোবর, ২০২৩ খ্রিস্টাব্দ
(বাংলায় অনুবাদ: ৮ অক্টোবর)
-------------------------------------------------------------------

This is a translation, into Bengali, of the poem: Scattered Greens

The Scattered Greens

 
The Scattered Greens

Within the cities, with their asphalt roads
And concrete sidewalks, hard on aging feet,
With neither giving sustenance to souls, 
I've sought my solace in the scattered greens.

And sitting there, upon a precious bench, 
I've breathed the less-polluted air—with scents 
Of Nature mixed with vents from vehicles.

And in those places, at those times, it seemed
The city's clamor paused, for just a while,
Or somehow let the mind transform its din—
As all the madness, with its press and rush
Receded, so one savored peace at last.

In time, the sounds of passing cars were changed
To those of waves upon a pleasant shore, 
And drones of airplanes high above became 
The muted roars of distant wind and surf—
As if one heard again the breath of Earth.

******

And so today, on an autumn afternoon, 
Afar from home—and yet at home again— 
I've found a bench and occupied a seat—
As slanting golden sun delights a pine
And youths with trailing shadows dance within 
A court—that’s  painted blue and white and green,
Reminding one of sky and earth serene—
To take their turns at arcing spheres at hoops.

Towards the west, the sunlight silhouettes
A group of women, moving with their dogs. 
And from behind them, I can hear the cries 
Of children playing in the autumn sun. 

A time to pause, to just relax and be—
With all the greens of plants, the blues of sky,
With dogs and humans, prancing in the sun—
Or simply soaking in the wash of light.

A time to find—or glimpse again—that me 
That I had lost among the cities’ streets—
And now appears to look at me and smile.

****** 

I know, as sunset yields to dusk and then—
With streetlights coming on like stars and just
That fading glow that tinges western skies,
The humans here will melt away and I
Will hear the crickets start their choruses.

And so the cycles of the days persist
Within the cities—in their remnant greens.
And this has been a source of peace to me—
And surely others, sailing urban seas.   

2023, October 4th, Wednesday.
Ohlone Park, near Hearst & McGee
Berkeley, California

Boyhood in Kolkata

Boyhood in Kolkata
 
My childhood was untroubled. Calm in mind,
Though often ill in body, I absorbed,
As children do, the cultures all around—
The near ones more, the far ones less—and yet,
When still a child, I felt a growing sense
Of some detachment. I could see the plays
In which the humans seemed to act, in roles
With which they seemed to merge their inner selves.
And these, I sensed, were really all the same—
For humans, dogs and cats—and ants and trees.
 
For reasons still unclear to me, I had
Begun reflecting—perhaps when I was ill
And so alone, with time enough to think—
And being also lacking then in drives
For recognition, power or other things—
And seeing also, in the city’s mire,
How people suffered, while, above the streets,
The clouds rose high and sailed across the blue—
As seasons came and seasons went in turn—
As beings did, who acted out their plays.
 
2022 October 25^th, Tue.
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
  

Little Minds

Little Minds

Let us wander in the mountains,
Where the peaks are shining high
And the streams that run in valleys
Reflect the sun and sky.

Let us loiter by the ocean side
And look out to the sea,
Where the waves are racing landwards
To those like you and me.

The mountain does not know us.
The ocean heeds us not.
By neither are we needed—
Who will each be soon forgot.

With you and I forgotten
And all our strivings vain,
The peak will still be shining
And the wave will crash again.

******

And that is why it’s mindful
To climb up on the hill
And to walk beside the ocean,
So our little minds are still.

There’s a mind, that we are part of,
That in silence can be heard,
Though it does not know of language
And never speaks a word.
 
We can hear it if we listen
In the pauses of our thoughts,
As we learn to be accepting
That we’re each a string of naughts.

From nothing, we have risen—
And to nothing, we’ll subside.
We can joyfully embrace this—
Or, try, from this, to hide.

******

It is difficult for some of us,
Who strive to be the heroes,
To let go of their little minds
And realize they’re zeros.

So do not say these things to Trump
Or speak of this to Modi.
Make off, instead, with Donald’s pants—
Or run, with Naren’s dhoti.

They may try to hide their penises
And all the world may laugh—
And then perhaps they might perceive
Their little minds were chaff.

They might go then to the ocean
Or climb up on the hill—
And for once be no more needy,
As their little minds are still.

******

We once could see the starry sky
With its myriad specks of light.
We knew that we were nothing then
But now have lost that sight.

And so had kings and emperors
Who ruled in times now past.
Now even common folk forget
That none of us will last.

Let’s each release the little mind;
Breathe in, breathe out, be still—
So each can hear that ocean wave
And look out from that hill.

But being only mortals, we
May seek reminders, so
We need at times to see that sky
And hear that ocean roar.

2018 October 26th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York 

  

The Evening Show

The Evening Show 
  

unfinished

I saw the moon beneath the drifting clouds,

above the city’s lights, at eventide.
The clouds were dark, the moon a shining orb
and all the sky a stage for this display—
until the clouds had veiled the moon again.

And then, beneath that shrouded moon, I saw
a blinking firefly-plane go sailing by.

And as I watched, the moon peeked in and out—
a lamp suspended in the eastern sky,
as clouds, like wind-tossed curtains, parted, closed—
and I stood staring, through the city’s lights.

2018 October 22nd, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Bay Lights

Bay Lights

The past few days were hot and humid both, as the dog days often are, this time of year.

I’d wondered if the breezes by the ocean might be cooler than the air that rose from heated streets.

And so tonight I walked down to the Bay and saw the distant lights reflected from the tops of waves.  These swept towards the shore and softly splashed—again and yet again.

And all the rest was dark, as waters are on moonless nights—with stardust spread above.

But city lights had hidden much. 

I only saw the stars of Coney and of Staten Island, with the glowworms crawling on the Verrazano  Bridge—as fireflies slowly rose and arced from JFK.

And faraway, beyond the Jersey shore, from time to time I saw the lightning flash and set ablaze a bank of clouds—without a sound.

And walking back, before the thunderstorm, I saw the headlights speeding on the Belt, in obvious haste to go to—where they went.

The breezes?  Yes, they’d cooled me down a bit.  They freshened as I walked towards my home.

I’d read that LED’s make more of light and less of heat.  On Brooklyn’s sleeping streets, they’d turned the night, in parts, to pallid day.

The storm?  It never came.  It still is hot.

But I remember walking through the night and seeing then the lights, by Gravesend Bay.

And that is still relief.

2018 August 1st, Wed.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York.

Whither-II

 
Whither-II

The clouds were racing past the moon
that shone within a halo.
“Oh whither are you headed, clouds?”
I asked, in fascination.
They answered not.  They never do.
Such questions go unheeded.

I asked them once, I asked them twice,
I asked them yet again.
They did not answer—whither, whence
Or why—but raced ahead—
or was it back, or sideways?  Do
such things, for clouds, have meanings?

I wandered to the highway.  There,
I saw the cars were racing.
“Oh, whither, cars—and why this haste?”
I asked, in consternation.
They answered not.  They never do.
Such questions go unheeded.
 
2018 May 30th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
     

Dawn and Dusk-III

Dawn and Dusk-III 

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10155498300923777

At dawn, we’re born; at dusk, we die.
And this repeats—we know not why.

As night bears day, so day bears night.
The darkness yields in time to light,
And light in turn gives way to dark,
As dawn and dusk, these turnings mark.

And see—the hues that arc on high,
As birth and death ignite the sky.

How sad, the dusk!  How hopeful, dawn!
It spins—this planet that we're on.
It spins—and yet it seems to pause,
As dawn and dusk suspend its laws.

It’s morning, then it’s noon and then
It’s afternoon and eve again...

******

   

So seasons come and seasons go—
In age, with speed; in childhood, slow.

And so it is with living things.
Of life and death, the poet sings.
And each of these, she wonders on,
When gazing up, at dusk and dawn.

The winter brings its cold and snow—
And yields to spring, when flowers blow.

How long, it seems, in warmer lands,
The summer lasts!  One understands,
With age, that all is passing, so
One bears the pain and pleasure more.

Our autumns come, with scents of musk.
We rose with dawn; we ebb with dusk.

  

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10155498300923777
  
2017 June 13th, Tue (first four stanzas)
June 14th, Wed (last six stanzas)
Brooklyn, New York
-----------------------------------------------------
  
Two related poems, from 2006:
 

• Morning Song  
  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2006/04/morning-song.html ) 
• Evening Dirge
  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2006/04/evening-dirge.html )

-----------------------------------------------------
    
More related poems, from 2014 and 2015: 
  

• Sing to Me  
  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/11/sing-to-me.html ) 
• Bhorer Axar Gan-ভোরের আশার গান  
  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/12/sing-to-me-bangla.html ) 
• Morning Glory  
  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/06/morning-glory.html )
• Dawn and Dusk   
  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/08/dawn-and-dusk.html )
• Dusk   
  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/08/dusk.html )
• Dawn and Dusk—II  
  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/08/dawn-and-duskii.html )
• Morning's Song (Draft)
  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/09/mornings-song.html )

  

The Ever Changing Sky

The Ever Changing Sky

The moon was shining as I swept the yard—
A gibbous moon that hung there in the sky.
Its lantern light, from time to time, was dimmed
By fleets of clouds that floated swiftly by.

I swept that moonlit backyard free of leaves,
But when the shadows came, I looked on high
And watched that act of light and dark within
That play that is the ever-changing sky.
 
How many eyes have watched that circus-stage
Yet never seen an act that was the same
As one before?  The hours and seasons ride
A horse that none of them can tame.

In darkness and in silver light, I swept
The driveway through—and ventured in the front,
And there was struck by light from LED’s—
The city’s streetlights, given to affront.
 
And next I swept the sidewalk and the yard
In front, till all my bags were filled up high.
That done, I paused to take a little break—
To breathe and look up at that changing sky.

I saw the clouds were streaming close, in force,
And threatened then to overwhelm the moon.
A breeze was blowing, shaking branches, so
I knew my work would be negated soon.

I shivered, as the night grew colder and
The moon was hidden by the crowded fleet.
So Priam, as he gazed at Grecian sails,
Could well have done, from fear of Troy’s defeat.
 
2016 October 13th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Déjà Vu

Déjà Vu

The sun was a vortex of lightness
In the grays of the streaming sky.
The waves on the river reflected
The shades that were churning on high.

I could see that in Queens it was raining.
In the distance, I'd seen a bright flash
And I'd waited to hear then the thunder
But I'd waited in vain for that crash.
 
For I was a passenger, riding
On the train on the bridge in its arc,
On that train that was hurtling from Brooklyn
To Manhattan’s own caverns of dark.

It had roared from the shoreline of Brooklyn,
On the rails that the columns held high,
And then it had clattered through tunnels
To emerge to that bridge and that sky.

I had heard that a storm was approaching
And I looked at that sky and that stream
And I sensed that the world was in motion—
And that this had been part of a dream.

It seemed that I’d seen this in dreaming—
That all this had happened before,
But that train and that storm and that river—
They were not in that dream anymore.
 
How wide was that gray-green of streaming—
That serpent that slid to the sea!
I looked at that wind-ruffled river
And wondered how all this could be.
 
The sky and the river receded.
We were diving back down to the dark.
Like the dream and that storm on that crossing—
This was part of my journey—my arc.
 
2016 October 6th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Autumn Afternoon

Autumn Afternoon

The summer should have ended. It is now mid-September, but the warmth remains. It’s only in the early mornings that we feel at times the season’s warning chill.

The memory of winter, faded through the year, revives. The laxness of the summer’s days is now replaced by tightening. The reaper comes, although the trees and all resist.

An autumn afternoon, within the park: the sun is slanting through the leafy trees; it could be summer, but the heat is gone, the shorts are scarce—and the grounds are strewn with leaves.

The adults and the children stroll and play—as elders, on the benches, contemplate. The sky is bright, although the sun swings low. The grass has faded from the lack of rain.

A breeze stirs up the dust. It’s lit by sun that falls, in shafts, upon the yellowed grass beneath the trees. Those trees are mostly green, with just a few that now are losing leaves.
 
The days have shortened. Soon, the sun will set. Then all the lamps that line the path around the central lawn will glow, as dusk descends—and children leave the park to those like me.

2016 September 17th, Sat., 6:20 pm
Bensonhurst Park, Brooklyn, New York 
(2nd & 4th stanzas added Sep. 18th)
 

I Wish That I Were Free Again

 
I Wish That I Were Free Again
 
I wish that I were free again
to climb up on the roof again
to try to fly my kite again
to see it dip and dive and then
to see it climb towards the sky,
to see the soaring clouds on high,
to watch the kite-hawks wheel and dive,
to watch the thunderstorm arrive,
to see the lightning flash and then
to hear the thunder crash and then
to see the birds go flying by,
to feel that wind from regions high,
to see my kite go down and die,
to reel the broken string and then
to flee the lightning and the rain—
I wish that I were free again
to climb up on the roof again
to feel that downdraft—bracing, cool,
to learn the things not taught at school
that I remember to this day
and will until I fade away—
to see the changing of the light,
to marvel at that eerie sight,
to see the storm approaching fast,
to dare to stay and be the last
to leave the roofs as lightning flashed
and roaring loud the thunder crashed,
to hear the sound of drumming rain
on roofs of tile and tin again,
to see the palm trees dance and sway,
to see how night was made from day,
to feel the rain, upon my skin,
that washed away this world of sin,
to leap in lashing, pouring rain,
to live that childhood once again,
I wish that I were free again—
but then I think of those not free
to climb up on the roofs like me,
who slept on pavements till the rain
came down upon them yet again,
who huddled then in misery,
and then I wake—from fantasy.

2016 September 2, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York
   

A Bit of Peace

A Bit of Peace

The rain had ended when I reached the house.
I entered then the paved and fenced-in yard—
a little rectangle, before the stairs,
that then was strewn with wet and yellowed leaves.
And there, upon a wooden bench that still
was damp from rain, I sat and ate my lunch—
my store-bought sandwich halves of bread and cheese,
while sipping coffee from a paper cup,
my dollars paid—for just a bit of peace.

The fence was low and made of bars and curves
of iron, painted black but rusted through.
It offered no obstruction to the view
of houses and a street with lines of trees
that then were shedding leaves as fall approached
but still were clothed in waving foliage.
They soared in all their grace and majesty,
as shades of gray and white and hues of blue
were backdrops to the dances of the trees.

The tree across the pavement from the yard
rose up and arced against the clearing sky.
It seemed to be as old as me—or more.
And if the storms and humans spared it, then
it surely would outlive my span—and so
another, after I am gone, might sit
and eat his lunch and gaze at tree and sky,
upon this bench or on the stairs, at peace,
and like me, wonder—whither, whence and why.

2016 September 1st, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
  

The Gibbous Moon

an image posted by A.K. Entingh

Dear reader,

I have fallen increasingly into the habit of adding images, captions and notes to my posts of poems.  I realize that these things might be distracting or burdensome, and I apologize for this.

In my limited experience, the words and lines of a poem only convey their full meaning on being read with full attention.  For all but the best of poems, this does not occur spontaneously.  Some sustained effort is needed.
 
One has to clear one's mental clutter and also not hurry through. The entire poem usually needs to be read through at least twice, in a somewhat meditative mode of mind.

Nowadays, for most of us, this is contrary to our usual mode of reading, especially when looking at a screen. Given the times we live in, this is understandable.

Some of us are also struggling to survive. We each have to try to cope with not only our routine duties and responsibilities but also the vagaries and blows of fortune. This can be overwhelming.

So an e-mailed link to a post on a poetry blog might not be the best of pairings.  Adding yet more distractions could be very unwise.

Images might at times enhance the experience of reading a poem, but extraneous textual material, acting like noise, often detracts from it.  Much more than in prose, the mood or flow is interrupted.

Of course, there is occasionally a need for a preface or for footnotes, but these need to be separated from the experience of reading the poem.

For those who have the patience for a second reading, that could be done while ignoring the notes at the end.  Alternatively, one might skip the notes at the first reading, or simply never read them—as I am sure many might do, even without my prompting.

I am finding it difficult to break free of this habit of adding images, captions and notes.

Meanwhile, if this extra clutter (added to the clutter of the verses and that of my e-mails in your inbox) perturbs you, I am sorry.

All of that being said, notes 1 and 2 should be read by those wanting a better view of the images, while notes 3 and 4 should be read by those interested in basic astronomy—who might also wish to correct any errors I might have made in note 3.

-- Arjun
------------------------------

The Gibbous Moon
 

Waxing gibbous moon with clouds.  A.K. Entingh http://photo.accuweather.com/photogallery/details/photo/134438/

I saw, tonight, the clouds on high
were drifting past the moon,
whose light they shaded with their streams
of hazy white and dark.

But as I looked, the sky grew clear.
The moon now floated free.
And I stood there, transfixed by light
reflected down to me.

I figured, from the gibbous shape
that pointed to the west,
where it might lie—that sun that lit
this moon that lovers seek.

How sweet that light, reflected in
the eyes of one you love.
How lonely then that moon appears,
when those you love are gone.

Moon and storm clouds, Bensonhurst Park, Brooklyn, 2016-08-15.  © A. Janah

We're born to live awhile and die,
as others have before.
The moon sails in and out of clouds
and sees us come and go.
 
How long this moon has circled Earth—
how many eons through—
we do not know.  But it has seen
more things than I and you.

And some might say, "It cannot see."
And they may well be right.
No witness to our follies then—
as wolves look up and howl.

I saw tonight a gibbous moon
that still will wax a while.
And when that moon is full I'll look
at it with shining eyes.

 

Full moon above clouds and hills.  author unknown
http://d2dc8ug9yu03zt.cloudfront.net/images/22760/full-moon-moon-22778640-1024-768.jpg

2016 August 16th, Tue
Brooklyn, New York
------------------------------

Bensonhurst Park after midnight, 2016-08-15.  © A. Janah

Bensonhurst Park after midnight, 2016-08-15—wide view.  © A. Janah
The path on the right leads towards the Bay Parkway and Belt Parkway exit.

Gables, windows, clouds and moon. 19th Ave, Bensonhurst, 2016-08-15.   © A. Janah

Notes:
  
1. To see the images in this post in a somewhat larger and clearer format, single-click on any one image.  Then use your keyboard's right and left arrow keys, or click on the thumbnails, to see each image in turn. To return to this post, click on the large white X near the top right of the dark background.  Pressing the escape (esc) key might also return you to this post.
------------------------------
    
2.  For an even better view of the images, go also to full-screen view. In most web-browsers on a PC, the F11 key can be used to toggle in and out of full-screen view.

The photographs taken by me are not the best. I am still struggling with the smartphone, including even with 'phone calls.

But I have included a black and white photograph (the third image: Full moon above clouds and hills) that is beautiful. I could not trace the photographer.

There is also a nice color photograph of the moon, with clouds in the foreground. This is the first image, which is repeated, with the second occurrence captioned: Waxing gibbous moon with clouds. 

This shows the moon in one if its two gibbous phases.  I found it, posted by A.T. Entingh, at a site on accuweather.com.  A.T. Entingh has a photography site (which I found once, but then could not find again), which says she is interested in weather photography. So the photograph was probably taken by her—although this image was not on that site.
------------------------------
    
3. The term "gibbous", as applied to the moon, refers to the shape of its lit surface, as observed by us, when more than half of the circle is lit, but not the full circle. The common names for the phases of the moon are "new" (completely dark and so invisible), "crescent", "quarter" (half the circle lit), "gibbous" and "full".

If, for a crescent, quarter or gibbous moon, the western side of the moon is lit, then the moon is waxing: the lit area will be growing larger each night, until full moon.  If the eastern side of the moon is lit, then it is waning: the lit area will be growing smaller each night, until it disappears at new moon.

That, at least, is how I figure it, noting that the moon revolves "monthly" around the Earth, in the same direction as the Earth rotates daily about its north-south axis—from west to east.

Do correct me if I am wrong.

The moon's orbital plane is tilted with respect to the Earth's equatorial plane. The angle of this tilt varies cyclically, over the years, from about 18 degrees to about 29 degrees. 

If you live north of the 30th parallel of latitude, then you should be able to see the moon (between moon-rise and moon-set) when facing south. The western side of the moon will then be on your right.
------------------------------
    
4. The first image is repeated in two sizes. That will only be apparent on viewing the images as explained in notes 1 and 2 above.

The photograph for the second image (Moon and storm clouds, Bensonhurst Park) was taken, shortly after midnight, at the start of Monday, 15th August. 

The moon's phase was then waxing gibbous. But the bright flare in the photograph hid the gibbous shape.  The three lights in a horizontal line in the clouds were not from 'planes or UFO's.  They are artifacts of the cellphone's camera.

The final image (Gables, windows, clouds and moon) was taken the next night, around 10 pm on Monday, 15th August. 
 

The phase of the moon was then still waxing gibbous—with the full moon being due on Thursday, 18th August. At the time of the photograph, only a bit of the moon was not obscured by dark clouds. Again, in the photograph, the light flare around that bright bit rounded out its shape..
------------------------------
     
5. Chronological details:
  
-a) composed stanzas 1 to 4 and 6:
2016 August 15th, Mon, late at night, while walking, with the moon as companion, from the crossing at 19th & Cropsey Avenues to Bensonhurst Park (near Bay Parkway and Cropsey Avenue) and then around the circular path there
  
-b) wrote those stanzas:
sitting on a bench in the park
  
-c) added stanzas 5, 7 and 8:
August 16th, Tue, at our apartment in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

As Souls Who're Freed

As Souls Who're Freed

 It always breaks my heart to see
A bird that's caged that once was free.

And so I also take delight
In seeing wheeling birds in flight.

I thank you, Jean, for filming this
And posting it for viewers' bliss.

So too, perhaps, we both shall fly
As souls who're freed, when bodies die.

And if our dying be the end,
We yet at times can still pretend.

So in our dreams our minds can fly,
As gulls and pigeons, through the sky.

And from on high we then might see
The ones below—like you and me.

2016 May 20th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York

https://www.facebook.com/jeanmarie.offenbacher/videos/10154242368729292/