Songs-No Better and No Worse

 
                 Songs/
No Better and No Worse
 
I’ve heard the songs of humans, those of birds,
The calls of frogs, the insect choruses—
And I have read that whales have songs, ornate,
With melodies that cross the ocean leagues.
 
******
 
Reflecting on what’s shared in all these things,
Some questions come to mind that might be strange
To others—or may not—that could arise
From what we humans feel on hearing these—
 
But could perhaps be pointers towards the things
That humans long have preferred to ignore,
For reasons justified much less by sense
Than faith—of ancient or of modern kind.
 
Do crickets have a sense of comedy?
Do langurs long for those that they have lost?
I do not know the answer to the first,
But think the second’s answer should be clear.
 
The fish that’s hooked must surely feel the pain
That a human would in such a circumstance—
And just as children can enjoy their play,
So also pups and calves and kittens may.
 
******
 
Pain and pleasure, happiness and grief—
And fear and anger, jealousy and love—
These come and go in us as all things do—
And surely not in you and me alone
 
Or other humans. We are part of life—
No better and no worse than ants or whales—
But special in our ways as all things are,
Including, in our case, the scope of war!
 
A song has length that could be short or long,
And this depends on things intangible.
So also, trees and humans have their lengths
In time, as do the whales and birds and mites.
 
Some things are for a moment, others last
A month, a year—or even till our ends—
And we ourselves are weaves within this flow—
That thread their tunes until it’s time to go.
 
******
 
The songs remind us then of what we are,
Forgotten in our dazed amnesia,

As silence still can do, if it’s embraced,
While letting go of all our prose and verse.
 
2022, July 7^th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
 

The Song Primeval

 
The Song Primeval
 
The songs we sing have words and tunes
And ancient, primal roots.
We sang before we talked, perhaps,
And songs transcend our speech.
 
** * * * *
 
There is that pulse within our arteries,
That rhythm of the breath,
And all the cycles of the many worlds
Of which we are a part.
 
The buzz of pleasure and the stab of pain,
The happiness and grief:
They each vibrate within our bodies, minds
And also in our songs.
 
** * * * *
 
We hear the shaman and the medicine man
And feel that primal bond—
That strong connection to the universe
That many now have lost.
 
So also in the temple, synagogue,
Gurdwara, church or mosque—
As in the chanting at the Buddhist math—
We hear the spirit-sound—
 
** * * * *
 
The sound from deep within that when intoned
Out in the open air
Then calls to Sky and calls to Earth—
To Mountain, Stream and Wind—
 
And reaches out to all of life on Earth
And seeks to reach, it seems,
To whirlpool-galaxies of fiery stars,
With all their planets, moons.
 
** * * * *
 
And so the songs we hear in foreign tongues
And those of insects, birds—
And whales that sing across the ocean leagues—
Are recognized as bits
 
Of that great song that binds the universe
That dances to its tunes and beats—
In rhythms fast and slow, with life and death
And all the victories and defeats.
 
* * * ** *
 
The songs we sing are ancient ones
In newer forms reborn—
As some have said of life itself
That cycles through its births.
 
2022 June 22^nd, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
 

I Wrote Me a Song

I Wrote Me a Song

https://www.facebook.com/arjun.janah/posts/10154543106580950

I wrote me a song in a minute or ten.
I don't know the why and I don't know the when.
It came to my mind and it came to my pen,
And I wrote out those verses for women and men.

I wrote me a song in a minute or two.
She asked me to write it—I don't know who.
I wrote it for her and I wrote it for you.
I wrote it because that's just what I do.

Was there a reason for writing that song?
Did I wish to set right what was clearly so wrong?
You can pick your own reason, and argue it strong.
But I hadn't a reason. I just wrote me a song.

2017 April 13th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York

https://www.facebook.com/arjun.janah/posts/10154543106580950

Sing the Songs of Tenderness

 
Sing the Songs of Tenderness

The mother whispers lullabies
To soothe her child to sleep—
For there's a time to wake and then
A time to slumber deep.

The piper leads the men to war;
The drums are beating loud.
But when the men return, we see—
Of war, they're rarely proud.

There is a time for speeding and
There is a time to slow.
Too much of one or other leads
To sorrows, more and more.

We've spent our lives in rushing and
We've fed the fires of war.
Let's sing the songs of peace, so we
Remember who we are.

We aren't only soldiers; we
Are not just worker ants.
We also need to smile, to weep,
To kiss and gently dance.

So sing the songs of gentleness;
Sing the songs of love.
Sing the songs of mellow times,
Of languor and of joy.
 
The profits and the wounding grow.
It's healing that we lack.
From Mars and Mammon, let us take
Our Muse and Music back..
   
******
 
There's grief enough to fill the world—
The wars that do not end
And all the cruelties of men
That rend our bodies, hearts.
   
There's separation, illness, death,
The dashing of our dreams,
The waste of labor and of lives,
The loss of treasured stores.

We do not wish to only hear
The pistons and the guns,
The screams, the paeans to the self,
The cacophonous blasts.

So keep from us the bang, the screech,
The speeding, pounding beat
And all the noise that emulates
The wars and factories.

******

We go to work as if to war.
The struggles never end—
For each competes with others and,
To orders, must attend.
 
There's little time to draw a breath
And let it out in peace—
To watch the child or kitten play,
To visit aunt or niece.

We rush about in vehicles—
In cars, in buses, trains.
How rarely can we slowly walk,
So all the madness wanes?

Why waste our time in meanness and
In giving more of pain?
Why spend our lives in earning, when
We only lose from gain?
     
What point is there in battles that
Destroy the heart and soul?
There's need for more of healing and
For all that makes us whole.

So sing the songs of tenderness,
Of softness and of love,
To smooth the furrowed brow awhile
And soothe the hurt within.
 
There's time enough for speeding, yet
There's little time to slow.
So sing the songs that slow the pace
Before it's time to go.
   
2016 February 27th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
 

I Do Not Know the Words

 
I Do Not Know the Words

As I was walking on the street, a whisper came to me.
It seemed an eerie whispering, and so I paused to hear.
And then I heard a voice that called, as if across a sea.
And though it sounded distant, yet I also sensed it near.
 
“They know the words,” that whisper said, “so all can sing the song.
They know them well.  And one may lead, while others sing along.
But then another takes the lead. You’re hearing what they feel.
They share in song—and everything—where no one needs to steal.”

I heard that voice that seemed to be so far, so distant, yet
Was also there within my heart, as close as it could get.
“I do not know the words.” I said, “I do not know the words.
Do tell me what the meaning is. To me, they sing like birds.”

For I had heard a singing then, behind that eerie voice,
That rose and fell in cadences, as if a hidden sea
Were breaking on a distant shore, from which a random breeze
Had carried sound across the miles and so by chance to me.

But though I heard that singing still, that voice had ceased to speak.
And so I strained to hear that song, which still was distant, weak.
And as I listened, I discerned the words—they still were strange,
But slowly, one by one, they came within my hearing’s range.

And to this day, I hear that song.  It pulses in my mind.
For me, it's still a wondrous thing.  A passing spirit, kind,
Had given me this gentle song—that whispers, like the sea
May do, when quite a distance from the place we chance to be.

“I do not know the words.” I’d said, “I do not know the words.”
But I could hear the feeling in the song.  That still remains.
And though I’d said it sounded like the singing of the birds,
It sings to me of hopes and loves—of all our joys and pains.

“They know the words,” that voice had said, “so all can sing along.”
And one by one I hear them sing—I hear them sing that song.
They share in this, and everything, where no one needs to steal.
And though I’ve never met them, I can hear the way they feel.

And still I daily walk the streets, within the city’s sphere.
And there are times I’m full of grief, of madness and of fear.
But then I hear that song again, and so my heart is lifted.
I thank the spirit then for this—this drop of kindness, gifted.

I wish I understood the words.  But then, it doesn't matter.
For there's a place for words and there's another place for song.
And so at times the words we speak appear as useless chatter.
For those are times to listen—and perhaps to sing along.

2015 May 25th, Mon
“Memorial Day “ in the U.S.A.
Brooklyn, New York
     

The Minstrel

The Minstrel
 
I met a minstrel on the road
And walked with her a while.
I heard her singing as she walked.
I listened, with a smile.

And this is what she said to me
Upon that twisting way.
Her every word remains with me
Unto this very day.

“I found you just by happenstance,
And while I have your ear,
I’ll sing to you the songs that come,
Before they disappear.
 
“I’ll sing to you of land and sea,
Of sky that vaults above.
I’ll sing to you of innocence,
Of tenderness, of love.
 
“I’ll sing to you of villages
Beside the rippling lakes.
I’ll sing to you of sentience,
Of consciousness that wakes.
 
"I'll sing to you of mountains and
Of foothills and of plains.
I'll sing to you of dancing
At the starting of the rains.
 
“I’ll sing to you of patience and
Of science and the arts.
I’ll sing to you of courage and
Of hopes in human hearts.
     
“I’ll sing to you of swirling clouds,
Of thunder, lightning, rain.
I’ll sing to you of rapture and
Of sorrow and of pain.
 
“I’ll sing to you of sunrise and
The fiery, blazing noon.
I’ll sing to you of sunset and
The brightly shining moon.
 
“I’ll sing to you of multitudes
Of men and ants and stars.
I’ll sing to you of horrors and
Of all the senseless wars.
 
“I‘ll sing to you of present times
And also other things.
I’ll sing to of history
And what the future brings.
 
“I’ll sing to you of turbulence
And of the times serene.
I ‘ll sing to you of what I've felt
And what I've heard and seen.
 
“And when you’re tired of what I sing,
Then you can bid me leave.
But when I’m gone, with all my songs,
I trust you will not grieve.
 
“I do not know from where they come,
the songs you’ll hear me sing,
Perhaps you’ll hear that singing too,
When I have taken wing.
 
“And then perhaps you’ll seek for one
Who’ll lend, to you, an ear,
And hope she will be stirred by what,
Through you, she too can hear.”
 
And so that minstrel sang to me
Her songs of light and dark.
And though the years have passed since then,
I still, to them, can hark.
 
And just as she had said to me,
I hear a singing too,
That comes from where I do not know,
So I can sing to you.
 
2015 May 14th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York