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
 

Tuccho, apon be'tha-তুচ্ছ, আপন ব্যথা

 
তুচ্ছ, আপন ব্যথা
 
 দুর্ভাগ্যদের দশা দেখি, দুঃখ-ভরা মনে।
চোখের কোণায় কান্না আসে, বুকে লাগে ব্যথা।
 
রাগও আসে, জোয়ার-স্রোতে, ভাটার টানে যায়।
কি করা, ভাই, কেবল ভাবি। দেখছি শুধু, হায়!
কিছুটুকু চাঁদা পাঠাই, কিছু পাতা লিখি।
বুঝি, সব-ই ব্যর্থ শেষে। শিক্ষা, কঠোর, শিখি।
 
এই টুকু তাও ভরসা দেখি—আলোর ঝিলিক, কোণে।
আত্মা, নিজের দুঃখে হাসে। তুচ্ছ, আপন ব্যথা।
 
 রবিবার, ১০ মার্চ, ২০২৪ খ্রি.
 বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফর্নিয়া.
 
 

For Me and You

For Me and You

We humans weren’t ever meant to be
As lonely jackals, wary of the rest.
We need at times our solitude—and yet
We need some others too, to be our best.

In nature, there are solitary beasts.
The male orangutan may munch alone.
But lonely humans at their lunches ask—
What sin was it, for which they now atone?

We hurry to our schools or jobs and there
We meet with fellow humans—more than less,
And this may tire us or sustain us, so
Our lunches may be respites from the stress.

******

But when we are confined, at home or work,
And see and hear no others for a while—
That might be days or weeks or even months—
We might forget to laugh—or even smile.

And now—in exiles or in prisons or
In lonely houses or in sterile wards,
We humans wither, torn from those we loved,
Who now are distant—or forever gone.

We pine for scents and tastes and textures that
Are now but memories—fading, even lost.
The years go by—and then the decades too.
And this is progress—with its human cost.

******

And so we worry and we wonder how
We might fulfill our duties to the ones
From whom we parted. Mothers rise to speak
In daughters’ dreams—and fathers, in their sons’.

As sap is what sustains the cells of trees,
And flows, within us, keep our own alive,
And like the air and water—and the foods we eat,
So also is this join, on which we thrive.

We need to feel the earth and see the sky,
To hear the plants, the beasts—and humans too.
There is a vibrance that connects and heals—
And so I write this verse—for me and you.

******
 
And yet—we age and in our age despair
Of ever having strength to reach across
The oceans and the continents—for some
Have hardly strength to bear the local cross.

How often has an exile wished to be
Not one, but two or even more—so she
Could be in places far apart at once—
And realized that this could never be.

So all that we can do, it seems, is this—
To do as needed in the place we are,
For we are locals, like the nesting hens
That cannot wander, from their clutches, far.

******

We're blown apart by commerce and by war.
The wealth is drained from villages to towns
And thence to hubs of industry or where
The bankers rule and presidents are clowns.

In dreams, our bodies may be imaged, and
In waking, minds are often split in two—
And only half is present where we walk,
The other being where we’re needed too.

But let me dwell no more on sorrows here,
For surely you have had enough of those.
I can’t be near to you in body, but
Remember—that in spirit, I am close.

2018 April 5th Thu. & 7th Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
-----------------------------------------------------

"Does wisdom come with age?"
"It does with some of us, dear, but not with the humans.
Those beasts are very slow learners."
http://news.discovery.com/animals/videos/why-cant-chimps-speak-video-140919.htm

  

Self and Other--The Cooler Spots in Hell

Self and Other  (The Cooler Spots in Hell)

The mantra is—it's I and me
And then perhaps some others.
And off to hell with all the rest!
We aren't sisters, brothers—

For even if by chance we were,
We now no longer are.
So each is free to cheat and steal.
All's fair, in hate and war.

And so we've made a hell for most,
And heaven for the vile,
Who sit upon their thrones of gold
And look at us and smile.

We hate the ones who're far away.
We hate the ones who're near.
We hate each other, even those
Who surely should be dear.

It's self that is the king, be it
The self of self or more.
The others are our enemies
Or those we should ignore.

And how is it we've come to this,
Where brother turns on brother?
We've bitten on the hook, whose bait
Is that of self and other.

Oh wake up from this dream, and see
The other too is you
As you are him or her or it.
Those bonds, again renew—

For lonely is the heart that lives
In isolation long.
Rejoin this world of joy and woe—
The one where you belong.

But see, we now are penned apart,
By pressure or by choice.
How rarely can one leap the fence
And then, in tears, rejoice!

We're told that we have freedom, yet
We now are worse than slaves—
For look at whom we adulate
And see how he behaves.

If only we could find within
That innocence of old,
And also all the wisdom lost,
In Man's pursuit of gold!

How many pounds and shillings earned,
At the dearest of expense?
How many starved, or burned alive
To raise the margin’s pence?

We prey upon each other and
We praise the ones who feast,
While mocking those who're feasted on,
In west and south and east—

For in those lands the natives too
Are preying on each other,
Although they still, on meeting, use
The greetings, “Sister!”, “Brother!”

But those are turned to empty words.
We use the behen or bhai, *
But then we set that all aside,
For each must sell and buy.

So each of us is caught within
That net that snares the world.
We see but self and other, so
We each are lured and hurled—

To land within the cooking pot.
And there we simmer, fry,
As all around we hear the ones,
Who suffer, wail and cry.

But look—how many stop their ears
And say that all is well.
They've found themselves the cooler spots
That still exist in hell.

2017 October 16th, Mon.

* behen, bhai:  sister, brother, in Hindi-Urdu and other languages of northern India and Pakistan
  
These terms are habitually used in some regions not only for siblings but more generally, including as a title or in greetings. This was meant to express sisterhood/brotherhood—as was, and in places still is, common in many cultures, especially rural ones, all over the world.
  

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 

  

Light and Shade

Light and Shade 

https://www.facebook.com/wendell.pye/posts/1736121643081412

What can I add, except to say
We greet the dawn that starts the day,
But then, when sunset comes, we sigh,
For night, and all it means, is nigh.

We sigh in pleasure as in pain.
We grimace and we laugh again.
So sorrow too is part of life.
If joy's the husband, she's the wife.

And now before you tire of this,
I should retire and wish you bliss.
We suffer pain and wish we'd die,
And moan and ask for reasons why.

What reason can we find, my friend?
We suffer till the very end.
So let's embrace the joy and sorrow.
We live today and die tomorrow.

******
 
Pleasure, pain, we live and find,
Like yang and yin, are intertwined.
From light and shade, we find our depth—
From joy and sorrow, life and death.

To wooden crosses, three were nailed.
Such cruelties had long prevailed.
But one of those had brought us sight,
Or so we hope, who seek for light.

But then, behold how darkness spread,
And evil was, with cunning, wed.
And still their offspring brings us woe.
So who is friend and who is foe?

I wish I knew the answers, but
I am myself within a rut.
And so I now should go to sleep,
And hope it will be long and deep.

2017 April 14th, Thu, 3:08 am
Brooklyn, New York 
   

Dues

Dues

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

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

******

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

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

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

Woe

Woe

How much of good intention,
That does not listen too,
Can lead to tribulations
For such as me and you.

We do not know each other's minds.
Suspicion then is bred.
When trust is violated,
Then all grows dark--or red.

How much misunderstanding
Has led to needless wars!
How much of blood is wasted
For Venus or for Mars!

We go about our business,
Not looking down the street,
Where those who're wretched gather,
In the sun or in the sleet.

When ignorance is sacred,
To Mammon then we bow.
How little is our knowledge!
How much we do not know!
 
How much of evil rises
From blindness of the heart!
How much of woe, imparted
Through guns or legal art!

How bitter is enslavement
That tortures body-mind!
How dear is freedom’s potion
That’s still so hard to find!

The winds are strong. The tempest
Has darkened sky and sea.
We pray, amidst the tumult,
For calm again to be.

The fever still is rising.
We shiver, toss in pain.
Oh when will this be over,
So we are well again?

There’s darkness, grief and sorrow,
Deception, slaughter, pain.
But there’s light and joy and laughter,
And there’s hope that burns again.

2016 May 26th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York

   

Kothar Theke Sneho?—কোথার থেকে স্নেহ?—Whence Came Love?

For Roman transcriptions and a "free translation" into English, in tabular format, set side-by-side with the original in Bengali script, please see: http://suniljanah.org/ajanah/poems/arjun/indic/kothar-theke-sneho--tabular.html.

That site also has a literal translation that preserves the syntax of Bengali, and a link to an audio-recording.  That recording should be useful to those who do not know Bengali but are interested in at least knowing how it sounds, as well as to those who are learning the language. -- Arjun

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

কোথার থেকে স্নেহ?  

আকাশ থেকে জীবন এল,
মাটির থেকে—দেহ৷
জলের থেকে, হাওয়ার থেকে,
কোথার থেকে—স্নেহ?

যে সন্তান বেড়েছে মায়ের ভালবাসায়,
যে সন্তান রয়েছে এখনো তার আশায়—
দুজনেই বড় হয়ে পারবে কি দিতে,
শিশুরা না বলেও চাইবে যা নিতে?

******

কোথার থেকে আসে সেই ভালবাসা, বল্—
কোথার থেকে আসে—দয়া, মায়া, স্নেহ?
কোন দেবীর বুকের থেকে, মায়ের চোখে জল?
কোন ইশ্বর-আল্লা নেয় মর্ত মায়ের দেহ?

বল্ আমায়, কোথার থেকে এলি তুই কাল?
বল্ আমায়, কি কারণে পেলাম উপহার?
ছেড়ে যেতে চাই না তোকে—এখনো তুই ছোটো৷
এত দিন লড়ে, তাও মানব কি হার?

******
 
যে বাবা বৃদ্ধ হয়ে পরলোকে যায়,
যে বাবা শিশু ছেড়ে মৃত হ্য়, হায়—
দুজনের-ই নজরে আজ ধরে আছি ফিতে৷
ছিড়ে গেলে হারাব যা জন্মেছিলাম জিতে৷

আকাশ থেকে জীবন এল,
মাটির থেকে—দেহ৷
জলের থেকে, হাওয়ার থেকে,
কোথার থেকে—স্নেহ?
 
অর্জুন (বাবুই) জানা
বৃহস্পতিবার, ১০ই ডিসেম্বর, ২০১৫ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক

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

Please see/hear also:  http://suniljanah.org/ajanah/poems/arjun/indic/kothar-theke-sneho--tabular.html.

    

He Steps Over Cracks—for Kenneth E. Rich, by Isis Phoenix, with a preface by Tal Nuriel, plus images from friends and a video of Ken by Allus Frank

 
I've met a lot of people in my life, and I can honestly say, without exaggeration, that Kenneth E. Rich was the kindest, most gentle human being I've ever met. It's hard to understand how something so awful can happen to someone so kind. I'm glad to see the outpouring of love for Ken. I have no doubt that Ken made a true and lasting impact on thousands of people while he was alive and that his memory and spirit will live on for a long long time through all of his good deeds and through all of the people that he touched.

--Tal Nuriel
(posted on Ken's Facebook page, October 11, 2015, at 1:24 pm)
------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A poem for my dear friend, Kenneth E. Rich. 
Rest well, dear one. 

-- Isis Phoenix

He Steps Over Cracks 

for Ken, by Isis

Dr. Kenneth E. Rich
posted on Facebook by Narisara Vanichanan
photograph: Lynne Goldfarb Leung?
October 11 2015, 8:21 am

  
He steps over cracks in the sidewalk
on the lower east side.
His feet shuffle a little in his tattered brown shoes,
one of the laces always undone or broken.
He steps, some steps coupled shorter
and others almost imperceptibly longer
to avoid his foot falling into a crack and oblivion?
Or worse
hurting that which births and sustains life,
his mother
and perhaps the divine one.
His fingernails are caked
and a bit jagged from the bits of trash
and sidewalk debris he gathers
as he walks. What others discard
he takes responsibility
for picking up the broken bottles and cigarette butts
Food wrappers of disownment.
He cares.
It is a quiet gesture.
Discreet.
He does it even though at times he is embarrassed to do it
He does it because something much larger moves through him
Picking up people’s trash.
Taking responsibility.
Seeing what others do not allow themselves to care enough to see.
He walks over cracks
And always carries a large re-usable bag
with a collection of things inside…books,
cliff bars he gives to the homeless,
receipts and bits of paper with scrawl only he understands,
maybe a sweater, a notebook …
an ipad.
He is, at times, manic, driven,
others somber and still.
He bows to people as he passes and there is
a deep quiet that rests in his system
that others perceive and are affected by
a humility, a quiet beauty like a still pond.
He is the Buddha
walking down the streets of the lower east side.
Stepping over cracks
to honor the Great Mother.

Isis Phoenix
posted on Ken's Facebook page
October 11 at 3:02am 
---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kenneth E. Rich -- younger days
collage posted on Ken's Facebook page by Sonnie Hirsch Carpenter 

Kenneth E. Rich -- Senior Prom, 1982
posted by Ellen Limburg Santistevan on Ken's Facebook page, October 11, 2015, 9:05 am 

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

Dr. Kenneth E. Rich, with Rev-Amma Niradhari Mari,
probably at a building of the NYU (or Columbia U?) Medical Center
posted by her at Ken's Facebook page, October 10, 2015, 11:27 pm

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

The following is a note and a video of Ken, posted by AllUs Frank at Ken's Facebook page on October 21, 2015 at 3:38 pm.  (I have not included her invitation to join in a celebration of Ken's life October 21-27 in Brooklyn.)

Dearest Beloved Kenneth E. Rich who left his body a week ago, speaks so delicately in this video, upon reading the script of OPEN: a film about UNIAMORY .

Ken was to play the character, ' Gerald. ' He played it profoundly, and I will soo miss his doing so for all of You. I offered him the role an hour into knowing him. Uncannily perfect. Still gleeful in his saying Y E S .

Thank you,
s w e e t love .

https://www.facebook.com/allus.frank/videos/1641930546063346/

Note:  Ken's speech is soft, labored and hesitant in this video, more than usual with him.  He is trying to speak thoughtfully, honestly and from the heart about things that are at the heart of our existence.  But the speech was difficult to follow on my computer.  If you want a child's far louder, more emphatic version of some, at least, of what Ken was struggling to express, here it is:

https://www.facebook.com/BlackPrezMusic/videos/10153560778492357/

Hopeless?

 
Hopeless? 
  

Sun behind a cloud 
Brooklyn, 2015-08-01, © Arjun Janah

   
      



There are times, upon our journeys
On the trails of chance and choice,
When our work is dashed to pieces
And we're left without a voice.
    
When the world has lost its lightness
And our hurts and worries grow,
We might seek relief in drinking
As we drown in endless woe.

When our lives are filled with darkness,
And our hopes and dreams have fled,
We might hide in our addictions
Or be paralyzed with dread.

The birds of dawn may twitter
But our limbs have turned to lead.
Our mornings then are hopeless,
So we lie and rot in bed.
 
In trivial things, we fritter
Our precious lives away.
Our nights are crazed and restless
And so is every day.

In life and work despairing,
By those we loved betrayed,
We might yield then to the darkness,
With all our moorings frayed.

But if, amidst afflictions,
We quietly do resolve
To change our lives’ directions,
Our nightmares might dissolve.

When our sails are slack and drooping,
As our winds have ceased to blow,
We can wait and wait for breezes
Or settle down to row.

******

There are many things we can’t control.
There are just a few we can.
And if we walk a step each day,
That lets us know we can.

There are forces strong we can't resist;
There still are those we might.
And if we throw a punch a week,
We'll stay then in the fight.

There are times of joy and hopefulness,
There are times we’re robbed of hope.
In the worst of times, we still can strive
Or only sit and mope.

Out happiness and our sadness both
Are met in part by chance.
A forward step, a sideways step,
A backward—that's the dance.

It's cowardly to run away—
Unless we know we'll die.
Let's share the sprouts we've found of truth
And shield them from the lie.

It's neither wise to quickly yield,
Nor stay and fight to death.
We should remember our defeats
When victories are met.

Be humble then in victories.
Do not, on failures, dwell.
Successes small can give us strength
To bear those failures well.

The middle way is often best,
But each must find her own.
Through deep despair and hopelessness,
That median might be known.

The fever comes and rises and
It seems it will not go.
And yet in time it ebbs and leaves.
What's "hopeless" isn't so.

The darkness comes and we despair
At more and more of night.
But till the end, we still have hope
And memory of light.
   
2015 July 25th, Sat. 10:46 pm
(1st, 6th, 8th, 10th, 13th, 17th & 
18th stanzas added Aug 1st, Sat.)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

Sun behind a cloud
Brooklyn, 2015-08-01, © Arjun Janah

   

Aa~su Bahaanewaale—आँसू बहानेवाले—آنسو بهانےوالے —Those Who Shed Tears

 
This is in Hindustani (Hindi-Urdu), in the Devanagari and Urdu (modified Perso-Arabic) scripts.  In writing both of these versions, I was greatly aided by the script and translation facilities at http://google.com/translate.

A translation into English is at the end (just before the note on my Romanization).

I would welcome suggestions and corrections, especially in verb endings and in the possessives ka/ki/ke, but also in whatever else is noticed.  My Hindi is very weak, to put it mildly, and my Urdu is no better.  My apologies for venturing where I perhaps should not.

As for Romanization, I have included, first,  the machine output, also kindly provided by http://google.com/translate. The Roman transcription is between the Devanagari and Urdu pieces.

 The only (almost unavoidable) fault I found with Google's machine transcription was that it included the short "a" (without the bar on top that lengthens vowels) where it is no longer pronounced (or, in the case of  some loan words from Arabic and Farsi, never was).  This is the schwa vowel (as in standard British English "but" and "fur") that is so frequent in the languages of northern Europe, and in those of the subcontinent*.

I have edited the machine transcription to delete the unneeded short "a" letters. I have also changed "v" to "w" in some words.

Following this standard academic Romanization provided by Google (and lightly edited by me as explained above),  I have also included also my own Romanization, which follows a scheme similar to that which I have been using for Bengali.  (See the note added at the end of the post.)

* The schwa vowel is absent in standard Italian and Spanish, and also in the Indic languages of eastern India. In the latter, it has been replaced by one or the other of the two distinct rounded vowels (disregarding length and dipthongization) that are represented, in standard British English, by the Roman letter o.  
----------------------------------
 
आँसू बहानेवाले
 
अमरीका मे एक शहर की
सड़क पर चलते हुए,
मैं एक आदमी से मिला था,
जिनके साथ मेरी पहले
कुछ पह्चान थी।
 
मैंने उनसे पुछा,
"बहुत दिन के बाद मुलाक़ात हुई।
आप कहीं गये थे, क्या?"

उन्होने जवाब दिया,
"हाँ, मैं कुछ महीने के लिए
वहाँ लौटा था,
जहाँ अभी तक
हमारे लिए
आँसू बहानेवाले हैं।"
 
रविवार, २८ जून, 
ब्रुक्लिन, निउ यॉर्क

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

Ām̐sū Bahānēwālē

Amrīkā mē ēk śahar kī
saṛak par caltē hu'ē,
maiṁ ēk ādmī sē milā thā,
jinkē sāth mērī pahalē
kuch pahcān thī.

Mainnē unsē puchā,
"Bahut din kē bād mulāqāt hu'ī.
Āp kahīṁ gayē thē, kyā?"

Unhōnē jawāb diyā,
"Hām̐, maiṁ kuch mahīnē kē li'ē
wahām̐ lauṭā thā,
jahām̐ abhī tak
hamārē li'ē
ām̐sū bahānēwālē haiṁ."

Ravivār, 28 Jūn, 
Bruklin, Ni'u Yŏrk 

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

Aa~su Bahaanewale

Amriika me ek s'ahar ki
sar'ak par calte hu-e,
me`~ ek aadmi se mila tha,
jinke saath meri pehle
kuch pehcaan thi.

Me`~ne unse pucha,
"Bahut din ke baad mulaaqaat hui.
Aap kahii~ gaye the, kya?"

 Unhone jawaab diya,
"Haa~, me`~ kuch mahiine ke lie
waha~ lo`t'a tha,
jaha~ abhi tak
hamare lie
aa~su bahaane waale he`~.

Ravivaar/Itvaar, 28 Jun

Bruklin, Niu Yo`rk
----------------------------------

آنسو بهانےوالے

امریکہ میں ایک شہر کی
،سڑک پر چلتے ہوئے
،میں ایک آدمی سے ملا تھا
جن کے ساتھ میری پہلے
.کچھ پهچان تھی

،میں نے ان سے پوچھا
.بہت دن کے بعد ملاقات ہوئی"
"آپ کہیں گئے تھے، کیا؟ 

انہوں نے جواب دیا
جی ہاں، میں کچھ ماہ کے لئے"
،وہاں لوٹا تھا
جہاں ابھی تک
ہمارے لئے
".آنسو بهانےوالے ہیں
  
اتوار، ۲۸ جون
بركلن، نیویارک

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

Those Who Shed Their Tears
   
While walking on the streets
of a city in the U.S.A.,
I met a person whom I’d known 
for quite a while.
   
I said, “I haven’t seen you for so long!
Were you out of town?”
  
“Yes.” he said, “For a few months,
I had returned to where
there still are those,
who shed their tears for us.”
  
Sunday, June 28th,
Brooklyn, New York
---------------------------------

Note on my Romanization for Hindi-Urdu

The letters for the consonants represent the sounds they most commonly do in English, except that c stands for the (unaspirated) ch cluster in English, and that t and d are dentals, pronounced while touching the tip of the tongue to the back of the front teeth, as in most of the Latin languages, while t,' and d' are circumflex, pronounced by curling the tongue up and and back and so that the back of the tongue-tip touches the roof of the mouth, in the region of the hard palate. Note the use of the apostrophe (') to indicate the circumflex form of a consonant.

A similar distinction holds for n and n', r and r', and s and s', except that the tongue's contact area for the first sound in each pair is more the (upper) gum ridge than the back of the front teeth.

The letter h is used to add aspiration (a puff of air) to a consonant, as in the second member of the pairs k, kh,   g, gh,   c, ch,   j, jh,   t, th,   d, dh,   t', t'h,   d', d'h  and   r', r'h.  

The vowels a, e, i, o, u are pronounced as in Italian and Spanish, except that a stands for the schwa vowel that is absent in those languages, while the long form, aa,  is pronounced as a long a would be in those tongues. The long forms of i and u are indicated by doubling: ii and uu.

The e and o have only one (phonemic) version, which, for those coming from languages that make a distinction, is usually closer to long than it is to short.

If a word ends in a long vowel, however, the length of the vowel is often shortened, especially in frequently occurring monosyllabic words, such as ka/ki/ke, which are used to indicate relations between words, and in common verb-endings.  So I have used the short forms a and i  instead of the long forms aa and ii in such cases. The terminal a, however, is not a shwa, but rather a clear short a.

Each vowel in a dipthong should be pronounced clearly. The dipthongs ai and au, however, seem to have been changing into ae and ao, and thence into the single open vowels e` and  o` (as in English tram and ball). So I have used e` ad o` for these.

The tilde (~) after a vowel indicates nasalization of the vowel.  In Hindu-Urdu, this nasalization is usually stronger than in standard Bengali.
   

Premer Ko`tha Bolbo Kake?--প্রেমের কথা বলব কাকে?--To Whom Shall I Speak Of My Love?

   
The verses in Bengali, using its traditional script and standard spelling, are followed by a loose translation into English, and then by a transcription into Roman letters.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
  
প্রেমের কথা বলব কাকে?

যে প্রেমের কথা বলার ছিল,
সে কথা ত রয়ে গেল সব৷
রইলে না যে তুমি, যাকে
বলার ছিল কথাগুল৷
 
প্রেমের কথা বলব কাকে?
থেকে গেল আমার বুকে৷
দুঃখে এখন কাটাই জীবন৷
তাও ত দেখ হাসি ভুলে৷

বলব কি সেই দুখের কথা?
গাইব কি সেই প্রেমের গান?
হাসছি আমি মৃদু হাসি,
তোমার হাসি দেখছি আজ৷
 
******
    
গানের আলাপ, গানের সুর,
গানের ছন্দ, গানের শেষ...
গানের মত এলে তুমি,
গানের মাঝে ছাড়লে দেশ...

কোন দেশে আজ গাইছ তুমি?
কোন বেলাতে আসবে ফিরে?
সে দেশ থেকে ফিরবে না, হায়!
দেখতে দেখতে সন্ধ্যে এল৷

বুকের কথা বলব কাকে?
বলব বোধহয় হাওয়ার কানে৷
বইবে হাওয়া, নিয়ে যাবে
প্রেমের কথা কারোর কানে৷

বিকেল ৪:৪৯, সোমবার, ২৫এ মে (মেমোরিয়াল ডে ),২০১৫ খ্রি
(মার্কিন যুক্তরাষ্ট্রে, মৃত সৈনিকদের স্মারক দিবস )
বেন্সন্হার্স্ট, ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক

  
---------------------------------------------------------------------
      
To Whom Shall I Speak Of My Love?
    
The words I had to say, with love,
those words are still with me,
but not the one, to whom I should
have softly said them then. 
  
To whom shall I speak those words of love?
They’ve stayed within my heart.
I pass my days in sorrow, yet
you see I smile by chance.
  
Should I now recount my grief
or sing my song of love?
Or should I smile because I see
the way you once had smiled? 
  
****** 
  
The humming and the rhythm and
the tune and then the end…
You came like music and like song,
but in their midst you left.
  
Where is your song and where are you?
And when will you return?
You never will return from there!
The evening comes apace.

To whom will I speak the words in my heart?
Perhaps in the ear of the wind?
The wind, it will blow and carry the words
of my love to a hearer afar.
  
2015, 25th May, Mon*, 4:49 pm
(* Memorial Day, in the U.S.A., for soldiers killed in wars)
Bensonhurst. Brooklyn, New York
  
-------------------------------------------------------------------------

That Roman transcription below follows the standard (West Bengali) pronunciation, but not the standard spelling currently used with the traditional script.

Although the traditional script is beautiful and irreplaceable, the standard spelling is based upon a pronunciation that is now either archaic or borrowed.  This spelling faithfully preserves and represents the old roots, but is better suited, phonetically, for Sanskrit or for the eastern Indo-Aryan dialects of Bihar than it is for the dialects of Bengali that have prevailed in most of the Bengal delta, probably for the past several centuries.

For the purposes of correctly representing the pronunciation of Bengali in Roman letters, it might be best, therefore, to abandon the non-phonetic or quasi-phonetic aspects of standard Bengali orthography.

Of course, standard English spelling is even worse at representing English speech.  Indeed, the spelling of English is probably as far from phonetic as one could possibly get without lapsing into total arbitrariness.

So while a Romanization might be of service to those who come to Bengali with literacy in a Western European language, it is surely advisable to also avoid the vagaries, limitations and ambiguities of English spelling.

So one has to devise or borrow a system of Romanization that can faithfully mirror the actual pronunciation of Bengali words.

In doing so, however, one might have to abandon any attempt to preserve the old root words that might ease the comprehension of written Bengali for those familiar with an ancestral or sibling tongue, such as Sanskrit or any of the Indo-Aryan tongues, or even those Dravidian languages that have borrowed heavily, especially in their literary forms, from Sanskrit or its daughters.

A similar complaint may be lodged against any phonetic rationalization of English spelling, which might of course obscure the Latin and other root-words whose fossils are still recognizable in the current spelling of English.

A brief outline of the transcription scheme used below may be found in the preface at:

http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/02/bharot-xadhin-indias-freedom.html

------------------------------------------------------------------------
       
Premer Ko`tha Bolbo Kake?

Je premer ko`tha bo`lar chilo,
xe ko`tha to roe ge`lo xo`b.
Roile na je tumi, jake
bo`lar chilo  ko`thagulo.

Premer ko`tha bolbo kake?
Theke ge`lo amar buke.
Dukkhe e`khon kat’ai jibon.
Tao to de`kho haxi bhule.

Bolbo ki xei dukher ko`tha?
Gaibo ki xei premer gan?
Haxchi ami mridu haxi.
Tomar haxi dekchi aj.
  

****** 
    
Ganer alap, ganer xur,
ganer cho`ndo, ganer xex…
Ganer moto ele tumi,
ganer majhe char’le dex…
  
Kon dexe aj gaicho tumi?
Kon belate axbe phire?
Xe dex theke phirbe na go.
Dekhte dekhte, xondhe elo.
   
Buker ko`tha bolbo kake?
Bolbo bodh ho`e haoar kane.
Boibe haoa, nie jabe
Premer ko`tha karor kane.
   
bikel 4:49, xombar, 25-e me, 2015 khri
(memorial d’e)
(markin juktoraxtre, mrito xoinikder xarok dibo`x) 
benso`nharst’, bruklin, niu io`rk
   

To Monua – Eleven Years Past

    
To Monua – Eleven Years Past
 
In the bitter cold of winter
In the northern climes, we pray
For the warmth of northern summers –
And the ones who’ve gone away…

For the life, we each are given,
We each in time return,
From age, despair or illness –
Or fiends that bomb and burn...

We're born, indeed, by accident.
By accident, we go.
And yet, although we're happenstance,
There's much we get to know.

And when our elders leave, our grief
Is deep – but when we see
The ones who're younger go before,
We wish we would not be...
  
******
   
On a Saturday, you left us –
Or on a Sunday morn,
On the dates returned this weekend,
Oh my sister, all forlorn...
 
And I wasn’t there to stay you –
But a continent away.
And this, I still remember –
In the silence, every day.
 
But if there’s still your spirit
That wanders, asking why –
With our parents now departed,
You should know, I’m coming by –

And surely, we’ll be meeting
And I will hold your hand –
And our parents might be watching
And they will understand.
 
And all your friends, your cousins,
Your elders, in-laws, more –
The ones you touched, who’re living –
Or gone, will come to know.

For you and I and others
Are ripples on a sea –
That though we each might vanish
Will never cease to be.
 
You lived a life of beauty,
However deep the pain –
And each of us is praying
We’ll find you once again.

******

And so – for every other,
Who has passed the “One Way” sign
And left behind another
Who can only pray and pine –
 
I write to you, my sister,
As they might write to those –
The ones, who're not returning
From where their fortune chose...
 
The bubbles meet and part and pop
And others take their place.
So parents grieve and siblings mourn,
Remembering a face...
 
We think with time the wound will heal.
But rarely is it so.
In every home, the sorrow comes
And never will it go.
  
2015 January 17th, Sat. 9:35 pm
Brooklyn, New York

In Memoriam
Monua Janah
1959 – 2004

And Where Are You?
 
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2011/04/and-where-are-you.html

  
Immersion in the Ganges
 
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2006/07/immersion-in-ganges.html


Jupiter Rising
   
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2006/03/jupiter-rising.html
 
Monua in Boston
 
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/12/monua-in-boston.html

 

গাইব তাদের গান (gaibo tader gan)

 
গাইব তাদের গান

ধর্মের পথে, কাটল জীবন পাপের আবিষ্কারে৷
কাজের ফলে, ভরল থলি কেবল তিরষ্কারে৷
যা কিছু প্রিয়, রাখল কেড়ে গভীর অন্ধকারে৷

নিশির মাঝে, পথ হারিয়ে, আলোর খোঁজে যাই৷
হোঁচট খেয়ে, হুমরে পরে, যমের দয়া চাই৷
দুঃখে, শোকে, মনে মনে মায়ের ভজন গাই৷
 
বারেবারে আঘাত খেয়ে, তাও ত আছে প্রাণ৷
তাই ত আছে আলোর স্মৃতি, আছে আশার টান৷
রাতের শেষে, ভোর বেলাতে, গাইব তাদের গান৷
 
শনিবার, ৩রা জানুয়ারি, ২০১৪ খ্রি
ব্রুকলিন, নিউ য়র্ক
 

The Last Defeat

 
The Last Defeat
 
Since highways serve to smooth the workers’ rides,
Who still takes rougher roadways anymore?
Amidst the rushing and efficient swarm,
What place is there for those who pedal slow?

There comes a time, when we admit defeat
And merely hope to cease from further strain.
But even then, we might be forced to stay,
Where work’s reward is even more of pain.
 
A life consumed by labor might result,
At journey’s end, in greater sorrow yet –
For those departed, while we labored, grief,
For all our fruitless years of work, regret.

But could there still be consolation, when
Our efforts turn to blowing dust and sand?
When men are robbed of satisfaction, hope,
Could there be things, they then might understand?

In isolation, emptiness, we taste
Of striving’s bitter, acrid ashes – yet,
Although we know our lives have been a waste,
We feel for those, whom others might forget.

And so, when we have nothing left to give,
And weariness, discouragement is deep,
It’s time, perhaps, to wake to light and dark –
And all the grays ignored by those asleep.

In blissful ignorance, we might have thought
Our fellows better than they truly are –
But then we see how truly hard it is
To staunch the tides of craving and of war.

However hurtful that awaking is,
We then might chance to see the subtle grain –
And seeing this, lift up, again, our heads,
Accepting, even grateful for the pain.
       
Some paint the world in colors hopeful, bright –
And others use the dark and somber hues.
But then, the hills and valleys of our lives
Reveal to us the wider, deeper views.

The hopeful dawn gives birth to light-filled day,
And then there’s dusk that brings the dark of night.
The light and colors change with every hour,
And sadness isn’t absent from delight.

For every joy, in measure, there is pain.
For every sorrow, there is pleasure still.
We take the cup of life, we drink of it,
We set it down and wait for it to fill.

And when at end we taste the final draft,
It might be bitter or it might be sweet.
But we’ll remember those we drank before,
And smile, perhaps, before our last defeat.

2014 September 3rd, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Reflections on Dukkha

   
Reflections on Dukkha
 

Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. with Thich Nhat Hanh, a Vietnamese monk, 1960's
image source: http://easyyolk.blogspot.com/2011/07/living-buddha-living-christ.html

 
We see, around us, things that make us sad
and angry, while there’s little we can do –
injustice, needless pain and suffering –
and we ourselves may be affected too.

And seeing this, some sink in dark despair,
or simply shrug and go about their life.
There’s only so much we can fix, repair –
or vainly seek to stem the tides of strife.
 
And some of us might see and yet not see –
or turn away from what discomforts them.
And others might find refuge in their gods –
or take recourse to lie or stratagem.

Philosophies exist, in ancient lands,
and even newer ones, that seem to help.
“It’s fortune, karma.” or “That’s how it is.”
Acceptance helps the sad, beleaguered self.

And some would say, "There's night that follows day.
There's hunger and there's satisfaction, and
without the first, would food retain its taste?"
We suffer – and we start to understand...

And others yet may speak or write – and some
may even act – in ways they think are best
or can imagine and achieve – and then
may fail or may succeed upon their quest.

And some see villains, whom they seek to crush,
and others relish being rescuers.
But few are they, who try to understand
the causes and connections, seeking cures.
 
For much of what we see, the sorrow spread
by actions, words and thoughts compulsive, are
pathologies that stem from ignorance –
or vision clouded by the smoke of war.

Gotama woke from this, our lifelong sleep,
and saw our sorrow and the root of it.
And so he bid us to awake and watch
the fog arise and leave – dissolving it.

But who can do it?  We are trapped by self
and all that’s built around to cage us in.
So passions rule, or calculations cold,
and newest sin is heaped on older sin.
 
But if we are aware, that all is not
as we imagine it – and that there’s light
within the deepest darkness, then we’ll pause –
and in that pausing, find the gift of sight.

“The other cheek” is what the gospel says
we should be turning to the ones who strike.
Yet who can do this, who is not a saint,
when death and utter devastation strike?

Of all that is compulsive, be aware.
Amidst the madness and the rushing, pause.
Release the breath and feel again the heart.
Let kindness be, without a need for cause.
   
2014 August 26th, Tue & 27th, Wed.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
   

Muddle

 
Muddle
  
So many, simply seeking love
And longing for a cuddle,
Can find themselves, before they know,
In such an awful muddle,
That, broken-hearted, by themselves,
They sit – a and cry a puddle.
  
2014 July 24th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
 

The Silent Sea

        
The Silent Sea
  
I walked, today, towards the waiting sea.
And soon enough, near sunset, I was there.
I saw it stretching outwards, dark and green,
towards the circle where the sky descends…

And standing there, by that Atlantic shore,
I saw the westward sun go slowly down
behind the Verrazano’s arches.  East                   \1
was Coney Island, arcing boldly south –
and in-between – the dark and silent sea…
   
******
  
How often, once, I'd walked along this shore…
How rarely I had come, in recent years,
to visit here, a leisured walk from home –
and yet another world – and still for free…

When hurricanes come storming up the coast,
the waves then pound upon the rocks that men
have laid, creating land, where only sea
had been before.  And just two years ago,
the sea swept in, as humans watched in awe…    \2
  
******
 
But here, this evening, as I write these lines,
the light is fading – and the breeze, though brisk,
does little to perturb the placid sea...
A time to breathe, to meditate and be…

The tide is low, with mossy rocks exposed.
A gull stands watch, as people walk the shore…
The sea is silent, but the people talk...
I hear their voices, and the tongues they speak    \3
are many, softened by the sky and sea…
  
******
  
Behind me – traffic, whooshing down the “Belt”. \4
I turn my head and see the headlights’ glare.
And turning back, there’s still that sea, that sky…
I wonder, marvel, asking – why, oh why?

A little pause – for peace – and then it ends…
So many marvels, men and women make –
and yet – our slaughters rarely ever end…
There was a time, when we had reverence
for Nature – and, perhaps, for life as well…
  
******
   
And when I'd lost my sister, then I came
to walk along this shore and ask the sea
the questions that I asked it yet again
when both my parents died – with me away…

I rise – and make my lonely way towards home,
in a pensive mood, at peace and yet aware
of all the problems that are mine – and those,
unsolvable, it seems, that plague our race…
The sea is silent, as the stars appear…

2014 July 22nd, Tue.
Gravesend Bay, Brooklyn
    
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Notes:
 
1.   The Verrazano suspension bridge, built in the 1960’s,
connects Brooklyn to Staten Island, crossing the Verrazano
Narrows, which separates Lower and Upper New York Bays.
In 1776, British forces crossed the straits, from Staten Island
into Brooklyn, routing Washington’s army at the Battle of 
Long Island.

Verrazano Bridge, from Gravesend Bay, Brooklyn, looking west
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Verrazano%E2%80%93Narrows_Bridge

 


2. Hurricane Sandy, coinciding with a full moon and high tide,
caused much devastation in the region in the Fall of 2012.
  

Sandy approaches New York, October-end, 2012,  (c) Carlos Ayala
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/07/16/hurricane-sandy-track_n_3606456.html

 

3.   Among the languages I have frequently encountered in this
area are: Spanish; Quechua and other Native American languages
of Central America; Portuguese; English in its many varieties;
Haitian Creole and French; Arabic; Italian and its dialects (this
having been, until recently, an area dominated by immigrants
from southern Italy and Sicily); Sub-Saharan languages; Albanian;
Yiddish; Romany (Gypsy) dialects (related to the Indic tongues);
Russian and other Slavic languages; Greek; Turkish; Georgian;
Armenian; Hebrew; Farsi (Persian); Uzbek and other languages of
Central Asia; Gujarati, Punjabi, Urdu-Hindi, Nepali (Gurkhali),
Bengali, Tamil and other languages of the subcontinent; Tibetan;
the Chinese dialects (several distinct spoken languages, unified by
a common, ancient ideographic script); Burmese languages;
Vietnamese; Korean; and many others.

4.  The Belt Parkway expressway that girdles southern Brooklyn
and Queens runs mostly along lower New York Bay.  In this part of
Brooklyn, this busy highway is often just a few yards away from
the walkway along the shore, separated from it by a narrow strip
of grass and small trees.
   

Hear and Remember

     
Hear and Remember
       
(includes verses excised from "When Will the Killing Have End?")
      
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Seven of the following fifteen stanzas were excised, for the sake 
of brevity, from the poem: When Will the Killing Have End . The 
other eight stanzas were added later.  Images have also been
added. 

Pablo Picasso painted Guernica in 1937, after the bombing, by
fascist forces, of a village with that name in Spain during its civil 
war. The image could only be fitted at a small size in the blog 
column. It is better to view it at a larger size, by clicking on the 
image. You will then see also the other images, in a click-able 
gallery.

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They each are blaming the other,
As the people are caught in between.
The earth and the sky and the ocean –
Do they watch, as we suffer, unseen?
  
******
  
To those who had started the cycle,
To those who have kept it alive,
We ask, "If your conscience is missing,
Do you know, that you will not survive?
 
"Your hands have been strangling the living.
Your mouths have been spouting the lie.
And yet, there is truth and there's justice.
And these will be there, though we die...

The Shootings of May Third 1808
Francisco (José) de Goya (y Lucientes)
oil on canvas, 1814; Museo del Prado, Madrid
image source: http://www.ibiblio.org/wm/paint/auth/goya/

"Hear, from the ones you've forgotten,
Hear, from the ones you deny.
Hear, from the ones who are dying.
Hear – and remember – our cry."

******
  
How many, today, will be dying?
How many, beloved, who're dead?
How many, to fight, will be vying?
The streets, with their blood, will be red...
        
How many, from death, will be fleeing?
How many, the children who'll die?
How many, the burned and the blinded?
How many, who'll wish they could die?
 
Our hearts, they are thirsting for vengeance,
And yet, they are breaking with grief.
Where is the road of repentance,
The light of the hopeful belief?

Who are the ones that will profit?
They know that we suffer and die.
Where, in our age, is the prophet
Who tells us the truth, not the lie?

Cambodian Refugees, Thailand
Steve McCurry
(c) Steve McCurry
image source: http://stevemccurry.com/blog/wars-children

What could have set this in motion?
How can we bring it to rest?
Who has the will and the power
And chooses to do what is best?

What do we know of the working
Of all that has brought us to this?
When people are crushed and forgotten,
Who will be speaking of this?

Yet more of these lies and this killing?
Yet more of this darkness of grief?
When will our breathing be easy?
When will we have some relief?
       
******
  
To those who had started the cycle,
To those who have kept it alive,
We ask, "If your conscience is missing,
Do you know, that you will not survive?
  
"Your hands have been strangling the living.
Your mouths have been spouting the lie.
And yet, there is truth and there's justice.

And these will be there, though we die...
      

Guernica
Pablo Picasso, oil on canvas, 1937
Museo Reina Sofia, Madrid, Spain
image source: http://www.pensarora.org/art

"Hear, from the ones you've forgotten,
Hear, from the ones you deny.
Hear, from the ones who are dying.
Hear – and remember – our cry."

******
  
The earth and the sky will remember –
The sea that has tasted our blood...
And those, who have wrought the disasters,
They will pay, for the things that they wrought...
  
 2014 June 8th Tue (stanzas 5-11) 
& June 11th Fri (stanzas 1-4 and 12-15)
Brooklyn, New York  
     
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Note:  The poem, When Will the Killing Have End,
can be read by clicking here .
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