Paradise

 
Paradise
 
How precious are the tranquil times that come
And bring relief from all the stress and rush.
How rare these have become, for most of us,
As lethal madnesses pervade our worlds.
 
But still, outsides the war-zones, there's the dawn
With softest light, the morning bold and bright,
And then the noon and afternoon, and dusk
That calls to rest—and brings the stars to night.
 
For some at least, there still are meets at times
With friends and kin that bring back memories,
For others, only what remains in mind,
Reminding them of hell and paradise.
 
I still retain my faith that’s shorn of creeds—
The faith primeval in the truth and right—
That hears, amidst the cruelties, the voice
That calls to those who heal and those who fight.
 
2025 August 31, Sun.
Berkeley, California
 

Prokritir P'oth-O'sthaitto-translation of Nature's Way-Transience

প্রকৃতির পথ / অস্থায়িত্ব

.

সূর্য-কিরণ এসে ছুঁলো গাছের ডালের কুঁড়ি। 

যাগলো ছোঁয়ায় পাপড়ি, পাতা। 

হাওয়ার চুমে দোলে। 

ঘ্রাণ এসে যায়, বাতাস-দূতে,

প্রেমের শুভ ঘরে।

.

রাতের ঝড়ে সব চ’লে যায়। 

কাঁদিস কেনো, ওরে?

.

******

.

পর্বতের চূড়ার থেকে সাগর-তীরে নেমে, 

গভীর আঁধারে ডুবে, আলোয় আবার উঠে এসে, 

বারে বারে সেই চক্র ঘোরে, 

তোমায় আমায় ধ’রে।

.

তারার আগুন-ঝড় বারে-বারে 

বিশ্বের ধোঁয়া-ধুলো টেনে এনে, জুড়ে,

নতুন রূপে আবার মহাকাশে ছোড়ে। 

তারই থেকে সেই ফোঁটাগুলো,

যার থেকে সব জীব-প্রাণী।

.

তবে কোথা থেকে আসে, বলো,

চেতনার প্রকাশ, খুশি-ব্যথার টানাটানি,

স্বয়ঙ্গের জন্ম, স্বার্থের দাবি,

করুণা-বিবেকের টের?

.

এরই থেকে শ্বাস, পান, খাওয়া,

মৈথুন, খুন-যুদ্ধ-সংহার।

এরই থেকে সব মিলন-ভালোবাসা,

সব কর্ম, ধর্ম, মায়া-দয়া।

.

****** 

.

যে আলো পর্বত-চূড়ায় ভাসে, 

যে আঁধার সাগরের গভীর তলে বয়ে, 

যে বাতাস বনের গাছে গায়,

যে হাওয়া ঢেউয়ের ওপর খেলে—

এদেরকে বেঁধে রাখা কি যায়?

.

এদের তো শুধু মন-মহলে 

কিছুদিনের বাস। তার পরে বিদায়। 

রোদের ছোঁয়ায় যেমন শিশির-ফোটা যায়, 

মায়ের ডাকে তেমনই তুমি-আমি যাবো।

.

******

.

নিজের ভাগ্যে, নিজের পছন্দে, 

কেউ বাজায় বাঁশি, কেউ বাজায় ঢোল। 

ওগো ভাগ্যে-পাওয়া বন্ধু মোর, 

তেমনই তুমি-আমি, তেমনই 

যা কিছু বলি, যা কিছু করি।

.

গাছের পাতা-ফুলের মত, এই জগতের জীব।

কিছুদিনের সুখের বাদে আসে দুঃখ, ক্লেশ।

দেখতে দেখতে তাই চ’লে যায়

ঘর-পরিবার-দেশ।

.

জীবনে, সংসারে, নেই কোনো স্থিতি। 

তবুও এই যে মূল, এই যে পুলক-ব্যথা, 

এই যে দয়া-টান-ভালোবাসা, 

তারই থেকে বেঁচে থাকার কারণ, 

তারই থেকে চেষ্টার, সংগ্রামের সাহস।

.

******

.

তোমার সাথে যদি হাসতে, কাঁদতে পারি, 

ভাগ্যে যদি কিছু সহায়তা দিতে পারি, 

সেই আশীষের সৌভাগ্যে ধন্য-সুখী 

তোমার-আমার জন্ম-জীবন-মরণ—

ফুলের যেমন।

.

শনিবার, ৩০ নভেম্বর, ২০২৪ খ্রি.

পরিবর্তিত: বুধবার, ২৫ ডিসেম্বর

বার্ক্লি, কালিফর্নিয়া 

.

Pori-পরী

পরী

.

চুপি চুপি এসেছিলে তুমি, 

রাতের ঘুমের ঘোরে। 

চাঁদের আলোয় দাঁড়িয়ে ছিলে, 

আমার ঘরের দোরে। 

.

প্রথম আলোয় জেগে উঠে আমি 

এসেছি তোমার খোঁজে। 

নদীর তীরে দেখেছি তোমায়, 

কুয়াশা-ভরা ভোরে। 

.

দেখতে দেখতে ভেসে গেলে, হায়, 

জলের শীতল স্রোতে। 

হতে গিয়ে তাও হলো না তাই 

চেয়েছিল যা হতে।

.

কি কারণে এসেছিলে গো,

কি কারণে গেলে? 

কিছু টুকু তাও সান্ত্বনা পাই, 

সেটার জবাব পেলে। 

.

বৃহস্পতিবার, ২৪ জুন, ২০২০ খ্রি, 

ব্রুক্লিন, নিউ ইয়র্ক

.

Winding Down

 
Winding Down 

The clock is wound—and then its coils unwind,
as “Tick-tick-tock!”, its seconds-hand goes ‘round,
until it’s all unwound—and then it stops
and waits for us to wind it up again.
 
So also it may be with each of us.
We each are wound—and then we each unwind,
as childhood, youth and middle age go by—
and then we might perceive we’re winding down.

And so we slow and stumble as we move,
as friction overcomes the driving force,
until at last the pulsing heart has stopped.
Then life is done and death is all that’s left.

Is there a hand that winds us up again?
If so, the spirit might perhaps revive—
but not the body or the burdened self
that sheds its baggage—and its claim to life.

2018 February 16th, Fri.
F train, running on the D line
between Atlantic Avenue and 
Fort Hamilton Parkway, Brooklyn

Baul Jibon—বাউল জীবন—A Minstrel's Life—एक बाउल की ज़िन्दगी—یک باؤل کی زندگی

So far, this post includes the original, in Bengali script, an English translation, an attempt at translation into Hindi--and a machine-translation of that attempt into Urdu.  The three translations are at the bottom of the post.

I have also included three images, a link to an earlier poem and links to information and videos about Bauls, including two recordings (with English subtitles) by Parvathy Baul.

The periods (full-stops) and some of the commas in the Urdu version are misplaced, owing to text-flow-direction difficulties. (Urdu uses a modified Arabic script, written from right to left.)

Any feedback, comments and corrections--especially to the Bengali, Hindi and Urdu--would be most welcome.

In the first line of the second stanza, I have changed the tense, in the Bengali and English versions, to the present, altering the English line from

"I never worked at jobs or farms."

to

"I do not work at jobs or farms."

Bauls appear to live mainly by singing and, as many Hindu, Buddhist and Jain monks do, by begging.  However, it seems likely that they will have also, at times in their lives, worked in other ways--for a living or to help their families of birth.

Nevertheless, I have left that line in a sort of past perfect tense ("I have not worked at...") in the Hindi and Urdu versions.

To see the images in a somewhat larger and clearer view, click on any one image. Then use the arrow keys on your keyboard or click on the thumbnails.  To return to this blog post, click on the white X near the top right of the black background.
------------------------------------------------------------

বাউল জীবন
   

Baul Mohammad Islam Shah, on the Padma River, Bangladesh
photograph: Leonid Plotkin
http://www.leonidfotos.com/pictures/essays/men-of-heart/

 
ছেড়ে এলাম সবাইকে, গো,
ছেড়ে এলাম, ওরে৷
একতারাতে বাজনা বাজাই,
ঘুরে বেড়াই দূরে৷
  
করিনা গো চাষ, চাকরি,
করি নি গো বিয়ে৷
ভিক্ষে করি, শহর গাঁয়ে,
চিত্তের গান গেয়ে৷
  
মরন কালে গাইব আমি,
রূগ্ণ শ্বাসে, গান৷
একতারাটা থাকবে পড়ে,
চলবে পথে প্রাণ৷
  
মঙ্গলবার, ২১ জুন, ২০১৬ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক
------------------------------------------------------------

See also:

For Just a Penny or for Naught
 

Maula Pagol (Maula Baksh Shah)
http://sgbrecordings.com/gallery

http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2015/02/for-just-penny-or-for-naught.html
------------------------------------------------------------

The following are two video recordings of Baul songs, sung by Parvathy Baul (Mousumi Parial).The songs have English subtitles.

In the first song, note the blurring of the distinction between forbidden, amorous love and love for the divine, found in certain bhakti (devotional) songs of Vaishnavite Hinduism and also in other traditions, such as those of the Sufi poets of Islam and certain aspects of Christianity.

This is expressed, in this song, as the pining of Radha for dark-skinned lover, Krishna, at night and even as she goes about her daytime domestic duties.  She is advised to be secretive and clever in her trysts (perhaps only imaginary) with her lover.

The song talks about the wood-smoke bringing tears to the eyes of Radha as she tends the household cooking fire, and about her bathing and swimming in the pond or river. These were things typical of rural India.

The second song is followed by the singer's explanation, in English, of that song's content and emotional context.

Kichhu Din Mone Mone (Kichu Din Mone Mone)  (In Mind, Awhile)

https://youtu.be/tNh2kjmSzPw


Sri Choron Paabo (Xri Co`ron Pabo) (I Will Touch Your Feet)

https://youtu.be/pvKLPLl9zVw

Parvathy Baul (Mousumi Parial)
http://parvathybaul.srijan.asia/

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

For more videos and information about Bauls, please see:

https://www.facebook.com/1600702242/videos/1534062203751/
------------------------------------------------------------

A Minstrel's Life

I left then everyone, I did.
I left then everything.
I play now on the monochord.
I wander far and sing.

I do not work at jobs or farms.
Unwed, I did depart.
I beg in towns and villages,
And sing my songs of heart.

This monochord, I’ll leave behind
When I am dead and gone.
With my dying breath, I’ll sing and then
My soul will wander on.

Tuesday, 21st June, 2016 CE
Brooklyn, New York

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

एक बाउल की ज़िन्दगी

मैं छोड़ दिया हूँ, घरवाले को,

छोड़ दिया हूँ सब।

एकतार पर बजाता रहता हूँ,

जोश जब रहे, तब।

  

मैं किया नहीं हूँ, नौकरी, खेती,

शादी भी नहीं माना।

शहर में, गांव में, भीख माँगता हूँ,

गाता हूँ, दिल का गाना।

मरते हुए, कमज़ोरी में,

गाता रहूँगा फिर भी।

इस एकतार तो रहा जायेगा, लेकिन

दिल चलेगा फिर भी।

मंगलवार, २१ वीं जून, २०१६ ईस्वी,

ब्रुकलीन, न्यूयॉर्क

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

یک باؤل کی زندگی

میں نے چھوڑ دیا ہوں، گھر والے کو،

چھوڑ دیا ہوں سب.

اےكتار پر بجاتا رہتا ہوں،

جوش جب رہے،تب.

  

میں کیا نہیں ہوں، نوکری، کاشتکاری،

شادی بھی نہیں مانا.

شہر میں، گاؤں میں، بھیک مانگتا ہوں،

گاتا ہوں، دل کا گانا.

مرتے ہوئے، کمزوری میں،

گاتا رہوں گا پھر بھی.

اس اےكتار تو رہا جائے گا، لیکن

دل چلے گا پھر بھی.

  

منگل، ۲۱ ویں جون، ۲۰۱۶ ء،

بروک لین، نیویارک

Love’s Labor Lost? – II

  
Love’s Labor Lost? – II
   
How many poets, in how many tongues,
Have written verses, squeezing into lines,
That fit within a page, the wisdom, grief
Regret and joy they'd gathered, each, through lives
That soon would end?  How few are known today?
How many precious notebooks thrown away?
 
How many theses, labored on for years,
Reside in folders, doomed to dust, decay?
How many painters never sold a piece?
How many Einsteins couldn't get their chance?
How much of labor and of beauty lost?
How much of truth that never saw the day?
  
And yet—a labor is its own reward:
A poem or a a painting, done, fulfills
A need no praise or payment ever can.
A shelter, in an attic or a ditch,
From all the ravages of peace and war—
Plus time—are all a being asks for this.
 
A parent or a teacher, nurse or aide
Can spend a life in caring and in toil.
The worker in the mine or factory,
The peasant who must labor for his lord,
For all their work, receive a recompense
That rarely matches what the labor's worth.
  
What enterprise or government could do
Without the labor that the beings do—
Employed, enslaved or doing of their own
What can't be set to rules or supervised
Without reducing it to lifeless form—
The labor of the dead that's dull and dark.
  
The spirit that is calling us to work—
Be this to feed ourselves or far beyond—
It functions, in constraints, in spite of these.
But those who seek to tame it never will,
For it's by nature wild.  It lets us give
What can't be got by pay or punishment.
  
2016 February 21st, Sun. 4:47 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York  
---------------------------------------------------------  
Related:  

• Love's Labor Lost--Broverbs for Valentine's Day   ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2016/02/loves-labor-lost-broverbs-for.html )
• Broverbs of Pain 
  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2016/01/broverbs-of-pain.html )  

Beer and Wine

 
Beer and Wine

It is said that there are blessings
With an origin divine.
I’m not sure of where it came from,
But I’ve quaffed of Nature’s wine.

I have drunk of Nature’s beauty,
I have sipped her honeydew.
My spirit, parched and weary,
Those potions did renew.
 
Mere alcohol may serve awhile
To take away the pain,
But there’s an antidote that lasts
That’s served with sun and rain.
 
On the land and on the water,
There’s the softness that delights.
There’s the scent of early mornings,
There’s the fragrance of the nights.

There are visions, tastes and textures,
There’s the cold that shades to heat.
There are sounds of speech and music,
There’s the tune and there’s the beat.

And even in the silence,
In the darkness, all alone,
When I’m touched by wind or water
Or by earth, I’m not alone.

We have issued from the Mother.
To her flowing, we’ll return:—
When we’re buried in her tillage;
On her pyre, when we burn.

For as mother speaks to daughter
And as father speaks to son,
So do earth and air and water,
So do cloud and moon and sun.

So the starry night has spoken,
And the dawn has softly sung.
So I’ve hearkened to the noontime
And I’ve listened to the dusk.

There’s a grace that comes from heaven
And alights upon a few,
So I’ve read—but I have sensed this
When the heavens were in view.

I have savored Nature’s brewage,
I am tipsy from her beer.
But unlike when I was sober,
My mind and sight are clear.

2015 December 28th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
  
See also:  Nature's Wine
( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2016/01/natures-wine.html )
   

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

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

    

Song of the Beings

Note: To view the pictures as in a gallery, in a somewhat bigger and clearer format, please single-click on any image.  You can click on the thumbnails at the bottom to move through the gallery.  To return to this post, click on the white X in the black background to the gallery.  Thanks. -- Arjun
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This is a nonsense song (with perhaps some sense in it) that started from a phrase used by É.P., an Irish-American, in a "conversation" that  he had with me (A.J., an Indian-American) as we were both commenting on a Facebook post.

Part of that conversation is reproduced directly below, followed by the song.
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É.P.: In a previous life, I was a journalist and editor. I also spent 15 years in education. Triple undergrad--English, Journalism, Speech. You're singing the song of my people. ;-)

A.J.: A phrase in your comment seemed to have struck a chord in the strings in my head (!).  Those strings started humming and this is what they said. (See "Song of the Beings" down below.)  It is a lot of nonsense and a bit of sense, mixed together in a stew of a song.

Peace,

--Arjun
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Song of the Beings 

“You’re singing the song of my people.” you said.
I wish that it really were true.
I have heard of the songs of the peoples and yet
The songs that I know are so few.

There are songs of the nations, there are songs of the trades,
There are songs of the forests and seas.
There are songs that we’ve learned from the singing of birds,
There are songs that we sing on our knees.

But in truth they’re the same. It’s the spirit that sings
Through the whales and the crickets and men.
So perhaps it is true that I’m singing the song
Of the trade that you cherish and ken.

Let us sing then of words—of their sense and their freight,
Of their music and rhythm and rhyme.
Let us sing then of birds and of dawn and of dusk,
And the flowing, that’s ceaseless, of time.

Jiminy Cricket
http://disney.wikia.com/wiki/Jiminy_Cricke

Let us sing then of Ireland and Egypt and then
Let us sing of the land that we’re in—
Of its past and its present and future and all
Of its beauty and glory and sin.

Let us sing then the dirges for those that have died,
Let us sing too the paeans of hope.
Let us sing with emotion and yet let us pray
That there’s reason that’s left in the dope.

Sand Creek Massacre, Colorado, 1864
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xtGcvs8F11A

Let the little ones dance to the strains of our song.
Let us ask, of the plant and the beast,
That they join in our song, that we all sing along,
For our song, of all songs, is the least.

It’s the least of the songs, it can hardly be heard,
It’s a whisper that seems to have died.
Yet hark—it arises, and softly we hear
It whisper, “Your bosses have lied.”

Donald Trump, real estate mogul and Republican presidential candidate
U.S.A., 2015
http://www.politico.com/story/2011/03/panama-to-trump-youre-fired-051175

It’s the songs of the beings, by “leaders” misled,
By “lords” and by “owners” enslaved.
It’s the song that the horses and asses and pigs
And cattle and humans have craved.
 

a policeman arresting a fugitive
Greensboro, North Carolina, U.S.A., 2013
http://deadspin.com/giant-ass-runaway-pig-is-a-thing-to-behold-472662301

It’s the song that delights, it’s the song that desponds,
It’s the song of the present and past.
It’s the song we’ve been trying to sing, but we couldn’t,
That we all are now singing at last.

It’s the song of the chickens, the ducks and the bees,
It’s the song of the goats and the sheep.
It’s the song of the peasants and workers and see—
It is light, it is dark, it is deep.

Modern Slavery, 2013
https://www.youtube.com/user/walkfreeorg

It’s the song of the tribes that have vanished and those
That are seeing the end of their hope.
It’s the song of the dad who has taken to drink,
And the mom at the end of her rope.

It’s the song of the one who is hoping to die,
It’s the song of the struggle to live.
It’s the song of the wounded, in body or heart
Or in both, who has tried to forgive.

Alcoholism
http://zdorovyj-obraz.moy.su/publ/alkogolizm/3

It’s the song of the millet and barley and wheat,
It’s the song of the rice and the corn.
It’s the song of the seed that is springing to life,
It’s the song of the one that’s reborn.

It’s the song of the prey that is eaten alive,
It’s the song of the predator too.
It’s the song of the knowledge that they both are the same,
That I now have been singing to you.

It’s the songs of the beings, from the starting of time.
It’s the song of the things that are dead.
It’s the song of the courage that gives us our strength,
It’s the song of the feeling of dread.

Let us sing, let us sing, for we’ve only a while,
And then we’ll be singing no more.
Let us sing, let us sing. When we’re gone, they will smile
And sing like we did in their yore.

2015 August 26th, Wed., 10:48 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

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Note: To view the pictures as in a gallery, in a somewhat bigger and clearer format, please single-click on any image.  You can click on the thumbnails at the bottom to move through the gallery.  To return to this post, click on the white X in the black background to the gallery.  Thanks. -- Arjun
    

Tomar Ba~xir Xur—তোমার বাঁশির সুর—The Sound of Your Flute

 
Two Roman transcriptions are provided.  The first uses a scheme I had devised that follows the pronunciation rather than the standard spelling in the traditional script.  The second  is a machine transcription from http://google.com/translate.  I have lightly edited the second to remove those short a's that are not pronounced.  To learn how to pronounce the words using these two transcription schemes, please see:
 

• for the first, the preface to the post Bharot Xadhin—India's Freedom ;

• for the second, the note at the very end of the post Beside the Sea—Xagor Tire .           .  

A translation into English is also given, at the end of the current post.
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তোমার বাঁশির সুর

জীবনের সুখদুঃখের পথে,
কেঁদেও হেসেছি হাসি৷
শুনেছি নিকটে, দূরে,
তোমার বাজানো বাঁশি৷
  
যখনি এগিয়েছি পা,
ভেবেছি পেয়েছি প্রায়,
সংসার বলেছে, 'না!'
কখনো দেখিনি, হায়!
  
এসেছি পথের শেষে,
যুক্তি, শক্তি ছাড়া৷
তাও ত শুনছি দূরে
পুরোনো সুরের ধারা৷
  
***** 
       
জীবন ধরে, করেছি চাষ,
ডাকাত নিয়েছে ধান৷
রয়েছে কেবল, যতই দূরে,
তোমার বাঁশির গান৷
   
এই জীবনে হবেনা দেখা,
এই জীবনে, হায়!
তাও ত মর্ম, বাঁশির ডাকে,
তোমার খোঁজে যায়৷
      
দেহ মন মিশে যাবে যখন
বিশাল সমুদ্রের জলে,
ঢেউয়ের সাথে দুলব তখন,
তোমার বাঁশির সুরে৷ 
     
দুপুর ১:৪০, সোমবার, ১৩ই জুলাই, ২০১৫ খ্রি
বেন্সন্হার্স্ট, ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক
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Tomar Ba~xir Xur

Jiboner xukhdukkher po`the,
ke~deo hexechi haxi.
Xunechi niko`t’e, dure
tomar bajano baxi.

Jo`khoni egiechi pa,
bhebechi pe-echi prae,
xo`ngxar boleche, “Na!”
Ko`khono dekhini, hae!

Exechi po`ther xexe,
jukti, xokti char’a.
Tao to xunchi dure
purono xurer dhara.

******

Jibon dhore, korechi cax,
d’akat nieche dhan.
Roeche kebol, jo`toi dure,
tomar ba~xir gan.

Ei jibone ho`be na de`kha,
ei jibone, hae!
Tao to mo`rmo, ba~xir d’ake,
tomar kho~je jae.

Deho mon mixe jabe jo`khon
bixal xomudrer jo`le,
d’heuer xathe dulbo to`khon,
tomar ba~xir xure.

dupur 1:40, Xombar, 13i Julai, 2015 khri
Benso`nharst’, Bruklin, Niu Io`rk
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Tōmār Bām̐śir Sur

Jībanēr sukhduḥkhēr pathē,
kēm̐dē'ō hēsēchi hāsi.
Śunēchi nikaṭē, dūrē,
tōmār bājānō bām̐śi.

Yakhani ēgiẏēchi pā,
bhēbēchi pēẏēchi prāẏ,
sansār balēchē, 'nā!'
Kakhanō dēkhini, hāẏ!

Ēsēchi pathēr śēṣē,
yukti, śakti chāṛā.
Tā'ō ta śunchi dūrē
purono surēr dhārā.

*****

Jīban dharē, karēchi cāṣ,
ḍākāt niẏēchē dhān.
Raẏēchē kēbal, yata'i dūrē,
tōmār bām̐śir gān.
 
Ē'i jībanē habēnā dēkhā,
ē'i jībanē, hāẏ!
Tā'ō ta marma, bām̐śir ḍākē,
tōmār khōm̐jē yāẏ.

Dēha man miśē yābē yakhan
biśāl samudrēr jalē,
ḍhē'uẏēr sāthē dulba takhan,
tōmār bām̐śir surē .

dupur 1:40, Sōmbār, 13i Julā'i, 2015 khri
Bēnsanhārsṭ, Bruklin, Ni'uẏark
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The Sound of Your Flute

While walking on the road of life,
amid the joys and woes,
I’ve heard, from near and far, your flute,
and smiled through all my tears.

Whenever I have sought you,
thought I’d almost found you,
the world has told me, “Stay!”
and so we’ve never met.

I’ve reached the end of the road,
bereft of strength and wit.
But still, I hear, in the distance,
that ancient, dancing tune.
 
******

The robbers always took the grain
from the fields on which I worked.
Now all that I have left is this—
the singing of your flute.

I will not see you in this life—
not in this life, alas!
And yet your flute is calling and
my soul, it seeks for you.

When mind and body are dissolved
within the ocean vast,
I then will dance, amidst the waves,
to that song divine—at last.
 
2015, July 13, Monday, 1:40 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
 

Body, Soul and Spirit

 
Body, Soul and Spirit

The body needs its food and drink, its sunlight and its air.
It also needs the healing calm, the long and restful sleep.
But what is it the soul requires, which gives to us our life,
That ties us each to other and to spirit, coursing deep?

The soul can draw its sustenance from beauty and despair,
From watching all that rises up and arcs and then descends...
The body and the soul are linked, and each without the other
Returns again to lifelessness, as all that's vital ends...

And where in this is spirit, whose tendril is the soul?
Can the leaf perceive the twig, the branch, and even know the tree?
We dwell within our ignorance, within our prisons small,
And yet, there is the universe – and spirit – boundless, free.

Let all illusions fall away, and yet let us survive
The dazzling light that spirit is, that also is the dark.
For thunder loud can point to it, and fill us then with awe,
And yet it is a whisper soft, to which the gentle hark.

There is a world of space and time, of messages between,
Of atoms in their whirling dance, of sound and light and fire.
There also is another world – they're woven tight, the twain –
And that's the world that lies within, of thought and of desire.

It's little use to use the tints of one to paint the other.
We dwell within the two-fold worlds, and each affects its twin.
Our bodies bridge these worlds – and though we can't describe the soul,
It's that which knows.  It's spirit-stuff, and only it can sin.

2015 May 3rd, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York  
   

A Prayer-II

 
A Prayer-II
 
Let all the weight of history be shed, so we can live.
Let’s still recall that history, so all of us are free.
Let’s turn towards the spirit, away from all that’s vile,
Be freed from our compulsions, so each of us can see.

Let’s dwell within that being – that presence still, serene.
Let’s gather up our scattered parts, so each of us is whole.
Oh spirit that is everywhere and yet is nowhere seen,
We turn to you for sustenance of body and of soul.
   
2015 May 1, Fri
Brooklyn, New York
  

Amerindian—II

 
Amerindian—II 

Every region of the world has song –
be it of wind, of water, trees and birds –
or that of wolves – and humans, with their drums,
their flutes and zithers, rattles, horns and more –
or just their voices, raised in hymns and chants...

And now we've learned that whales have songs that ring
across the oceans, sounding through the deep…

But only in the Americas have I
discerned a rhythm strong and primitive –
perhaps in ancient times a common one
that then was masked by various overlays –
or else evolved on these two continents –
that cardiac rhythm of the single beat.

This underlies the music of the North
and of the South, persisting till today –
and even when the Andean pipers play,
I still can hear that strong primeval thump –
the beating heart that haunts these continents,
where most of those, who once had danced and sung
amid that sound have long been “disappeared”.

Amerigo Vespucci – he's the one
whose name now marks these realms and those who've come
across the oceans to these western lands.
How may tongues were here, before we came –
how many still are spoken in the South…

I hear the medicine-man,  I hear his wail –
I hear the wolf-like yelping of the braves…
And I also hear the stomping of the feet –
the heart that’s beating still, amidst defeat…

And in the powwow, as the dancers dance,
I listen – and I hear the beaten drums.
Those drums, those feet, those pipes are speaking – but
it’s when we’ll listen that we’ll understand.

For every corner of the Earth is blessed
or cursed with such a mix of things that it
alone possesses, though the Earth is one...

What names did they, who now are vanished, have
for these, the lands that stretch between the seas?
We cannot know – but still can hear that thump.

2015 March 14th, Sat. 11:55 pm
(last stanza added March 19th, Thu. 9:04 pm)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  
Please see also: 
  

• Spirits  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/12/spirits.html ) 
• Here Was My Village  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2011/05/here-was-my-village.html )
• Amerindian  ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2009/08/amerindian.html )  

Mystery

  
Mystery
 
“There once was a creator…” the myths of yore began,
“And then came the creation…” and so the stories ran.
But whence this said creator – and where she now is hidden,
Were questions sans an answer – and often were forbidden.

The fabric of the universe is a thing of change and flow
And yet there are the matrices, the substances and more.
So through the ages men and women asked themselves “Who did it?”
That mystery of Genesis persists, though some dismiss it.

For now we're told, "Creators – and creation too – is out."
So these are now forbidden.  We can question, we can shout –
But for doing so,  we’re punished – and we're banished, as of old.
There’s no burning or beheading – but we do as we are told.

And so our new religions replace the ones before.
But we wonder – are we clearer now or clouded even more?
There’s energy, there’s matter, there is space and there is time,
There is ignorance and knowledge – and these beings that can rhyme…
 
When the fabric was being woven, who was handling then the loom?
Was the weaving automated?  Was there no one in the room?
It’s the same for all creation, including you and I.
We wove ourselves together. Don’t ask me how or why.
 
And when you’d been assembled, so your parts were all in place,
There came to be this person, with a name and with a face.
But if I were to wander, from cell to cell within,
To look where you are hiding, I’d find there’s no one in.
 
“Is so and so within you?” I might ask a working cell.
And if that cell could answer, what story would it tell?
It does not know this person, of which it is a part.
And neither do your organs – your liver, brain or heart.
 
This "I" is thinking, typing – but where does it reside?
We say – “within a cranium” – but no one’s there inside.
A giant swarm of cells there is, and each is humming low,
But where, in this, the “I” is hid, who dares to say they know?
  
For how does “who” arise from “what”?  What makes the infant scream
Her “Me, me, me!” and thump her chest?  Are “I” and “you” a dream?
No border can be drawn indeed, no line in time or space,
Where I or you begin from naught or end without a trace.
 
And yet we’re each convinced of “I” and “you” and “he” and “she” –
The beings that appear to have the right to persons be –
In human form or animal, perhaps as plants as well –
Or robed as gods and goddesses that in our heavens dwell.
  
So surely, to dismiss the "I" and "you" and all the rest
As fictions mere, shows disrespect and may not be the best.
But then the question still remains – of what, this "I" and "you"?
Is “spirit” then the answer?  I will leave that knot for you.

But do not swallow answers pat – the old ones or the new.
There’s more in this than meets the eye – or so’s my humble view.
The question here is deep, I think – yet usually avoided.
It’s worth our while to think on it – and not to simply void it.
 
2015 January 19th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Cosmos

    
Cosmos
 
There was silence, there was singing, there was darkness, there was light.
There was waking, there was dreaming, there was danger and delight.
There was presence, there was absence, there was hoping and despair.
There was wounding, there was healing, there was damage and repair.

There was birth and there was dying, there was living in between.
There was pain and there was pleasure, there were things that were unseen.
There was tasting, there was scenting, there was feeling, there was heart,
There was mind and there was matter, there was science, there was art.

******
   
And all of this was there then, that is vanished now and gone,
In that world that we were born in, on that planet we were on.
What is left is still the spirit, that is waiting for rebirth
On a planet that is spinning, on its orbit, like the Earth.

On that planet, in the cosmos that is timeless, that is vast,
Will the beings there remember, what had happened in the past?
Will the harsher sides of Nature, will the horrors, will the wars
Be remembered or repeated – as on Venus, as on Mars?
 
******
   
Is there silence on the mountain, is there quiet in the dale?
In the forests that are lifeless, is there one to tell the tale
Of what happened on our planet, that is swinging ‘round its sun?
But hark – the wind is singing.  And listen – waters run.

In their time, the fields will blossom, and the valleys will be green.
And the lovers then will wander, in the seasons soft, serene.
They will gaze up at the planets, at the brightly shining moon.
It will happen, it will happen.  But it will not happen soon.

******
 
And who will be the beings that will couple in the dark?
Will the skies of day have fliers that will soar on high and arc?
Will the grazers then be tripeds that were never there before?
Will the oceans then have beings that have music, that have lore?
 
How wondrous is the cosmos that is spirit, that is dirt,
Where the stars are distant beacons and yet lovers gently flirt,
Where there’s naught that isn’t passing and where love and flowers bloom,
Where the beings rise and vanish, so that others may have room…
   
2014 October 30th, Thu., 3:01 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  

The Presence

  
The Presence
 
When trapped within a building, in the innards of a city,
I’ve seen, afar, a window – and, attracted by the light,
I’ve walked up to that window – and looked out at the sky.
And that for me was healing, although I knew not why.
 
In past peregrinations, in the course of work and life,
I’ve wandered in the wilderness, but mostly in the cities.
And while in urban gullies, where the laws abetted crime,
The trees and sky would beckon, as I mucked about in grime.
 
And pausing by a window – or while trudging home at dusk,
I’d see the tree-leaves moving – or I’d hear them rustling low.
And pausing then and looking – or listening to the sound,
I’d sense again that presence that links the sky to ground.
  
We’re each a part of Nature.  The tides and currents flow
Through minds and hearts and bodies.  They scour these vessels clean.
But when we’re isolated, from Nature and from men,
We’re each beset by demons and grow demented then.
  
The king within his palace, the prisoner in the jail,
The worker in her cubicle – can know a living death...
You can drive a man to madness, if you lock him in a cell.
Release him in the forest.  If he lives, he’ll soon be well.
 
2014 September 25th, Thursday (Jewish New Year)
Doctor’s office, Chinatown, Manhattan
----------------------------------------------------------------------- 
  
For a translation into Bangla (Bengali), please
see টের (T'er–Sense/Perception)
   

The Spirit Lives

    
The Spirit Lives
  
In desert lands, you see at night the stars –
And having seen, you know your place on Earth.
Where grasses wave, you see horizons far,
And seeing, you remember who you are.

And so, in every region of the Earth,
The spirit waits, for you to turn and see.
For you are spirit, just as you are dirt,
And so, in each, you find yourself – and worth.

For nothing that you do can raise you high
And nothing lower what’s your essence true.
For you are one with ocean, earth and sky –
And spirit lives, though mortal self will die.

You aren’t special, speck on speck of dust,
And yet you still perceive the universe.
You’re born to suffer, live and love and lust,
Not knowing why, in this immenseness thrust.

But when, with senses five, you know this world,
And with yet others, sense the infinite,
Then like the tiny plant, with leaf unfurled,
You humbly savor that, in which you’re hurled.

Is there a god that knows the reason why?
Some say there is – and worship their creator.
And others smile – and such a thing deny.
Who speaks the truth – and who repeats the lie?

I only know that each is like a cloud
That forms and changes shape and dissipates.
And yet, there’s more.  I cannot say it loud,
Nor whisper it – before I exit out.

2014 January 26th, Sun.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn