Moruddip-মরুদ্বীপ

মরুদ্বীপ

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

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

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

******

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

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

আবার যেনো শুনতে পেলাম— 
এই জগতের শ্বাস-প্রশ্বাস।

******

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

******

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

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

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

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

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

এমনই মঠে, বুদ্ধ ব’সে,
পেয়েছিল নির্বাণ।

ওহ্লোন পার্ক (হার্সট আর মাক্গী রাস্তার মোড়ের কাছে)
বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফোর্নিয়া
বুধবার, ৪ অক্টোবর, ২০২৩ খ্রিস্টাব্দ
(বাংলায় অনুবাদ: ৮ অক্টোবর)
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This is a translation, into Bengali, of the poem: Scattered Greens

The Scattered Greens

 
The Scattered Greens

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

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

****** 

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

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

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

Brooklyn at Dusk

Brooklyn at Dusk

It was mid-November, here at Brooklyn’s edge,
Where land and ocean meet—and city folk,
Returning home, can see the sky again.
And so I’d paused awhile, beside the door,
As I had done so many times before.

The day was ending and the air was chill.
The clouds had covered up the sky in grays.
I watched them moving, slowly, west to east.
The trees had very little left of leaves.
They stood outlined, with all their limbs revealed.

And as I watched, the light of day was drained
And in its place there came the gloom of eve.
I felt a sadness, yet I sensed a calm,
As all the hustle of the city ebbed—
And one by one I saw the stars again.

2018 November 20th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York
  

The Foghorn

The Foghorn

As the autumn ends, a foghorn blows
On a ship on New York Bay,
For the mist at sea has turned to fog,
As night replaces day.

And I at home can hear that sound—
A distant, rumbling moan—
And so am one with the ship at sea
That was, till now, unknown.

And from that ship I see the shore
With the fog-dimmed, twinkling lights,
As shipmates’ thoughts return to those
They had sadly left behind.

******
 
It moves upon the waters, dark;
It slows; it pauses, stops.
And the waters lap on the sides of the ship,
As they do on the distant rocks.

The lanterns shine on those waters and
On the fog that swirls around,
As the windows mist and there issues forth
That eerie blast of sound.

The autumn ends and the winter comes
And the fogs are forming still.
But the foghorn blows on New York Bay,
As time is standing still.

2018 November 2, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York

  

Bay Lights

Bay Lights

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

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

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

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

But city lights had hidden much. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that is still relief.

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

The Prints of Tiny Hooves

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The Prints of Tiny Hooves

 
There’s a fog that slides through Brooklyn,

like a mollusk or a seal,

with a scent in it of ocean

and a cold and clammy feel.

It’s an issue, from the water,

that is needed by the land,

as the trees of spring and autumn,

as they greet it, understand.

It slithers up the alleys

and it slips along the streets,

and it leaves its trails that glisten

on the twigs of leafless trees.

There’s a mist that wafts through Brooklyn

as the tides and seasons turn,

and it floats along the treetops

and it glows as streetlights burn.

It’s a child of air and ocean

that is welcomed by the tree

as it twists and spreads its branches

for this blessing from the sea.

It sweeps across the city

and it brushes past the roofs,

and it leaves, on what it touches,

the prints of tiny hooves.

There’s a child of air and ocean

that is visiting the land,

as the humans who are watching,

in the quiet, understand.

It’s a reaching out and touching

that is silent, cooling, soft.

It glances skin and surface

and then it wafts aloft.

It strokes and it caresses,

as the city’s lanterns  glow,

and it leaves its trail of kisses,

as the shining dewdrops show. 

There’s a thought that’s sad and smiling

that is shifting through my mind.

There’s a feeling that was angry

that is turning now to kind.

It’s a being from the ocean

that’s the mother of us all—

the well from which we’ve risen—

the deep to which we fall.

It’s a whisper in the silence,

It’s a glow within the night.

It will arc, before departing

with its streak of fleeting light. 

There are movements that are measured,

there are movements that are fast.

There’s the mist that’s drifting slowly,

there’s the “star” that’s flashing past.

There are touches that are forceful,

there are touches that are soft.

When the land and sea are mating,

then their couplings can be rough.

But their meetings could be gentle—

and so it is with all—

like the wave that rears and crashes—

and the fogs of spring and fall. 

2018 March 30th. Sat.

Brooklyn, New York 

The Ever Changing Sky

The Ever Changing Sky

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

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

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

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

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

Ablaze

Ablaze

At the solstice, as the summer sun
was fiercely beating on the city’s streets,
I stood beside the bus stop for a while
and then took shelter underneath a tree.

And from that shade I looked around and saw
that roads and sidewalks both appeared ablaze.

And yet, amidst the flames, the people stood
with squinted eyes and peered and craned their necks,
impatient for the bus and its cooling bliss—
an air-conditioned heaven, sent on wheels.

But when it came, the bus was crowded, with
a press of bodies, radiating heat—
the women with their curving flesh exposed,
the bearded Jews, perspiring in their suits,
and all the others, from around the world,
as if about to fuse from summer’s heat.
 
I stood and breathed the humid air and thought,
in time, I will be home and free from this.
 
There was no a.c. in our flat. The fan
was only in the kitchen, waiting, still.
But I could strip off all my sweaty clothes
and in my vest and shorts await the eve.
 
And with that thought in mind, I stood and swayed,
from time to time in touch with a neighbor’s skin,
as damp as mine and just as warm or more,
as Brooklyn's south passed by, by summer lit.
   
2015 June 23rd, Tue, around 3:45 to 4:15 pm
(returning home to Bensonhurst from grading NY State examinations at Grady High School in Brighton Beach, waiting first at the bus stop on Ocean Parkway and then riding on the B1 bus, which runs locally along Ocean Pkwy, Ave X and 86th Street) 
southwestern Brooklyn, New York
    

New Year’s Blessings?

 
New Year’s Blessings?
 
You ask for this, you ask for that.
I’ll intercede for you
With Her, who grants our wishes if
She thinks that they are due.
 
The New Year comes.  I wish you peace –
The peace and joy of heaven.
That doesn’t mean you first should die –
Let's hope you'll still be living.
 
I wish you that, which neither health
Nor all your friends can give.
That doesn’t mean you should be sick
Or friendless, though you live.
 
I wish you treasure, such as neither
Wealth nor wit can buy.
That doesn’t mean you should be poor
Or witless, ere you die.
 
And even more, I’d wish for you,
But She, who scans each line,
Has warned me, “Cease! Such blessings as
You give, the wise decline!”
  
So I should end my wishes here,
Except perhaps to note
That if you asked for happiness,
Then that would get my vote.
 
2014 December 31, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York