Planet

   

Planet

  

Upon this planet with its blues and greens,

Its many shades of browns and other hues,

And all the other sights that daylight brings—

That ever changing light, from dawn to dusk,

With shadows stark on golden afternoons,

With clouds and peaks of white against the blues—

  

Yes, all of this and all the night’s delight,

With planets, moon, and stars and galaxy

Revealed for those afar from urban glare—

Upon this planet I have lived and seen

These wonders—glowing, timeless and serene—

Or so it seemed, amidst the constant flux

That marks our lives upon this spinning Earth. 

 

I’m grateful, yes, for all these sights I’ve seen—

For all the solace from the blues and greens

And other visions that remain with me

Of this, our planet, till I cease to be.

  

Amidst the madness, these have kept me sane.

Amidst the heartless, these have nourished me—

As have the actions and the care of those

Who see beyond the self and see within. 

  

These give me light and hope, amidst the sin

And all the darkness of the world we’re in.

These give me faith—and give me courage still. 

   

2026 January 19th, Mon.

Berkeley, California  

 

 

 

Joar Bhat'ar T'ane-জোয়ার ভাটার টানে

 
জোয়ার ভাটার টানে

ভোরের সাথে আশা আসে, 
সাঁঝের সাথে যায়। 
এই জীবনের জোয়ার ভাটায় 
ভাসছি কেবল, হায়!

ওই যে দূরের ডাঙ্গার দিকে 
সাঁতার কেটে যাই। 
তবুও দেখি, স্রোতের জোরে, 
হচ্ছি কাবু, ভাই।

চেষ্টা ছেড়ে, ভাসছি, ওরে, 
জোয়ার ভাটার টানে। 
রয়েছে জীবন, তাই যে কিছু 
সান্তনা পাই গানে।

শনিবার, ৩ অগাস্ট, ২০২৪ খ্রি.
বার্ক্লি, কালিফোর্নিয়া

Backyard in the Northern Summer

 
Backyard in the Northern Summer

The backyard’s long remained untouched,
Except by cats, raccoons,

Whose paths are marked by grasses bent
Beneath, beside the trees.

The many shades of green ascend
Towards a sky of blue.
The sun is almost overhead
And bathes us with its brilliance.

****** 

In tropic climes, the summers could 
Be times of misery. 
In northern lands, we welcome them
For the blessings summers bring— 

Relief from winter's cold and dark,
Relief from snow and rain—
A chance to see the sunshine and
To feel its warmth again. 

****** 

And there, within the dappled shade
Where weeds and grasses grow,
The breeze is moving shadows, leaves
Amidst the green and coolth. 

Little beings shelter there,
Living out their lives.
And some are roused, and others sleep,
As sun traverses sky. 

****** 

A life of work and hurried haste,
Of rarely seeing the sky,
And now—this languor in the sun
In a backyard, wild, untended— 

Where hummingbirds at times are seen
And squirrels, jays compete,    
And one can savor bits of peace, 
While aged and in defeat. 

2024 July 15th, Tue.
Berkeley, California

  Tap image to see in larger size.  

Use Esc or back arrow to return.

These backyard photos were taken on 2024 Aug 6, about 3 weeks after the writing of the text. In between, the grass had been cut and the bigger wild plants pulled out. So the backyard had finally received some tending.  I had also been washing, drying and sunning bed clothes in preparation for visitors. 

Rat pohalo-রাত পোহালো

 
রাত পোহালো
.
রাত পোহালো। প্রথম আলোয়,
ঘুম ভেঙ্গেছে মোর। 
জানালা দিয়ে বাইরে দেখি— 
কুয়াশা ভরা ভোর।
.
ছোট্ট পাখির ডাক শোনা যায়। 
মানবো আহবান। 
ঘরের থেকে বেরিয়ে আমি 
ক’রবো প্রাতের পান।
.
মুখটা ধুয়ে, চটিটা পড়ে, 
বেরই ভোর সকালে।
এই স্মৃতিটা আসলো ফিরে, 
শুষ্ক বৃদ্ধকালে।
.
রক্ত ঢেলে সূর্য ওঠে,
ক্রমশ হয় স্বর্ণ। 
রবির আলোর ছোঁয়ায় জ্বলে 
নারীর মুখের বর্ণ।
.
রাতের শিশির দিনের রোদে 
হচ্ছে ক্রমে হাওয়া। 
ফুলের পাপড়ি দুলছে খুলে। 
ভৃঙ্গের আসা-যাওয়া।
.
এত বছর বাদেও আবার 
আসছে ফিরে স্মৃতি। 
ঋতুর যেমন চক্র, তেমন 
মনের আপন রীতি।
.
বুধবার, ১৭ এপ্রিল, ২০২৪ খ্রি.  
বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফোর্নিয়া 
.

Delight

  
Delight

Every season has its flavor,
Every time of day its own.
Each has been my friend and savior,
When I’ve wandered, all alone.

Though I’ve always been a loner,
Once with books but now with none,
When I’ve stepped outside a dwelling,
I have rarely felt I’m one.

Earth and sky have sent their greetings,
Trees and clouds and slanting sun.
I have watched their swifter changes
And their seasons, one by one. 

****** 

The world within us and the one
Around us pulse with rhythmic flows.
So the daily, monthly cycles.
So the year that comes and goes.

When, at dawn, the sun arises,
Hope awakens, gives us life.
When, at dusk, the night advances,
Souls retire from stress and strife.

So the seasons come and go—
Summer sun and winter snow—
The smile of spring, the mellow autumn—
Each in time within the flow. 

2023 November 2nd, Thu. 
Berkeley, California 

Times and Seasons

Times and Seasons
 
Our dawns were then like rising tides,
Our dusks were gentle ebbs—
And every time of day had moods,
Reflected in our minds.
 
******
 
Our days and nights were full of hope,
As joy was in the air.
Though suffering was all around,
We did not then despair.
 
The times have changed and we have aged,
Yet dawns and dusks proceed—
And seasons come and seasons go
Of sun—and fear and greed.
 
Our days have darkened and our nights
Are not of restful sleep.
We slide towards the precipice
And glimpse the waiting deep.
 
******
 
The seasons of our lives, once lived,
Do not return again.
And so, while still in fading light,
The darkness is embraced.
 
2022 June 24^th, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York

Autumn Night

Autumn Night

The leaf is dry. It skitters down the drive—

A sound that breaks the silence of the night

And wakes us then to all the softer sounds

That come to being, once we pause to hear.

And so I listen to the swoosh of trees,

The traffic on a distant city street,

A tap upon a flagpole—and the breath 

That’s barely heard and yet sustains this life.

I’d swept the yard and driveway, stopped to rest, 

And heard the leaf and felt the evening chill—

And sitting now and looking at the sky,

I think of all our transience and our dreams.

And from that sky, the baleful eye of Mars

Looks down upon us all and seems to say,

“Your autumn comes and you and I are near

And yet you’re just as foolish as in spring.

“And I will move away and come again

And see some others in your place and then

Some others still and others yet again—

But never any end to foolishness.”

I listen to the wind that plays with trees

And hear a neighbor and his son converse—

For just a bit—and then that wind again

And yet another lonely, scuttling leaf.

So autumn comes and Mars and Earth have neared 

For just a while and then will part again.

And some will play at wars and others then

Will tend the wounded. So it always is.

And even Ares sickens of the game—

Or so it seems, as plagues and autumns reap.

But now my sweeping and my rest are done.

I’d like to linger, but I must go in.

2020, October 8th, Sat.,

Brooklyn, New York

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

  

So Is It Spring?

So Is It Spring?

We see the tulips, so we know that this
Is springtime, though the winter tarries still.
And here's a tree that dresses now in white—
And down the street, another, blushing pink.
And others yet are still without their leaves,
But spread their twigs to taut, expectant buds—
Or tiny leaflets, shyly peeking out.

And seeing all of this, we know that spring
Is here, though winter works its stubborn will—
So nights are close to freezing and we wear
Our heavy garments, huddled, to our work.

And here and there, on bushes evergreen,
We see the newest leaves, in varied hues
And backlit glory, as they rise and glow
Like votive candles, in the afternoons—
And so, from this and more, we know that spring
Is with us, though the winter does not leave.

So children now are playing in the streets.
And in the parks, the squirrels peek from trees
And little birds are chirping, “This is spring!”,
As mothers wheel their still well-bundled kids.

****** 

  

The season stays and tries to work its will,
As nights are crisp and close to freezing still,
So weather men and women talk of snow
As April's done and May is at our door—
And out in Minnesota all is white,
For winter, peeved, is venting still its spite—
But here in Brooklyn we are sensing spring,
And fancies, like the birds, are taking wing.

“But is it spring?” we ask, and wonder why
The winter, old like us, will still not die,
But lingers, as we do, although our times
Are up, and all that's left—are weary rhymes.

So leave, old winter, leave—and take us too—
For spring is here to drive us out—with you.

2018 April 21, Sat.
Bensonhurst Park
Brooklyn, New York

Bensonhurst Park, Brooklyn, New York. 2018 April 21 Sat.
(On a good computer screen, click on the image for a better view.)

   

Morning in the Mountains

Morning in the Mountains

When the mists of night are rising
From the valleys to the hills
And the morning sun is shining
As the eagles take to wing,
Then the children wake from slumber
As the mother lights the fire—
And they rise from bed and shiver
As the birds of morning sing.

The peaks on high are glowing
And their colors change to white.
They shine as clouds surround them
And the shadows dance with light.
It is morning in the mountains
As the sun has chased the night.

2018 March 3rd, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York  

Faith-II

Faith-II

A face of beauty, like a flower’s bloom,
is but a passing thing that brings us joy
and then remains awhile in memory.
A heart of beauty—that of selfless love—
is what endures and gives to life its grace.

And though we each are like a blowing cloud
that rises and dissolves, we still can live
our lives in love—and so in partial peace,
however much the winds of hatred howl,
as tortured lives cry out for their release.

Let’s light our lamps, as sunset turns to dusk,
and through the darkness, as the planets wheel,
then guard those flickers, till it’s time to sleep.
And if we’ve tried to cleanse ourselves of sins,
our slumber might be restful, long and deep.

And when we wake, it’s then another day,
with trials old and new—and yet with hope.
Amidst despair, we still can try to be
aware of all the wonder of this world—
where cruelty and kindness coexist.

2017 July 2nd, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
------------------------------------------------------

Related:  Faith ( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2017/07/faith_30.html )

  

Dawn and Dusk-III

Dawn and Dusk-III 

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

   

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

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

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

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

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

  

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

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

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

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

  

Companions

 
Companions

It was past the midnight hour
when I noticed they were there—
my ghostly twin companions—
and they gave me quite a scare.

I was walking in the park then,
with these beings by my sides.
They lengthened, twinned and faded
and then strengthened with my strides.

They were shadows from the lamplights,
they were shadows from the moon.
They were shadows that were absent
when I’d walked about at noon.

They were beings of the nighttime
that would suddenly appear.
They would change in length and darkness
and then fade and disappear.

******
 
And in time I grew accustomed
to their presence, and I thought—
they are kin to me, these shadows,
in the dance of maya caught.

For the self that I have treasured
is a shadow in the dance,
projected, of a being
that is also in a trance.

And that being is a shadow
of the being that has cast
its figure on the streaming
that is future, present, past.

Or so I speculated,
as I walked with shadow-mates,
as they also might have wondered
on their origins and fates.

******
 
One may question if a shadow
could be sentient, but I ask—
are we owners of our sentience
or the fabric of its mask?

We are digits in a sequence
that will never have an end.
We may point to a beginning,
but we only can pretend.
 
We are shadows of the shadows
of the shadows of yet more.
There are shadows that will follow
and the ones that went before.

It was past the midnight hour
when the shadows spoke to me,
in the silence of the nighttime,
of the things we cannot see.
 
2016 October 15th, Sat. 12:48 am
Bensonhurst Park, Brooklyn, New York
(last five stanzas added October 18th, Tue.)
   

A Turning Point

 
A Turning Point

To bed at eve, to rise at dawn,
Has been our simian custom long,
That’s so entwined with body-mind
That no one sane had deemed it wrong.

But then we had the burning branch
That warmed us in the colder clime,
And even when the sky grew dark,
Could light an hour of waking time.

And then, with lamps of wax and oil,
And next, with lightning run through wire
Or gas that glowed and more, we learned
To sleep and wake in ways that tire.

And so with me.  On weekends and
On holidays, my cycles shift:
I sleep at dawn; on afternoons,
I rise.  I drop, when I should lift.

I stare at glowing screens at night.
I blink in daylight’s sudden glare.
And mouthing verses in the park,
I shiver in the midnight air.

But this has left me tired and weak—
And more and more, I realize
That such nocturnal episodes,
Repeated, might be far from wise.

******

And recently there came a night,
In which it seemed I’d lost my mind.
And yet it was a turning point,
The kind we seek—but rarely find.

Throughout the night, the storm winds blew—
And yet the rain was scattered, scant.
At dawn, the sun—and shining dew—
Had made me pause, amidst my rant.
 
For there were voices in my mind—
And conflicts, till I saw that sight.
And then, a silence fell—a peace,
As one should feel at start of night.

I then resolved to change my ways—
To go to bed at eve and wake
At dawn—on weekends, holidays—
For sanity’s and mercy’s sake.

So now, I’ll sight the morning star
And dim my lights at eventide.
I’ll surely struggle still, but then
I’ll have those rhythms on my side.

They’ll give me back the strength I’ve lost.
They’ll give me rest and sanity.
I hope I'll view the world anew,
With more of faith and charity.

2016 September 29th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
    

The Light upon the Bench

    
The Light upon the Bench 
 

While walking ‘round the circle in the park,
with midnight passed, and walking all alone,
the lamps that lined the path had blinded me.

I could not see the stars and clouds above.

But walking on, with emptiness of mind,
I saw the light reflected from a bench.

And though the slats were wood,
they seemed to shine
like metal—and the sight reminded me
of walks before, beside the moonlit sea.

2016 August 29th Mon, 1:28 am
Brooklyn, New York 
       
The Light upon the Bench—Pictures (5)
    

The Gibbous Moon

an image posted by A.K. Entingh

Dear reader,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Gibbous Moon
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do correct me if I am wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Morning in Berea

Note: To see the images in this post in a somewhat larger and clearer format, please single-click on any one image. Then use either your keyboard's right and left arrow keys or click on the thumbnails to view the other images in turn. Captions will not be visible.

To return to this post and read the captions and text, please  click on the white X near the top right of the dark background.  Pressing the Esc (escape) key might also return you to this post.
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P.S.  I will search for the credits and links to the images that are currently missing those, and add them later.

Note that the images after the end of the verses and in the notes that follow are not directly related to Berea or Kentucky. They are related, instead, to a phrase (Crees and Cajuns) and a word (Appalachians) used in the verses.
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Morning in Berea

Morning in Berea, Kentucky
https://www.instagram.com/p/BIZ56GZhHSX/

Ah mountains, I have dreamed of ye,

that rose like isles from a feathered sea.

The distance clad your waves in blue,

and nearer ye were green in hue.

And when the mists rose up at morn,

that soul that now is mine was born

that keeps that treasure, in its heart,

revealed by sun and nature's art.

  

Those mountains, in my dreams, I see,
that rose like isles from a cloudy sea.
The distance draped their waves in blue,
and  nearer they were green in hue.

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

To Cecil, Deborah and Sharla I say,

"My thanks for the 'likes' that you gave me today,

  but Cecil had posted those mountains of blue—

and writing my verses was all I could do."
   

******

Early winter sky, Newfound Gap Road, by Kristina Plaas
Great Smoky Mountains National Park
Sing to Me        ভোরের আশার গান

Morning Glory, Haywood County North Carolina
http://vacationorholiday.blogspot.com/2009/03/north-carolina.html

Noah (Bud) Ogle Homeplace, built late 1880's, Roaring Fork Motor Trail,
Great Smoky Mountains, by L.D. Coffey
LD Coffey Pics     https://www.facebook.com/ldcoffeypics

View from Blue Ridge Parkway, autumn

So I thank you all kindly for the “likes” for the verse,

though my use of the "ye" made it worse. 

I have tried to rewrite it, so the gods will not smite it,

as I'm stuck with the scrivener's curse.

For the lines that I scribble--they often are drivel,

but at times they have sound and have sense.

So I'll scribble my drivel, but then I will quibble,

and erase and rewrite what I'd scribbled.

The lines that I write are written despite

what my reason might tell me is right,

for Ms. Muse is dictating, and I merely am writing,

and often not hearing her right.

But then she will tap me and gently correct me

or give me a slap and a scold.

And then I will grumble—but slowly or swiftly

I'll do as Ms. Muse might direct me.

******
  

When Cecil posts pictures of the blue Appalachians,

or those of ancestors of Crees or of Cajuns,

I feel in my heart then a singing and so

I type then that song as my drivel and go.

  

2016 August 6th, Sat.

Brooklyn, New York

Cree encampment

Cree boatwomen
http://usclibstore.usc.edu/Edward-Sheriff-Curtis/The-North-American-Indian-V-18

Cree couple in front of tepee (tipi)

Souwangesheick and his squaws, Cree Indians

Cree man
http://usclibstore.usc.edu/Edward-Sheriff-Curtis/The-North-American-Indian-V-18

Cree woman

Cree man

Cajun house and a tree, by Floyd Sonnier
https://www.floydsonnier.com/

Cajun cafe and a tree, by Floyd Sonnier
https://www.floydsonnier.com/

Back porch waltz, by Floyd Sonnier
https://www.floydsonnier.com/

La Boucherie Des Cajuns (the Cajuns' butcher shop/meat cooking?), by Floyd Sonnier
https://www.floydsonnier.com/

Cajun boy and girl in Mobile County, Alabama

James Carville, canny and vocal political consultant,
known as "the Ragin' Cajun".  He is from Louisiana, as
is quite evident from his speech, but  he may not be of
Cajun descent.

Acadian to Cajun

http://www.medschool.lsuhsc.edu/genetics_center/louisiana/article_cajunhistory.htm

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Notes on "Morning in Berea"

 

A) Connection to Berea, Kentucky
  

Mu Facebook friend Cecil has been living in Kentucky for a very long time.  I had first "met" him on Facebook via a cousin of mine, who had also been in Kentucky for a while, during and after her college years. She had followed another cousin to college in Berea, in eastern Kentucky (part of Appalachia).  She had subsequently lived for some years, deep in the wooded hills of Kentucky, in an isolated cottage not reachable then by road.  She had bravely lived there--without modern utilities and conveniences, while still enjoying the wilds.

Of course, other than the pictures of the mountains and some references to them in the verses, those who have actually lived in Berea or other parts of Kentucky might find little in this post that relates to their lives and experiences there.

Do feel free to add these and other things and thoughts in the comments, at the end of the post.
 
-- Arjun
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B) Context for the verses

I was a latecomer to Facebook, but I have been spending a bit too much time on it lately--mostly "sharing" posts that I think merit this for various reasons, and also commenting on some posts, occasionally lapsing into verse in my comments.

Cecil had recently posted a picture of blue-green mountains, rising from the mist, taken in Berea, Kentucky.  Seeing it, I wrote the first two stanzas above--as a comment to his Facebook post. Subsequently, I added a third stanza, which was a repeat of the first, but with the archaic "ye" replaced.

Soon after, I wrote, in a follow-up comment,  some rhymed notes of thanks to Cecil and to some others who had read the verses and "liked" them on Facebook.  I also apologized for my acquired habit of fussing over my verses--by revisiting them and trying to "fix" them.

I have now combined those two versified Facebook comments and and have posted them together, here (above) at the Daily Poet blog, as "Morning in Berea". 

    

I  have included, at the start of the verses, that photograph of the mountains, taken from Berea, that Cecil had posted on Facebook. I have also added, after that, some more images from the Appalachians as well as some images pertaining to Amerindians. Both of these are often the subject of Cecil's Facebook posts.
------------------------
   
C) Crees and Cajuns

I should note, however, that neither the Crees nor the Cajuns, whose faces, figures and dwellings are pictured here, were residents of the Applachians at the times of the photographs and sketches.  The Cree happen to be one of the largest surviving Amerindian tribes. They were found, in historical times, to be mainly living in the region from Lake Superior westwards. But most of the survivors are now stretched over Canada, with some Crees still left in Montana.

The Cajuns are mainly of "mixed blood"--as are we all, come to think of it. So it might not be correct to refer to them as "Amerindians." Indeed, they are mostly descended from French and other European settlers in Acadia, a French colony in northeastern North America, which later became part of eastern Canada and northern Maine (the most northeastern U.S. state).

The Acadians, who were mainly Catholics, faced persecution, imprisonment and deportation after British victories in the northeast.  Many fled south to Louisiana--at that time a Spanish colony.  Both while in Acadia and after resettling in Louisiana,  they intermarried with local Amerindians and others. Their common speech used to be, until quite recently, a distinct form of French.

But anyone who has tasted Cajun cuisine will note the influence of Amerindians and also perhaps of Africans.
------------------------

D) Appalachians and Appalachia

I have used the term "Appalachians" here as shorthand for the "Appalachian Mountains".  The main spine of these mountains begins in eastern Canada.  It then runs roughly southwest along much of the eastern U.S., mostly parallel to the Atlantic coastline, and ends in the southeastern U.S. state of Alabama.

Long ago, when these mountains were younger, they were as high as the Rockies are now.  Over the eons, they have been weathered down to their current much lower heights.

The main spine of the Appalachian Mountains
http://nowiknow.com/the-mystery-of-the-appalachian-bend/

Great Appalachian Valley
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Appalachian_Mountains

The term "Appalachian" may also be used to refer to a resident of Appalachia--a hilly region, with some distinct cultures, that spans part of the Appalachian mountain chain and runs from New York State through western parts of most of the mid-Atlantic states to areas in the Carolinas, Georgia, Alabama and Mississippi.  All of West Virginia is in Appalachia. The eastern parts of  Ohio, Kentucky and Tennessee lie in the western section of this region.

  

Appalachian region of the United States
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Appalachia