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

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

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
  

Beloved, Where Are You?

Beloved, Where Are You?

The sun is warm upon the skin,
The sky is blazing blue,
And I am walking in the sun
And thinking still of you.

The little birds are chirping as
They fly from tree to tree,
And feelings, long held captive, now
Are rising, wild and free.

The winter has departed and
The spring is here to stay.
It seems that we were walking in
The spring, but yesterday.

The trees are dancing in the breeze,
As they had danced before.
But you, who’d stood and smiled at these,
Are now with us no more.

The greens of newborn leaves are flames
That rise towards the blue.
The sky and earth are singing—yet,
Beloved, where are you?

2018 May 24th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
---------------------------------------------------

Note: Any connections that such hinted romances may have with the scribe's own life (which has been mostly ordinary and unromantic) are tenuous at best. 
  

As Trees Stood Waiting

As Trees Stood Waiting

As Winter neared its end, I saw a tree,
Denuded, waiting patiently for Spring,
With limbs outstretched towards the white and blue
And towards that sun in which the trees delight.

It was the sun that whispers of the time
When roads will shimmer in the summer's heat,
And leaves will flutter as the branches sway
In pleasant breezes blowing from the sea.

And as I stood and squinted at the sky,
I saw the balance and the grace in trees,
Whose trunks and branches reach towards the light,
As roots we cannot see dig downward, deep.

I looked awhile in wonder and in awe
At this—this beauty on the city's street,
And then resumed my walking towards the train,
As trees stood waiting, near to Brooklyn's shore.

2018 April 9th, Mon. afternoon
D train from Brooklyn to Manhattan
 

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 

Te~tuler Acar—তেঁতুলের আচার—Tamarind Chutney

 
Tamarind Chutney
  
The pods of the tamarind fruit are hanging from the tree.
Do you remember the taste of the tamarind chutney?
Grandmother made it.  It tasted sour and sweet.
She’s long gone.  No more of that for us.

2016 November 1st, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
---------------------------------------------------
 
Tetu~ler Achar

Gacher theke jhulche de`kho, tetul pho`ler d'a~t'a.
Mone po`re, chot'o be`lar tetuler acar ca~t'a.
To`k-mixt'i xad chilo tar, banano t'hakurmar.
O`nek bo`chor, ge`chen uni. Nai ko acar ar.

Xombar, 1 la Nobhembo`r, 2016 Khri
Bruklin, Niu Io`rk
---------------------------------------------------
 
তেঁতুলের আচার

গাছের থেকে ঝুলছে দেখো, তেঁতুল ফলের ডাঁটা৷
মনে পড়ে, ছোটোবেলার তেঁতুলের আচার চাঁটা৷
টক মিষ্টি স্বাদ ছিল তার, বানানো ঠাকুরমার৷
অনেক বছর, গেছেন উনি৷ নাই কো আচার আর৷

সোমবার, ১লা নভেম্বর, ২০১৬ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক
---------------------------------------------------
 
Tētulēra Ācāra

Gāchēra thēkē jhulachē dēkhō, tēm̐tula phalēra ḍām̐ṭā.
Manē paṛē, chōṭōbēlāra tēm̐tulēra ācāra cām̐ṭā.
Ṭaka miṣṭi sbāda chila tāra, bānānō ṭhākuramāra.
Anēka bachara, gēchēna uni.  Nā'i kō ācāra āra.

Sōmabāra, 1 la Nabhēmbara, 2016 Khri
Brukalina, Ni'u'iẏarka 

  

Autumn Afternoon

Autumn Afternoon

The summer should have ended. It is now mid-September, but the warmth remains. It’s only in the early mornings that we feel at times the season’s warning chill.

The memory of winter, faded through the year, revives. The laxness of the summer’s days is now replaced by tightening. The reaper comes, although the trees and all resist.

An autumn afternoon, within the park: the sun is slanting through the leafy trees; it could be summer, but the heat is gone, the shorts are scarce—and the grounds are strewn with leaves.

The adults and the children stroll and play—as elders, on the benches, contemplate. The sky is bright, although the sun swings low. The grass has faded from the lack of rain.

A breeze stirs up the dust. It’s lit by sun that falls, in shafts, upon the yellowed grass beneath the trees. Those trees are mostly green, with just a few that now are losing leaves.
 
The days have shortened. Soon, the sun will set. Then all the lamps that line the path around the central lawn will glow, as dusk descends—and children leave the park to those like me.

2016 September 17th, Sat., 6:20 pm
Bensonhurst Park, Brooklyn, New York 
(2nd & 4th stanzas added Sep. 18th)
 

A Bit of Peace

A Bit of Peace

The rain had ended when I reached the house.
I entered then the paved and fenced-in yard—
a little rectangle, before the stairs,
that then was strewn with wet and yellowed leaves.
And there, upon a wooden bench that still
was damp from rain, I sat and ate my lunch—
my store-bought sandwich halves of bread and cheese,
while sipping coffee from a paper cup,
my dollars paid—for just a bit of peace.

The fence was low and made of bars and curves
of iron, painted black but rusted through.
It offered no obstruction to the view
of houses and a street with lines of trees
that then were shedding leaves as fall approached
but still were clothed in waving foliage.
They soared in all their grace and majesty,
as shades of gray and white and hues of blue
were backdrops to the dances of the trees.

The tree across the pavement from the yard
rose up and arced against the clearing sky.
It seemed to be as old as me—or more.
And if the storms and humans spared it, then
it surely would outlive my span—and so
another, after I am gone, might sit
and eat his lunch and gaze at tree and sky,
upon this bench or on the stairs, at peace,
and like me, wonder—whither, whence and why.

2016 September 1st, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
  

The City’s Trees

 
The City’s Trees
 
The city’s trees are beautiful.
They comfort, through the year,
The harried folk who’re passing by
And chance to stop and see.

******

In spring, their tender leaves appear
And some are lit by blooms.
In summer, dressed in richest greens,
They shimmer in the sun.

In autumn, as they shed their leaves,
They blaze in many hues.
In wintertime, they’re stripped and bare
And yet are clothed in grace.

We see their twisting symmetry—
The balance in the dance.
We marvel at their nudity
Beneath the winter sky.

******
 
That winter sky can be as gray
Or clear as mind and soul.
All winter long, the trees will stand
As clouds go floating by.
 
The clouds are changelings and we too
Are changing, day by day.
The trees are slower beings, yet
They dance, as humans age.

We wait for spring and so do they—
For spring will surely come.
And summer then will follow soon—
And autumn in its time.

******
 
The seasons come, the seasons go—
And in the city’s streets
The workers rush about—and some
Find comfort in the trees.

2015 December 19th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York 
     

March Encounter

 
March Encounter

So March has end, with hints of better days.
The twigs are taut with buds, but winter stays.
For though the city streets were washed by rain,
There’s snow that’s coming – so the forecast says.

I see an elder, trudging down the road.
He's stooped by winter and his heavy load.
I look at him, as in a reverie,
And I am him, in a transcendental mode.

He walks the streets and sees the buds and dreams
That winter’s gone, with all its harsh extremes,
And gentle spring is here, with smiling warmth...
So glaciers thaw and turn to babbling streams…

He bears his memories still of winters past
And wondrous summers that had faded fast.
And in his autumn now, he's walking slow
And wondering if this March will be his last...
 
But what is that, which sits within his head,
Where naught should be but there is snow instead,
Compacted into ice, and sullied, dark,
Awaiting spring, but still encased in dread?
 
I look away, for such a tie can lead
To knowledge that is misery indeed...
Let winter leave and spring arrive in haste,
So plants and beasts can have the warmth they need.

2015 March 29th, Sun.
(4th stanza added April 1st, Wed.)
Brooklyn, New York
  

Decompression

  
Decompression
 
When you’re hassled and you’re harried,
And you’ve hurried through the day,
And you’re seeking salve or solace
That will soothe your stress away –
  
Then it’s time to get a cuppa –
As the British like to say –
Or a coffee or a tipple
That will end your working day.
  
But be timid with the tipple
That might lead to two or three,
And be cautious with the coffee,
If of “nerves” you would be free.
  
It is better, after resting,
With your feet up, with a tea,
To go walking, as if leisure
Were a right for you and me.
    
And if you’re in a city,
And to stand and stare is safe,
There are people, who are passing,
And the stores, at which to gape.
    
And there’s even in the alleys
The ever-changing sky –
And if, perchance, you’re lucky,
There are branches, spreading high…
   
2014 October 30th, Thu.
Dunkin Donuts, 79th Street & 17th Ave.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
 

The Winter Comes – II

 
The Winter Comes – II
 
We age, we falter, lose our strength and die.
And some of us may idly wonder why.
But each of us, in this, have little choice –
These truths persist – that many would deny.
 
And some escape, awhile, the costs of age,
And when they see they can’t, they’re filled with rage –
And others may accept them, noting death
And all that comes before, with mindsets sage…

The leaf will yellow, wither then and fall –
And death, in time, will issue each its call,
For everyone that’s born, in turn, will die –
So aging, sickness, death, await us all…

While walking slowly once beside the sea,
I entered in a sort of reverie –
And thought I heard a voice, speaking low…
And this is what that spirit said to me –

“Oh live the life you’re given and rejoice,
Be grateful for your blessings, giving voice
To gratitude – in speech and in your deeds,
For in these things we still have each a choice.”

I listened then – and ever since, I’ve tried,
Despite the blow, despite the chance denied
That came so many times, to me and those
I knew and loved, to still be gratified…

For death has never held for me, the dread
That others might perceive in it, and yet
So many things are still unkempt and will,
I know, remain undone when I am dead.

And those, for whom the winds of chance have laid,
On me, a duty, though I’m disarrayed –
I would not leave them prey to woes that I,
By minding duty, could perhaps have stayed…

We age, we sicken, lose our health, descend,
As others then neglect or condescend...
And some, perhaps, might lend a helping hand –
Or not.  We struggle, lonely, till the end.

But walking on the street, in autumn, I
Can see the leaves, that one by one, will die,
Upon the trees – and strewn along the street.
Who grieves for them?  And who dares wonder why?

The conifers are green throughout the year.
With antifreeze evolved, they need not fear
The seasons cold.  But even they will pass  –
And who, for a fallen pine, will shed a tear?

Ah – life and death, like yang and yin entwined…
Who knows, whence life arises, whence the mind –
And where they go, when autumn’s winds have blown?
The winter comes. Take solace – and be kind…

For when we’re gone, the freezing winds will blow
And cover then the remnant leaves with snow.
But in its time, there’ll also be the spring –
And little birds will sing, as grasses grow…
 
2014 October 26th, Sun., 2:12 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  

Urban Epiphany

    
Urban Epiphany
    
On exiting the school, he saw the sky
And then the row of tall, majestic trees
That lined the street, beside the football field.
He stood and quietly looked awhile at these.
 
He saw – the trunks that dwarfed the ones like him,
The mighty arms outspread – as tentacles
That reached towards the light for nourishment,
The branches, twigs – the leaves, by autumn crisped…
 
He stood and stared awhile, and went his way,
A little being, walking to his nest,
Humbled by the trees – that would remain,
When he and those he knew were memories…
  
He trudged along, a weary working man
Who trundled home his workload for the eve.
And in the concrete “park”, he stopped to sit
And pen these lines and slowly sip his tea.
  
And as he writes of what he saw and felt,
The sky has darkened much. The traffic lights
Are flashing yellow, red and green –
And silhouettes are heading home, like him...
  
On reaching home, he’ll sit and type these lines
And post them in the ether, there to stay
Awhile, be read, perhaps, then fade away –
As even trees are lost, like men and leaves…
   
2014 October 21st, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York
  

The Graceful Dead

  
The Graceful Dead
 
While walking up a road today, that still was lined with green,
I saw a tree, for which the fall had come, that stood serene.
It soared, aflame, it seemed, against the clouded autumn sky,
In glory, clad in leaves – that one by one would fall and die.
 
And now, I take in hand my pen, recalling, as I scribe,
How many were the colors, which I scarcely can describe –
The fading greens, the yellows, pinks, the many shades of red –
The colors of those aging leaves, which soon would all be dead…
 
And when I walked below that tree, I saw the fallen leaves
On sidewalk, street – and curbside, deep in multicolored sheaves.
How graceful were those fallen leaves – in aging and in death…
If only we could age as well – to be, by angels, met…
 
The world is full of cruelty.  If men would disappear,
It still would be a cruel world, beset by lust and fear.
And yet, this world has beauty, grace.  How wondrous was this tree
That stood alone, ablaze – and yet – in grace – and living free.
 
2014 October 18th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
   

Pilgrimage—II

   
Pilgrimage—II 
 
I crossed today the river and I stood on Mammon’s isle,
On this October afternoon, as leaves were coming down...
And as it was a Saturday, I dallied there a while,
Remembering the times when I had time to walk and smile...
 
From the canyons of Manhattan, I saw the spires afar
That swam in western sunlight, with winter drawing near.
The autumn’s winds were blowing, as I ambled to the park.
I shivered as the leaves do.  It would soon be growing dark.
 
In the alleys of the boroughs, where the litter drifts like leaves,
I had wandered, as a worker, for a lifetime, so it seemed…
And the parks had been a refuge, for the ones who were like me,
Who were weary of the hustle and were neither brave nor free.

The park in which I settled was a sorry city thing,
But with trees along its margins and a tattered plastic green.
In that park, I watched the soccer, as the ball went to and fro,
And I thought of all my autumns – and the plays I’d seen before…
  
They were drawn from all the nations – all those players in the park.
And they trapped and kicked the leather, as they practiced for the game.
Then a referee (southern English) separated reds and whites.
And the players, friends and strangers, did their simple pre-game rites.
 
So hands were quickly shaken, with names and smiles exchanged.
They didn’t know each other – but they surely knew the game.
And this was quickly obvious, as the goals were deftly scored.
They’d sized up one another, and all else was now ignored.
 
I wrote my muse's verses, as I sat and watched the game.
And I blessed the ones who’d put in wooden benches, long ago.
The reds were doing better, till the whites reversed defeat.
The light grew soft and golden, as the battle gathered heat.
 
The beauty of a pastime – of a sport, as soccer is,
Is it doesn’t really matter, where you’re from or how you speak.
What matters is the playing – the enjoyment of the game.
And a win may be a glory.  But a loss is not a shame.
 
And so it is with soccer, by “white” colonials spread –
Across the widest oceans – to “yellows”, blacks and browns.
And so it with cricket and other games we play,
As season follows season – and schoolmates’ heads turn gray…
 
But the players here were young ones.  And mostly, they were men.
But women too were playing.  There were natives and the rest –
From Asia and from Europe, from the “new world” and the “old” –
From warmest parts of Africa – but here in New York’s cold.

The reds at end were rounded.  They gathered, by a bench.
The whites – they went on playing – and the blacks were now their foes.
The colors were of jerseys – and not of human skin.
And the play was not for commerce, and was mostly free of sin.
 
The whites in turn retreated.  Now blacks and reds would joust.
So tribes had once competed – and yet remained on terms.
But floodlights now were glaring.  They sky was drained of light.
‘Twas time to head on homewards, to dine at home at night.
 
And so I’ll end my stanzas and pack my notebook soon.
I’ll walk then to the station and take the D-train home.
I’ll leave the play to players, to play in blinding light.
The autumn day has ended.  Why take away from night?

I’ll walk towards the station, trying not to step on leaves –
And I’ll hear the words of nations from across the heaving seas.
I’ll find a place to pee in, as the ride to home is long.
Let’s hope the stalls are open, as that’s where our pees belong…
   
And as I travel homewards, I’ll think of what I’ve seen –
Of those enthused with soccer, who chase and kick the ball –
And those like me who wonder – at them and at the spires
That rise above Manhattan – as humankind aspires.
 
2014 October 4th, Sat.  6:40 pm
by Grand St. & Christie St., Chinatown, Manhattan
(some additions made October 5th, Sun. morning, 
 at home in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn)
---------------------------------------------------------------- 
Postscript
 
And as I neared the station, with its urine-stench in mind,
I glanced towards the playground – and upwards at the sky.
A quarter-moon was floating, above the white-limbed trees,
Whose remnant leaves were waving, in the chill October breeze.
 
The sky was of a color that I cannot quite describe.
It was blue at very deepest – it was dark and yet aglow.
It was beauty, like a gemstone, like the trees and like the moon.
In the midst of urban squalor, it was beauty, none too soon…
 
I paused for just a second, amidst the human stream,
But now my mind was smiling, as I descended down –
Down into the subway, to the cavern underground,
Where the D-train came with rumbling and much attendant sound.

And then, across the river, on the old Manhattan bridge,
With views of sky and river, and the towers of the city –
Then down again, to Brooklyn, to the tunnel deep below –
And there I sit and scribble, as I homewards, homewards go.

I’d gone to see the doctor, for the wife and for myself –
A sacred yearly ritual.  So I’d schlepped across the bridge
And I’d trod on Mammon’s island, and I’d looked upon its spires
And I’d seen the pilgrims playing, in the manner that inspires.
 
2014 October 4th, Sat., 7:34 pm
below western Brooklyn, approaching the 36th St. station
(some additions made October 5th, Sun. morning
at home in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn)
  

টের (T'er–Sense/Perception–translation of Presence)

      
This is a translation into Bangla (Bengali) of the poem Presence .
The version in the traditional script follows directly below.  After
that, there is a Roman transcription.  A summary of the transcription
scheme, serving as a guide to the pronunciation, can be found at
Bharot Xadhin.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
টের

কোনো এক শহরের অন্তরে, কোনো এক দপ্তর-বাড়ির ভিতরে বন্দী হয়ে,
কখনো আঁধারে দাঁড়িয়ে দেখেছি দূরে জানালার অলো৷
আলোর টানে চলেছি তার দিকে, জানালা দিয়ে তাকিয়ে দেখেছি – আকাশ৷
জানি না কি কারনে, তাই দেখে জুড়িয়েছে মন৷

কর্ম-জিবনের আঁকা-বাঁকা রাস্তা দিয়ে, কখনো বনপথে,
তবে বেশিরভাগ শহরের ফুটপাথে চলেছি আমি৷
নগরের অলিগলির ময়লা  থেকে, যেখানে আইন-বেআইন সাথি, ডেকেছে আমায়
দূরে দেখা উর্দ্ধ আকাশ, হাওয়াতে দোলানো গাছ৷

জানালার পাসে দাঁড়িয়ে, অথবা কাজের শেষে ক্লান্ত হয়ে বাড়ির পথে হেঁটে,
গাছের পাতার নাচ দেখেছি, শুনেছি তাদের রব৷
কিছুক্ষন থেমে, দেখে, শুনে, আমি পেয়েছি তখন সেটার টের,
যেটা মাটি ও আকশের মাঝে বয়েছে চিরকাল৷
 
প্রত্যেক জীব, রয়েছে এই জগত-ধারায়৷ জোযার-ভাটা-স্রোত
বয়েছে মন-হৃদয়-শরীরে, ঘসে-মেজে রেখেছে তাদের পরিষ্কার৷
তবে যখন আমরা একলা হয়ে পড়ি, সেই স্রোতের থেকে বিচ্ছিন্ন হয়ে,
ভূত-প্রেত আমাদের ধরে বসে তখন, জ্বালিয়ে পাগল করে দেয়৷

প্রাসাদে রাজা, কারাগারে কয়েদি৷ শ্রমিক তার ঘুপ্চিতে খাটে৷
এরা প্র্ত্যেকে বেঁচে থেকেও মৃত হয়ে চলে৷
একলা বন্দী রেখে করেছ যাকে অসুস্থ, পাগল –
ছেড়ে দেও তাকে বন-জঙ্গলে৷ যদি সে বাঁচতে পারে, সেরে উঠবে সেখানে৷
    
ইহুদী নববর্ষ: বৃহস্পতিবার, ২৫-এ সেপ্টেম্বর, ২০১৪ খ্রিষ্টাব্দ
নতুন য়র্কের ম্যানহাটানের চীনে পাড়ায়, ডাক্তারের অফিসে
(ইংরেজী থেকে বাংলায় অনুবাদ: শনিবার, ২৭-এ সেপ্টেম্বর)
    
 --------------------------------------------------------------------
  
T`er (translation of Presence)

Kono e`k xo`horer o`ntore, kono e`k do`ptor-bar’ir bhetore bondi hoe,
Kokhono a~dhare dar’ie dekechi dure janalar alo.
Alor t’ane colechi tar dike, janala die takie dekechi – akax.
Jani na ki karone, tai dekhe jurieche mon.

Ko`rmo-jibo`ner a~ka-ba~ka rasta die, ko`khono bono-po`the,
To`be bexir-bhag xoho`rer-phut’pathe colechi ami.
No`gorer oli-golir mo`ela theke, jekhane ain-be-ain xathi, d’ekeche amae
Dure de`kha urdho akax, haoate dolano gach.

Janalar paxe dar’ie, o`thoba kajer xexe, klanto hoe, bar’ir po`the he~t’e,
Gacher patar nac dekhechi, xunechi tader ro`b.
Kichukkhon theme, dekhe, xune, ami pe-echi to`khon xetar t’er,
Jet’a mat’i o akaxer majhe boeche cirokal.

Prottek jib, roeche ei jo`got-dharae. Joar-bhat’a-srot
Boeche mon-hrido`e-xorire, ghoxe-mejhe rekeche tader porixkar.
To`be jo`khon amra e`kla hoe pori, xei sroter theke bicchinno hoe,
Bhut-pret amader dhore bo`xe to`khon, jalie pagol kore de`-e.

Praxade raja, karagare ko`edi.  Sromik tar ghupcite khat’e.
Era protteke be~ce thekeo mrito hoe co`le.
E`kla bondi rekhe korecho jake o`xusto, pagol –
Chere dao take bon-jo`ngole. Jodi xe ba~cte pare, xere ut’thbe xekhane.

ihudi  no`bobo`rxo:  brihoxpotibar, 25-e sept’embar, 2014 khrixt’abdo
notun ior`ker me`nhe`t’an-diper cine par’ae, d’aktarer o`phixe
(ingreji theke banglae onubad: xonibar, 27-e sept’embar)
 
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------    
The above is a translation into Bangla (Bengali) of the poem Presence.  
The version in the traditional script is at the top. Following that, there is 
a Roman transcription. A summary of the transcription scheme, serving 
as a guide to the pronunciation, can be found at  Bharot Xadhin.
  

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 Rustling Leaves

    
The Rustling Leaves
  
September moves towards its end, yet city trees are green.
And in the little front yards, flowers bloom as if in spring.
But squashes now are pendant, large, from trellises – and yes,
Some trees give hints of yellowing, like humans that have grayed.

For autumn’s winds are blowing now and nights are growing cold.
So leaves will change in color soon and turn to warmer hues.
I pass beneath a spreading tree and hear the rustling leaves.
They speak to me of summer’s end and whisper of the fall.

How many summers now are left, how many autumns still?
The winter winds will come with snow, and we will wait for spring.
The elder dies, the infant wails, the child and sapling grow.
How many springs to relish and how many winters more?

We city-dwellers go to work each day and then return.
And in our little flats we sit and stare at glowing screens.
But seasons come and seasons go as seasons always will.
And cities too will come and go, and those like you and me.

So when I hear the rustling leaves, I hear the voices past.
I hear our conversations and the ones I overheard.
September moves to meet its end, and so do you and I.
But seasons still will cycle ‘round and infants born will cry.

So let us smile at this, my friend, to whom I sit and write:
The day we shared had woe enough – but also gave delight.
And so, as night approaches, let us join our hands to pray –
That others after us will have their pleasures in their day.

2014 September 25th, Thu. 5:48 am.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York