Resolve

  
Resolve
 
How hard it is to leave our comfort zones
To face the full and harsh realities. 
It's so for each of us, within our lives,
And so for groups that shy from verities.
 
And yet, for each of us, there's no escape.
And so it is for groups and nations too.
It's better to resolve to face the truth—
For each collective, as for me and you.
 
How often can one see, in retrospect,
How daft, misguided, one had been.
So also, groups and nations lose their sense
And stoop to actions lethal and obscene.
 
******
 
The angels and the devils live within
Our “foes”, our “friends”, and also you and me.
The monster and the saint are both in us—
And this is what we often fail to see.
 
We cherish those we love—and that is good,
But often draw a circle that excludes
The others, whom we tend to then perceive
As aliens—or even demon-broods.
 
And so, deluded, dulled by myths we’re taught,
We’re snared and fashioned by the liar’s art.
Accepting then the endless lies we’re fed,
We lapse in sense in both the mind and heart.
  
****** 
  
The “races”, tongues, and cultures mix and so
They make the mixtures that we humans are.
And yet we puff with pride and hiss with hate
Against our fellows—while we wage our wars.
 
The soldiers, who are led to kill, be killed—
They follow orders as they’re trained to do,
But if by chance they met the other side
In peacetime, each might share a meal or two.
  
So much of caring humans give—and take,
And yet they’re led, by blinded fealty,
To senseless mayhem. Fathers, brothers rage,
As mothers, sisters cheer their cruelty.
  
****** 
  
Let’s wake, oh humans, turn from bondage, so
We open up our hearts and minds and eyes.
Let’s seek the truth, however hard that be;
Forsake our comforts, false, in easy lies.
  
So many lies, repeated endlessly,
By those who’re shameless, freed of ethics, laws,
Inclined to evil, ruthless, sparing none,
They feed the children, too, to Mammon’s maws!
  
Discern these monsters, understand their ways—
Relearn the history that’s been buried deep.
Resolve to work to bring some light again
To darkness, smiles to those who wail and weep. 
  
****** 
  
The angels and the devils live within
Our “foes”, our “friends”, and also you and me.
The monster and the saint are both in us
And this is what we often fail to see.
  
How hard it is to leave our comfort zones
To face the full and harsh realities. 
It's so for each of us, within our lives,
And so for groups that shy from verities.
  
And yet, for each of us, there's no escape.
And so it is for groups and nations too.
It's better to resolve to face the truth—
For each collective, as for me and you.
   
2025 October 18, Sat.
Berkeley, California
  

Leftist Creed

  
 Leftist Creed

When empires, big and small, compete,
And slaughters, with injustices, repeat,
Then should we side with one or the other, or
Unite to work against the Left’s defeat—

The death, impending, of resistance to
The power and wealth that’s leading me and you 

To slaughter one another, while they both
Grow dense—and profit from our labors too? 

There still is true-and-false and right-and-wrong. 
Our histories of lies and deaths are long.
So why not learn from these and organize
Against the endless wars and all that’s wrong?

So let us seek the truth and do what’s right—
Not yield to impulse or to clouded sight,
Avoid the frictions based on chance of birth—
And so know when to greet and when to fight.

To see, within both friend and foe, the I,
That sits within oneself—that insight—why, 
It's there in children, found in other beasts,
And yet is lost to many a heart and eye.

2024 August 18th, Sun.
Berkeley, California

The Salts of the Earth

  
The Salts of the Earth
 
The oceans, they are one, we know,
Though known by various names.
And when their currents meet, they mix 
And mingle over time.
 
But one may sink, the other rise,
Or travel side by side
For quite a while. Their colors,  shades
May vary widely, while
Reflecting, each, its history 
And so its current state—
Its temperature, its density, 
And all it carries. So,
Our races and our cultures—these 
Are varied, yet are one—
And so is all of sentience,
In all its forms diverse.
 
This summarizes all I know—
So here I'll end this verse.
 
2024 April 25th, Thu.
Berkeley, California
.

Self and Other, True and False

 
Self and Other, True and False

Beware of those who claim that “we” alone
Are special, deem the “others” base—or worse.
“Be not beguiled by demagogues.” remains
The thrust of much I write in prose or verse.

Beware of “leaders”—those who lead, with words,

The rest of us to evil, breeding hates.

Let's cleanse our minds and hearts, before the acts

That follow fear and hatred seal our fates.

 

Beware of lies that masquerade as truths.

Be cautious, always, of the things you learn

From sources other than the here and now—

For every “nation proud” is fooled in turn.

 

Let's open mind and hearts to views and news

That contradict the ones we now may hold.

Let's free our vision, widen it in scope,

Discern the truth, reject the lies we’re told.

 

****** 

The line between the “self” and “other” serves
For function and defense—and that is all.
Observe that line—and watch that line dissolve.
Behold the One that manifests in All.

That One is naught but Sentience itself—
That seems fragmented. So, the predator and prey
Are each the same.  And this, we sentients know,
Although we’re trapped by rules that we obey.

And some of these are primal, dating back
To times primeval in the muck and slime
Where life emerged and then began to feed
On other life—as life has done through time.

But other rules are those we have imposed
On selves and others, through our human wiles.
And some may serve some purpose good, but some
Are part of all that poisons and defiles.

2024 April 11th, Thu.
Berkeley, California 

Axol dexe, nei po'taka-আসল দেশে, নেই পতাকা

 
আসল দেশে, নেই পতাকা
 
দেশ কি কোনো মাটি-জমি? 
দেশ কি কারোর রাজ? 
দেশ তো সবার মনের মাঝে—
ভালোবাসার কাজ।
 
দেশকে বলে আমার তোমার?
দেশকে বলে তার? 
আসল দেশে নেই পতাকা, 
নেই গো সীমায় তার। 
 
******
 
পরদেশী না দেশি? 
আত্মীয় না পর? 
সেই দেশের-ই অংশ আমি, 
যে দেশে পাই ঘর। 
 
নিয়েছি এই জন্ম এবার, 
পরেছি এই বেশ। 
যে দেশে কেউ দয়া দেখায়, 
সেটাই আমার দেশ।
 
যে আমাকে মনে রাখে, 
যতই আসি যাই, 
তাকে আমি বন্ধু বলি, 
তাকেই ভাবি ভাই। 
 
যাকে আমি বুকে রাখি, 
যার ওপরে চোখ—
সেই তো আমার দেশের মানুষ, 
যতই দূরে হোক।
 
যে দেশে রোজ, কাজের চোটে, 
ঘাম এসেছে গায়, 
সেই দেশেরই দিশি আমি। 
এটাও আমার আয়।
 
যেসব দেশে ঠাঁই পেয়েছি, 
খেয়েছি অন্নজল, 
সেসব দেশের দিশি আমি। 
নেই গো এতে ছল।
 
যে মাটিতে জন্ম আমার, 
সেটা আমার নয়। 
প্রতি জীবের মাটি সেটা,  
সদা যেন রয়। 
 
******
 
দেশকে বলে আমার তোমার?
দেশকে বলে তার? 
আসল দেশে নেই পতাকা, 
নেই গো সীমায় তার। 
 
খেটে-খেলে, কেঁদে-হেসে, 
শুরু থেকে শেষ, 
চোখের জলে, ভালোবেসে, 
গড়েছি সেই দেশ।
 
মঙ্গলবার, ৩ সেপ্টেম্বর, ২০১৯ খ্রি 
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউ ইয়র্ক
 

The Darkness of Noon

The Darkness of Noon

Bow to the ones who are rich, my friends!
Kneel for the ones who have goons on call.
These are the gods of our times, my friends.
Toil at the feet of our Pharaohs tall.

The human race is a servile one,
For those who had pride are dead and gone,
Except for the ones who have clearly won.
They straddle the land that we are on.

******

Gone are the ones who had striven and died.
Lost are the causes for which they fought.
Rich are the ones who had stolen and lied.
Poor are the sons of the men who rot.

The mothers had wailed and the daughters had wept,
But who can remember the reason they did?
The truths are forgotten, the falsehoods are left.
The darkness has gathered, the moon has been hid.

******

When will the clouds and the dark be dispersed?
Where is the courage and where is the truth?
Where is the learning with which we were versed?
When will the trodden be rid of the boot?

The ones who are workers can gather and rise,
And bring down the ones who have risen on high,
But first they should strive to be wary and wise,
To sift what is left of the truth from the lie.

******

Strive then, oh worker, to question and learn!
Learn to distinguish the fine from the dross.
Then you will see that your sense will return.
Then there’s a chance you’ll recover your loss.

You never will bow then to those who are rich.
Your knee will not bend for the lord or his goon.
The humble will smile, as you know which is which.
The Pharaohs will see then the darkness of noon.

2018 May 19th, Sat.
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 )  

The Gentle God

The Gentle God
 
The tongues and faiths of men and women are
As myriad as our faces.  Each of us
Is born, by chance, in one or other tribe.
Yet over this, we build our heaps of fuss.

We’re riven by religions, languages,
By “races”, classes, occupations, more...
We raise our fences, barb our borders and
We’re never done with all our ruthless gore...

Our families are sundered by our strife –
Our clans dispersed – our tribes, by tempests, blown…
We meet the “strangers”, know that they are us –
And yet pretend that they are not our own...

The nation-states and empires work their ruin –
Our inner demons turned to genies great,
As you and I express our discontent
By heaping blame on those we love to hate.

We humans still have satisfactions small –
But these appear no longer good enough.
Ambition, ego, greed and worse demand
Yet more acclaim, achievement, power, stuff…

There’s Nature, wondrous, bountiful and yet
At times enraged or sullen in her moods...
Then all of our entreaties are as naught,
As death and sorrow mark those interludes...

But then, we’ve men – and women, not outdone.
They've grown in hubris and in violence,
With empires, corporations, warrior-states –
Their mobs and armies and their borders tense...

Our minds have opened up the universe,
Wrung secrets from the stars and atoms, yet
Our wisdom lags, as men create such things
As even devils wish they could forget.

From fear we murder, and from greed we die –
And vice versa, as the wheel revolves.
And yet we claim that this is not a lie –
That humankind, towards betterment, evolves...

Among the gods to whom we turn to pray,
Is there, perhaps, a god of gentleness –
Or goddess of the same – of tranquil ways –
Who’ll answer yet our pleas to end this mess?

Is there a god or goddess, who
Can whisper in a tyrant’s ear, can soothe
The raging mob, can softly touch a heart
Or make a furrowed brow, with a gesture, smooth?

Alas, the gods are our projections too.
Divinities are limited in scope.
Their knowledge, power hardly cover all.
A lesson there – perhaps a bit of hope…

The gentleness within us waits to speak –
But when it does, it speaks with silences.
For when we feel it fill and heal our hearts,
We’ve no more need for all our sentences…

The gentle god is there in all of us.
The gentle goddess – she is smiling too,
As tears are flowing down her cheeks, for she
Is Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, Jew…

2014 August 3rd, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Interwoven

   

Interwoven

                  

The past, the present and the future are

As interwoven as the tribes of men.

Who posits, simply, “That and they are other!”

Forgets his birth and therefore shuns his brother.

So men are blinded and they go to war.

And yet, in battle, each can other ken,

When slaughter's done, and plunderer then finds

A little note that him, of home, reminds.

******

We leave our homes and often travel far,

We think that now is different from then,

But actions past, that rippled out, return

And at our journey's end, we homewards turn

Our ethics may no longer serve to bar

Such actions as might harm our fellow men,

But everything we do has consequences

That only are revealed in future tenses.

2013 September 1, Sat. 3:50 am..
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

Alien-II

Alien-II
                                                                  
The storm has scattered us across the seas,
And some have found a cove in which to live,
And others struggle daily with the tides.
Survival leaves but little room for thought.

We dwell within our shells in loneliness
And hear the ocean pounding on the rocks.
For when we pause awhile from daily toil,
We sense in full the maelstrom all around.

And each retains a trace of memory
And so desires to be again as one,
But often only dimly sees the cause
Of feeling incomplete and alien.

2013 August 29th, Thu. 2:50 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

The Empire

The Empire

The Empire grows – and all must bow
To It, on bended knee,
Be they the nations of the world
Or those like you and me.

The Empire knows – and yet, we see,
This knowing, It denies.
So though we have no privacy,
We have our fill of lies.

The Empire speaks – and none can dare
To challenge what is said.
The Empire acts – and those who dared
Are silenced – or are dead.

******
   
The Empire grows – and who can stop
Its growth, oh citizens?
It's up to us to say, “Enough!”
Before Its next offense.

But each, who stands, will soon be crushed
Without that public space
And public ear – and voice and deed
That spits in Empire's face.

Yet spit alone won't do the job –
For spit is merely spite.
Our hearts and minds – they must be one,
To win, for all, this fight.

2013 June 28th, Fri.
(with last 2 stanzas added June 29th, Sat.)
Brooklyn  

The Leaf

The Leaf

There are some things we do that we regret –
And sadly lack the power to reverse.
But then, perhaps, we learn a lesson and
May even scribe, in penitence, a verse...

While walking underneath a spreading tree,
I paused to reach and pluck a nubile leaf,
So I could hold it close, to better see,
With 'glasses off to aid my aging eyes.

How delicate the veins within that leaf,
How freely flowing, yet how orderly...
How waxed and green, the side that faced the sun,
How diffident and pale, the side beneath...

******
 
A “heart-shaped” leaf this was, with mid-rib strong –
And veins like branches angling left and right.
A pointed tip and scalloped edge it had,
This little leaf that was my universe...

If I had crushed that leaf, I would have known
The scent released as life departed it,
With all the wonders of its chemistry
Reduced to that, which simian nostrils sensed.

But I desisted, having just before
Committed torture on a feathered sprig
Of evergreen that I had plucked and crushed,
Inhaling odors redolent of pines.

******
 
How far advanced from us, in many ways,
Are plants – along the roads we did not take...
We've more in common with the slugs and mites
And those that crawl until they spin and fly.

How much contrition, for my acts, I felt!
And yet, I'd lunched on animals and plants...
So life, that's grown to feed on life, may yet
Be awed at seeing wondrous mirrored self...

Should I discard that leaf – or let it dry,
While pressed within an aging book of mine,
Itself from limbs of plants composed – and hope
That someone sees – and feels what I have felt?

******
 
I beg forgiveness from you, little leaf.
I know your sisters will bud forth, in spring,
When I've departed.  You're the sacrifice
This beast has taken, for his little while.

But as you wither, starved of water, sun,
Can you forgive the one who rudely plucked?
If you could find philosophy, you'd think,
“At least I touched his heart and sensed him smile.”

I shall not 'prison you within a book.
I'll leave you be to die, while breathing free.
So also, when my time has come to leave,
I hope I'm left, so I can cease to be.

2013 May 25th, Sat.
Brooklyn 
sjanah@aol.com