The Sickness Sweet

The Sickness Sweet

How many are the ways that we have found
To turn from truth that is discomfiting.
How few are they, who do not shy away –
Who walk upon that path that others scorn.

To bear contempt and persevere in pain,
To seek for no reward except for that
Which conscience grants – and yet to be denied
That peace within – is what awaits those few.

And yet, without them, what is left for us?
Can falsehoods, heaped on lies, reveal the truth?
It's only when we dare to question all,
That we've been sold, that bitter truth is sensed.

However bitter though that taste may be,
It's medicine to cure the sickness sweet,
The ailment that beclouds our sight and leads
To cruelties that multiply, unseen.

So we bemuse ourselves with this and that
Or twist and turn in struggle to survive –
And have no time to ask – or are content
To leave unasked – those questions that perturb.

How many are the ways that we have found
To color, filter, smudge – and so deceive.
And there are some, for whom the brazen lie
Comes swiftly to the shameless mind and tongue.

Arjun Janah < sjanah@aol.com >
2013 May 16th, Thu.
Brooklyn 

Passion

Passion
   
I heard the evening moan in deep delight,
As the sun went down and the day gave way to night.
And later, I could hear her beating heart
That raced as she succumbed to her lover's art.

Pregnant, with the sightless seed that grows,
Nurturing that child within her dark,
I heard the evening, turned to night, that keened
As the shining moon arose and sailed, serene.

And through the night, I woke and slept again,
Until the light of dawn gave birth to day.
So Winter's passed un-mourned – and lusting Spring
Has wooed and won the Earth in the month of May.

And as the sun mounts up and sends his shafts
To pierce the Earth that's moist from the evening's rain,
The root will delve, the stem will seek the sun,
As the sighted child is born from lust and pain.
   
2013 May 11th Sat and 12th Sun, 
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
(some definite articles added 2016-05-21)
    
1st stanza and 1st 2 lines of 2nd stanza
  – May 11th, Sat. evening, walking east along 67th Street
  – and then south-east down New Utrecht Avenue, beneath the elevated D line
2nd stanza (last 2 lines) & 3rd stanza 
  – Sat. night, at the asphalt playground by the 71st Street station
4th stanza 
  – May 12th Sun, early afternoon, at home

Blessing II

Blessing II

It's May and it has rained – and Brooklyn's green.
I'm walking now, with grasses growing lush
On either side of walkway – and with trees
That stretch and soar and arch in foliage.

How tender is the green – of grass and trees,
With leaves fresh-washed by storm that thundered by.
As evening comes, the air is still, the streets
Are silent, till a car comes swooshing by.

How rarely, in the hustle of the city –
That Mammon's workers built, in which we live
And work at speed to feed His appetites –
How rarely are we blessed with moment's peace?

And so I'm filled with gratitude for this,
This grace that gives me pause to breathe at ease...
How many more have sensed this evening's calm,
And so give thanks for blessing of release?

2013 May 11th, Sat., Brooklyn, New York
– at  the park I just found between 66th & 67th Streets
and between 8th Avenue & Fort Hamilton Parkway.

******
 

This park is part of a long, narrow stretch of green, cut

through by some of the Avenues that run roughly north-

south. The stretch starts between 4th and 5th Avenues and

runs south-eastwards to F. H. Pkwy. I believe this strip is

called Leif Ericson Park, at least at the northwestern end.

I lived right by that end for a year, at 66th Street and 4th

Avenue, when I first started working and living in Brooklyn

in 1987. It has taken me 26 years to discover the south-eastern

end.

Leif Ericson (Leiv Eriksson) was the leader of a Norse

expedition to North America. He allegedly landed on this

continent many hundreds of years before the Italian Christoforo

Colombo, financed by the Spanish Queen, reached the islands

of the Caribbean, with his crew of southern Europeans and possibly

Moors.

The area where Leif Ericson's statue now stands – and where his

park commences -- was once populated by Scandinavian and Dutch

immigrants, some of whose descendants are still to be found in the

area known as Bay Ridge at Brooklyn's southwestern tip.

May

May

This evening, it was warmer as I walked
On homeward path at end of working day,
With sky alight as hour was nearing seven –
And sunlight slanting still to light my way.

The sun and warmth had beckoned forth the green,
With fig-tree sprouting leaves and little figs –
And rosebush reaching skyward, with its leaves
And buds of red upthrust, awaiting gigs.

And soon indeed the roses too will bloom,
As tulips do – and bluebells did before.
And women then will shed their winter garb,
For sun to bless their thirsting legs and more.

How pleasant is the coming of the spring,
In lands that bore, with patience, winter's breath.
The sap is running in deciduous trees –
And men rejoice, as lissome May is met.

2013 May 7th eve. & May 8th, 2:51 am
Brooklyn, New York
  

Apparel

Apparel

I pray that I'll be saved from wearing suit and tie,
As I have been for all these many years.
Before I have to wear them, let me die --
And laugh that I've been spared, as dying nears.

As penguins, do the crowds of men appear,
With suits of black (plus bow-ties or cravats)
And shirts of white.  As Croats used to wear,
So now do all – except, perhaps, for hats.

And see the women, baring far too much,
While teetering on shoes inflicting pain.
At least the men are spared from wearing such!
In this, they win – quite clearly, once again!

What use, I wonder, is the collared shirt,
Or brassiere – for those less “well endowed”?
And why have women left the flowing skirt
For trousers tight?  Should I be asking loud?

2013 May 7th, Tue., 5:06 am
Brooklyn, New York

Spring Again

Spring Again

In Brooklyn now the tulips bloom
And blossoms grace the roadside trees.
And some of these are naked still,
With others dressed in freshest green.

Amidst the hustle of the dollar
And through the glasses of a scholar,
Blinking in the sunlight, he
Observes again the Spring serene.

An afternoon of grace is found,
While business bustles all around,
As rhythms, slow, of yearly seasons,
Are sensed – that counter frantic beat.

So in Manhattan, trees in flower,
Amidst the traffic and the grime,
Are calling out, to passersby,
To slow or stop – and be complete.

And in the Bronx and verdant Queens,
In Staten Island, by the sea,
In Newark and in Hoboken,
The sun is slanting on the green.

By the ocean, shining bright,
The gulls are sailing in the sun.
The winter's gone and summer nears,
In this, the season in-between.

2013 May 4th Sat.
Brooklyn

Regret

Regret

We each remember well the final words
Between us and the ones, whom we had loved.
And when we pass the spot, where we had last
A chance to speak to them or hear them speak –
Or otherwise recall that tender past,
Then some of us may wish that we had paid
Attention more – or uttered kinder words.

Alas!  The ones departed won't return.
There isn't any way to rectify
The things we said or did – or to complete
Whatever still was left to do or say.
And so we sigh and ponder this defeat,
As all that's left of those, whom we had loved,
Are memories – and ashes in an urn.

So many things, on which we daily err,
That seem to matter not –  but then the day
Arrives, when seeming trifles may decide
Between a life that stays or vanishes.
Our errors small, we fix – but that divide,
By which we stand, so broad and deep and dark,
Cannot be bridged – except by Lucifer.

And so we're left with infinite regret,
The only consolation being this –
We're powerless and tiny, like the dust,
By tempest lifted, blown and scattered far –
And all our thought and labor, love and lust
Appear as pointless as this universe
That spins in grandeur – till its end is met.

Arjun Janah < sjanah@aol.com >
2013 May 2nd, Thu., 8:15 pm.
Brooklyn, New York