Saturday, June 21, 2014

With All the World Aflame

        
With All the World Aflame


 
  

The fires are burning and the sky
Is roiled with blacks and reds.
And yet, the fiddler fiddles on
And watches with delight.

But now the fire approaches and
He hears at last the screams.
And yet, oblivious, playing on,
He smiles and even laughs.

The fiddler fiddles in his robes
That speak of majesty,
For he's the emperor of Rome,
And all is travesty.

So even in our times, we see
This lunacy persists.
The powerful and rich, they play,
With all the world aflame.

2014 June 21st, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York



  

Tuesday, June 17, 2014

Kolikata (Kolkata)

  
Kolikata

Kolikata, mo`hano`gor,
Tumul be`stota.
Tari majhe jo`nmo amar,
Tari sriti aj.

Mone po`re ko`to drixxo,
Ko`to xo`bdo, ghran...
Haora brije t'anche bojha,
Manux-garir bo`l.

Dekhechilam, bhikirir cokhe,
Bo`rxa-kaler megh.
Bhor-be`late, culor dho~a,
Xixir-d'haka po`th.

Corui, xalik khujche khabar.
Kager do`ler d'ak.
Dupur be`lae, nil akaxe,
Ut'che ghure cil.

Bikel be`lae, murir xathe
Kichu chola, tel,
Lo`nka, lebu, pe~yaj, lo`bon...
Roilo baki ki?

Xei xo`hore jo`nom amar,
Xei xo`hore ghuri.
Jodio baxa onno dexe,
Nei jekhane muri.

Bo`ngo-bhumi, jahar buke
T'anche xixu, hae!
Ga~er-baxi, chere tomae,
Kolikatae jae.

Kolikata, mo`hanogor,
Ko`to ro`kom dha~dha.
Axlo sromik, kajer khoje,
Berie elo gadha.

Kolikata, mo`hano`gor,
Tumul bestota.
Tari majhe jo`nmo amar,
Tari sriti aj.

Chere elam dadu, dida,
Maxi, pixi, bon.
Chere elam bhai-bondhu,
Chere elam mon.

17-0i Jun, 2014 Kri.
Bruklin, No`bo Io`rk.
--------------------------------------------------
   

Kolkata

Calcutta, the big city,
busy with bustle –
I remember that city,
where I was born.

How many visions come to mind,
how many sounds and scents...
A scrawny man pulls a massive load
on a cow-cart, racing traffic up a bridge...

Reflected in a beggar's eyes,
the heavy clouds of the monsoons...
At dawn, the smoke from lighted stoves,
the dew-covered paths...

The sparrows and shaliks, looking for food,
the cawing of the crows...
At midday, the kite-hawks,
circling in the blue...

In the afternoon, with the sand-roasted rice –
some small roasted chick-peas, mustard oil,
sliced chili, onion, salt...
What else was needed?

In that city, I was born –
and there, I often wander,
although I live in another land,
where there is no roasted rice...

Ah, Bengal, at whose breast
a baby sucks –
the villager leaves you
for Calcutta.

Calcutta, the big city,
how many mazes, snares...
A man may enter, seeking work,
and exit as an ass.

Calcutta, the big city,
hustle and bustle...
I remember that city,
where I was born.

I left my grandpa, grandma,
my uncles, aunts and cousins.
I left behind my childhood friends,
I also left my mind...

2014 June 17th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York

  

Sunday, June 15, 2014

Cruelty is Zen

   
Cruelty is Zen
 
You can rail against the madness,
You can work yourself to death.
Until the workers wake up,
The lash is what you'll get.

Why butt your head in fervor,
Until you've brains no more?
The wall will never crumble
Until you're joined by more.

You can follow, quietly, conscience,
But beware that this is known.
When you're punished for your efforts,
You will find you're all alone.
 
There are those who value labor,
There are those who think it cheap.
There are those who value knowledge,
There are those who shun the deep.

When the conscience is extinguished,
When the wisdom has been lost,
Then what avails the worker,
Who's the one who pays the cost?

The mother does her nurture,
The father works his day.
And both of them are working
For the rent and bills they pay.

The teacher does her teaching.
But if, at this, she's caught,
She had better flee the system,
For her future, there, is fraught.
 
The banks have swelled with profits,
The hedge-funds daily soar.
And Bloomberg's gone, but Cuomo,  *
At us mice, can sit and roar. 

And now, he throws us morsels,
And we run to gather crumbs,
As our union-heads, say, "Listen!

Those who're voting no are dumbs."

Can a wolf become a rabbit?
Can their Andrew be our friend?
When his hand is further strengthened,
Will we ever see the end?


There's a culture of corruption
That is global in its scope.
And until we end that culture,
For a better, is there hope?

We can see the children troubled,
We can see the children spoiled.
But can we see the reason,
And why our labor's foiled?

The quick and easy answers
Are often not the truth.
The reasons may be simple,
But you've got to find the root.

For we adults, we are troubled,
And we adults, we are spoiled,
Though there's many, who may labor
And be saddened this is foiled.

The forces, strong, of commerce,
They have made, of virtue, vice –
And so, of vices, virtues.
So the city isn't nice.

Our values are degraded,
Our honesty is fled.
And lies – and those who're liars –
They're ruling us instead.

We are all in need of money,
But this surely can't be all.
For the simple act of nurture
Makes a culture rise or fall.

When we're racing for the money,
When we're harnessed, blinkered, then
The sanity is squandered
And the cruelty is "Zen".

I have labored and I've acted,
But the time is growing nigh,
With my strength and wisdom failing,
For retirement, with a sigh.

So I doff my hat to workers
Who have time to organize.
And I hope that they're successful,
And that some of them are wise.

Is there wisdom in acceptance?
Is there wisdom too in zeal?
It is heart and sight and conscience
That will tell you how I feel.

When the cheaters are the wise men,
When the zealots are in league,
When it's money that is speaking,
Does it matter, how we feel?

We are stranded in the shallows,
As the nonsense keeps us there.
Beware of what is peddled.
To challenge peddlers, dare.

We need wisdom, we need courage.
We must listen, we must speak.
We need action, where it matters,
As we steer towards the deep.
  
2014 June 15th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York

  
* Michael Bloomberg, former three-term mayor of New York City, and Andrew Cuomo, current governor of New York State, moved strongly to curb whatever was left of union strength in New York, while maneuvering, fairly successfully, to keep compliant union leaders from coming out strongly against them. 
   

Bloomberg and Cuomo, along with the owned mainstream media, have worked to further the interests of the affluent and powerful elites of the financial institutions and other large corporations, with support from the federal (currently, Obama) government.  They also have the backing of the political right, the "center", and those who are on the left on "social" issues (such as gay rights) but not on issues that might lead to giving workers a voice.
   
Unfortunately, many workers have been brainwashed into divisions along ethnic, class and occupational lines.  Divisions have also been created between workers in the private and public sectors.  And so we have been conquered -- at least for now. 
 

Tuesday, June 10, 2014

The Vampires Are Our Lords

    
The Vampires Are Our Lords

You have reached to me for succor,
For a tune to soothe the heart.
Yet the only thing I offer
Is a great, resounding fart.

Should a toad be prized for beauty?
Should a murderer mind your child?
Will we gift the evil ogre
With a visage meek and mild?
  
You had asked me if the illness,
That we see afflicts our race,
Is a sign of human madness.
Are our rivets out of place?
    
I may try my best to answer,
In a manner long or terse.
Yet I cannot cure a cancer
Or a pox by writing verse.


Since there isn't goodness only,
Since there's much that's really bad,
There are men who wander lonely,
There are women driven mad.

    
If your conscience was awakened, 
If your duty beckoned you,
For the times that you have listened,
You'll have paid the tax that's due.

There are havens still of kindness
In a universe unkind.
There are shelters in the tempest.
These are places hard to find.


For the fortunate who've found them,
These are blessings from on high.
But the ones who are without them,
They will suffer till they die.


There is chance and there's endeavor. 
When we're lucky, these may join.
But our labor may be joyless, 
And our pay – in worthless coin.

There are those who shirk from effort,
There are those who labor long.

But the ones who are the winners
Are the ones who play along.


When we're trained to do what's honest,
Then we suffer, in our times.
We can shelter in religion.
We can soothe our wounds with rhymes.


We can choose to be unbending –
Or can sway as tempests blow.

We can do what conscience tells us 
Or can simply dance the show.

We can rail against injustice, 
We can fight for what is right.
But when we're not an army,
Is there victory in sight?


Where's the heart in one who's callous? 
Where's the water in a stone?
What we all must do together,
Can a loner do alone?


How many are the nations
That have gloried in their kings!
Of whom is it that Homer,
In his blindness, duly sings?

  
We have lifted up our brigands,
So the vampires are our lords.

The workers, we have humbled –
And have made, of devils, gods.


There are things that make us happy, 
But there's much that makes us sad.
We can try our bestest, chappy,

And be slowly driven  mad.

There are feeding chains we're part of.
It's time for you to see.
There are eaters, there are eaten
–
Including you and me.
   
2014 June 10th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Saturday, June 7, 2014

Bone-D'haka Po`the-বনে ঢাকা পথে-Walking in the Woods


The original in the Bengali script is followed by two Roman transcriptions and then by a translation into English.




Sunbeams on a Forest Pathway, Smoky Mountains, U.S.A.
Source: https://www.facebook.com/GreatSmokyMountainsNPS

    

বনে ঢাকা পথে 

বনে ঢাকা পাহাড়ী পথে,
হেঁটে হেঁটে দেখি
পাতার ফাঁক দিয়ে পড়েছে আলো,
স্বর্গ থেকে যেন এসেছে দূত৷

চুপ করে দেখলাম কিছুক্ষণ৷
শ্বাস ফেলে, খুশি মনে চললাম আবার,
গঙ্গার স্রোতে চান করে, যে ভাবে
কোনো ক্লান্ত পাপী খালাস পেয়ে ওঠে৷

মঙ্গলবার, ৩রা জুন, ২০১৪ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক
---------------------------------------------------------
  
Banē Ḍhākā Pathē

Banē ḍhākā pāhāṛī pathē,
hēm̐ṭē hēm̐ṭē dēkhi
pātāra phām̐ka diẏē paṛēchē ālō,
sbarga thēkē yēna ēsēchē dūta.

Cupa karē dēkhalāma kichukṣaṇa.
Śbāsa phēlē, khuśi manē calalāma ābāra,
Gaṅgāra srōtē cāna karē, yē bhābē
kōnō klānta pāpī khālāsa pēẏē ōṭhē.

Maṅgalabāra, 3rā Juna, 2014 Khri
Bruklina, Ni'uẏarka
---------------------------------------------------------

Bone-D'haka Po`the
   
Bone-d'haka pahar'i po`the,
he~t'e he~t'e dekhi
patar pha~k die por'eche alo,
xo`rgo theke je`no exeche dut.

Cup kore dekhlam kichukkhon.
Xax phele, khuxi mone collam abar,
Go`ngar srote can kore, je bhabe,
kono klanto papi khalax pe-e ot'he.

Mongolbar, 3ra Jun, 2014 Khri.
Bruklin, Niu Io`rk

---------------------------------------------------------
     
Walking in the Woods
     
Walking in the woods, I saw
the sunbeams shafting down,
like messengers from paradise.

I watched the silent show awhile,
and walked away in grace,
as might a weary sinner, who
has bathed in holy waters.

2014 June 7th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York

  

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

Ripples--Part II

    
Ripples--Part II
    
There is, we sense, a mind, to which our minds
Are tiny windows – wavelets on the sea.

We're of that ocean – and will always be –
No matter that our minds and bodies burn.

From where we came, to there we each will go.
And there we are, although we might not know.

The nature, true, of mind, is emptiness.
From no-thing born, to no-thing we return.

The madness that we’ve made obscures the truth.
In moments calm, we glimpse it once again.

A ripple runs across the placid lake,
A shiver runs across the body-mind.

And many ripples run and cross, reflect.
So all is busy – till it’s calm again.

And each of us is but a ripple, yet
We’re caught in fancies, so we each forget.

Let’s face our fear and our tormentors too,
With peace within our hearts, as endings near.

From all entrapment and enslavement free,
Our inmost selves, we each can gently be.

And so, amidst the violence around,
We watch ourselves, as sailors watch the sea.

We see the anger rising – or the fear.
We watch it rise and crest and disappear.

We know that we are passing through today.
Tomorrow will not see our presence here.

And knowing this, we each can choose to love,
Forgiving those content to blindly walk.

For vision shows us suffering and pain.
And yet there’s joy – and love that seeks no gain.

2014, June 3, Tue
Home, Brooklyn

Ripples--Part I

    
Ripples -- Part I
   
Could meditation help us when we’re burned alive?
Perhaps it might permit a peaceful death.

And could that be, when flame is burning flesh?
Or when a body, charred, is filled with pain?

Who'd wish to try this horror on himself?
So should we ask the ones that we have bombed?

We've also seen the images of monks,
Who sit in lotus pose amidst the flames.

And who are we to judge?  And yet we ask,
Can violence to self prevent or heal?

Perhaps the act's a shout to call awake
The consciences we've stilled or lulled asleep.

Yet knowing mind might help us deal with pain –
If “knowing” means we're growing whole again.

For how can mind know mind, except by this –
By letting go of conflict, discontent?

For only then can mind begin to see
Its nature true – unclouded emptiness.

We see a star or ant, we hear a bird –
But who is it that sees and hears and feels?

Of our awareness, we can be aware –
Too often, briefly, in a patch of calm.

And then, we’re like a lake reflecting sky –
Until the wind picks up and ripples run.

But ripples too are ripples of the mind,
As clouds and storms are faces of the sky.

So being mindful, we are one with mind.
We sense a calming, while we breathe and be.

And when we’re tortured and afflicted, then
We might remember that we’re born of mind. 
   
2014 June 3rd, Tue.
Common Core Examinations Day
New Utrecht High School
Brooklyn