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)
 

Gabhir Xad—গাভীর স্বাদ—The Taste of Cow

Note:  The English translation of the Bengali verses is at the bottom of the post, followed by a link to a brief, disturbing video from an Assamese site.

Note added 9/24/16:  An audio recording of the Bengali has been added, just above the preface to that translation.
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I found this "advertisement" in a Facebook post.

On seeing this, I penned some lines in Bengali in response, which you will find, lettered in a large font in the traditional script, right below this preface.

Below that is Google's machine-transcription, which follows the spelling used in the Bengali script.  I have added capitalization at the starts of sentences and proper names. \1

After that, there is another Roman transcription.  This follows the standard Bengali pronunciation, rather than the traditional spelling (which is no longer phonetic). \2
   
Finally, at the bottom of this post, there is a fairly literal translation into English, titled The Taste of Cow.

Note added 9/24/16:  An audio recording of the Bengali has been added, just below the second transcription (and so just above the preface to the English translation).
   
— Arjun
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Notes:
  
1. The service used for the first transcription (which follows the traditional spelling)  is available at http://google.com/translate.  That machine-transcription appears below the data-entry panel on the left at that site, whereas the machine-translation—which leaves much to be desired—appears in the panel on the right.
   
 2. A brief summary of the phonetic, pronunciation-based scheme used for the second transcription can be found in the preface to the blog post Bharot Xadhin (India, Free).
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গাভীর স্বাদ

চেখে দেখ্ তো এটা, কাঙ্গাল,
ছোটো জাতের পো! 
কি জাতের মাংস এতে?
আছে কি এতে গো?

গরুর চিহ্ন পাস যদি,
ডাকব পুলিশ-গুণ্ডা৷
সাজা-শাস্তি পাবে খ্রিষ্টান,
মুসলমান, ডোম, মুণ্ডা!

গাভীর স্বাদ তো জানি না গো,
তাই তো তোর এই কাজ৷
বখশিশ পাবি, শালা, যদি
ধরাস কাকেও আজ৷
  
শনিবার, ১০ই সেপ্টেম্বর, ২০১৬ খ্রি
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউয়র্ক
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Gābhīra Sbāda

Cēkhē dēkh tō ēṭā, kāṅgāla,
chōṭō jātēra pō!
Ki jātēra mānsa ētē?
Āchē ki ētē gō?

Garura cihna pāsa yadi,
ḍākaba puliśa-guṇḍā.
Sājā-śāsti pābē khriṣṭāna,
Musalamāna, ḍōma, Muṇḍā!

Gābhīra sbāda tō jāni nā gō,
tā'i tō tōra ē'i kāja.
Bakhaśiśa pābi, śālā, yadi
dharāsa kākē'ō āja.

Śanibāra, 10i Sēpṭēmbara, 2016 Khri
Bruklina, Ni'uẏarka
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Gabhir Xad

Cekhe de`kh to et'a, kangal,

chot'o jater po!

Ki jater mangxo ete?

Ache ki ete go?

Gorur cihnno pax jodi,

d’akbo pulix-gun’d’a.

Xaja-xasti pabe Krixt'an,

Muxulman, D’om, Mun'd’a!

Gabhir xad to jani na go,

tai to tor ei kaj.

Bokhxix pabi, xala, jodi

dho`rax kakeo aj.

Xonibar, 10i Sept’embo`r, 2016 Khri

Bruklin, Niu Io`rk

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Audio:  Click on the arrow on the right in the green area below to hear an audio recording.

Vocaroo audio and voice recording service>>
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Unfortunately, the rhythm, the rhyme, the cultural context and other nuances in the Bengali original above could not be properly conveyed in the English translation below.

The Taste of  Cow

Taste this, you pauper,
you low-breed’s spawn!
What meat is in this?
Does it have beef?

If you find a trace of beef,
we’ll call the goons—the cops.
They’ll get their dues—those Muslims,
Christians, Mundas, Doms!

We do not know the taste of cow;
that’s why you’ve got this job.
You’ll get your tips, you bastard, if
you help us catch some scum.

Saturday, 10th September, 2016 
Brooklyn, New York

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Meanwhile, one can observe supply, demand and devilish primate ingenuity at work: https://www.facebook.com/AxomLive/videos/1260643544024253/  

I am not sure of the where, when and why of the events shown in this brief video clip, although I could guess at each.  The whispered snatches of conversation, where I could follow them, appeared to be either in a dialect of Bangla (Bengali) or in a neighboring sister language.
    
Fortunately, the involuntary migrants appeared to be none the worse—at least for the moment—for their brief, but excruciating, crossing.
    

I Wish That I Were Free Again

 
I Wish That I Were Free Again
 
I wish that I were free again
to climb up on the roof again
to try to fly my kite again
to see it dip and dive and then
to see it climb towards the sky,
to see the soaring clouds on high,
to watch the kite-hawks wheel and dive,
to watch the thunderstorm arrive,
to see the lightning flash and then
to hear the thunder crash and then
to see the birds go flying by,
to feel that wind from regions high,
to see my kite go down and die,
to reel the broken string and then
to flee the lightning and the rain—
I wish that I were free again
to climb up on the roof again
to feel that downdraft—bracing, cool,
to learn the things not taught at school
that I remember to this day
and will until I fade away—
to see the changing of the light,
to marvel at that eerie sight,
to see the storm approaching fast,
to dare to stay and be the last
to leave the roofs as lightning flashed
and roaring loud the thunder crashed,
to hear the sound of drumming rain
on roofs of tile and tin again,
to see the palm trees dance and sway,
to see how night was made from day,
to feel the rain, upon my skin,
that washed away this world of sin,
to leap in lashing, pouring rain,
to live that childhood once again,
I wish that I were free again—
but then I think of those not free
to climb up on the roofs like me,
who slept on pavements till the rain
came down upon them yet again,
who huddled then in misery,
and then I wake—from fantasy.

2016 September 2, Fri.
Brooklyn, New York
   

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 Light Upon the Bench-Pictures

 
The Light Upon the Bench—Pictures   

 

Light on two benches, Bensonhurst Park, Brooklyn,
2016-08-29.  © A. Janah

 

Light on two benches, wider view, Bensonhurst Park,
Brooklyn, 2016-08-29.  © A. Janah

  

Light on a bench, at an exit from Bensonhurst Park,
Brooklyn, 2016-08-29.  © A. Janah

 

Moon and sea
http://www.wallpapersxl.com/wallpaper/960x800/vector-art-moon-and-sea-android-83120.html

Full moon, hills and sea
http://pre12.deviantart.net/08c5/th/pre/f/2013/180/f/3/the_full_moon_sea_by_asuba95-d6b8pjd.jpg

Back to the post of the poem:   The Light upon the Bench
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Note:  I wanted to show the light on the benches in the park, using a handheld cellphone camera.  I am sorry for the amateurish photographs with the over-exposures and flares at the lamps. 

To view the images in this post in a somewhat larger and clearer format, please single-click on any one image.  Allow the pictures to load.  Then use the left and right arrow keys on your keyboard to see the other images.  You can also click on the thumbnails at the bottom to do this.  Captions will not be visible.
 
You may wish to return to this post, to read this note again, to read the captions or to follow the link back to the text of the poem. 
 
To return to this post, click on the white X near the top right of the dark background.  On PC's, tapping the esc (escape) key should also return you to this post.

For an even better view, go to full-screen view.  For most PC browsers, the f11 key toggles between full-screen and normal views.
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Back to the post of the poem:   The Light upon the Bench
   

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)
    

Syria-II

Syria-II

I asked the one from Syria,
from al Sham, as he had said,
the reason why he’d left there,
and traveled here instead.

I had heard that he was drowning
but by luck had still survived.
From the cold Aegean waters,
he’d been pulled and then revived.

He looked at me in silence—
he didn’t speak a word,
for he didn’t know my language,
and my question was absurd.

So I left him where I’d found him,
and walking then I saw
the eyes that I had looked at
and that is when I saw.

So I stood there as if rooted
and I saw the world anew,
and it wasn’t as I’d known it
and I didn’t like the view.

So let me try to tell you,
if you’ll bear with me a bit,
as I sketch for you that vision,
if I even have the wit.

******

There is emptiness and dullness.
There’s the reason that is gone.
There’s the lack of any meaning.
There’s the numbness and the ache.

There’s the past that isn’t leaving,
there’s the present hell to bear.
There’s the hope that has departed
and the future of despair.

There’s bewilderment, confusion.
There’s the sleep that lasts awhile.
There’s the madness then that rises
and the fear that will not die.

There is shock and there is trauma
of the body, mind and heart.
There’s helplessness and trembling
and the orphan’s silent cry.

There’s the parent or the sibling
or the spouse who didn’t die.

And for all this, there are reasons—
for there must be reasons why.

******
 
So the arms are flowing freely
from the nations of the west,
through the sheikhdoms and through Turkey,
and the wars are raging still.

So the Russian jets are bombing
and the shells from all are bursting
and the cities lie in rubble
and the drones come in to kill.
 
So the Sunni and the Shia
and the Christian each would flee,
but there’s nowhere left to go to,
and the snipers shoot at will.

So the cannons still are booming
and the shells are coming near
and the planes again are diving
and the eyes are full of fear.

For there’s Assad and the rebels,
There’s al Nusra, ISIS, more.
There’s the U.S., France and Britain,
And they each have bombs galore.
 
******

Iraq was torn to pieces
and Libya was destroyed,
and Syria’s been on fire,
like Afghanistan before.

But who can dare to question—
to ask the reason why?

There’s hunger, thirst and hurting
and the itching and the fly,
and the games are on in Rio
and there’s more who’ve yet to die.

******
 
This is what I saw then
and I thought on it a while,
but then I looked and saw you
and so I had to smile.

So now that I have told you,
you can bear it till we go
to the shop there. There’s a salesman
you should really get to know.

2016 August 27th, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
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Related (from 2013 August, three years ago):  Syria
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/08/syria.html