Sunbird

 
Sunbird

I saw, today, a little bird
Alight upon a tree.
Yellow was its color bright,
Like sunlight floating free.

I looked again, and it was gone –
Vanished, with no trace,
Much like when a gust of wind
Beclouds the sun’s bright face.

Oh drop of sun, whence did you come,
And whither did you flee?
And why did you, of sudden, pause
To light upon that tree?

2007 September 24th, Mon.
Berkeley, California

New Season

    
Note added, 2013 October:   Please see also New Season -- revised  
( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/10/new-season-revised.html )
  
New Season

The air has cooled, and still the ardent sun
Retains his strength, though leaves turn red and fall.
Now comes November, yet, here by the coast,
It is as if we waited for fair May.

The maples now are mottled, green and red,
And lighter, warmer shades can now be seen
Mixed in with greens on coastal slope and hills,
But though, beyond those hills, and east to sea,

For full three thousand miles, the trees stand bare,
Save for the evergreens, here maples, oaks,
And their deciduous kin still wear the clothes
Of early fall, that lasts here into spring.

What paradise was this, by nature wrought,
Until we came and drove our freeways through!
Now shopping malls deface this sun-washed coast,
And rushing cars disturb those sleeping hills.

And yet the conifers rise up to hilltop ridge,
And little birds perch on the cables strung
Between the poles that are as straight and tall
As when they grew in forests dark and deep...

All this shall pass, like storm that lays about,
And then is gone. So newborn grass will spring
From asphalt cracks, and rust will eat at bridge,
And trees will conquer houses, as they’ve done

Since Olmec, Maya, Inca, Aztec built
Their monuments and left, as Khmer had done
In forests far across the globe, reclaimed
By plants, and all the life that they sustain.

But wait, perhaps this time it will turn out
Quite different, as we have stressed this whole,
Of earth, sea, air, beyond her breaking point,
So she may not recover, and so life

Will never be the same upon this globe.
Or if we do not curb our weapons dread,
That we now hoard, life may be banished yet
From this blue planet, till it starts again,

From seed arrived from distant orb that's sent
Ejecta forth to find a home and spread.
All this goes through one's mind, on tranquil day
When all seems changeless, still, amidst the flow.

Perhaps we need this little respite from
The changing seasons of this globe, and man,
So we can note the changes that portend
Of seasons yet to come, whose depth and length

Exceed, by far, those of the yearly round.

Babui Jana (Arjun Janah)
2006 October 29th, Sun.
Berkeley, California

Note added, 2013 October:   Please see also New Season -- revised  
( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/10/new-season-revised.html )
 

The Watcher

                 
The Watcher
        
I met a man by the marina,
Shirtless in September sun.
He had a pendant on his chest,
With symbol that resembled gun.

Upon his face, there grew a beard,
Quite scraggly, and an orange-red
That matched what hair he still had left
That grew as wild upon his head.

His nails were long like claws, with dirt
Compacted into crescents black,
And yet of wit and wisdom he
Did not, we found, completely lack.

He'd wandered by this western sea,
For many years, and knew the planes
That flew above, and could, by sound
Of cabin horn, distinguish trains.

"See -- that's the plane from New York City,
Coming in to land, and -- hark!
That's the train from Sacramento,
Emerging from the tunnel's dark!"

"See there, across the Bay, the fog
Retreating past the Golden Gate...
Today it will be warm and calm,
But winter may be long, though late..."

So all the life around the Bay
Had entered him, and there he was,
Quite shirtless that September day,
A witness to what is or was.

The gulls and squirrels knew this man,
With dirty nails and gnarled hands,
That pendant on his chest that shone,
As sun beat down on brownish pants.

He was familiar, like the sea
That lay becalmed, as boaters tried
To catch what little wind they could,
And far away, the Amtrak cried...

"Look there!", he said, "Right by that house
You'll see it run, if eyes are good!"
And sure enough, the silver sped
Right by that house, into the wood...

He'd been in Vietnam, had relished
Fighting for imagined cause;
But now, he said, "With age I'm wiser,
This war's for oil, and not for laws!"       *

He'd worked at jobs of all descriptions,
Adding to the labor force;
He'd wandered over lands and oceans,
And learned what's fine and what is coarse.

And now he sat by the marina,
Watching all the world unfold,
In the role of he who listens,
As the tale of life is told.

Babui Jana (Arjun Janah)
2006 September 17th, Sun.
Berkeley, California
 
* "this war" is the war in Iraq, begun by the U.S. in 2003 -- and still ongoing in 2006.
    

Immersion in the Ganges

  
Immersion in the Ganges
 
Now she has passed away – she now is past.
What’s left is memory that dims with time.
And soon this too will pass – it cannot last,
Although we honor her with rite and rhyme.
 
She fades, she fades – she fades – and then is gone.
Of her, what still remains – what does, what does?
Like the soft dawn she came, like day she shone,
Then evening turned to night – and then she was.
  
Oh sun of this bright day, may you grow dim,
But let me not forget her, who is gone –
Gone away forever, leaving those
Who knew her, loved her – blank, and woebegone,
Bereaved, bereft, bewildered, broken, bare –
But still alive – in body, mind, still there,
While she is now destroyed – is emptied, drained,
Is burnt to ashes, dust – and then cast here,
Into this river, born of ice unchained
From mountain prisons by this tropic sun –
The sun that saw her birth, the sun she loved,
With memories still of youth, in every one
That’s gathered here, recalled – as ashes, strewn
In Ganga’s waters, through my fingers run.
Here, she will mingle with the mud, and flow
Past fields and palms and forests to that one –
That Ocean, with its many, many names…
 
******
 
And as the Brahmin sings the Sanskrit chants,
And I repeat, not knowing what they mean,
There is this thing that each one understands,
Who’re here, assembled, at this ancient scene – 
  
That she, whose name we utter and invoke,
Is gone, where rites and chants can never reach –
In such a slumber now, as never woke
A mortal from, despite what scriptures teach…
 
Although we claim that these are for her soul,
These rituals truly comfort only those
Who’re still alive – not her, who isn’t whole,
Whose ashes go where this, the river, flows –
 
To sink, to scatter, into that deep sea,
Never to regather and return, alas,
To rise again with early dawn to be
The woman that she was …was …was.
 
******
  
So each of us will pass, and all regret
Is vain, except that it inform and change
How each may view the other. We forget
That midst this flow, some things will never change…
 
When you were live, we often did neglect
Your self, who is now past neglect.  Remorse
Cannot undo, nor love, too late, repair
The wreckage done.  So each must steer his course.
 
So go then to the sea, and in it dwell;
From it, we all have come, and will return.
I watch your ashes sink within the swell –
And we are left with but your empty urn…
 
You were a light, that now has fallen dark,
A song, whose lilt we shall not hear again.
In vain, we now will look, and search, and hark;
For you are gone – and free, from all your pain.
 
Babui (Arjun) Janah  
2006 July 1st, Sat.
Staten Island, New York. 
(lightly edited 2015 January 18th, Sun.)
  
In Memoriam
Monua Janah
1959-2004   
   

Chess in the Park

Chess in the Park

 

Bundled up, in winter dress,

In the park, they play at chess.

Most are quiet, one shouts out.

Concentrate, or risk a rout,

 

That's the nature of the game,

Played for pleasure, or for fame.

Here they meet, 'most every day,

Working hard, but not for pay

 

That would help meet rent or bill.

Yet they seem to have their fill,

Not of dollars, but of joys,

Like a child who plays with toys.

 

The words they speak, I cannot ken –    

The Slavic speech of migrant men,

Far from their lands, ruled once by Tsars,

And mangled, next, by commissars.

 

Here they gather, to play chess,

And to speak, some more, some less,

Of the lands they left behind,

And new problems that they find,

 

In this, the promised land of West,

Where each must strive to do his best,

Forself, or fear one day to find

That they, too, have been left behind.

 

 

Arjun (Babui) Janah, < sjanah@aol.com >

Bensonhurst Park, Brooklyn, New York.

2006.04.17th Mon.

By New York Bay

Gentle readers, be not alarmed at the sentiments expressed below.

Rush not to rash conclusions. ‘Tis but a poem, a fiction, and no more.

 

 

By New York Bay

 

 

At set of sun, and end of day,

I wander lonely by the bay.

My thoughts are darkening, like the sea;

This life is spent, it seems to me.

 

There was a time when I was born,

And now, a time to be unborn.

I look up at the vast dark sky,

Preparing, in my mind, to die.

 

I see three little stars come out,

As, in the west, the blue fades out.

Resplendent, like a mountain ridge,

Shines the Verrazzano Bridge,

 

With strings of lights that clearly trace

Its flowing catenary grace.

The lights of Coney Island blink,

As if reminding me to think.

 

Like shining planets in the sky,

Great aeroplanes now slowly fly

Towards this shore, across the sea,

Shrunk into points of brilliancy.

 

Amidst all this, I stand transfixed,

‘Twixt life and death, and land and sea.

I feel, in hands, the cold rail fixed;

I hear the slap, on rock, of sea.

 

In the sky, there is no moon;

The tide has ebbed, and will rise soon.

Great ships move out on New York Bay,

Or anchored, wait for the new day.

 

******

 

This day was filled with signs of Spring.

I heard small birds on branches sing;

Saw trees adorned with springtime bloom;

And, on Belt Parkway, autos zoom.

 

Saw couples strolling, hand in hand,

And women heading towards the sand;

Wrote out, with thought, three birthday cards,

And, from friend’s death, picked up the shards.

 

******

 

When I was young, I’d often run

Right from the Bridge to Caesar’s Bay,

And back again; it was great fun

To fight and work, and breathe and play.

 

Now I am aged, and tired of strife;

I’ve worked too hard for this dog’s life.

How hard it is to fight the flow,

To do what’s right, when all let go.

 

Each one must feel some basic worth,

Some cause to justify their birth,

Some hope that they can be of use,

Before they’re tossed in the refuse.

 

So now, I hear the call of death

Ring out for me, and I am met,

Between the traffic and the surf,

By phantom strong, outside my turf.

 

******

 

“Oh, get thee hence!” I call out loud,

“I have no time to stay a lout!

Duties strong call me to life.

I have two parents, and a wife!”

 

“I too must live out my own fate,

Or else I’d go with thee, my mate!

Abide thou still a little while,

Till I complete allotted mile!”

 

******

 

Releasing the cold rail from hand,

I turn from sea towards the land.

I hear the Parkway traffic’s roar,

And slowly walk towards my door.

 

******

 

Babui (Arjun) Janah < sjanah@aol.com >

Lower New York Bay, Brooklyn, New York.

2006.04.16th Sun.

 

 

Note:

 

We shrink, nowadays, from slightest stress.  

But sadness need not cause distress.

The dark is background for the bright,

Whilst shallowness doth drain one’s might.

 

To be human, one must know --
Both heights and depths, so one can grow.
I trust that this shall give thee strength,
And add some depth to girth and length!

 

 

Easter

Easter

 

Here comes Baisakh! Another spring and year \1

Moves through the land we left behind us then. \2

And people celebrate, and cast off fear,

In old Iran's Nov-ruz, since who knows when! \3

 

As Holi goes, with color, from our land, \4

The Jews at Pesach seders meet all 'round, \5

And Christians hold the oblong eggs in hand,

To dainty patterns paint, that were around,

 

When Druids in Europe gathered in the spring, \6

And, in Greek isles, sweet bacchanals were thrown:

By olive grove, folks danced in a great ring;

And wine and song did flow, all quite home grown!

 

In all those parts, where winter yields to spring,

Folk gathered 'round, the fresh green growth to greet;

And amorous youths did flirt, and all did sing,

Of this new birth, when cold gives way to heat!

 

  

Babui (Arjun) Janah

< sjanah@aol.com >

Brooklyn, New York.

2006.04.16th Sun.

 

Notes:

   

1.   Baisakh is the second month of spring, and of the new year, in the Hindu calendar.

 

2.   The “land” referred to here is the subcontinent, and “then” to thirty years ago.

 

3.   Nov-ruz, or “New Day” is the Iranian new year. After the Islamic revolution, It’s ritual observance was discouraged by conservative mullahs. Some now celebrate it as a way of defying them.

 

4.   Holi, celebrated in March, is the Spring festival in India, in which people sprinkle colored powders or spray colored water on each other.

 

5.   Pesach is the Jewish commemoration of Passover.

 

6.  The eggs of Easter date from pre-Christian fertility rituals associated with spring.