Joe's Demise

Joe's Demise

It was five o'clock on Monday afternoon.
The sun had not yet set, but would be setting soon.
And Joseph Lieberman was sitting at his table.
His paperwork he'd done, as best as he was able.
He turned to see the clock, and then he saw,
Out of the corner of his eye, with startled awe,
A flash more bright than sun, that seared his eye.

Joe knew, within his heart, that he would die.
And yet, he staggered up – and with surviving sight,
He saw the afternoon had turned to night.
And then, a sound, that beggared all he'd heard,
And shove, that sent him flying, like a bird,
To smash against the wall, and fall to floor,
A crumpled, bleeding heap – and Joe, no more.

He'd lived a life of toil, a life quite clean.
He'd loved his kinsfolk, friends, been rarely mean.
No sin that's grievous, no unseemly blot,
Had marred the fabric of his life and lot,
Until this day, when karma, not his own,
Worked suddenly, to crush his flesh and bone.
Whence came this evil, evil only knows.

Where Joe once lived, the wind now softly blows.

Babui / Arjun Janah
2008 October 5th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
   
Note:   This came to me today (Sunday) between approximately 5:45
and 6:05 pm, at the Dunkin Donuts shop on 18th Avenue, near 86th
Street, Brooklyn -- from where, I do not know.

The Joe Lieberman, or everyman ("Joe Schmoe"), of this tale should not be confused with the well-known Joseph P. Lieberman, U.S. senator from Connecticut, to whom he may have been only distantly related. 

On Moonless Night + Remembering the Singer

On Moonless Night

At midnight, when the town's asleep,
The jackal's heard to howl,
And through the moonless darkness deep,
Is answered by the owl.

And she then wakes and stealthily
Goes out through creaking door.
And in the starlight, eerily,
A figure goes before.

Is it a human, is it not?
We cannot truly tell,
But it is one we had forgot,
Who yet, with us, does dwell.

Does it not need, as others do,
Another to call own?
But who may dare, to such be true,
Who is, to sight, unknown?

Yet at the tree, beside the grave,
They meet and there embrace,
For only she could be so brave
To tryst with one sans face.

And there they stay, until, in east,
The faintest light is seen.
And disentangling, then, they leave,
Before the dawn serene.

******

So has she done, each moonless night,
A boon that she has won,
Who did not from such trysting fright
With silent, nameless one.

What beckoned her, how could she trust
This being of the dark,
She only knows, who's felt that lust
That's lit by midnight spark.

At midnight, when the burghers sleep,
The maiden leaves the town,
And if you would this secret keep,
She wears no dress or gown.

In nakedness, beneath the stars,
She hastens to her tryst,
And there, beheld by baleful Mars,
Is by her lover kissed.

Until the dawn, she writhes in arms
Of one, who shuns the light,
And yielding, in her heat, her charms,
She keens through moonless night.

Before first light, she hurries home,
And jackal sees her then,
But thinks a spirit nude does roam,
And hastens to its den.

And flying owl, returning then
To nest in branch on high,
Sees her -- and other, not of men,
Ascending to the sky.

Babui / Arjun  < sjanah@aol.com >
2008 June 2nd, Tue.
Berkeley, California

============================================

Remembering the Singer

She sang the songs we loved but also those that caused us pain,
Exalted much we cherished, in her lilting high refrain,
While questioning what we had learned but never noted till
She did our minds with questions couched in rhyming phrases fill.

Now she is gone, and we are left with songs that still resound
Within our heads and fill our hearts with courage we had found
When we first heard her singing sweetly, tender yet so brave,
Asking each to do their duty, cease to be a slave...

And now we hear her songs ring out from village and from town,
And who can hear that singing and not cast away a frown
To smile and sing along as we would do in youth so bold,
And now still do, despite the years that pass as we grow old?

How many fought for cause that she espoused in thrilling song?
How many strove to right, as she had asked, that ancient wrong?
How many now are freed from being master or one bound?
How many heard her singing and forgotten conscience found?

She sang the songs that bid us wake, and opened ears and heart,
And singing till her final days, she did, with grace, depart.
Oh angel, born in human form, where do you sing today?
Your visit lifted all our hearts, and turned our night to day.

Babui / Arjun  < sjanah@aol.com >
2008 June 1st, Sun.
Berkeley, California

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.