Here Was My Village

 
Here Was My Village
 
There is the tree, by the side of the pond,
Where the elders would gather. The children were fond
Of climbing its branches and hearing them speak.
And there was the dance, at the end of the week,
There, where the grasses are growing so green,
And all is now quiet and peaceful, serene.
 
Once there was singing and dancing and more,
The laughter resounding that now is no more,
The coming and going of women and men,
The play of the little ones, plentiful then,
Whose faces I see and whose names I recall,
There, where the grasses are growing so tall.
 
Here was a village, where now there is none,
For a nation has lost and another has won,
And all that is left, of the people that were,
Are the remnants of things, from which they infer --
The ones who now study the shards that they find --
That here was a village, that's still in my mind.
 
Here there was slaughter and here there was death,
Here, the pursuers the pursued had met.
They finished the task they'd been set and returned,
While ashes still smoldered and grasses still burned...
And I had escaped and another small child,
Who once had been gentle but then had grown wild.
 
There, where a sapling has grown to a tree,
Was where I was born, where a hut used to be.
There lived my father, my mother and three,
My brother, my sister and then-little me.
Where are they now, I wonder and turn
Away from the faces I once had seen burn.
 
Babui / Arjun
2011 May 21st, Sat.
Brooklyn
   

Breath of May

Breath of May  
           
I heard a little bird that called
And one that answered gay,
When April was at ending and
We felt the breath of May.

All Winter long, we'd battled and
Awaited tardy Spring.
But Summer's warmth was close at hand,
So little birds could sing.

Babui / Arjun
2011 April 28th, Thu.
Brooklyn
 

Wounded Love

    
Wounded Love
                                
How haunting is the cry of wounded love!
How desperate the straits of a lover scorned!
The madness born of love misplaced begets
Such suffering as may eclipse a life --
Or else ignite a soul, so poetry
Bursts forth in flame that casts a light as bright
As revelation from the Lord!

Babui / Arjun
2011 April 22nd, Fri.
Brooklyn
  

At Springtime

  
    At Springtime

A tree is white with flower,
    Another's tender green.
And yet another's waiting
    For season soft, serene.

At threshold, Spring is knocking
    As Winter bids goodbye,
The little birds are chirping
    And laughter's in the sky.

At curbside, lies a sparrow
    That's bleeding from her neck.
Her head, alas, is missing,
    Her body is a wreck.

But who, at her, is looking,
    On such a glorious day,
When clouds above have parted
    And April hints at May?

The days are slightly warmer,
    The tulips rise up, red,
And there's a new beginning
    For what appeared as dead.

So when will you be coming,
    Who left in wintertime,
To join with us in singing
    At Resurrection-time?

The body's gone, the spirit
    Is wandering, some will say.
As winter ends, this April,
    The Jews and Christians pray.

The Jews remember Egypt
    And their insistent God.
The Christians say their Jesus
    Rose up and is their Lord.

But since I'm not a Christian
    And even less a Jew,
I often wish, at springtime,
    The one, who'd rise, were you.

Some weeks ago, at Holi,
    The colors flew in Hind,
And earlier, in Persia,
    The bonfires waved in wind.

The spring is like the morning,
    The summer like the day,
And autumn's like the evening,
    When daylight fades away.

And then, there is the winter,
    In colder climes, like night.
And that is when you left us.
    You always did what's right.

So though there's condemnation,
    The ones, who knew you well,
Remember that, for justice,
    Our honored martyrs fell.

And you preserved your honor,
    At price that was unjust.
And so, at every Easter,
    In grace, we put our trust.

For parents lost to falsehoods,
    How many children cry!
For Clan or God or Mammon,
    How many more will die?

How many are the parents,
    Through aeons stretching dim,
Who lost their precious children
    To Man's or Fortune's whim?

Will there be Resurrection,
    As ardently believed?
This sparrow, lying headless,
    By traffic, was deceived.

If there's a resurrection,
    This sparrow then will fly.
And you will then be smiling,
    And so, perhaps, will I.

You mother and your father,
    The one you took for spouse,
Will be, with you, united,
    In that ethereal house.

    Babui / Arjun
        2011 April 20th, Wed.
    Brooklyn  

And Where Are You?

And Where Are You?
                                                              
I saw you once in winter and you just walked away.
I met you in the springtime but you were with another.
You passed by me in summer and then I heard you say,
"When the leaves come down in autumn, I'll go to meet my brother."

The autumn leaves have fallen and winter winds blow cold.
"And where are you, my sister?" I ask the drifting snow.
The seasons, they are passing, and I am growing old.
And all that I had understood, I now no longer know.

*******

I thought I saw my uncle and then I slipped and fell.
My body took a beating, my spirit did as well.
And in a dream my father reached out to me his hand
But I was busy talking and did not understand.

The one who nursed my sister and cared for me beside,
I looked for her the other day, across the ocean wide.
The sun was slowly sinking and birds flew through the air.
And in the waves came drifting my mother's waving hair.

Babui / Arjun
2011 April 9th, Sat.
Brooklyn
 
In Memoriam
Monua Janah 
1959-2004  
 

On Such a Night

    
On Such a Night

    

On such a night, with moonbeams gliding

Through the windows, we

Lay side by side, as scents of rose

And jasmine mingled free.

Now once again, we see that moon,

And a sky that's filled with stars.

The flowers in their vases swoon,

And men still wage their wars.

One by one, the flowers die,

And so do we, my love.

But see -- this moon that rises, sets,

These stars that shine above.

Though one by one, the flowers droop,

Whose scents and colors fade,

On every morn, the sun will rise

And there'll be light and shade.

When you and I are memory,

A dim, receding spark,

The sun and moon and stars will whirl

Through skies of light and dark.

The clouds that race on surging winds,

The mists that rise at dawn,

Our brethren, these, will rise and race

When you and I are gone.

And when our memories have passed

Away like drifting mist,

Then lovers new will witness still

Such nights, by moonlight kissed.

And in their turn, the sun and moon

And stars will pass away,

And long before, this life on Earth,

As fleeting as the day.

But yet, on a planet distant, where

The moons may number three,

Such beings still will rise and mate

As equal you and me.

Babui / Arjun

2010 December 4th, Sat.

Brooklyn

      
On Such a Night--II 
   

Amerindian

 
Amerindian

I met a man of darker hue, upon the rolling plains,
And this is what he said, before he blew away his brains.

"You see, upon that ridge-top there, I stood, while still a boy,
And saw my people camped below, and laughed out loud with joy.

"For I had trekked across the plains, a little runaway,
Who'd fled the farm where he had slaved and lived to see that day.
I then ran down to the tents below, and what did I then find?
The ones I loved had passed away -- but not from my young mind!

"For twenty years I wandered more, with those of the tribe still left,
Forever seeking for my kin, of family bereft.
And though the tribe did take me in, befriending one quite lost,
I never, ever smiled again, remembering slaughter's cost.

"And one by one (and often more) the others in that tribe,
Who still survived, fell down and died, from bullet or from bribe.
To alcohol they turned, as those, who settled on this land,
Dispensed of them, with guns and booze -- as now I understand.

"And so, in time, I too took up the gun and drank from the bottle,
And murdered both the dark and pale, in the blinding heat of battle.
Pursued by gunmen, I rode west, and found myself a job,
A farmhand, doing the work of a grunt, and shucking corn from cob.

"But every night, I dreamed of those, my parents, siblings, slain,
And those I'd killed myself and saw, still writhing in their pain.
And grief and anger welled in me, and I would toss and turn,
And in my private hell at night, in fire unending, burn.

"Six years I worked -- but then, one day, being kicked while still asleep,
I slew the one who'd woken me, from dreams both dark and deep.
And so the spiral that commenced, with murders of my kin,
Took one more turn, and added yet more death to the arc of sin.

I spent twelve years in jail, and then I managed to escape,
A runaway for one last time -- and not in youthful shape!
And here I've come, to the selfsame spot, where I had met, before,
The ones who then were still alive, but now are here no more.

"And I am glad that you were here, a stranger, yet a friend,
So I could tell you this, my tale, before it comes to end."

He grasped my arm, and then he turned and walked to that long crest,
And standing there, he shot himself -- and crumpled down to rest.

Babui / Arjun Janah
2009 August 25th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York