To My Father

To My Father

You will not die, my father, you will live.
My mother, she has gone, my sister too.
But they, like you, were never mine to keep...

I now am far, although I would be near.
What's happened in the past, we can't reverse...
By worldly shackles, I am now constrained.

But live, dear father, live -- and see again,
Although the pain of loss may be acute,
And that of living too you do endure,
The story is not done. 

And I would wait
And so might you, if fortune so permits,
So we can meet again -- and be, perhaps,
A father with his son again...

******
 
And if, perchance, our meeting be delayed,
Then live -- for those who've given you their love,
And find the strength to walk -- and work again...

And if, by fortune's hand, you take your leave
Or I, before we ever meet again,
Then know that you were loved -- and that you gave
Not knowing it, perhaps, what gives me now
And others, sustenance...

******
 
We are but two among the multitude,
And all that we have suffered, others have
And others will, as is the mortal lot...

And yet, we weep at prospect of our loss
And at the losses that we each endure.
So weeps the world -- and yet it smiles again,
And so it was before we trod this Earth,
As it will be when we are memories...

*******
 
But live, my father, live, for you have yet
So much that's left -- do live, for better days...
The ones who tend you now, the ones afar,
Beseech you that you live -- and rise again.

Babui
2012 June 20th, 1:11 a.m.
Brooklyn 
  

A Cheerful Note

A Cheerful Note

How many dirges should I sing before

You bid me stop -- or do to me much worse?

Is there a reason you should bear yet more

Of dismal gloom and whining, set in verse?

So now, before you hit again "delete",

Let me reward forbearance you have shown.

I now shall try to strike a cheerful note,

That thing, for which, you know, I'm widely known!

******

I heard a bird sing out the other day.

A year ago, perhaps, I heard it sing...

And cheery was that song I think I heard.

It had, you know, a joyful kind of zing...

Ah yes!  I also saw a puppy, out at play.

Upon the grass it ran, in circles tight.

That too was quite some time ago.

It seemed to show, in running, great delight...

Is that enough?  The moon!  I saw that too.

In phases full and gibbous, crescent and

In new-moon phase, when it had vanished quite.

And all of that was -- really kind of grand...

And I saw stars -- or were they planets?  Both!

I even saw the sun, but not for long,

As it was bright and tried to hurt my eyes.

I saw the sun, and found its light was strong...

I saw some trees, oh just the other day...

I noticed it was spring, with winter gone.

And some of them were pretty, so it seemed.

I still had eyes -- and things to look upon...

But when my eyes are gone.... Oh no!  Not now!

A cheerful note is what it's all about!

So back to that.  How wonderful are eyes!

And I have ears -- and voice.  So here's a shout!

Let's see...  I still can feel -- the cold and warmth, the pain...

Not that.  Ignore that last.  It's pleasure that I feel!

There's food -- and sex -- at least the thought of that,

And sleep -- though troubled.  Scat!  Let's turn the wheel
.

Ah!  Waking!  What a pleasure, no?

Well, sometimes not... Ignore that too.  

And people!  Family!  And friends!  But where?

Oh here and there, afar, the ones like you...

Is that enough?  It seems that "cheerful note"

Is hard to find and seems to turn to sour...

No matter!  There!  I've tried!  Now you can vote

And hit "delete" again -- with all your power.

Still there?  Your stomach must be truly strong!

With friends like you, a poet should reform.

No more of  doleful stuff or rantings mad...

But cheerful things -- and those that do inform...

The bird, the puppy and the waving trees...

The sun and moon and shining planets/stars...

The pleasures left, the family and friends,

The eyes and ears -- and all the news of wars....

Oh drat!  Not "wars".  No war stuff here.  Omit!

It's "peace"...  How wonderful is peace...

That peace that comes when we're about to die...

What?  Death!  Not that!  Let's hit "release"...

******

 

So there's my cheerful note -- or notes of cheer.

I hope I leave you somewhat satisfied...

Forbearance has borne fruit, I hope of taste

That's sweeter than what verses past supplied...

Enjoy the sweetness, let it last awhile...

Some say that honey should be laid on thick...

Now I shall leave, lest bitterness and bile

Return.  There!  Swallowing's the trick!

Babui / Arjun

2012 May 13th, Sun.

Brooklyn

Departure

 
Departure

She came at the end of the class and the day, and handed me the book I’d given her soon after the start of the term, almost seven months ago.

“But why?” I asked.

“I'm going to New Orleans.” she said—this quiet girl, who had worked these months without complaint—or even word.

Her voice was shaking and her eyes had tears.

“How long, Lan Fang,” I asked, “have you been here?”

“Two years.” she said.

Two years: a language, barely learned; a refuge, here at school, in this far land; a friend or two, perhaps—by chance or earned through effort; and progress—halting, slow—with books like the one that she now was dutifully returning.

How many nights were spent upon that book, deciphering the blur of foreign words?  How few— yet precious—her new friends and teachers...

And now, she would lose them, as she had lost the ones before.

How could I take that book?  Yet take it, I must.

I opened the book and saw another's name, whose visage floated up—a student gone and yet remembered, as a teacher does...

I shook my head and sighed.

 “Your parents too?” I asked.  She nodded yes.

“That’s good.” I said.  “I too will be with you.”

She stood quietly.

“Will you be here on Monday?”

 “No.” she said, and now more tears welled up.  Her voice was faint.

I searched and gave her tissues.  She took one, returned the other, bowed her head and left.

I strode towards the door and called, “Do write!  And let me know.  I will write, for you, a recommendation, when you’re needing one.”
 
She looked at me and slowly walked away.
 
Babui / Arjun
2012  March 23rd, Friday
(changed to prose form on 2015 Dec. 14th, Mon.)
Brooklyn
---------------------------------------------------------------
  
Please see also:  Departure-II
    

Addictions

Addictions

I never drank my fill of wine or beer or heady liquor,
Except for once, when I was young and still in youthful vigor.
I never took more drags than one on weed that passed around,
I never smoked more cigarettes than one in a daily round.
I snorted once some powder, when a post-doc in the west,
And knew at once that this, for me, was clearly not the best.

I drink a cup or two a day of coffee, sweet, with milk,
And tea aplenty when I eat of noodles and their ilk,
And I'm addicted now, for years approaching nearly seven,
To writing, typing verses that have more of hell than heaven.
And I had written chapters long on states of schools in trouble,
But more than all of this I've spent on working shifts of double.

If only I were paid for both, I could have now retired,
But since I never was or could, I've just grown old and tired.
And when I cease from working, why—the demons in my brain
That never had a place before, play tricks I can't explain.
For conflicts deep have entered and have ravaged the seat of reason,
And there's no drug to cure that wound, nor hope of a kinder season.

So now I understand, perhaps, addictions all around,
For when the peace within is lost, then devils do abound.
And all around, the manic race, and all around, the wars,
The destruction that is senseless, mad, come not from baleful stars,
But from addictions deep, profound that rise from lack of peace,
And till that peace within is found, these conflicts will not cease.

Babui / Arjun
2011 December 17th, Sat.
Brooklyn
   

Strange Encounter -- II

              
Strange Encounter -- II
             
I met my mates the other night, down at the local pub,
It was our weekly gathering, it was our social hub.
My wife had told me earlier, "Do not carouse till late!
I want you home tonight, my dear, to eat with mom, at eight!"

But I had had a bit too much, of public house's ale,
And did my pals, with stories loud and boisterous, regale.
And when I realized, alas, that I was running late,
I took a short cut (so I thought) as it was well past eight.

And as I wandered homeward, why, I seemed to turn about,
And all was turning, as I turned, and I began to shout.
But sadly, no one answered -- and so, I silent fell.
And all around was silence -- and dark as bloody hell.

I felt, of sudden weary, and leaned upon a tree.
And shut my eyes for just a bit, to be, of tiredness, free...
And when I opened eyes again, I felt so much refreshed,
I set off striding jauntily, by my own self impressed...

But then, as I was striding, I looked around and saw
An unfamiliar setting that filled me with some awe.
It was a sylvan wilderness -- with starlight it was lighted.
It was a little frightening -- and yet I felt delighted.

For this, I sensed, was where I'd been, a long long time ago,
And this, I knew, was where they were, the ones who were no more,
The fairies and the pixies and the goblins and the trolls
And all the little beings who had played their little roles.

In the middle of that forest, where the fairies gather 'round,
I heard a soft and eerie, yet a joyful kind of sound.
It was midnight, it was moonless -- and through the silent dark,
I heard that gentle throbbing -- and to its sound did hark.

And on glimpsing, in the distance, a strange and ghostly glow,
I hurried, heart pulsating, determined, then, to know
From where and why this throbbing, from where and why this light,
That gave me trepidation -- and filled me with delight.

And then I saw a clearing -- and through it shone a star
That hypnotized me, briefly, with twinkling light afar.
And when I shut and opened -- my eyes, by star enthralled,
I saw the small ones dancing, as other wee ones called.

Oh surely they were graceful, oh surely they trod light,
But they were more than graceful, they were a wondrous sight.
I saw then, lanterns glowing, as summer glow-worms glow.
And other lights were moving, in midnight firefly show.

I heard the sound grow louder and then appear to fade,
Until I heard but silence -- and felt again afraid.
But then, like chorus rising, I heard the calls begin
And knew that they were gentle, untouched by worldly sin.

It was the sound of water, it was the sound of breeze,
It was a gentle murmur that set my heart at ease.
I floated on that rising, I drifted on that ebb,
To sound I did surrender, ensnared in woven web.

How long that seance lasted, I really do not know.
I woke at dawn's arrival, as east began to glow.
And then, I wandered homeward, to scolding from my spouse,
Who thought, perhaps, her chosen was just a drunken louse.

What matter? I just kissed her -- and roundly, on both cheeks,
And bounded past to mattress, the one that loudly squeaks.
And there I fell like timber, to dream again in wonder,
To see again that dancing in that uncertain yonder...

Babui / Arjun
2011 November 18th, Friday, 9:30 pm
Brooklyn
 

Faith

Faith

Is there an isle, in an ocean blue,

Where decency remains,

Where men walk nude and women too,

And no one sane complains?

Is there a village, perching high

Above the clouds that rain,

Whose village elders rarely lie

Or deal for worldly gain?

Oh, there are islands plentiful

And villages sans measure,

Where decency is still the rule

And honesty's a treasure!

The ones, who still are decent, they,

In humble actions, trust.

And those, who still are honest, speak

But are unheard by us. 

"Should we have faith or should we seek

For evidence?" you ask.

"It's faith that gives us eyes to seek

And patience for the task."

Babui / Arjun

2011 June 4th, Sat.

Brooklyn
----------------------------------------------------------
  
Related: Faith-II
( http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2017/07/faith.html ) 
   

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