A Woman, Young -- Part II

A Woman, Young -- Part II

A memory remains
of California sun
and that brief incident,
that crossing of the paths
between that woman and
myself --
the ones we were
that morning,
long ago.

Unaccustomed as I was, to women, young,
who'd follow me and offer me a ride --
and insist on it, a stranger though I was ---
I did not know then what to do
except to walk away ---
perhaps especially as she
was beautiful,
attractive and vivacious,
and, at least with me, that day,
flirtatious in a friendly sort of way,
with a sunny innocence that lit her eyes
and a smile that played, like sunshine, on her face.

I did not know then how I should react.
And so, I stumbled and I walked away.

It might have been for the best.

I wonder, still,
how it just might have been
if only I were not
the solemn one that I
felt bound to be
that sunlit day.

I wonder too, just who she was,
that woman, young,
whose form had been revealed to me,
in wondrous nudity,
in morning's light --
that woman who
had followed me --
perhaps because our eyes had met
and she had sensed, as I had done,
a history, unreachable --
a musk
without a name --
and perhaps
a destiny
that turned out
not to be...

I wonder who she was,
that woman, young,
whom I remembered suddenly
this evening, thirty years
and very far away --
I wonder who she was --
and is --
that woman, now perhaps
no longer young...

I did not ask her name,
nor offer mine,
and nor did she,
despite her friendliness...

I wish her well,
and I also wish that I could say,
"I'm sorry that I was
a dolt that day."

2013  October 31, Thu.
Brooklyn
  
A Woman, Young -- Part I 

http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/10/a-woman-young.html 
 

A Woman, Young -- Part I

      
A Woman, Young -- Part I
  
It was morning -- 10 o'clock or earlier.  I hadn't slept.
But I was young, and though I'd lectured for an hour or more,
I still had energy to spare.

I was walking out of the building where I'd lectured, when
I saw a woman, young, who stood where light was streaming in.
Her gauzy dress was billowing in the breeze,
and I could see her form, as if she wasn't wearing clothes
at all.

On exiting the building's door, I met that woman's gaze,
for just an instant.  Walking, then, across the sunlit yard,
I heard, behind me, footsteps, fast -- and found her by my side.

She greeted me.  I turned and answered, being just polite.
She was quite beautiful.  

A word or two of casual talk, and then -- she offered me
a ride.  I said, "I live nearby.  I usually just walk."

But she insisted.  So I sat, and as she drove, she asked,
"So what's your major?"  I answered, "Physics."
"Why do you have that book, then?" she inquired,
and gestured at the thing that sat upon my lap --
a book on mathematics, meant for freshmen
who weren't majoring in engineering, sciences
or math -- and needed a refresher course.

But we were at the buildings meant for faculty,
where I was rooming with a friend who taught.

"I'm saved!" I thought.  Some part of me
was just unwilling to acknowledge that
I now no longer could romance a girl
who might just be an undergrad, while I
had finished with my post-doc there at UCI,
and now had given my last lecture there in math,
and would be leaving soon for someplace far away.

I said, "We'll talk about that later, over coffee."

"But where -- and when?" she asked.

"I'm sure we'll meet each other once again.",
I said -- and saying this,
I waved and walked away.

I'd almost reached my building when I heard her car
-- and saw it curve and glide away.

I never saw that woman, young, again.

2013  October 31, Thu.
Brooklyn 
 

The Small and Easy Lie

            
    The Small and Easy Lie

Of all the means that are employed
    To render workers slaves,
The lie is used, most commonly,
    By each new crop of knaves.

But sadly, it is workers, who,
    To falsehoods, then accede.
And every time we do, we let
    The master-knaves succeed.

For when a job's impossible,
    The shortcut then is used.
This sets the stage for tragedy,
    As lackeys watch, amused.

For conscience is an organ, which
    Will wither, when suppressed,
And gains in strength, when what it says
    Is followed or expressed.

So when we use, in what we do,
    The small and easy lie,
We then should know, the truth begins
    To suffer and to die.

"But facts are facts!" you may declare,
    "And truth is truth." maintain.
But when awareness, memory
    Have faded, lies remain.

And when we've built a structure on
    A base that's clearly false,
That structure is a jail-house, which
    Imprisons, till it falls.

And workers then will toil and strive,
    Not knowing history.
And when they fail at what they do,
    It's not a mystery.

But failure too will then be used
    To sell yet more of lies.
So be aware, for every lie,
    A bit of freedom dies.

And good intentions, too, are vain,
    When sight is so obscured
By lies, unchallenged, mounting up,
    That illness can't be cured.

The jungle we are in will clear,
    When each perceives the truth,
And then proceeds to, one by one,
    The tangled lies uproot.

The fog that we are in will clear
    When each confronts the lie,
And tells the truth, in private and
    In public, lest it die.

    2013 October 26th, Sat.
             Brooklyn  
   

New Season -- revised

  
This is a revised version of New Season , which I wrote on October 29th, 2006, a few months into a two-year stay at my parents'  house in Berkeley, California.  That long visit was initiated by a heart attack (followed, during stent installation, by heart failure) that my mother had suffered, on August 26th of that year.

Almost two years after that writing, Joe's Demise appeared, on October 5th, 2008 -- out of nowhere, so it seemed.  This happened soon after my return to Brooklyn, at the end of August of that year.

Recently, on reading both poems again, I noticed that a section of the earlier poem contained a premonition of what is perhaps portrayed in the later one, Joe's Demise.  So, after revising New Season, I am presenting it below.

---------------------------------------------------------------

New Season -- revised

The air has cooled, but still the ardent sun
Retains his strength, as leaves of color fall.

Now comes November... Yet, along this coast,
It is as if we're waiting still for May...

The maples – they are mottled, green and red...
And lighter, warmer shades can now be seen,
Amongst the greens, on coastal slopes and hills.

We know, beyond those hills, and east to the sea,
For a full three thousand miles, the trees stand bare,
Except for dark and stolid evergreens... 

But here, the maples, oaks, the wine-leaved plums
And all their broad-leaved kin still wear the clothes
Of early fall, which lasts here into spring...

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

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

And high upon those hills, you still might find,
Beside a stream, a mountain lion's print –
And quickly glance about and hurry down
Before the night descends on fragrant pines.

It is as if the works of men are but
Another shadow that is speeding through,
One more among the countless ones that climb
These coastal hills as clouds go racing by.

All this shall pass, like a storm that lays about
And then is gone.  So newborn grass will spring
From asphalt cracks, and rust will eat at bridges...

And trees will conquer buildings, as they've done
Since Olmecs, Mayas, Incas, Aztecs raised
Their monuments and left, as Khmers had built
In forests far across the globe, reclaimed
By plants, and all the life that they sustain...

But wait – perhaps, this time, it won't be so,
And things will take, instead, a turn that is
Quite different – for we have stressed this whole,
Of earth and sea and air, beyond its strength...

That whole may not recover.  Life, its part,
May never be the same upon this globe...

And if we do not curb those weapons dread
That we are hoarding, life may vanish from
This blue-green planet – till it starts again
From a seed arrived from a distant orb that's sent
Ejecta forth to find a home and spread...

All this goes through the mind, on a tranquil day,
When all seems changeless, still, amidst the flow...

Perhaps we need these little respites from
The rush of seasons – both of Earth and Man.
We then can note the changes that portend
Of seasons yet to come, whose depth and length
Exceed, by far, the turns of the yearly round.

October ends, and yet, in paradise,
The sun is warm, and hummingbirds in flight
Are finding time to pause and drink their fill.

So autumn here begins, and we have time
To think these thoughts of past and future, while
We savor this – the present's timelessness.

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

revised, 2013 October 23rd, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Never See the Light / Who's to Blame?

Never See the Light / Who's to Blame?

There are some, who'd change the planet. 
Those more humble, change themselves.
Of ourselves, we have some knowledge.  
We know little of the rest.
  
We can try to change what's local, 
Which are things of which we know.
Let the locals settle issues, 
As they know those issues best.

******
  
There is madness in the workplace, there is madness in the home.
Our children grow demented and our elders lose their minds.
And is this from calamity that Nature wrought – or war?
It's us.  We live in darkness, for we've shuttered all the blinds.

There is madness in our cities, and in places near and far.
We follow basest instincts – so a virtue is a vice.
And is this by an order that was given from above?
It's us.  We've turned so horrid, we've forgotten to be nice.

The positions that we're placed in, where there's little room for love,
Situations in the workplace, and the pressures on our kids,
They're the things that make for madness.  We are running in a herd,
And the ones who aren't running, they may end up in the skids.

So the soldiers in their battles, who will fight and die unheard,
They will slay the ones they're fighting, and will rarely question why.
They are following their orders and have lives that are at stake,
For the one, who ceases fighting, will be likeliest to die.

Are there exits from this madness?  Can we say, “It's a mistake!”?
Can the workers slow from working?  Can the soldiers cease to fight?
I do not know the answers to these questions, but I know,
That until we get the answers, we will never see the light.

So I'm asking you these questions, and I will not take a “No!
I do not wish to answer.  We are helpless in this game.”
For your life and mine are in it – and the children's, who are next.
If we do not ask or answer, then we know who is to blame.

For we each may do our duties, mind our business, not be vexed,
But the things that are unraveled, they won't ravel of themselves.
If we do not know the answers, we should seek for answers, or
The children will be saying that we only thought of selves.

*******
    
Let me pause awhile for breathing.  
Should I rage against what's crazed
Till I drive myself to madness 
And I leave you all enraged?
  
Let us pause to breathe -- and slowly.  
Can we right the local wrongs?
I shall leave you now to ponder -- 
Are we free -- or are we caged?

2013 October 20th, Sun.
Brooklyn 

Related Post:  The Small and Easy Lie
http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2013/10/the-small-and-easy-lie.html 

Comments are welcome:  You can leave comments below.
      

The Changing Moon

   
The Changing Moon
   
The moon has phases, which we see.
It changes everyday.
Its shapes have names.  Its size, in flux,
Has monthly wax and wane.

And yet, it is the selfsame moon
That hides itself when new,
That starts and ends as sliver and
Is shining round when full.

And there are other changes, which
The one who looks may notice.
And some are seen by all – and some
Are seen by the devoted.

Who sees a moon that's rising, sees
Another moon than he,
Who sees his shadow walk with him
Upon a moonlit way.

*******
      
The moon, at rise and set, appears
A giant, warmly hued.
The moon at zenith bathes the Earth
In coolest silver flow.

It changes so on its daily round,
And with the seasons too.
For there is still a moon of May
And that of late November.

The moon of autumn, winter, spring
And summer – they're the same.
Yet each has qualities that tell
Of season, day and hour.

The moon of autumn seems to brood,
The winter moon is sharp.
The moon of spring delights the heart
And summer's moon says, “Love.”

******
     
The sun's too bright to look upon,
Except at rise and set.
We look upon the changing moon
With wonder, as a friend.

For it can change or set our moods,
Bring calm to troubled minds...
And there will be a lovers' moon,
When you and I are gone...

For though the moon appears to change,
It still remains the same.
The ancients saw the moon we see,
And so will those unborn.

In times of peace, in times of war,
In times of hope, despair,
In loneliness, at birth and death,
That changing moon is there.

2013 October 18th Fri. evening
(some stanzas added 19th morning)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

Recent Posts and Updates

Recent Posts and Updates

 Joe's Demise (2008 Aug)

Teachers' Cafeteria--Part I (2013 Sep)

Teachers' Cafeteria--Part II (2013 Oct) 

Unfulfilled (2013 Sep)