“Thank you for saving my life, miss.”
The hundredth hug. The hundredth smile.
I can hold my back straight for hours
and not feel tired. Atlas would be put to shame!
Holding onto a smile, now that,
takes more than superpowers.
As the human girl is gurnied away, her smile
floats up, up and away to light the clouds,
show night its way. I follow.
When I was younger, the thrill of flight
was almost addictive. I couldn’t stay put on earth.
Up here, in the stratosphere, I remain awhile.
Not as silent as space, but it will suffice.
The arc of a life held together by one crisis,
then another, gets to one after a while.
Not one notch remains on me to mark
what passed below. It has always been so.
How nice Manhattan seems from this angle!
Pinks and grays have smudged away the recent melee.
But, duty cannot wait.
To the watchtower next, patrolling the stars,
pacing the tower’s steely halls,
eyes glued to the fractal dance of the
LED-panel, each flare a call for help,
which I promptly dispatch.
“Ever here, ever vigilant,” has become my motto.
“She was always there when needed,
star-spangled tights and all. What a woman!”
The papers drool over my latest “heroic encounter.”
Great Hera!...A person couldn’t care less
about the semantic niceties of
Immortal and Indestructible,
when only an empty house marks
the end to every day.
So, instead, at shift-end I head
to Christmas Isle to catch the sun’s first ray.
Red claws scuttle over shell hash on a beach
where men may have played at being fauna.
But, no witch’s spell here for me
to compel a scratch from a shell-shard
to ripen, bloom and not wither
to a rusty shield.
The wound always closes
by the time I finish making it.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Sunday, October 7, 2007
The Story of Milk
Late again for prayers today.
The cause for delay?
We’ll get to it by and by.
In the west, night and day
are lost in a purple sky.
Were it not for the stink,
I’d think it was my milky eye
Playing a trick.
China burnt a pot again last night.
(Is it so hard to boil milk?)
That bride of yours can’t do anything right
since you went away.
As if a new pot can be plucked from the trees!
(And, what a name she’s
got! In my day, girls could cook
and were named from the Holy Book,
not after countries.)
Yes, I’ve told her many a time how one boils milk.
But all I get is an arched brow!
(No one ever bothered to tell me how.)
I stand at the stove and stir.
She sits in the corner and twists her hair.
(What violated Draupadi is she
letting her hair run so free?
Can a wife of two days dare
fret more than a Mother?)
I stir and stir.
My feet have scarred the kitchen floor
as the heat has scarred my hands.
My once milk-smooth hands
never lifted a ladle until I walked through the door
of this house, followed by a menagerie.
(Did she even bring a transistor
radio as dowry? Not her.)
I headed for the kitchen.
(Oh, how bright my eyes were then!)
But enough of this reverie.
Look! I almost burnt the milk!
. . .
Frogs have begun to sing in
the pale light that sits in her corner.
I only sent her to fetch water.
I wait and wait.
She is late
again. First, the muezzin
and now her.
She’s never been this late.
Neither has he, for that matter.
Is this how wars begin?
I better go look for her.
The cause for delay?
We’ll get to it by and by.
In the west, night and day
are lost in a purple sky.
Were it not for the stink,
I’d think it was my milky eye
Playing a trick.
China burnt a pot again last night.
(Is it so hard to boil milk?)
That bride of yours can’t do anything right
since you went away.
As if a new pot can be plucked from the trees!
(And, what a name she’s
got! In my day, girls could cook
and were named from the Holy Book,
not after countries.)
Yes, I’ve told her many a time how one boils milk.
But all I get is an arched brow!
(No one ever bothered to tell me how.)
I stand at the stove and stir.
She sits in the corner and twists her hair.
(What violated Draupadi is she
letting her hair run so free?
Can a wife of two days dare
fret more than a Mother?)
I stir and stir.
My feet have scarred the kitchen floor
as the heat has scarred my hands.
My once milk-smooth hands
never lifted a ladle until I walked through the door
of this house, followed by a menagerie.
(Did she even bring a transistor
radio as dowry? Not her.)
I headed for the kitchen.
(Oh, how bright my eyes were then!)
But enough of this reverie.
Look! I almost burnt the milk!
. . .
Frogs have begun to sing in
the pale light that sits in her corner.
I only sent her to fetch water.
I wait and wait.
She is late
again. First, the muezzin
and now her.
She’s never been this late.
Neither has he, for that matter.
Is this how wars begin?
I better go look for her.
A Conversation Overheard At The Partner’s Water Cooler
Anna can’t draft a motion.
Is she trying to get fired!
Taking lunches without sanction,
why the frack Jim, was she hired?
I need worker bees, yes, slaving
on my matters all the time.
No rest, no sleep, and yes, starving!
Bill the clients and work each dime!
Can you believe, what she was
doing last night right in front
of my eyes? She didn’t even pause
when she saw me. Arrogant
frack! Her nose was in a paper,
full of news, not legal news,
just news, about Iraq. Terror,
war are very bad excuse
for not doing her work. Partial
though I am to anti-war views,
protests suit those who are able
to have all the time to lose.
Leaving early is a habit
I cannot let fester deep
in her. I’m her mentor dammit!
She has gotta learn to sleep
less! Do you think I made partner
Tucking my kids in at night,
Every night? If she wants dinner,
first, she needs to fix this cite.
This brief can’t wait for Princess,
Harvard Law’s Best. We shall see
about that! In Law’s grave biz’ness
nobody can take breaks. Agree?
Shush! Here she comes up the hallway,
Gleaming hair, new suit, but soon
we’ll put her in her place some day.
Now, it’s still the honeymoon.
I was like her when I started.
Leaving here was always on
my mind. I was not so jaded.
I wrote poems! Seems very long
Ago. I was into cooking,
tennis, how I miss those days!
Anyway, she seems to be looking
around, always in a daze.
Hi there, Anna my dear, looking
for me? I was working all
morning. Memos needed proofing.
Now, let us prep for this call.
Is she trying to get fired!
Taking lunches without sanction,
why the frack Jim, was she hired?
I need worker bees, yes, slaving
on my matters all the time.
No rest, no sleep, and yes, starving!
Bill the clients and work each dime!
Can you believe, what she was
doing last night right in front
of my eyes? She didn’t even pause
when she saw me. Arrogant
frack! Her nose was in a paper,
full of news, not legal news,
just news, about Iraq. Terror,
war are very bad excuse
for not doing her work. Partial
though I am to anti-war views,
protests suit those who are able
to have all the time to lose.
Leaving early is a habit
I cannot let fester deep
in her. I’m her mentor dammit!
She has gotta learn to sleep
less! Do you think I made partner
Tucking my kids in at night,
Every night? If she wants dinner,
first, she needs to fix this cite.
This brief can’t wait for Princess,
Harvard Law’s Best. We shall see
about that! In Law’s grave biz’ness
nobody can take breaks. Agree?
Shush! Here she comes up the hallway,
Gleaming hair, new suit, but soon
we’ll put her in her place some day.
Now, it’s still the honeymoon.
I was like her when I started.
Leaving here was always on
my mind. I was not so jaded.
I wrote poems! Seems very long
Ago. I was into cooking,
tennis, how I miss those days!
Anyway, she seems to be looking
around, always in a daze.
Hi there, Anna my dear, looking
for me? I was working all
morning. Memos needed proofing.
Now, let us prep for this call.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
A Halloween Friendship: The New Adventures of Bol and Bel on the Ship of Monkeys
Bol and Bel are urban (and sometimes, urbane) creatures who live on a planet called SOM (short for the "Ship of Monkeys") populated by four distinct species -- Monkeys, Doggies, AEs (short for the "Arch Enemies") and Rwaonds (short for the "rest who are of non-doggie species). Bol is a beautiful, headstrong, worldly, unpredictable (of the "Captain Jack Sparrow" ilk, for "Pirates" fans), somewhat irresponsible, adult Doggie. Bel is a somewhat cloyingly sweet, overly curious, naive, gangly teen Doggie, who appears attractive in a certain light. Bel and Bol were both lovingly adopted and live with Ma Monkey and Pa Monkey who bestow all kinds of affection on Bel and Bol and as such, are sadly, the unwitting slaves of these two Doggies. These are their conversations....
Evening pink has just started to crowd out the shades of blue in a deepening sky over SOM at the end of another gorgeous day. Pa Monkey is on his daily evening walk with Bel and Bol in tow. While Pa Monkey stops to discuss something important (no doubt) with a Neighbor Monkey, Bel and Bol are left to their own devices, albeit securely tethered to Pa Monkey on a long leash. Bol’s keen eyes spot an AE sprawled on the steps of one of the nearby houses on the tree-lined street. The AE spots Bol; their eyes lock. But, surprisingly, the AE does not budge from the reclining position favored by Greco-Roman Epicureans. Bol, unable to believe his eyes (and his luck), ambles over and Bel dutifully trots along with him.
Bol: (makes a snapping motion right at the AEs face)
The AE: (yawning and scratching it’s tummy says brightly) Hi there!
Bol: How dare you address me? More importantly, why haven’t you run up a tree yet? You all are good at that particular escape route.
The AE: (stretching into and out of various yogic postures) Why should I run? This is my house. And, I must say, you’re not very nice. (spotting Bel) Hi there! Aren’t you a cutie!
Bel: (shyly, and completely forgetting the Bol-imposed rule of not talking to AEs) Hi, what’s your name?
The AE: (much less shyly, in fact, not shyly at all) Pumpkin!
Bol: (unable to contain himself and thus, losing all sense of composure starts sniffing Pumpkin’s tummy) Sniff, sniff!
Pumpkin: (coyly) Hey, aren’t you the forward one!
Bol: (surprised at how good Pumpkin smelled unbeknownst to himself starts wagging his tail) Aren’t you at all afraid of me?
Pumpkin: Why should I be afraid? You two look perfectly harmless and rather cute at that!
Bel: (uncharacteristically speechless and feeling a twinge of jealously at Bol’s fascination with Pumpkin)
Bel: (cautiously nipping Pumpkin’s left ear and surprised at the affection he feels wellingg up inside for an AE) You’re not at all what I imagined AEs would be like.
Pumpkin: Is that so? But, how would you know if you’ve never stopped to talk to one and all you’ve ever done is chase them? (a trifle sharply) Now answer me that, genius!
This happy bucolic scene is brought to an abrupt end as Ma Monkey tears down the street toward them.
Ma Monkey: Pa, watch out! Bol’s going to make short work of that cat!
Pa Monkey immediately jerks Bol’s and Bel’s leashes and takes them to a safe distance away from Pumpkin.
Ma Monkey: Poor kitty! Did bad Bol scare you?
Bol: (sputtering his indignant protest) But, But…
Pumpkin: (purring and generally trying her best to look cute) Purrrrr…
Ma Monkey: Bad Bol! Pa, you better continue on your walk.
Pa Monkey walks off with an understanding smile and a wink at Bel and Bol. Bol gives the unjust world and its tyrant, Ma Monkey, a sulky look. Bel is happy to have Bol back all to herself again, which accounts for the spring in her gait. Pumkin sidles off into a nearby bush. Ma Monkey walks back home shaking her head at Bol’s audacity and general naughtiness.
THE END
Evening pink has just started to crowd out the shades of blue in a deepening sky over SOM at the end of another gorgeous day. Pa Monkey is on his daily evening walk with Bel and Bol in tow. While Pa Monkey stops to discuss something important (no doubt) with a Neighbor Monkey, Bel and Bol are left to their own devices, albeit securely tethered to Pa Monkey on a long leash. Bol’s keen eyes spot an AE sprawled on the steps of one of the nearby houses on the tree-lined street. The AE spots Bol; their eyes lock. But, surprisingly, the AE does not budge from the reclining position favored by Greco-Roman Epicureans. Bol, unable to believe his eyes (and his luck), ambles over and Bel dutifully trots along with him.
Bol: (makes a snapping motion right at the AEs face)
The AE: (yawning and scratching it’s tummy says brightly) Hi there!
Bol: How dare you address me? More importantly, why haven’t you run up a tree yet? You all are good at that particular escape route.
The AE: (stretching into and out of various yogic postures) Why should I run? This is my house. And, I must say, you’re not very nice. (spotting Bel) Hi there! Aren’t you a cutie!
Bel: (shyly, and completely forgetting the Bol-imposed rule of not talking to AEs) Hi, what’s your name?
The AE: (much less shyly, in fact, not shyly at all) Pumpkin!
Bol: (unable to contain himself and thus, losing all sense of composure starts sniffing Pumpkin’s tummy) Sniff, sniff!
Pumpkin: (coyly) Hey, aren’t you the forward one!
Bol: (surprised at how good Pumpkin smelled unbeknownst to himself starts wagging his tail) Aren’t you at all afraid of me?
Pumpkin: Why should I be afraid? You two look perfectly harmless and rather cute at that!
Bel: (uncharacteristically speechless and feeling a twinge of jealously at Bol’s fascination with Pumpkin)
Bel: (cautiously nipping Pumpkin’s left ear and surprised at the affection he feels wellingg up inside for an AE) You’re not at all what I imagined AEs would be like.
Pumpkin: Is that so? But, how would you know if you’ve never stopped to talk to one and all you’ve ever done is chase them? (a trifle sharply) Now answer me that, genius!
This happy bucolic scene is brought to an abrupt end as Ma Monkey tears down the street toward them.
Ma Monkey: Pa, watch out! Bol’s going to make short work of that cat!
Pa Monkey immediately jerks Bol’s and Bel’s leashes and takes them to a safe distance away from Pumpkin.
Ma Monkey: Poor kitty! Did bad Bol scare you?
Bol: (sputtering his indignant protest) But, But…
Pumpkin: (purring and generally trying her best to look cute) Purrrrr…
Ma Monkey: Bad Bol! Pa, you better continue on your walk.
Pa Monkey walks off with an understanding smile and a wink at Bel and Bol. Bol gives the unjust world and its tyrant, Ma Monkey, a sulky look. Bel is happy to have Bol back all to herself again, which accounts for the spring in her gait. Pumkin sidles off into a nearby bush. Ma Monkey walks back home shaking her head at Bol’s audacity and general naughtiness.
THE END
An Unschooled Imagination: The New Adventures of Bol and Bel on the Ship of Monkeys
Bol and Bel are urban (and sometimes, urbane) creatures who live on a planet called SOM (short for the "Ship of Monkeys") populated by four distinct species -- Monkeys, Doggies, AEs (short for the "Arch Enemies") and Rwaonds (short for the "rest who are of non-doggie species). Bol is a beautiful, headstrong, worldly, unpredictable (of the "Captain Jack Sparrow" ilk, for "Pirates" fans), somewhat irresponsible, adult Doggie. Bel is a somewhat cloyingly sweet, overly curious, naive, gangly teen Doggie, who appears attractive in a certain light. Bel and Bol were both lovingly adopted and live with Ma Monkey and Pa Monkey who bestow all kinds of affection on Bel and Bol and as such, are sadly, the unwitting slaves of these two Doggies. These are their conversations....
It was another apple-crisp fall day in SOM. Cloud ballerinas pirouetted and frolicked in an azure sky. The sun’s warmth rounded out the edges of a cool breeze. The world felt new and full of promises for our two young protagonists. Bel and Bol were exploring the tiny garden at the back of the house, as was their wont on lazy, weekend afternoons. The garden was lovingly, if somewhat carelessly, tended by Ma Monkey (who invariably remembered to water the plants while in the midst of other, more important tasks). The garden’s flowers, herbs, fruits and vegetables attracted a number of Lepidoptera, which were a source of endless fascination for Bel. Bol, a consummate, cynic plagued by ennui, couldn’t be less interested…
Bel: (skipping merrily) Bol! Look!
Bol: (yawns lazily)
Bel: (leaping over some potted mint) Whee! Look at me! I’m flying!
Bol: (mutters under his breath) Yeah, right. (Loudly) Why my little Bel is quite the Icarus! Bravo!
Bel: (stops short and then, haltingly) Who’s Ica… Ikeh…rus?
Bol: (afraid of opening a can of worms, starts furiously concentrating on a live worm instead) Never you mind.
Bel: (cheerily) Okey-dokey! (returns to her flying acrobatic antics)
Bol: (in the meantime, flops down in a sunny spot for a snooze)
Bel: (stops jumping and starts sniffing one of the flower beds intently) Bol, do you smell something?
Bol: (opening an eye) Well, your pee-smell in that corner is rather overpowering, ne c’est pas? Other smells don’t stand a chance! (Satisfied with this latest barb at Bel’s puerile habit of peeing in the garden, Bol goes back to daydreaming of catching AEs.)
Bel: (to herself) Fine, I won’t share what I find with you then. So, there! The smell is somewhat like the yellowish, paper-wrapped food that Ma and Pa Monkey get from the big food place. I love that stuff! Or, I “think” I would love it just from the delicious smell that wafts from the paper cover… I’ve never actually eaten the yellowish, waxy-looking brick inside… I don’t even know what it’s called! I bet Bol would know, but I’m not going to tell him. This smell and what lies at the end of this scent trail will be my very own secret. (Roots around in the dirt and viola, finds a piece of cheese and promptly eats it!)
Bol: (sensing food-related activity perks up) Bel, what are you munching on?
Bel: (in muffled tones, due a full mouth) Nuff-ing.
Bol: (in a threatening tone) ‘Fess up, Bel!
Bel: Okay, okay, I’ll tell you. You know that yellowish brick thing that Ma Monkey loves to eat?
Bol: What? You mean – cheese?
Bel: (as usual, losing her train of thought) So that’s what it’s called. I always wondered, you know!
Bol: (growls impatiently) Grrrowl!
Bel; (taking her cue) Right, where was I? Cheese (saying the unfamiliar word carefully). Yes, there is a Cheese Tree in this garden and since I discovered it, its mine.
Bol: (managing a sound between a laugh and a cough) Hrrumph! Really now?
Bel: (courage getting fainter by the nanosecond) I guess it wouldn’t hurt to share with you and of course, with (her true love) Ma Monkey and (her other true love) Pa Monkey.
Bol: (amused at Bel’s phantasmagoria of a cheese tree, but for once taking pity at Bel’s vivid, unschooled imagination) Whatever you say, Bel. What-ever you say.
Bel goes back to rooting around at the base of the plant she has renamed The Cheese Tree. Finding nothing after a few minutes of a thorough search and sniff, she bounds off inside the house to deliver telepathic hints to Ma Monkey in order to make her water the plants so that more cheese could be enjoyed by all!
Bol, still in the garden, goes back to a semi-doze state, mesmerized by the beauty of a floating mite in a shimmery tube of light.
THE END
It was another apple-crisp fall day in SOM. Cloud ballerinas pirouetted and frolicked in an azure sky. The sun’s warmth rounded out the edges of a cool breeze. The world felt new and full of promises for our two young protagonists. Bel and Bol were exploring the tiny garden at the back of the house, as was their wont on lazy, weekend afternoons. The garden was lovingly, if somewhat carelessly, tended by Ma Monkey (who invariably remembered to water the plants while in the midst of other, more important tasks). The garden’s flowers, herbs, fruits and vegetables attracted a number of Lepidoptera, which were a source of endless fascination for Bel. Bol, a consummate, cynic plagued by ennui, couldn’t be less interested…
Bel: (skipping merrily) Bol! Look!
Bol: (yawns lazily)
Bel: (leaping over some potted mint) Whee! Look at me! I’m flying!
Bol: (mutters under his breath) Yeah, right. (Loudly) Why my little Bel is quite the Icarus! Bravo!
Bel: (stops short and then, haltingly) Who’s Ica… Ikeh…rus?
Bol: (afraid of opening a can of worms, starts furiously concentrating on a live worm instead) Never you mind.
Bel: (cheerily) Okey-dokey! (returns to her flying acrobatic antics)
Bol: (in the meantime, flops down in a sunny spot for a snooze)
Bel: (stops jumping and starts sniffing one of the flower beds intently) Bol, do you smell something?
Bol: (opening an eye) Well, your pee-smell in that corner is rather overpowering, ne c’est pas? Other smells don’t stand a chance! (Satisfied with this latest barb at Bel’s puerile habit of peeing in the garden, Bol goes back to daydreaming of catching AEs.)
Bel: (to herself) Fine, I won’t share what I find with you then. So, there! The smell is somewhat like the yellowish, paper-wrapped food that Ma and Pa Monkey get from the big food place. I love that stuff! Or, I “think” I would love it just from the delicious smell that wafts from the paper cover… I’ve never actually eaten the yellowish, waxy-looking brick inside… I don’t even know what it’s called! I bet Bol would know, but I’m not going to tell him. This smell and what lies at the end of this scent trail will be my very own secret. (Roots around in the dirt and viola, finds a piece of cheese and promptly eats it!)
Bol: (sensing food-related activity perks up) Bel, what are you munching on?
Bel: (in muffled tones, due a full mouth) Nuff-ing.
Bol: (in a threatening tone) ‘Fess up, Bel!
Bel: Okay, okay, I’ll tell you. You know that yellowish brick thing that Ma Monkey loves to eat?
Bol: What? You mean – cheese?
Bel: (as usual, losing her train of thought) So that’s what it’s called. I always wondered, you know!
Bol: (growls impatiently) Grrrowl!
Bel; (taking her cue) Right, where was I? Cheese (saying the unfamiliar word carefully). Yes, there is a Cheese Tree in this garden and since I discovered it, its mine.
Bol: (managing a sound between a laugh and a cough) Hrrumph! Really now?
Bel: (courage getting fainter by the nanosecond) I guess it wouldn’t hurt to share with you and of course, with (her true love) Ma Monkey and (her other true love) Pa Monkey.
Bol: (amused at Bel’s phantasmagoria of a cheese tree, but for once taking pity at Bel’s vivid, unschooled imagination) Whatever you say, Bel. What-ever you say.
Bel goes back to rooting around at the base of the plant she has renamed The Cheese Tree. Finding nothing after a few minutes of a thorough search and sniff, she bounds off inside the house to deliver telepathic hints to Ma Monkey in order to make her water the plants so that more cheese could be enjoyed by all!
Bol, still in the garden, goes back to a semi-doze state, mesmerized by the beauty of a floating mite in a shimmery tube of light.
THE END
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Because I Stopped For Death
Today I spied
an old woman walking on the street.
It took me a minute to realize
that the picture was not quite right.
She was walking in the middle of a busy lane
with her back facing traffic.
Her progress was slow—
one foot carefully placed after the other.
She was dressed impeccably;
her eyes had a far-away look.
"Madam," I said a few times,
before she turned around.
Hazel eyes focused on me,
then unfocused and slipped away.
"Don't you think it's dangerous
to walk thus, in the middle of a busy street?"
She shrugged imperceptibly
and walked off the street and onto the sidewalk.
I continued on my own walk,
only to miss being hit by
a careless driver, cradling a phone
with barely an eye on the road.
I saved Death from itself that day
and the favor was returned.
I was left wondering,
"What in the world would cause Death
to seek an end."
an old woman walking on the street.
It took me a minute to realize
that the picture was not quite right.
She was walking in the middle of a busy lane
with her back facing traffic.
Her progress was slow—
one foot carefully placed after the other.
She was dressed impeccably;
her eyes had a far-away look.
"Madam," I said a few times,
before she turned around.
Hazel eyes focused on me,
then unfocused and slipped away.
"Don't you think it's dangerous
to walk thus, in the middle of a busy street?"
She shrugged imperceptibly
and walked off the street and onto the sidewalk.
I continued on my own walk,
only to miss being hit by
a careless driver, cradling a phone
with barely an eye on the road.
I saved Death from itself that day
and the favor was returned.
I was left wondering,
"What in the world would cause Death
to seek an end."
Friday, August 17, 2007
The Darkening
Is the news ever good?
else why should
a grim voice on the radio
talk of hundreds dead in Pisco,
while ships race with scant fanfair
to plant a flag at Ursa Major's lair,
and retired birds of prey
spread moth-eaten wings and fly up and away.
Elsewhere, the Duero grapes reluctantly greet
the march of inexorable rodent feet.
In Sirajganj, the waters recede
to reveal the sick, the dead, the wearied.
If these be plagues arisen
who, prithee, are the chosen?
else why should
a grim voice on the radio
talk of hundreds dead in Pisco,
while ships race with scant fanfair
to plant a flag at Ursa Major's lair,
and retired birds of prey
spread moth-eaten wings and fly up and away.
Elsewhere, the Duero grapes reluctantly greet
the march of inexorable rodent feet.
In Sirajganj, the waters recede
to reveal the sick, the dead, the wearied.
If these be plagues arisen
who, prithee, are the chosen?
Sunday, August 12, 2007
March 4th, 1997
Clouds darken the sky--I think of you.
Leaves dance in the wind--I think of you.
Rain pelts the window--I think of you.
Thunder drums a primal beat--I think of you.
Lightening silvers the world--I think of you.
The storm is spent;
the world washed anew.
A lark shatters the stillness--I think of you.
Fragrance fills the garden--I think of you.
The sun shines again--I think of you.
There must be a spell to this love.
You feel familiar
yet, the feeling itself is something new.
Else why, at every moment, would
I think of you.
Leaves dance in the wind--I think of you.
Rain pelts the window--I think of you.
Thunder drums a primal beat--I think of you.
Lightening silvers the world--I think of you.
The storm is spent;
the world washed anew.
A lark shatters the stillness--I think of you.
Fragrance fills the garden--I think of you.
The sun shines again--I think of you.
There must be a spell to this love.
You feel familiar
yet, the feeling itself is something new.
Else why, at every moment, would
I think of you.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Hero Worship: The New Adventures of Bol and Bel on the Ship of Monkeys
Bol and Bel are urban (and sometimes, urbane) creatures who live on a planet called SOM (short for the "Ship of Monkeys") populated by four distinct species -- Monkeys, Doggies, AEs (short for the "Arch Enemies") and Rwaonds (short for the "rest who are of non-doggie species). Bol is a beautiful, headstrong, worldly, unpredictable (of the "Captain Jack Sparrow" ilk, for "Pirates" fans), somewhat irresponsible, adult Doggie. Bel is a somewhat cloyingly sweet, overly curious, naive, gangly teen Doggie, who appears attractive in a certain light. Bel and Bol were both lovingly adopted and live with Ma Monkey and Pa Monkey who bestow all kinds of affection on Bel and Bol and as such, are sadly, the unwitting slaves of these two Doggies. These are their conversations....
Night has fallen on SOM. Bel and Bol have reluctantly trekked up to bed under the stern (but, loving) gaze of Ma Monkey. They're silently protesting the abrupt end of the evening's new game -- Ma Monkey's Favorite Red Sofa As NASA Launching Pad For The Great Doggie Space Adventurers (Bel and Bol have neither wit nor brevity, but they keep abreast of current affairs). At this moment, life seems particularly unfair and harsh to our two young protagonists. They're in for a nastier surprise tonight!
Bel: (simultaneously snoring, sputtering, coughing as she chases mirage rabbits in her fitful sleep) Huurgghpt!
Bol: (in hushed tones) Bel?
Bel: (snores with increased vigor) ZZZZZZZZ!
Bol: (louder with increased urgency) TWERP!
Bel: (awakes, startled) Whaa? I swear I didn't lick Ma's lunch! Anyway, you can't prove it. "Innocent until proven guilty" is the Doggie way, yes siree!
Bol: (impatiently) Stop babbling! (then, with great reluctance, his throat clenching at the nature of the request) I...need...your...help....
Bel: (looks around in the dark, as usual, nonplussed, and also as usual, forgetting her night vision abilities) But, where are you?
Bol: (hissing) Look under Ma and Pa's bed, you idiot!
Bel: (regaining her composure) Oh! There you are! Is it fun under there?
Bol: (feeling his blood pressure rise) "Fun"? Why don't you come down here and I'll show you what "fun" is! (then, lowering his voice) Keep your voice down! We wouldn't want to wake Ma and Pa.
Bel: (acquiescent) Okay, what is it that you want me to do? Otherwise, (yawning widely) I'm.....sleeeepy. (Her head started to bob alarmingly.)
Bol: (panic creeping into his voice) I'm stuck under the bed!
Bel: (jolted awake) Oh, no! Are you hurt? What are we going to do?
Bol: (sarcasm his crutch even in dire straits) Hmm...I don't know. You could start by giving me a hand, perhaps?
Bel (something clicks inside her) I know! (mental lightbulb illuminates the dimmest corners of her pea-sized brain) I've seen something like this in the picture books about the Pretty Wonder Monkey Lady that Ma loves to read.
Bol: (can't believe his ears) Have you seriously lost your non-existent mind!? (gnashing his fangs) Who or what is this "Pretty Wonder Monkey Lady", and how could she or it, possibly be relevant to this situation?
Bel: You know! The one with the golden tiara and lasso and the neat bracelets. She's always lifting cars and jumping off of buildings when she doesn't have her hands full with thrashing baddies. She's my hero! Or, it is heroine, but isn't that a drug? (then, snapping back to reality) Think Bel, what would she do? Think!
Bol: (heaves a resigned sigh) Sigh!
Bel: (excitedly) Eureka! I got it! Grab my neck with your paws and at my count of three, I'll pull. One...two...THREE!
A heroic amount of pushing, pulling and scrambling later, both Bel and Bol are winded out and lie panting, panic twisting their insides. Bol hadn't budged an inch.
Bel: (in a subdued voice) Whatever happens Bol, I'll be by your side until the very last second.
Bol: (momentarily forgetting his aloof nature) Bel, I think this is curtain call. Is it getting darker in here? (in sheer panic) I can't see! I can't hear you! Bel! Bel!
Suddenly the bed is lifted and Bol scrambles out. He catches a glint of gold out of the corner of his eye.
Bel: (clapping her paws) Pretty Wonder Monkey Lady!!
Bol: (gratefully) Thank you, O Lovely Yet Strong One!
Ma Monkey: (sharply) Bel! Bol! What are you doing fidgeting under the bed? Go back to sleep! Right now!
Bel: (sucking up, as usual) Will do, Ma. Right away, Ma.
Bol: (waiting to hear Ma Monkey resume her gentle snores) Where did she go?Was that Pretty Wonder Monkey Lady who saved us, or...?
Bel: (scratching her floppy ears) I could have sworn...
Bol: (in a kind voice, giving Bel's nose a nibble) Regardless, Bel, that was a very brave thing you did back there.
Bel: (ears burning) Oh, it was nothing. You'd have done the same for me.
Bol: (unsure of whether he'd reciprocate, wisely chooses silence)
Bel: (mistaking Bol's silence for an emotional moment) I know, I love you too.
Bol: Good night, Bel.
Bel: Goo.. (yawn) nigh... ZZZZZZ
THE END
Night has fallen on SOM. Bel and Bol have reluctantly trekked up to bed under the stern (but, loving) gaze of Ma Monkey. They're silently protesting the abrupt end of the evening's new game -- Ma Monkey's Favorite Red Sofa As NASA Launching Pad For The Great Doggie Space Adventurers (Bel and Bol have neither wit nor brevity, but they keep abreast of current affairs). At this moment, life seems particularly unfair and harsh to our two young protagonists. They're in for a nastier surprise tonight!
Bel: (simultaneously snoring, sputtering, coughing as she chases mirage rabbits in her fitful sleep) Huurgghpt!
Bol: (in hushed tones) Bel?
Bel: (snores with increased vigor) ZZZZZZZZ!
Bol: (louder with increased urgency) TWERP!
Bel: (awakes, startled) Whaa? I swear I didn't lick Ma's lunch! Anyway, you can't prove it. "Innocent until proven guilty" is the Doggie way, yes siree!
Bol: (impatiently) Stop babbling! (then, with great reluctance, his throat clenching at the nature of the request) I...need...your...help....
Bel: (looks around in the dark, as usual, nonplussed, and also as usual, forgetting her night vision abilities) But, where are you?
Bol: (hissing) Look under Ma and Pa's bed, you idiot!
Bel: (regaining her composure) Oh! There you are! Is it fun under there?
Bol: (feeling his blood pressure rise) "Fun"? Why don't you come down here and I'll show you what "fun" is! (then, lowering his voice) Keep your voice down! We wouldn't want to wake Ma and Pa.
Bel: (acquiescent) Okay, what is it that you want me to do? Otherwise, (yawning widely) I'm.....sleeeepy. (Her head started to bob alarmingly.)
Bol: (panic creeping into his voice) I'm stuck under the bed!
Bel: (jolted awake) Oh, no! Are you hurt? What are we going to do?
Bol: (sarcasm his crutch even in dire straits) Hmm...I don't know. You could start by giving me a hand, perhaps?
Bel (something clicks inside her) I know! (mental lightbulb illuminates the dimmest corners of her pea-sized brain) I've seen something like this in the picture books about the Pretty Wonder Monkey Lady that Ma loves to read.
Bol: (can't believe his ears) Have you seriously lost your non-existent mind!? (gnashing his fangs) Who or what is this "Pretty Wonder Monkey Lady", and how could she or it, possibly be relevant to this situation?
Bel: You know! The one with the golden tiara and lasso and the neat bracelets. She's always lifting cars and jumping off of buildings when she doesn't have her hands full with thrashing baddies. She's my hero! Or, it is heroine, but isn't that a drug? (then, snapping back to reality) Think Bel, what would she do? Think!
Bol: (heaves a resigned sigh) Sigh!
Bel: (excitedly) Eureka! I got it! Grab my neck with your paws and at my count of three, I'll pull. One...two...THREE!
A heroic amount of pushing, pulling and scrambling later, both Bel and Bol are winded out and lie panting, panic twisting their insides. Bol hadn't budged an inch.
Bel: (in a subdued voice) Whatever happens Bol, I'll be by your side until the very last second.
Bol: (momentarily forgetting his aloof nature) Bel, I think this is curtain call. Is it getting darker in here? (in sheer panic) I can't see! I can't hear you! Bel! Bel!
Suddenly the bed is lifted and Bol scrambles out. He catches a glint of gold out of the corner of his eye.
Bel: (clapping her paws) Pretty Wonder Monkey Lady!!
Bol: (gratefully) Thank you, O Lovely Yet Strong One!
Ma Monkey: (sharply) Bel! Bol! What are you doing fidgeting under the bed? Go back to sleep! Right now!
Bel: (sucking up, as usual) Will do, Ma. Right away, Ma.
Bol: (waiting to hear Ma Monkey resume her gentle snores) Where did she go?Was that Pretty Wonder Monkey Lady who saved us, or...?
Bel: (scratching her floppy ears) I could have sworn...
Bol: (in a kind voice, giving Bel's nose a nibble) Regardless, Bel, that was a very brave thing you did back there.
Bel: (ears burning) Oh, it was nothing. You'd have done the same for me.
Bol: (unsure of whether he'd reciprocate, wisely chooses silence)
Bel: (mistaking Bol's silence for an emotional moment) I know, I love you too.
Bol: Good night, Bel.
Bel: Goo.. (yawn) nigh... ZZZZZZ
THE END
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
La Chanson de Malfleur/Flower of Evil
An errant leaf, precociously red,
tumbles down a deserted street
unnoticed by anyone,
save by a lonely woman
tending her garden
at an ungodly hour.
Tumbling indigo curls
brush her tumescent belly;
the life within
stirring to the night's song
and the contralto hum
of a strange lullaby.
"She is not of these parts,"
folks murmur.
“Oh! But, she sure keeps a fetching garden,"
escapes an exclamation.
The town is tense,
as its youth go missing, day by day.
She smiles
at her secret baby,
at the secret of her garden,
at the crunch of the marrow-brown earth
under her naked feet,
at the muffled pleas from the cellar.
A ripe, harvest moon
midwifes the birth of a brown-eyed girl
cleansed in her mother's deathblood.
The neighbors find the stray baby
in the fall-kissed garden
among the bones of her missing fathers.
The child carries the once-beauty
of the forgotten garden;
her dappled skin,
the map of a far-away land.
A kind heart takes her, in pity;
a mass grave obliterates her mother's sins.
Bloodthirst never parches the girl's throat
for she is both the Archangel,
generous and selfless to a fault,
and the sulpher-tongued Serpent,
at whose cagedoor
she paces unaware, once...upon...a time.
tumbles down a deserted street
unnoticed by anyone,
save by a lonely woman
tending her garden
at an ungodly hour.
Tumbling indigo curls
brush her tumescent belly;
the life within
stirring to the night's song
and the contralto hum
of a strange lullaby.
"She is not of these parts,"
folks murmur.
“Oh! But, she sure keeps a fetching garden,"
escapes an exclamation.
The town is tense,
as its youth go missing, day by day.
She smiles
at her secret baby,
at the secret of her garden,
at the crunch of the marrow-brown earth
under her naked feet,
at the muffled pleas from the cellar.
A ripe, harvest moon
midwifes the birth of a brown-eyed girl
cleansed in her mother's deathblood.
The neighbors find the stray baby
in the fall-kissed garden
among the bones of her missing fathers.
The child carries the once-beauty
of the forgotten garden;
her dappled skin,
the map of a far-away land.
A kind heart takes her, in pity;
a mass grave obliterates her mother's sins.
Bloodthirst never parches the girl's throat
for she is both the Archangel,
generous and selfless to a fault,
and the sulpher-tongued Serpent,
at whose cagedoor
she paces unaware, once...upon...a time.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Capturing the Queen
Living in New Rome as I do, I have many occasions to question the very enterprise of truth or veracity. In my sometimes discombobulated state, I have found comfort in Prof. Harry Frankfurt's concise, philosophical essay -- "On Bullshit". His essay is particularly illuminating about why a bullshitter is a worse enemy of the truth than a lier. As Prof. Frankfurt notes, the difference between the two (i.e., a lier and a bullshitter) is a bullshitter's complete disregard for whether what she's saying corresponds to facts in the physical world: she "does not reject the authority of the truth, as the liar does, and oppose himself to it. [S]He pays no attention to it at all. By virtue of this, bullshit is a greater enemy of the truth than lies are."
Prof. Frankfurt also points to one source of bullshit's unprecedented expansion in recent years, the post-modern skepticism of objective truth in favor of sincerity, or as he defines it, staying true to subjective experience. But what makes us think that anything in our nature is more stable or inherent than what lies outside it? Thus, Prof. Frankfurt concludes, with an observation as tiny and perfect as the rest of this exquisite essay, "sincerity itself is bullshit." Ergo, Bush and Co. in New Rome are more precisely defined as bull-shitters and not liers as Jon Stewart recently implied by discussing this essay with Prof. Frankfurt on the Daily Show.
What does all this philosophical rumination have to do with the latest shocker from Bangladesh -- the indictment and arrest of Begum Sheikh Hasina on charges of extortion? All will be revealed, patient reader, in due time...
With all customary respect due to our esteemed and erstwhile politicians and to the military-backed, caretaker government, this current state of events has provided yet another martyr-complex-laden photo opportunity (replete with morning prayers and white chador; mysterious ailments to come) to one of the two queens (let's call her the Queen of Hearts and the other one the Red Queen) whose collective, 16-year reign has played into the Devil Kissinger's notorious appellations for Bangladesh --"bottomless basket case". Whew! If our goal is to expose these two women and their respective parties for what they truly represent -- the plutocratic interests of the rich and the few -- wouldn't we have been better served by patiently building a case against each of them, rather than whisking them off to court and then to jail and/or house arrest in luxury SUVs? How about a gag order so that no rabble-rousing speeches may be rendered by either of them while they are under investigation? What, there is no law on the books to sanction such an order? Make one up for hell's sake! BTW, given that the queens (not to mention, their friends and family members who mooch off of them) live WAY beyond their means, how hard can it be to implicate them with financial corruption? Or, from the kindness of our hearts, do we just want to provide for some long-overdue exile/vacation for them in Saudi Arabia (a la Nawaz Sharif) or even better, in Dubai (like Ms. Bhutto)? They HAVE been working so hard after all.
I also understand that the National Revenue Board (NBR) is busy compiling lists of tax dodgers, but what about the innumerable citizens who've funnelled hundreds of thousands of dollars to foreign banks instead of investing them in Bangladesh's financial sector? How do we change the corrupt mentality of the current generation of the affluent and their irresponsible, ney, criminal, parents? You know who you are:o) More importantly, into which ocean can we drown the new crop of 20- and 30-year old millionaires who gave Dhaka the glittering socialite scene it had sorely lacked in my humble youth. We better build some new jails! Or, here's an idea: let's ship the young lafangas off to some party central, e.g., Ibiza, so that Bengalis can finally break free of our nerdy, thaila-carrying, Tagore-quoting image. Put them to good use for "queens and country" I say!
Can a house that has been left unattended for so long (despite the best efforts of the honest few) be refurbished in a matter of days? Therein lies the hubris of the military. Administering a country is not like executing a commando mission, or even a full-scale war. Thus, getting rid of strategic targets will not necessarily ensure long-term success. And now, the denoument (drum rolls):
For all you standardized test-analogy-junkies, the queens and their cronies are to Bangladesh's civic society (or potential thereof) as "bullshit" is to "truth". The rest of us who've either remained indifferent or gone along with "business as usual", despite our non-bloody hands, are to our country as "lies" is to "truth". We should have known better and acted differently instead of squandering away the last couple of decades. It's time for our ritual ablutions, if you will. But, my cynical self is afraid that "all the perfumes in Arabia cannot sweeten this little hand."
Prof. Frankfurt also points to one source of bullshit's unprecedented expansion in recent years, the post-modern skepticism of objective truth in favor of sincerity, or as he defines it, staying true to subjective experience. But what makes us think that anything in our nature is more stable or inherent than what lies outside it? Thus, Prof. Frankfurt concludes, with an observation as tiny and perfect as the rest of this exquisite essay, "sincerity itself is bullshit." Ergo, Bush and Co. in New Rome are more precisely defined as bull-shitters and not liers as Jon Stewart recently implied by discussing this essay with Prof. Frankfurt on the Daily Show.
What does all this philosophical rumination have to do with the latest shocker from Bangladesh -- the indictment and arrest of Begum Sheikh Hasina on charges of extortion? All will be revealed, patient reader, in due time...
With all customary respect due to our esteemed and erstwhile politicians and to the military-backed, caretaker government, this current state of events has provided yet another martyr-complex-laden photo opportunity (replete with morning prayers and white chador; mysterious ailments to come) to one of the two queens (let's call her the Queen of Hearts and the other one the Red Queen) whose collective, 16-year reign has played into the Devil Kissinger's notorious appellations for Bangladesh --"bottomless basket case". Whew! If our goal is to expose these two women and their respective parties for what they truly represent -- the plutocratic interests of the rich and the few -- wouldn't we have been better served by patiently building a case against each of them, rather than whisking them off to court and then to jail and/or house arrest in luxury SUVs? How about a gag order so that no rabble-rousing speeches may be rendered by either of them while they are under investigation? What, there is no law on the books to sanction such an order? Make one up for hell's sake! BTW, given that the queens (not to mention, their friends and family members who mooch off of them) live WAY beyond their means, how hard can it be to implicate them with financial corruption? Or, from the kindness of our hearts, do we just want to provide for some long-overdue exile/vacation for them in Saudi Arabia (a la Nawaz Sharif) or even better, in Dubai (like Ms. Bhutto)? They HAVE been working so hard after all.
I also understand that the National Revenue Board (NBR) is busy compiling lists of tax dodgers, but what about the innumerable citizens who've funnelled hundreds of thousands of dollars to foreign banks instead of investing them in Bangladesh's financial sector? How do we change the corrupt mentality of the current generation of the affluent and their irresponsible, ney, criminal, parents? You know who you are:o) More importantly, into which ocean can we drown the new crop of 20- and 30-year old millionaires who gave Dhaka the glittering socialite scene it had sorely lacked in my humble youth. We better build some new jails! Or, here's an idea: let's ship the young lafangas off to some party central, e.g., Ibiza, so that Bengalis can finally break free of our nerdy, thaila-carrying, Tagore-quoting image. Put them to good use for "queens and country" I say!
Can a house that has been left unattended for so long (despite the best efforts of the honest few) be refurbished in a matter of days? Therein lies the hubris of the military. Administering a country is not like executing a commando mission, or even a full-scale war. Thus, getting rid of strategic targets will not necessarily ensure long-term success. And now, the denoument (drum rolls):
For all you standardized test-analogy-junkies, the queens and their cronies are to Bangladesh's civic society (or potential thereof) as "bullshit" is to "truth". The rest of us who've either remained indifferent or gone along with "business as usual", despite our non-bloody hands, are to our country as "lies" is to "truth". We should have known better and acted differently instead of squandering away the last couple of decades. It's time for our ritual ablutions, if you will. But, my cynical self is afraid that "all the perfumes in Arabia cannot sweeten this little hand."
Friday, July 13, 2007
Night Watch at Cedarwood
My feet are restless tonight.
A solitary, impromptu walk
is a surprise even to myself.
The air is thick with lily musk.
Shards of glass wink at me from the sidewalk;
gems scattered before Bilquis.
The quiet conversation of dinner-full bellies
leaks out onto the street.
Two kids whirr by on bikes;
their words evicerating some poor othodontist.
A wandering cat flirts and then befriends me
but, only for a few paces,
before it immaterializes into the playful shadows.
The scent of lilies is overpowering.
A devasted little girl's turn is next;
her mind as addled and innocent as the cat's.
"Waz you name?" she asks.
"What's yours?" I counter.
"No, you first!" her shy retort.
A stray girl with a no-home.
"I've to go home," I say almost cruelly.
"Okay" as an indiscernible sigh escapes her.
The air seems choked with lily particles.
I keep walking,
now, anxious, to return
to the patter of quadrupeds and the broad smile
that awaits me at home.
Will they be there?
I turn the key.
Swift click and I'm in.
The smell of lilies melts into the night.
A solitary, impromptu walk
is a surprise even to myself.
The air is thick with lily musk.
Shards of glass wink at me from the sidewalk;
gems scattered before Bilquis.
The quiet conversation of dinner-full bellies
leaks out onto the street.
Two kids whirr by on bikes;
their words evicerating some poor othodontist.
A wandering cat flirts and then befriends me
but, only for a few paces,
before it immaterializes into the playful shadows.
The scent of lilies is overpowering.
A devasted little girl's turn is next;
her mind as addled and innocent as the cat's.
"Waz you name?" she asks.
"What's yours?" I counter.
"No, you first!" her shy retort.
A stray girl with a no-home.
"I've to go home," I say almost cruelly.
"Okay" as an indiscernible sigh escapes her.
The air seems choked with lily particles.
I keep walking,
now, anxious, to return
to the patter of quadrupeds and the broad smile
that awaits me at home.
Will they be there?
I turn the key.
Swift click and I'm in.
The smell of lilies melts into the night.
Lake Mavi*
Unreflective, glacine surface
of a forgotten lake,
its midnight blue,
no charm against the Evil within.
B-E-W-A-R-E! The monster rises,
bringing visions of a mass evacuation:
Silver lust for a beautiful, stranded stranger.
Yellow gluttony for the victuals of hungry children.
Blue greed of evacuees snatching the shadiest spots.
Pink sloth of emergency officials distracted from their tasks.
Crimson wrath of passengers at cancelled flights.
Verdant envy of those who can fend for themselves.
Purple pride of first world denizens flaunted over the third.
M-O-T-H-E-R! we are sinners all,
eternally falling, falling...
caught in the event horizon
of the unfathomable Mavi.
*Inspired by Lake Bafa in Southwestern Turkey
of a forgotten lake,
its midnight blue,
no charm against the Evil within.
B-E-W-A-R-E! The monster rises,
bringing visions of a mass evacuation:
Silver lust for a beautiful, stranded stranger.
Yellow gluttony for the victuals of hungry children.
Blue greed of evacuees snatching the shadiest spots.
Pink sloth of emergency officials distracted from their tasks.
Crimson wrath of passengers at cancelled flights.
Verdant envy of those who can fend for themselves.
Purple pride of first world denizens flaunted over the third.
M-O-T-H-E-R! we are sinners all,
eternally falling, falling...
caught in the event horizon
of the unfathomable Mavi.
*Inspired by Lake Bafa in Southwestern Turkey
A Whimpering End
Patter of innocent paws
fills an ancient home
in the murder capital
of a warring nation
that rules a world ticking down
around the star-heart of a system--
waiting for the inevitable nova.
The universe watches in glittering indifference;
no sympathy mustered
for its particle siblings
as galactic death unfolds
in bell jar silence.
fills an ancient home
in the murder capital
of a warring nation
that rules a world ticking down
around the star-heart of a system--
waiting for the inevitable nova.
The universe watches in glittering indifference;
no sympathy mustered
for its particle siblings
as galactic death unfolds
in bell jar silence.
A Streetcar Named 34
We climb the stairs of No. 34
oblivious to the incongruity
of a Celtic tune
played by a progeny of the first man.
As the car lurches through the entrail tunnels,
we teeter on our forced pole dance.
In a sea of striated human color,
our bubble air is clogged
with the cacophonous, constructive interference
of music leaking from trendy nanos and obsolete walkmans,
each person an island unto oneself.
Yet, once the silence barrier is broken,
strangers chat with false intimacy;
the steetcar is an uneasy democratizer.
A furtive school-boy "steps down" and out the doors,
his secret lost in the crowd.
A fragile beauty wrapped in browns and blues
is demolished by the unkind word of a fellow passenger.
Cipher graffiti taunt us with their secret code
as we emerge into light and wait,
wait patiently, to signal for our stop.
oblivious to the incongruity
of a Celtic tune
played by a progeny of the first man.
As the car lurches through the entrail tunnels,
we teeter on our forced pole dance.
In a sea of striated human color,
our bubble air is clogged
with the cacophonous, constructive interference
of music leaking from trendy nanos and obsolete walkmans,
each person an island unto oneself.
Yet, once the silence barrier is broken,
strangers chat with false intimacy;
the steetcar is an uneasy democratizer.
A furtive school-boy "steps down" and out the doors,
his secret lost in the crowd.
A fragile beauty wrapped in browns and blues
is demolished by the unkind word of a fellow passenger.
Cipher graffiti taunt us with their secret code
as we emerge into light and wait,
wait patiently, to signal for our stop.
We'll Never Know
Summer
haze makes the glittering tower sway.
Sloth of the brain
doesn't help either.
What made a silent family jump under the train?
I wonder, a world away.
haze makes the glittering tower sway.
Sloth of the brain
doesn't help either.
What made a silent family jump under the train?
I wonder, a world away.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Confessions of a "Free" Citizen
Following is a letter that was published in www.salon.com. I wrote it in connection with readers' reactions to a new book -- A Tragic Legacy -- by Salon author/blogger Glenn Greenwald.
I guess one shouldn't be surprised at the vitriolic tone of some of the comments. Bush and Co. are known to elicit this kind of response, and Glenn, by shouldering the burden of diagnosing the "sociopathic" plague that is the current administration (in the paraphrased words of some of the commentators, and not mine, or yours), you have indeed been rendered guilty by association.
The commentators who think it's useless to try to understand the root causes of why we are hanging by our nails on the precipice of history today (e.g., who cares what internal demons, or even the lack of such demons, caused the psycopath to rape and murder my child) seem to miss a crucial point. Glenn, as an American, has every reason to embark on this path. For the family of the little Iraqi girl who was raped and murdered by our soldiers and whose last memories of this world convince an agnostic like me of such a place as "hell", perhaps not. We, the nation, are the psycopath, not just some of our elected officials. So, if Glenn's analysis of this administration sheds some measure of light on our society (whether or not, that is his intent), there is sufficient justification for his book.
As a lawyer (albeit, not a "nerdy" constitutional one), I appreciate Glenn's reverence for the founding ideals of this country. My adopted home is indeed unique in that regard. However, critical legal theory (queer, feminist, race, class, etc.) has already subverted the notion that even in its inception, this country reached its moral ideals. Certainly, our global policy to date (please read Tariq Ali's "Clash of Fundamentalisms" for our rather excellent track record) lays bare naked the implication that somehow we were ever morally superior. I truly appreciate the uniquely beautiful (yes, beautiful) piece of law that is the 4th amendment, but if you poll the experiences of nonwhite citizens of this country and swarthy non-citizens at our borders, as well as swaths of our "comfortably off" citizenry, a different story emerges. History has every right to judge us by our actions and not by our words. Hard for a lawyer to admit, but there it is.
Lastly, Glenn, I was struck by the following sentence of yours: "Societies driven exclusively or primarily by a fear of avoiding Evil, minimizing risks, and seeking above all else that our government "protects" us are not free." This description fits (all too comfortably) any number of our allies who are still in the thralls of my birthright religion -- Islam. That may not have been your intention, but there's a reason why the dialogue between Bush and Co. and any ersatz Osama and Co. flows so smoothly. The rest of us, asking for reasoned reflection are (simply put) a bore...
Look forward to reading the book and very much enjoy your incisive blog. Cheers.
I guess one shouldn't be surprised at the vitriolic tone of some of the comments. Bush and Co. are known to elicit this kind of response, and Glenn, by shouldering the burden of diagnosing the "sociopathic" plague that is the current administration (in the paraphrased words of some of the commentators, and not mine, or yours), you have indeed been rendered guilty by association.
The commentators who think it's useless to try to understand the root causes of why we are hanging by our nails on the precipice of history today (e.g., who cares what internal demons, or even the lack of such demons, caused the psycopath to rape and murder my child) seem to miss a crucial point. Glenn, as an American, has every reason to embark on this path. For the family of the little Iraqi girl who was raped and murdered by our soldiers and whose last memories of this world convince an agnostic like me of such a place as "hell", perhaps not. We, the nation, are the psycopath, not just some of our elected officials. So, if Glenn's analysis of this administration sheds some measure of light on our society (whether or not, that is his intent), there is sufficient justification for his book.
As a lawyer (albeit, not a "nerdy" constitutional one), I appreciate Glenn's reverence for the founding ideals of this country. My adopted home is indeed unique in that regard. However, critical legal theory (queer, feminist, race, class, etc.) has already subverted the notion that even in its inception, this country reached its moral ideals. Certainly, our global policy to date (please read Tariq Ali's "Clash of Fundamentalisms" for our rather excellent track record) lays bare naked the implication that somehow we were ever morally superior. I truly appreciate the uniquely beautiful (yes, beautiful) piece of law that is the 4th amendment, but if you poll the experiences of nonwhite citizens of this country and swarthy non-citizens at our borders, as well as swaths of our "comfortably off" citizenry, a different story emerges. History has every right to judge us by our actions and not by our words. Hard for a lawyer to admit, but there it is.
Lastly, Glenn, I was struck by the following sentence of yours: "Societies driven exclusively or primarily by a fear of avoiding Evil, minimizing risks, and seeking above all else that our government "protects" us are not free." This description fits (all too comfortably) any number of our allies who are still in the thralls of my birthright religion -- Islam. That may not have been your intention, but there's a reason why the dialogue between Bush and Co. and any ersatz Osama and Co. flows so smoothly. The rest of us, asking for reasoned reflection are (simply put) a bore...
Look forward to reading the book and very much enjoy your incisive blog. Cheers.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
A Day At the Races
Not horses (or dogs, for the perverted among you) since Derby Day is ancient history and this is a dispatch from Philly (which is barely, but technically, still the north). I am speaking of the Commerce Bank Triple Crown of Cycling, which concluded this past weekend.
As we were busy tearing around Philly on Saturday ticking off a veritable, nay formidable, list of chores, all across town, we kept spotting vans festooned with expensive bike wheels and sponsor logos. Could the race be already upon us? Yikes! So, Sunday saw us hurriedly packing some "serious" camera equipment, donning hiking boots (did I say, "serious"?) and making the trek to "The Wall" a/k/a Lyseum Avenue in Manayunk.
It turned out to be a wonderful day of cycling and yours truly had some fun with the camera. After catching a couple of grueling (for the cyclists) laps at the Wall, we headed down to the Ben Franklin parkway for a change of scene as the race picked up speed on the flat sections of the course. Alas, such is self-imposed adulthood that duty called and we had to be home, and thus miss one of the more exciting parts of the race on Lemon Hill. Next year... (sigh)
Sunday was a good day in Philly.
Photo Credit -- Jamal Elias
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Selective Censure
One my favorite novels by Margaret Atwood is called Oryx and Crake. It is a piece of speculative fiction that leads us down the treacherous, slippery slope of wondering what sinkhole punctuates the current path of pathological commodification on which humanity jauntily lumbers along. As two examples of such commodification, Atwood makes precise, poignant use of child sex slavery and transgenic animals as plot elements. Her dissection of these sensitive subject matters (particularly the former) is terribly fascinating to witness, but while reading the relevant sections of the novel, one can't help but be filled with shame at the depth of humanity's depredation. Oryx and Crake has been on my mind lately, because the U.S. just published its 2007 human trafficking blackbook/blacklist. Just before you go out and celebrate New Rome's (yup, that's my name for home) respect for human rights, please note that India, one of the world's worst offenders when it comes to child slaves (for sex, or for hard, manual labor -- take your pick), was not accorded its rightful place in Tier 3 -- the group of the worst offenders. I guess our business interests (as usual) trump what was, at best, a hortatory attempt by New Rome to pave the shining, yellow brick road to the Emerald City of moral righteousness.
"We have labored long to build a heaven, only to find it populated with horrors." Watchmen, Alan Moore
"We have labored long to build a heaven, only to find it populated with horrors." Watchmen, Alan Moore
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Pandora/Proloinkarini
Pandora/Proloinkarini*
She carries the loneliness of a solitary walk
even amidst crowds.
Once, she tried to get "lost" in a large shopping arcade, Hoping, praying, someone would notice.
She "found" herself again.
Her mind is a red planet –
strange and beautiful, but hardly habitable;
her thoughts, the only voices of her solitude;
her heart, the locus of a yet-unlabeled hurricane;
her voice, the final, gurgling scream
of a dark-browed girl called Kitty.
Open the box.
Eat the apple.
Free yourself, my dear.
*“Bringer of destruction” in Bengali.
She carries the loneliness of a solitary walk
even amidst crowds.
Once, she tried to get "lost" in a large shopping arcade, Hoping, praying, someone would notice.
She "found" herself again.
Her mind is a red planet –
strange and beautiful, but hardly habitable;
her thoughts, the only voices of her solitude;
her heart, the locus of a yet-unlabeled hurricane;
her voice, the final, gurgling scream
of a dark-browed girl called Kitty.
Open the box.
Eat the apple.
Free yourself, my dear.
*“Bringer of destruction” in Bengali.
Dynasty: Remember the Soap Anyone?
As promised, some "bemoanings" about Bangladesh.
I have long harbored an almost maniacal and pathological dislike for Bangladesh's erstwhile leaders -- Begums Khaleda Zia and Sheikh Hasina. I'll be the first to acknowledge that such visceral dislike of our esteemed leaders is petty and unbecoming of me. I'm not the only one, it seems. I just ran across this piece in The Daily Star by Brig. Gen. (retd.) Shamsuddin Ahmed. I hate to find myself agreeing with anyone connected to the military and not knowing his politics or his individual circumstances, I find myself agreeing wholeheartedly with his opinion of these two so-called leaders. Excerpts and a link to the full article appear below.
"Some people say of [Begums Khaldeda Zia and Sheik Hasina] that one is better than the other. To me, they are just two sides of the same coin if you have followed the pattern of their rule. They most zealously kept in place all those things which Ershad did in his nine years of ignominious rule to undo democracy and foster corruption and crime in this country.
They sat majestically where Ershad used to sit as a dictator, and ruled the country like he did, with utter disdain for democracy and all moral and ethical values. Just to perpetuate their power, they literally vied with one another in politicizing in varying degrees all the national institutions -- the Election Commission (EC), the Anti- Corruption Commission (ACC), the Public Service Commission (PSC), the bureaucracy, the police, and even the judiciary.
They have done the greatest disservice to this nation by politicizing the bureaucracy, the police and the judiciary. It will take years to repair the damage done, and to restore dignity and trust in these institutions. They have demonstrated an unquenchable thirst for power, and an insatiable greed for wealth and property.
As the heads of elected governments, the first thing they did was to allocate important portfolios to those cronies who were the closest and most crooked so that they could foul up things better than others. Then they would increase their own, and those of all other ministers and lawmakers, pay and allowances and perks and privileges, as if they all virtually lived on this subsistence. And this they would do more than once, in one term.
They would have the most luxurious fleet of cars to ride, the largest retinues and, of course, many armed guards in front of their offices and residences -- a sine qua non of power and privilege in an impoverished country. Then would begin the real game -- the grabbing spree."
http://www.thedailystar.net/2007/06/12/d706121501131.htm
I have long harbored an almost maniacal and pathological dislike for Bangladesh's erstwhile leaders -- Begums Khaleda Zia and Sheikh Hasina. I'll be the first to acknowledge that such visceral dislike of our esteemed leaders is petty and unbecoming of me. I'm not the only one, it seems. I just ran across this piece in The Daily Star by Brig. Gen. (retd.) Shamsuddin Ahmed. I hate to find myself agreeing with anyone connected to the military and not knowing his politics or his individual circumstances, I find myself agreeing wholeheartedly with his opinion of these two so-called leaders. Excerpts and a link to the full article appear below.
"Some people say of [Begums Khaldeda Zia and Sheik Hasina] that one is better than the other. To me, they are just two sides of the same coin if you have followed the pattern of their rule. They most zealously kept in place all those things which Ershad did in his nine years of ignominious rule to undo democracy and foster corruption and crime in this country.
They sat majestically where Ershad used to sit as a dictator, and ruled the country like he did, with utter disdain for democracy and all moral and ethical values. Just to perpetuate their power, they literally vied with one another in politicizing in varying degrees all the national institutions -- the Election Commission (EC), the Anti- Corruption Commission (ACC), the Public Service Commission (PSC), the bureaucracy, the police, and even the judiciary.
They have done the greatest disservice to this nation by politicizing the bureaucracy, the police and the judiciary. It will take years to repair the damage done, and to restore dignity and trust in these institutions. They have demonstrated an unquenchable thirst for power, and an insatiable greed for wealth and property.
As the heads of elected governments, the first thing they did was to allocate important portfolios to those cronies who were the closest and most crooked so that they could foul up things better than others. Then they would increase their own, and those of all other ministers and lawmakers, pay and allowances and perks and privileges, as if they all virtually lived on this subsistence. And this they would do more than once, in one term.
They would have the most luxurious fleet of cars to ride, the largest retinues and, of course, many armed guards in front of their offices and residences -- a sine qua non of power and privilege in an impoverished country. Then would begin the real game -- the grabbing spree."
http://www.thedailystar.net/2007/06/12/d706121501131.htm
Just Another Manic Tuesday: So, Who Stole Our Streets?
I promised to write about Philly musings so here goes.
At approximately 8 a.m. (US EST) on Friday, June 1st, the quiet neighborhood of UC/WP (University City/West Philly) was rocked by a massive heist that took place right under our very schnozes. What was this "massive heist" you ask? Did someone's house get burgled? Was someone's car broken into for the fine, dorm-quality blanket that was lying on the backseat just taunting, ney, entrapping, the casual car-vandal/passerby? Well, that wouldn't be "massive" now, would it? I'm speaking of our streets. Yes, our streets have been stolen. How, preythee good madame or sire, you ask politely, is it possible to steal streets. Well, here's how! The Streets Division of the City of Philadelphia came about two weeks ago and took away the old street surface on our block. Generally speaking, even I am not addled enough (at least, not yet) to equate that innocent, municipal act with theft. However, when the city contractors didn't return with a newly repaved and resurfaced, gleaming asphalt street, which we've already paid for, the civilized term in common English parlance for such an act is -- theft. Mayor Street, we want our street back, and if this is just a misunderstanding and you simply borrowed the street (I have to admit, ours was particularly lovely with its irresistible, moon-like craters), no worries, I'm setting up an account where you can direct the interest payments. I have to warn you, though -- I charge near-usurious rates.
At approximately 8 a.m. (US EST) on Friday, June 1st, the quiet neighborhood of UC/WP (University City/West Philly) was rocked by a massive heist that took place right under our very schnozes. What was this "massive heist" you ask? Did someone's house get burgled? Was someone's car broken into for the fine, dorm-quality blanket that was lying on the backseat just taunting, ney, entrapping, the casual car-vandal/passerby? Well, that wouldn't be "massive" now, would it? I'm speaking of our streets. Yes, our streets have been stolen. How, preythee good madame or sire, you ask politely, is it possible to steal streets. Well, here's how! The Streets Division of the City of Philadelphia came about two weeks ago and took away the old street surface on our block. Generally speaking, even I am not addled enough (at least, not yet) to equate that innocent, municipal act with theft. However, when the city contractors didn't return with a newly repaved and resurfaced, gleaming asphalt street, which we've already paid for, the civilized term in common English parlance for such an act is -- theft. Mayor Street, we want our street back, and if this is just a misunderstanding and you simply borrowed the street (I have to admit, ours was particularly lovely with its irresistible, moon-like craters), no worries, I'm setting up an account where you can direct the interest payments. I have to warn you, though -- I charge near-usurious rates.
Friday, June 8, 2007
Just Another Day in SOM: The New Adventures of Bol and Bel on the Ship of Monkeys
Bol and Bel are urban (and sometimes, urbane) creatures who live on a planet called SOM (short for the "Ship of Monkeys") populated by four distinct species -- Monkeys, Doggies, AEs (short for the "Arch Enemies") and Rwaonds (short for the "rest who are of non-doggie species). Bol is a beautiful, headstrong, worldly, unpredictable (of the "Captain Jack Sparrow" ilk, for "Pirates" fans), somewhat irresponsible, adult Doggie. Bel is a somewhat cloyingly sweet, overly curious, naive, gangly teen Doggie, who appears attractive in a certain light. Bel and Bol were both lovingly adopted and live with Ma Monkey and Pa Monkey who bestow all kinds of affection on Bel and Bol and as such, are sadly, the unwitting slaves of these two Doggies. These are their conversations....
Bel: (in a slight, high-pitched whine) Bol?Bol: (gruffly) What?
Bel: (in a higher-pitched whine) Bol?
Bol: (with a bark) WHAT, TWERP?
Bel: (in a subdued voice) Bol, what is the G8?
Bol: (bemused and unable to hide the shock in his voice) Where did YOU learn about the G8?
Bel: (sheepishly) I peeked into the colorful window that sits on the kitchen table when Ma Monkey was distracted (AS usual) with cleaning up a bit of fluff (NOT mine!).
Bol: (scratching himself, with a nether-regions-sniff for good measure) I think it's where big Monkeys decide the fate of little Monkeys, Doggies, Rwaonds, and even (pauses for effect) AEs.
Bel: (nonplussed, as usual) So, I guess.....we are (with effort)... Doggies?
Bol: (in a condescending tone) Yeah, genius.
Bel: (misinterpreting Bol's "genius" comment, with renewed confidence) So big Monkeys decide at the G8 where, when and how little Monkeys, Doggies, Rwaonds, and AEs will live?
Bol: (hiding his secret pride in Bel) You got it! TWERP.
Bel: Well, that's a lot of responsibility. (Then, with brilliant and unusual insight) Just like Ma Monkey and Pa Monkey!
Bol: Hmmm... Not quite like that. Ma and Pa Monkey would never pretend to be sick like Bush Monkey was at the G8 when it came time to look after all of us. Why, I remember one time Pa Monkey walked us in a snow storm, at night, IN HIS SLEEP! (with gusto) Furthermore, like the other G8 big Monkeys, Ma and Pa Monkey would never promise to take to us to the Doggie Fun Place and then (dripping disgust) break that promise!
Bel: (sotto voce) Bol, I'm scared.
Bol: Don't be silly!
Bel: (insistent) No, I'm really scared.
Bol: (with a nip on Bel's ear) Come, let's play. (running off to grab one of their numerous fluffy, inert victims) Last one to kill the pheasant is a LOSER!!!
(Bel and Bol start tearing around the house while Bono croons softly on the radio "who's willing to try, to save a world, that's destined to, die" from his cover of Marvin Gaye's "Save the Children")
THE END
Bel: (in a slight, high-pitched whine) Bol?Bol: (gruffly) What?
Bel: (in a higher-pitched whine) Bol?
Bol: (with a bark) WHAT, TWERP?
Bel: (in a subdued voice) Bol, what is the G8?
Bol: (bemused and unable to hide the shock in his voice) Where did YOU learn about the G8?
Bel: (sheepishly) I peeked into the colorful window that sits on the kitchen table when Ma Monkey was distracted (AS usual) with cleaning up a bit of fluff (NOT mine!).
Bol: (scratching himself, with a nether-regions-sniff for good measure) I think it's where big Monkeys decide the fate of little Monkeys, Doggies, Rwaonds, and even (pauses for effect) AEs.
Bel: (nonplussed, as usual) So, I guess.....we are (with effort)... Doggies?
Bol: (in a condescending tone) Yeah, genius.
Bel: (misinterpreting Bol's "genius" comment, with renewed confidence) So big Monkeys decide at the G8 where, when and how little Monkeys, Doggies, Rwaonds, and AEs will live?
Bol: (hiding his secret pride in Bel) You got it! TWERP.
Bel: Well, that's a lot of responsibility. (Then, with brilliant and unusual insight) Just like Ma Monkey and Pa Monkey!
Bol: Hmmm... Not quite like that. Ma and Pa Monkey would never pretend to be sick like Bush Monkey was at the G8 when it came time to look after all of us. Why, I remember one time Pa Monkey walked us in a snow storm, at night, IN HIS SLEEP! (with gusto) Furthermore, like the other G8 big Monkeys, Ma and Pa Monkey would never promise to take to us to the Doggie Fun Place and then (dripping disgust) break that promise!
Bel: (sotto voce) Bol, I'm scared.
Bol: Don't be silly!
Bel: (insistent) No, I'm really scared.
Bol: (with a nip on Bel's ear) Come, let's play. (running off to grab one of their numerous fluffy, inert victims) Last one to kill the pheasant is a LOSER!!!
(Bel and Bol start tearing around the house while Bono croons softly on the radio "who's willing to try, to save a world, that's destined to, die" from his cover of Marvin Gaye's "Save the Children")
THE END
Thursday, June 7, 2007
It's Gonna Be a Lovely Day
It's already been a lovely day here in Philly. After finishing up lunch at GIWA (where I've now extracted the promise that I'll get the "spicier" bean paste sauce the next time I'm there, i.e., I'm now FINALLY a regular), I went on what was to be a quick stroll to peek into the window of a boutique on Walnut Street just a couple of block up (west?) from Rittenhouse Square. The store was (sadly) out of business. As I walked back to work on Sansom, I couldn't resist the urge to step into Fat Jack's where 3 young men of differing age and ethnicities were in the thick of a rather serious conversation about which issues of Spawn were the best (consensus -- Moore, Gaimen, or Morrison). There was some critique of Morrison and his "media-savviness" and the conversation then veered into the indie wave in movies. Still eavesdropping, I gave a slight nod to the store owner in his Arkham sweats (I'd kill to get that T-shirt in my size), and kept browsing until I found a book of short stories by Moore (his first forey into this form). The young man who was carrying on the "serious" movie/graphic novel indie genre conversation gave a thumbs up on my choice. They always treat me like Tinkerbell at a UFC (Ultimate Fighting Club) fight:o) It's quite sweet. Girls read comics too; even old girls like me.
As I hurried back to work (after having done the Blackberry, voice-mail emergency check), I had to go into one last store on Sansom (bet. 17th and 18th) -- the Joseph Fox Bookstore. Lest you think I while my time away bookstore hopping, I actually had a stated mission. I wanted to get a book for my little West Philly neighbor. Her comment about one of my dogs will always ring clear in my head -- "Her head is just like a SKULL!" she said. I took that as a compliment, of course, and I think it was meant as such. So, I promised to reward her artistic insight with a book from my collection. My plan (although she doesn't know about it) is to give her a book a month. She's already an avid reader I hear:o) In any case, she gave the perfect reason to get to know this gem of a bookstore that has the most amazingly carefully selected collection of both adult and children's books. I came away with my hands full! I've rarely had the experience of finding all the books I love in one tiny store. Well, this had it all -- Tintin, Asterix, Dahl, and so on. Bravo! The storeowner is a lovely, graceful lady whose passion for children's books was nothing short of infectious. So, we chatted for a while (we both love Sempe, the French cartoonist, and did I say books?). I also came away with an invitation to "work" the store on the anticipated midnight of Potter 7. I'd PAY for that opportunity as those who know me and my methodic madness well know. I think I even promised to be in some sort of costume if the young lady at the store was up for it!
Back to work and to a puzzling agreement. Sigh....
Today, I love Philly!
As I hurried back to work (after having done the Blackberry, voice-mail emergency check), I had to go into one last store on Sansom (bet. 17th and 18th) -- the Joseph Fox Bookstore. Lest you think I while my time away bookstore hopping, I actually had a stated mission. I wanted to get a book for my little West Philly neighbor. Her comment about one of my dogs will always ring clear in my head -- "Her head is just like a SKULL!" she said. I took that as a compliment, of course, and I think it was meant as such. So, I promised to reward her artistic insight with a book from my collection. My plan (although she doesn't know about it) is to give her a book a month. She's already an avid reader I hear:o) In any case, she gave the perfect reason to get to know this gem of a bookstore that has the most amazingly carefully selected collection of both adult and children's books. I came away with my hands full! I've rarely had the experience of finding all the books I love in one tiny store. Well, this had it all -- Tintin, Asterix, Dahl, and so on. Bravo! The storeowner is a lovely, graceful lady whose passion for children's books was nothing short of infectious. So, we chatted for a while (we both love Sempe, the French cartoonist, and did I say books?). I also came away with an invitation to "work" the store on the anticipated midnight of Potter 7. I'd PAY for that opportunity as those who know me and my methodic madness well know. I think I even promised to be in some sort of costume if the young lady at the store was up for it!
Back to work and to a puzzling agreement. Sigh....
Today, I love Philly!
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