Group 7 — More Lessons of History

Sometime ago I was quite bemused To take up the paper and read the daily news Read the story of the violent teenage Who killed his mother just to quench his rage; Of the Middle Eastern War, how each side tried To kill others, retaliate for national pride Organized crime in my city, local mob Murder and loot, rape, abuse and then rob Teenage gangs forming themselves into bands Against every authority trying their hands Corrupt politicians, few getting caught Stocks going up and down, some sold some bought Money market players with their games would trade Making billions, for which common people paid Then I looked at the newspaper's date I was reading it at least six weeks late So I picked up the paper for that day Hoping different news it would have to say It had news about the teenage outrage Same play, different names, another stage Continuing the same Middle Eastern war This time different groups, again had killed more More organized crime and more teenage gangs Corrupt politicians with serpentine fangs Stock market games, money market trends Ordinary Joe his earnings spends As though six weeks time had not made a dent Newspaper world, same message had sent Newspaper world, perhaps like pulp fiction Feeds another kind of people's addition Continues to feed us of our affliction More of the same thing is its prediction. Newspaper editors recycle, reuse Though with different names, the same kind of news I realized then all my time I'd waste To read the paper, relaxed or in haste I vowed to myself that I would refuse To read any more the daily News.

In one glance I then knew Why they called you Bapu... Looking upon your picture Like reading the scripture The lines of your forehead Of your wisdom much said The gentle curve of your lips A sad smile on their tips Your two ears sticking out I saw myself without a doubt Your radiant head was bald A guiding light upon the world Even a halo your head surround Your sainthood loudly resound Grandfatherly eyes, gentle, sweet Tears of my eyes compassionately meet Yet they smiled all at once Brought me joy not by chance There I stood quietly weeping Tears of my eyes my face reaping And I stood bursting with joy Playful, innocent, a little boy. And your whole face I see Lovingly speak with me In one glance I then knew Why they called you Bapu...

From the depths of obscurity With a heart felt purity Brought dignity to the slums To the homeless and the bums Calcutta in the world, as a sure Beacon of light of the pure. You preached "Love, till it hurts. " Not just in gushes and spurts But a constant love of all, That became your life long call; You won the Nobel Prize for peace Yet you carried on without cease. You were the Saint of our modern times In the midst of our heinous crimes. Though we have never come into touch To my world you have meant so much. When the world was busy with grief You decided to make your life brief; Into obscurity slipped away Not waiting for anyone to say, Our mother whose name meant charity Epitomized spiritual clarity, We commit your body to the grave While your soul to God, peaceful, brave.

I saw the world in the grainy sand And a heaven in the flowery land I held infinity in the palm of my hand And eternity in a narrowing band. As above, so below This is what mystics know. As within, so without, The New Age tries to find out. We keep looking all around Try fixing what we found. So much to fix, so much to do, What do you mean look inside you? So little time, do you understand? Why don't you give a helping hand? Think globally, act locally, Try to love unconditionally.... Try, try! They give me the guilt, Nobody asks why so much we've built. I stand apart and just say No! Leave me alone and let me go. I look around, I look within I see the world in the mess I'm in. Fertilizer, pesticide, insecticide, Vitamins and minerals I put inside. I protect the waters in reservoirs, And no longer drink the water that flows. I treat sewers and wastes, then to the sea, I fast, take cleansers, what's wrong with me? Giant cartels my agriculture, Supermarkets my catering culture. For Government ethics I have no patience, I constantly put comfort above my conscience. The justice system is falling to bits, My own morality closely fits. The medical system just goes for fixes, I look for modern pills, potions and mixes. Religious dogmas purely prescriptive, My spiritual senses merely descriptive. Hatred, crime, murder, hopeless brutality, what use, Just reflecting domestic violence and child abuse. Is there no hope for human kind? Where must we look, what will we find? The mystics answer the New Age quest Forget Four Directions, North, South, East, West. The moderns seek the light from outside in, What a way to go, where do we begin? The mystics found the light within By looking in and seeing out, not outside in. Forget the Whale, elephant and ox, Fix the within, what paradox. Follow your bliss, wisdom of old By poet and mythologist told. From Homer to the Holy Grail All else futile, to no avail. This joy is the God image of men, Not study, action, piety, nor heaven.

Timourleng once had a story In the days before his glory Sometime before he became a general In despair leaning against a wall He saw an ant trying to go over the wall But his every attempt ended in his fall General to be, told himself this would call To count the number of times the ant was willing to fall. So patiently he chose to sit by that wall And watch the ant go up the wall and then fall. Sitting there our general tired grew, The ant's trials counted seventy two Before the ant managed to clear the wall Triumphant and successful in his crawl. Timourleng swore an oath that never would Give up trying, like the ant understood, Determination he decided was the key Try, try, from his goal never ever flee. One day partaking of the sun upon the beach I saw an ant upon the sand, my foot would reach. So I decided to learn what he would teach, I kicked some sand upon the ant, his safety breach. Recovering, the ant climbed out of the sand Consolidating his foothold upon the land, In the original direction, ant took his path This time I drowned him in a sandy bath; Out of the sand he climbed one more time And moved away from the scene of the crime. He turned away after two, he ran, he flew, Not even close to Timourleng's seventy two. I thought about both these ants, which was right? Should I forget my path? burdens alight? Or try and try, persistently, with might? Was his flight smart and bright, or caused by fright? They say that smart questions contain Their own answers, seeking elsewhere is in vain. Considering my own question I see Unraveling it the answer will free: If my flight caused by fright Persistently try with might, But if it is smart and bright Then turn away, burdens alight. And to determine which is which Higher wisdom to me shall teach.