Arjun Janah recently returned to New York City after spending a couple of years in the San Francisco bay area. He was working on a book project for his father, the well-known photographer Sunil Janah.

In this poem New York City is his muse.

By Foley Square

Arjun Janah
This afternoon, I settled, where Centre crosses Reade,
Within Manhattan’s bosom, upon a metal seat.
Around me rose the buildings, some weathered, some more new,
Sheer upwards, much as mountains, in parts of China, do.

Before me lay a circle, a theater, where the sky
Had been allowed an entry, to form a roof on high.
And there the roads from Brooklyn, and streets from City Hall,
Converged to scene ethereal, where light pervaded all.

Emerging from a canyon, into this basin wide,
I saw great clouds that towered, in sky of blue and white.
And down below — that circle, it shimmered in the sun,
As green as desert oasis, where precious waters run.

The center was a garden, where trees had spread their shade,
A shelter from the summer, where dancing fountains played.
Around it moved the traffic, like river ’round an isle.
And on this urban idyll, I gazed, for quite a while.

******

‘Twas there that I recovered, the peace that I had lost,
Not in a forest tranquil, but there, where price greets cost.
For in that urb commercial, where Mammon ruled so harsh,
There came to me, serenely, that goddess with a heart.

And so, deep in Manhattan, I found a spot of grace,
Not far from traders hustling at ever-rising pace.
But there, it wasn’t Wall Street — but Duane, and Centre, Reade,
And wind that blew from Brooklyn, that met this exile’s need.

There, in that throng of others, and not in solitude,
I found my soft nirvana, my small beatitude.
Not sitting ‘neath a Bodhi tree, but there, on metal bench,
I found the tranquil answer, that all my fires did quench.

And so, I turned from gazing, at isle that shimmered so,
Beneath the sky of summer, to watch the human show.
With heart at ease and tranquil, I watched the passers-by,
Who trod the city’s sidewalks, beneath that summer sky.

******

The tourists in their skimpies, the city’s hardened own,
The ones, on pavements toiling, from distant places flown,
Appeared to move to music, a Latin beat that blared
From hawker vending sundries, at which the tourists stared.

At five, from every office, the city workers fled,
To walk beside the others, and office languor shed.
It was July, and ending, the city’s streets were hot.
But now, the cooling breezes, the cotton dresses caught.

Three flags, upon their flagpoles, from hanging limp and low,
Now rose to flutter gaily, above the stream below.
The flow upon that river, that coursed through basin deep,
Was scant, as cabbies, hunting, did in their circles sweep.

******

All this I saw, and wondered, how strange it was that I,
Returning to this hubbub, had never questioned why.
Perhaps it was because I had grown up in a city
That had been even madder, and shown yet less of pity.

So in a crowd of strangers, I felt not insecure,
But strangely a belonging — to what, I was not sure.
I’d loved the spaces open, the mountains and the sea,
But back to human anthills, I would attracted be…

And here had lived and witnessed, what I now saw again,
Acquaintance, friend, beloved, who’d tasted joy and pain
In this eternal city, that only so appeared,
For all of this was transient, as burning towers seared…

And one born as my sister, and brother whom I’d met,
Had surely walked and seen this, I thought with some regret.
For they were taken from us, and rapture must have end.
The gifts of that good goddess, she only does us lend.

******

The light, that is Manhattan’s, was changing, and a glow
Of orange kissed the rooftops - and then, it was no more.
I saw the flags were drooping, as if by this distressed,
And thoughts of duties waiting, upon my conscience pressed.

I rose to make my parting, as pigeon waddled by.
I gazed at flags of country, and state, and city, high.
Behold, the breeze had freshened, the flags were waving proud,
As sun, from clouds descending, now picked high turrets out.

I took my leave then mutely, from this most magic place,
And trod towards the subway, to my own troubles face.
How many, past, had tarried, as long as I, or less,
And savored of this beauty, within this heart of stress?

Arjun
2008 July 29th, Tue.
New York, New York.

copyright Arjun Janah 2008

sjanah@aol.com

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