11.17.2024

Finem Lauda!

(To be sung to a favorite country tune)




That dumb egotist in the White House
and with that cat-lady hater named J.D.,
together what we had
they will turn from good to bad; 
Finem lauda!(Just you wait and see--)

Finem lauda, just you wait and see, 
Finem lauda just you wait and see
the economy we've got
They will change from health to rot
Finem lauda! Just you wait and see.
  
Vladimir Putin must be happy,  
Viktor Orban less than sad 
(Kim jung, still a scuzzy little one) 
Xi chortles up his jasmine tea! Yippee!

(Ni hao ma, Former Lady Liberty?)

We might as well have chosen Tiny Tim--
Tiny Tim? Tiny Tim.
Tim thought he was Pearl Bailey 
While he played the ukulele
Yes, we might as well have chosen Tiny Tim!

It's that grim.

7.08.2024

The Trumpian Nightmare (Based,in part on Tennyson)

 Ours  is a crucial election--

If we  select that clown

the grossness of his nature

will have weight to drag us down!


Ours is a crucial election--

If we select that jerk,

the rich will get their tax-cuts,

and the poor will become serfs.'


Ours is a crucial election--  

If we select Stupidity,

Project 25 might be

fatal to democracy.


Ours is a crucial election--

but we can't remove Liberty's pox

by an act of violence.  

Stop Bozo at the ballot box!


Ours is a crucial election--

We must defeat Narcissus.

Help Truth shut Cheeseburger Mouth

and lethenize his name!




6.29.2024

The Debacle

 

Nirmala and I approached the big date, June 27,1024  with some trepidation. We had previously toyed with the idea that we would emigrate, perhaps to Canada, if Trump  won. Of late we decided that we are too old and that we will have to, as our knees demand, go down with the ship. Yes, it’s that bad. Who would have ever thought that a portly Pied Piper of New York would make children, angry children, out of so many of us. But that is exactly what happened.

Unfortunately, in U.S. debates, appearances always defeat substance. I remember the debate between Nixon and Kennedy so many years ago. Those that listened on the radio believed Nixon won, but those who watched the debate on live TV thought the opposite. I remember Kennedy’s winsome smile. I remember Nixon’s sweaty brow.

This debate was even worse. It seemed like, from my  perspective at least, that a very bad unqualified man was debating the remains of a good man. Yes, Biden came across as cadaverous.  He appeared to be much older than Trump.

I think he might have Parkinson’s Disease. His voice was very soft. He seemed to have mobility issues. He was very stiff. His facial expression was mask-like. All these are symptoms of Parkinson’s—but also of old age as well .

No, it isn’t a contest between Honesty and Deceit—if so, Biden would have easily won—but a debate of appearances Biden, unfortunately, lost.

Yes, Biden has done a lot for the country. He is a consummate politician. Trump, in contrast, is or was a ‘blowhard in chief’ as he was called by Jeb Bush in the past.

One would think that one should vote for the party, and not just for the individual. Which party would like to bring forth universal health care? Which advocates for raising the minimum wage and raising taxes on the very wealthy? (If you believe in the wild and mendacious imaginings of Ted Cruz that the Republican Party is the party of the working class, you might be interested in purchasing the Brooklyn Bridge. That so many white men and women have been seduced by this lie indicates how far we have fallen.)

Still, that Biden let him get away with stating that he never had sex with a porn star was too much. “Swear now, before your conscience and ours, that Stormy Daniels was lying!”

No, that didn’t happen. The debate devolved into a he said-he said confrontation. Trump came across as a more vigorous candidate. Truth lost, Trump won.

Perhaps we haven’t lost yet. Says the optimist within . Perhaps we already have, says the pessimist. Lots of things can happen between now and November. We can only hope that decency will prevail, even  against  all odds.

5.30.2024

Democracy 1, Trump, Zero--Finally!

 I was a bit shocked when I heard the news that Donald Trump had been convicted on all counts. I don't feel triumphant. I don't feel schadenfreude. But I do feel happy for America.

I didn't laugh, but I did laugh previously whenever one asserted that no one is above the law. Finally, for perhaps the first time in his life, Donald Trump is being held accountable. For a man who has gotten away with horrible behavior all his life, this conviction is too little too late. For, say, a reckless alcoholic who has  ruined not only his own life but the life of so many others, to get up and say, "My name is Donald Trump and I'm an alcoholic,"--Well, I don't see that coming. 

One of the worst insults in Trump's world of playing with the Truth is not "You[;re fired," but "You're a loser." Well, he's a loser now. Will he ever  admit it? No. But let's hope that enough people will not elect someone who is not worthy to become president. 

Now, at last, it's democracy l, Trump zero. The final score--the 'jury,' (us),  is still out, but it now seems more likely that enough  Americans will come together to keep  this unqualified man out of the White House.

Who knows what the final score will be? The venomous Republican response to the verdict indicates that the battle is far from over. Still,  at last, it's Democracy 1, Trump, Zero. 


5.15.2024

Sue! Sue!

 Neulich hat mir mein Schwager, Sudhir, ein Gedicht gesandt, das er im Nachlass von unserem lieben Neffen Ranjit gefunden hatte. Der im Juli 2023  so fruh verstobener wunderbsrer Mensch vermisen wir noch sehr sehr sehr. 

Es folgt das Gedicht, das ich vor Jahren verfasst habe. Moyses Purish, der auch night mehr auf Erden ist, war ein KoIllege, der ein sehr guter Artzt war. (Das Gedicht kannte er nicht. Jetzt ist es leider zu spaet.)



Sue! Sue!                                           for Moyses Purisch


Today they came and fired you,

Not because you're the incorrect hue

or because you don't know what you do,


it was simply because you are old.

They won't give you a pension or a gold

watch--Their words convey, "Go join the fold


of ancient kine put our to pasture--"

Winter's a oink slip. "Go get yourself a sinecure--

Rest assured, we are not against the mature,


however...  It's time for you to live in style!"

The true meaning behind every smile,

wildebeest meet crocodile.


A sick mother and kids meant that you couldn't save,

Serenity without a wage?

You'd have to be a Hindu sage.


Rage, rage--Nothing else for you to do?

This is America--Remember, you

haven't been fired in Timbuktu. Sue! Sue!









5.12.2024

Our April/May 2024 N.Y./Bernuda Cruise

 

 

We recently returned from a cruise to Bermuda; we had a great time--I would like to tell you about it. It was a  rather brief; two days in New York followed by a five-day cruise.

We arrived at our New York hotel, The Giraffe Hotel, on 26th St and Park Avenue Park Avenue South. This was a mere two blocks away from one of our favorite restaurants—bad décor but excellent food—Saravana Bhavan, which has a branch in Chennai which we have frequented. I had onion and tomato uttappam. I got sick the next day, but I’m not sure of the cause. Nirmala said the maavu might have been a little old, since it’s the same batter used for dosa.

We walked about a bit and picked up a sandwich at Pret-a-manger, which we ate at our hotel.

The next day, a beautiful one with a cloudless azure sky--I remember humming “Nothing but blue skies from now on,” as we headed for Central Park. Our walk through Central Park was really quite invigorating and brought back lots of memories from the time we lived in the city.

I made it to the Metropolitan Museum, although my Parkinson’s was acting up.

The visit to the museum was far from the highlight of our trip. I had a frequent need to sit down. I couldn’t read anything due to my poor vision. Nirmala wanted to see the exhibit on the Harlem Renaissance, which, when we found it, disappointed. It might have been a good exhibition, but there were no seats and I couldn’t see much.

We visited old friends in the Asian section; we had lunch at the museum. The food was not particularly good and I got very ill. We took the subway home.


 



That night, we attended a performance of John  Adams’s El Nino at the Met Opera, our old haunt. The music I found fascinating in parts, but not very emotionally riveting. We don’t need another oratorio about the nativity in this age full of doubting Thomases. (It was indeed an oratorio; little to no stage action, crucial in an opera. (I, of course, could not read the subtitles, so maybe I missed a great deal.) In spite of everything, we enjoyed the music and had a very good time. We took the subway back and arrived at the hotel around midnight. (Yes, New York is safe.)

On day three, we took an uber to the Brooklyn Cruise Terminal and boarded our cruise ship, the immense Meraviglia, an Italian liner operated by MSC cruises. It is an immense ship. After waiting a while I was whizzed on board via wheelchair.

 

Day four was spent at sea; days 5-7 were spent in Bermuda; after a day  at sea we returned to New York where we got our train back to Baltimore.

 


Days 3-7, The Cruise.  The ship was immense. We had a nice little room on floor 13. There were a whole lot of staterooms—if the ship were at full capacity, we could have been on a slightly rocking version of Grand Central Station. Unlike on other cruises, we could always find a seat at the food courts on deck 15.

 


The entertainment was better than on most ships. The highlight was an Irish comedian named George Casey. (I remember at least one memorable joke: two Irishman died and met St. Pater who told them they looked unsaved. “If you tell me a poem with Timbuktu in it, I just might let you through the Pearly Gates.” The first  person recited doggerel which didn’t please St. Peter at all. The second recited a little poem the content of which related that after two women entered a bar, Sean bucked one, but Tim bucked two! St. Peter laughed and let the man through.



Nirmala chose an MSC cruise because there were reportedly a lot of dance lessons.  There were. We participated in nearly all of them. We usually started the day with calisthenics.  Mostly Chinese tourists, who were in good shape and good form. So many whites and blacks were fat!  We received many compliments, especially from couch potatoes. (If you believe that someone with moderately advanced Parkinson’s is a good dancer, you’re not a good dancer)

We took an all-day tour around the island of Bermuda, We visited Hamilton the capital, and St. George on the opposite side of the island. The beaches were splendid and the water crystal-clear Wouldn’t want to live there, though.



The food wasn’t particularly good, but we got by quite well. We made friends with a couple at dinner. The wife was Ukrainiana; she loved it when I said, Slava Ukrainie! (Victory to Ukraine.)

There was a lot of shopping onboard; along a huge corridor on deck five were many shops. We didn’t buy much.

Most onboard were very kind and went out of their way to help me, a handicapped old man. When I fell flat on my back while exiting the theater, I was helped to my feet quickly. (I escaped with a few minor bruises.)

 

I wrote one poem onboard, but was unable to read it due to my Parkinson’s micrographia and also due to my very low vision. Here’s what I salvaged:

 

Be humble, yet noble; remain nobly and humbly selfsunfulfilled;

self-ish, self-critical, self aggrandizing; self-less, which

side of the dashes are, doubting Thomas, vanity of vanities,

you? Humbly and nobly accept the truth: you, liar you,

nobly and humbly, accept nonsense, your slippery self:

Almost Nothing, doubting Thomas, redemptively still is.

 

Although the trip home was a bit difficult, we had a very good time; a vey good time indeed.




5.08.2024

The Potato

 

Not so long ago, I, like so many, took a DNA test, The result, quite unexpectedly, revealed that  I was about 35% of Celtic origin, basically from Wales, but Celtic nevertheless. I’d like to reprint here a poem I wrote long ago; maybe I was on to something. In any case, I loved visiting Ireland.

 

 
The Potato
 
What looks like a meteor
lands every night on our plates:
a light-brown to purple moon
 
scarred by a life-struggle fought
in a sunless cradle-grave
a few crow’s feet under the Earth.
 
Close-up, the skin is a brown sky
With blind stars, like galaxies
Spirally arranged; dark buds
 
On axils of aborted leaves
waiting for a single chance
to shoot up into space.
 
We eat them smothered
In butter or gravy, American
as frozen apple pie;
 
I owe my citizenship
to a tragic lack of spuds
in 1840s Ireland;
 
raised on elemental things
whose source is ancient supernovae
light-years away from Earth,
 
tubers, swollen stolen-ends
of the genus Solanum,
peeled then fried or boiled,
 
where I come from, what I am,
lands every night on my fork:
a side dish, the starch of the world.