THE ARENA OF LIFE

I

In the arena of life, my son,
there are no laws, no rules, but one;

the battle fought be lost or won,
the vanquished and the victory run,

the also ran, the marathon,
the game of love, the pro, the con;

my son when all is said and done
there’s naught but self preservation.

The leader’s never at frontline;
in war he always leads behind

to save his precious rear and mind,
there to count the dead and dying

and console the widows crying,
and mothers’ sacrifice consign

their sons’ corpses in box of pine
except the ones they never find.

It was a wise man said before
that all is fair in love and war,

cat plays a game of paw and claw
alas the rat will play no more;

love’s worth living, and dying, for;
but whatever life has in store

of you this one thing I implore –
no idol or hero adore.

II

I chanced upon a maid one day
and down fell love like rain in May

on my love life, as dry as hay,
with passion wet, suffice to say

she moulded me like potter’s clay
and made my heart a harp to play

etudes of love, how sweet the lay,
like Judas’ kiss would soon betray.

Sweet Siren Love left me no choice,
I heard her soft seductive voice

‘bove din of waves, the crashing noise,
on treach’rous rocks to shipwreck poise.

III

After dry season earth will rejoice
when showers convert dry dirt to moist

and slumbering seeds their heads will hoist
as if to escape her swollen joist,

but then submerged by swelling flood,
raging rivers, like haemorrhage blood,

her short-lived joy will drown and clod
vital organs with stifling mud.

Her habitants cry, “Why, oh Lord,
must life be bruised on scrubbing-board?”

The thunder heard and answer roared,
the lightning, hearing, struck accord,

“Love spareth not the loved to know
there is but one, one way to grow;

the mother bird in time must show
the baby bird it’s time to go,

to spread new-feathered wings and flow
upon the wind where it may blow,

to fly nest never left hitherto
to hither, thither, to and fro.

In time, my son, you’ll come to learn
to face the fire, though you may burn,

to ride the tide on prow and stern
through ocean calm, or chop and churn;

to challenge life at every turn
while lesser men may sit and yearn,

to sail beyond horizon known
and thence triumphantly return.”

IV

“Turbulent seas will smooth the stone,
striving strengthens sinew and bone,

and though the blade to rust is prone
the grinding stone its edge will hone;

carbon may under pressure groan
but diamond shine would not bemoan;

in dungeon thrown or royal throne
know that you never are alone.

In you there’s ohm to overcome,
to seize the wind and ride the storm,

lies sleeping like the lily corm
awaiting rain in earthy dorm

to spring anew and take true form,
survive adverse, like desert palm,

a source to draw sustenance from
and super strength beyond the norm.

Does subject meet exalted King,
Sitting at home with beads praying?

Or goeth forth, early morning,
with resolve and gifts a bearing,

toward palace, humbly hoping
for earthly favour and blessing…

when all at once he hears a bird sing,
‘Why seek abroad the King within?’

Trust not in chariots and horses,
but harness your inner forces;

count blessings, forget your losses;
greed adds, and multiplies crosses;

anchorless, turbulence tosses,
rudderless drifts shipwreck courses;

one ocean, with many sources,
one Source, with many oases.”

V

To you I hope my words make sense –
fruits they are of experience,

picked from the tree intelligence,
the centre of the forest dense;

while I was lost in fears immense,
stripped bare of ego and pretence,

I climbed the tallest tree, and thence
reached through the clouds of recompense

to sky above the canopy,
from where I saw the land and sea

of human woe with clarity;
and then I soared, my spirit free,

defiant of my misery,
as if by some divine decree

my eyes opened my soul to see
the spectre of divinity.

Then stone-like did I sink and dive
with carnal did I strug’ and strive

in mire till, more dead than live,
instinct amniotic to survive

and senses many more than five,
through dark and deadly subway drive,

guided me safely to arrive,
at last, the born-again archive.

And then my spirit soared again
graceful, an ibis or a crane,

over plateau and over plain
where fettered flesh could ne’er attain;

the bowed old man threw ‘way his cane
and rose above life’s old-age pain,

rode like a horse without a rein
like Pegasus with wind-blown mane.

VI

Then doubt and guilt of Adam’s sin,
through broken dike, came rushing in

with malice of a million jinn
and hit me squarely on the chin,

then on the floor my neck did pin,
said, “Give up now you cannot win!”

but iron will with split-lip grin
quipped, “Courage be my kith and kin.”

Yea, ten times ten did I fall down
but never once stayed on the ground;

with analytic notes profound
my mind stood up, conversed with Jung

and sung Marley’s ‘Redemption Song’;
my soul, refusing to be bound,

soared once more with sonorous sound
as of mallet striking a gong.

Like waves over the ocean spread,
my soul went where the sound waves led,

in universe and in my head,
even where angels dare not thread;

no longer paralyzed by dread
nor chased by fierce bulls in the mead

from which in nightmares I had fled
by learning first to fly in bed.

VII

My son, I have seen thick and thin,
refused admittance in the inn;

accepted too like Rasputin
then waylaid by the assassin;

a victim of the serpent-sting,
a mendicant for love, begging;

a eunuch in the king’s harem,
soul shorn apart like yang from yin.

I had my share misfortune too,
methinks I more than paid my due;

yes, expiate holocaust Jew
but let Massa too take a clue

and calculate the slaves’ accrue’
lest niggarding we come to rue:

it’s time to write history anew,
true point of view and not askew.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance