Thursday, November 14, 2024

El Dolor es Una Maravillosa Cerradura /Pain is a Marvelous Deadbolt (Blanca Varela, Peruvian Poet)

 


 



And you shut it tight with a smile. All that remains is the illusion of being complete, piece by piece. Of being attainable.

With time, those pieces become warped and do not fit together again. But you do not un-shut the deadbolt. Rather, you find new pieces to fill the gaps. The cracks. So tight, that no light is seen through.

You fill your red wine glass with white wine. Without regrets. And for all the sunsets you missed, you raise that glass to a name you never met. To the memories of all those without names.

Of that deadbolt you speak rarely. Sometimes you only think about the door it holds tight. The one that was repaired with new parts. The one that does not let light pass through.

And then, one sunrise, you wash your red wine glass with a promise, wipe it dry with scar tissue, and fill it with cold coffee left from a previous sunrise.

And you walk pass the door, the deadbolt still on it. The coffee tastes like the first coffee you brewed in an old land. Or perhaps like the second one. But the wine glass warms your hands.

You are not attainable at that moment. Because it belongs only to you.

And at sunrise, you go to the seaside of a city of steel and concrete, and feed your inner Jonathan Livingston Seagull.



 

November 14, 2024

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2024

Wednesday, November 13, 2024

La de Los Ojos Abiertos: Revisiting Alejandra Praznik's work Twenty five Years After my First Reading

 





In the 1990s, I worked with the Argentinean Ministry of Health toward improvements in their healthcare system. At the conclusion of my first visit to Buenos Aires, a colleague who had read my poetry gave me a book entitled “La ùltima Inocencia “as a gift.

“You probably do not know Alejandra Pizarnik’s work” he said, “She is our femme fatale poet. I found the first edition of her book, published in 1956. I think you will like it.”

I read the book during my flight back. One poem stood out entitles “La de los Ojos Abiertos“(The One with Open Eyes) and I read it a few times at 40,000 feet.

This weekend, as I was searching for a book, I came across that copy and many memories of B. Aires kept me away from continuing my search for the initial book. So, I sat down and reread the above poem.

Pizarnik was a lost soul, often lost in her own loneliness and despair about a life she did not figure out how to live. Or why to live through it. And she put an end to it at age 36, but her poetry continued to hold a special place in modern Argentinean poetry. Thirty years after my first reading of “La de los Ojos Abiertos“, I found new meanings to her imagery.  Here are a few lines from that poem and an attempt to translation to English:

 La vida juega en la plaza

Con el ser que nunca fui

(Life plays in the square

With the being that I never was)

 

Mi vida

Mi sola y aterida sangre

percute en el mundo

(My life

My lonely and frozen blood

 Beat in the world)

 

… ... Pizarnik’s “open eyes” is an inverse metaphor; rather, her depression of seeing her life pass without the achievements she wanted would better be described as “eyes shut and chin touching the chest” reading her own tortured entrails. And that thought surprisingly made me think of a photo I took, also in the 1990s on the streets of Taipei, Taiwan. There was a young woman, in front of a Buddhist temple, holding a white umbrella. Perhaps she was leaving the traditional written message for the spirits hoping for an answer. Perhaps she was just there for no reason. And I could not see her eyes.


A few minutes later I wrote my feelings of the moment, in my own way:

 

 

In the shadow of a tree

I found the tree

In solitude

Yet unhurried

 

Under a white umbrella

Her smile

Remained tender

Yet unshared

 

In streets of concrete

A promise was left

To become a poem

Yet unread

 

And the river forgot

That in every flow

The old dance

Loses its foot

 

Unhurried

Unshared

A secret smile

Under a white

 

Umbrella

 

November 3, 2024

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2024

 

Monday, September 30, 2024

The Wall by the Lake

 

 



 

Lingering at the fork

A stony wall

Borrowed my shoes

To let me sleep

 

But I could not

Fearing old dreams

Like a name

Behind a curtain

 

Yet it has been a long while

Since I lost my shoes

At the fork of the road

When I could

 

Not

Reach

The lake

 

September 30, 2024

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2024

Monday, September 23, 2024

The Banshees of Inisherin : An Existential Identity Search and a Miniature Donkey

 

I do not watch modern movies. Rather, I prefer to sink in my old leather chair that has adopted the shape of my anatomy and have my 125 pound Akita sleep nearby, and somehow keep one ear up to listen to the B&W movies from the 1930s and 1950s. A time travel perhaps, but like in still photography, a movie in B&W lets me follow the story rather than being distracted by colour.

This changed yesterday when, as I was flipping through the channels, I saw scenery I had seen in Ireland before. Or at least close to it. So I stopped and checked the movie title. It read “The Banshees of Inisherin”. I did not recognise any of these words, so my curiosity kept me on that channel.

It is indeed a 2022 Irish film with Irish actors, in a most beautiful island setting during the end of the Irish Civil War in 1923. The main character Pádraic is a quiet man, who lives in a stone house with his sister, and has a miniature donkey as a pet. He and his sister Siobháome sleep in the same room, in separate beds. The plot revolves around the theme of sadness and loneliness, as Pádraic’s best friend, Colm, decided to reject the friendship and opt for being left alone to pursue his musical inspiration of writing a new violin composition. As such, the plot is simple, revolves around the feelings of three central characters, and explores the darkness of rejection, loneliness and ensuing violence. Indeed, Colm after finishing his new violin piece decides to “punish” Pádraic’s insistence to “be nice” again, by cutting his own left hand fingers and throwing them against Pádraic’s home front door. Unfortunately, the fourth central character, the miniature donkey named Jenny swallows one of Colm’s cut fingers and chokes to death on it.  Pádraic’s revenge is to burn Colm’s home although Colm escapes from the fire.

The plot may be simple, but the acting, the scenery of the island and the dialogue are engaging and breathtaking. A few moments resonated in me intensely, in part because they spoke to my own beliefs and life experience, but also they reminded me of the attitude of Irish friends I have had.  In one instance, Colm responds to Pádraic’s question as to why he sits alone in the pub, drinks his pint of Guinness and is obsessed with the goal of writing his last violin piece.

Colin says that being nice or friendship) may not last “But will I tell ya something that does last?”

“What? And don't say somethin' stupid like music” replies Pádraic.

“Music lasts. And paintings last. And poetry lasts.” states Colm.

 

Simple, yet it touches on universality, identity and purpose. Friendship is an individual need, but continuing the inherited responsibility of transmitting, often without knowing to whom, the panhuman need to have an identity through the arts is a much more worthy pursuit.

And after finishing his violin piece, Colin cuts his left hands fingers so he cannot play the violin again. But he throws these fingers at Pádraic’s house door; Jenny the donkey swallows one finger and chokes to death.

After burying Jenny in his yard, Pádraic goes to confront Colin.

“So, let's just call it quits and agree to go our separate ways, for good this time” Colin proposes

“Your fat fingers killed me little donkey today. So, no, we won't call it quits. We'll call it the start”

“You're jokin' me”

Yeah, no. I'm not jokin' ya. So tomorrow, Sunday, God's day, around 2:00, I'm going to call up to “your house and I'm gonna set fire to it, and hopefully you'll still be inside it. But I won't be checkin' either way. Just be sure and leave your dog outside. I've nothing against that gom. Or you can do whatever's in your power to stop me. To our graves we're taking this. To one of our graves, anyways” Pádraic gives the ultimatum.

 

.. I was delighted to spend 2 hours in my old leather seat, but my dog was not. In many ways, he is my Jenny, and he was hungry for dinner.

After feeding him, I checked the Internet about the movie. Here is a small sample of the recognition it has received:

The film had its world premiere on the 5th of September 2022 at the 79th Venice International Film Festival. It was theatrically released in Ireland, the United Kingdom, and the United States on October 21, 2022. It won four Academy Film Awards as Outstanding Film, Best Actor in Supporting Role, Best Actress in Supporting role, and Best Original Screenplay.

The film was also named one of the Top Ten Films of 2022 by the National Board of Review.  It has since been cited as among the best films of the 2020s and the 21st century so far.

 

But it is said that the film was not as well received in Ireland. Why?

It seems that it is not as much about the film but about the rather subjective definition of “irishness.” Although I have difficulty in fully understanding the argument, there have been suggestions that Martin McDonagh who wrote the script and directed the film does not understand “irishness” since he was born in London and raised by parents from the West of Ireland. Yet, for viewers like me, it is the film that attracts us as a work of art. It explores panhuman concepts of loneliness but recognises the need for personal space promoting creativity. It is dark and joyful, addresses the need for friendship, of being kind while at the same time lets the viewer vagabonding through questions about human nature. I found myself lending my eyes and ears to the movie, but in parallel, ponder on such concepts as “no one is a prophet in his own village” and “the wound is an opening through which light comes in.”

 

.. In the late 1970s I worked in Doha, Qatar as part of a group of multinational team in structuring Primary Care and developing a national health and epidemiology computerised information system. The country had embarked on adopting western models and technologies to healthcare information infrastructure, in parallel to new urban architecture and landscaping developments through expatriate institutions and professionals. The healthcare team comprised of professionals from Australia, Egypt, France, Ireland and Lebanon.

We soon realised that outside of professional work, all socialization was within that circle of expatriates in the desert environment that was new to most of us. And we discovered that many of us were there for a single personal reason – finding a space, for a couple of years, for themselves. It was a self-selected group that sometimes needed a break from their previous lives; sometimes escaped harsh times like civil wars; and, often needed the change of environment to be alone. The desert was perfect for that – in fact, it was an oasis of sorts.

The Irish team consisted of nurses. They worked in the health centers, and their leader, the “Matron”, worked at the Ministry of Health in advising the Ministry about the proper organization of Primary Care nursing. She was a colourful character, always joyful, and extremely competent. It was only after work hours, in social settings that she became what most of the team was – a person with a past who had found her space for a short period of time. Once, she admitted that there was some “lovely pretending” to keep all around her happy. “Pretending is like Cork gin” she put it, “cheap but still great for breakfast!”

Two decades later I received a letter informing me that she was diagnosed with neuroblastoma. “Why the frecken brain?” she asked, “What is wrong with uterine or breast cancer?” She lost her battle after a few months.

I thought about her while watching the movie. And, after almost half a century later, I recalled the first time I saw a report she had sent to the Director of Health at the Qatari Ministry that ended with:

“Eventually Yours”

And as I writing, I smiled remembering what she always said when an international expert was invited to evaluate our team’s goals. Specifically:

“An expert is anyone from another country who wears a tie”

I do not know if that was “irishness” but it was the Irish way I knew. That was being the bon vivant in any environment. In just a few words.

 

PS/ there is a scene where Colm, unable to play his violin after self-mutilation, directs his fellow musicians to play his new work, in the pub. He was done playing his violin – he was done fiddling with his search for a tune that justifies his existence. Interestingly, although he was pleased to create a new musical piece, it did not sound a real departure from traditional Irish music for violin and balladeer. Perhaps when we look for change and new discovery, we sometimes cannot dissociate ourselves from who we are and from our heritage.

 

September 23, 2024

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2024

 

Sunday, September 8, 2024

Struggimento and Euthymia

 



 

I may find again

The promise and the calm

We once thought

As a stormy story

 

It was  an old story

Yet poetry and ordinary

And lonesome walks

In smoky train stations

 

And, like after an August rain

Waves left the mossy rocks

And the beach dried in the sun

Still touching the bluest sea

 

And I found, in that respite,

The promise to walk on unmoon nights

Without leaving shadows behind

And it became my road

 

My way

 

September 8, 2024                  

Saturday, August 17, 2024

Pietro Calvi’s Othello and Memories of Leonard Cohen

 



 

Just before sunrise, when I was walking my dog in a narrow street, I came face to face with Pietro Calvi’s Othello. It was a bit surreal, and I blamed the vision to the weak coffee I had brewed.

But it was real. There it was, outside the house, on the concrete, Othello’s bust that made Calvi famous in 1870. It was homage by Calvi to the African American actor Ira Aldridge, the first Black actor to play Othello in England in 1825.

 

There were ten versions of the marble and bronze bust and I had seen one of them in the Walters Art Museum in Baltimore. Now, I was facing a plaster duplica, left on the ground, in Prescott, Arizona. It was beautifully done though, although the desert weather had taken its toll. But Desdemona’s handkerchief was there, so was the single tear on Othello’s face.

 

I took a quick picture and I move on. My dog did not seem to appreciate Shakespeare interfering with his morning walk.

 

A mile or so in to the walk, somehow, I thought of Leonard Cohen. Perhaps it was the tortured soul of Othello; or the influence L. Cohen’s poetry has had on my youth. It was a fond memory, and I did not mind letting my dog extend his morning promenade longer than usual.

 

… It was 1976 and I was a college student in Montreal. We were francophone then, but L. Cohen was already a rebel troubadour for my generation. I recall going to one of his concerts in Vancouver, even though we did not understand all his words – but we did associate with his persona and outlook.

 

The last time I saw L. Cohen was in 2009, at the Merriweather Post Pavilion in Columbia Maryland. He was an old man now, and it was one of his last concerts. Now his voice had given way to all the wisdom his life had allowed him to keep.

For me, it was like turning the last page of a book, knowing the ending, but still hoping for a surprise.

 

When I came back home and fed my dog, I brewed a stronger pot of coffee and let my experience and feelings of the morning walk find their war in and into words.

 

Here is what came out – not surprisingly Cohenesque lines within that single tear on Othello’s face:

 

  

Life is designed to overthrow you

 

While you write to clear your mind

 

About what can be

 

On blank paper that once was a proud tree

 

 

And it wasn't an offering

 

But was offered, anyhow

 

And your words

 

Looked like a wooden bowl

 

Tasting of honey

 

And your song sounded like a newborn

 

Learning from you

 

About you

 

Knowing he will become you

 

One day

 

After his first heartbreak 

 

 

Life is designed to overthrow you

 

Even when you're at the foothills

 

Of where sunsets burn the clouds

 

To shade names

 

And bathe sad brown eyes

 

In offering

 

 

August 17, 2024

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2024

Sunday, July 21, 2024

Promenade

 





Around the bend

 

There were naked trees

Letting the breeze through

Shading their own roots

In snow and

Greeting lonesome souls

 

But I walked by

To follow the road

 

And when I reached the meadows

Where in rocks I once covered

A name I had given

To those I had not yet met

 

I looked back.

The road was following me

 

July 21, 2024

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2024