Muddy Tea

How do sad eyes know

When to look away?

I have marched alone

When cities reached their bound

And people with large hands

Held their faces tight

It was not fear I found

Nor joy, nor regret

A sailor lights his pipe alone

And bites the wooden stem

How do brown eyes know

When you look away?

I did not have a journey

Just a passing through

And along the short way

Touched a stone, a rainbow, perhaps a few

It was not fear I found

Nor a promise, not even a sigh

Men in their large hands

Held their hopes and cried

How do hazel eyes know

When to say goodbye?

I have slept under roofs

That filtered stars and half moons

I have locked wooden doors

That opened upon no place

And yet, a sailor lights his pipe

In the hope of passed blue smokes

And the taste of new mornings

Promising angry seas, mossy rocks and cotton clouds

With all the pain
Awaiting them
How do children’s eyes

Shut so gently at night?

November 30, 2014

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2014

Grace and Humility

A year ago, following encouragement from readers who had read my literary work “confined” to the pages of traditional books, I decided to share my new writings through a Blog to reach new audiences and also to write more freely.  I have been delighted by the reception my decision received from practically every corner of our still-spinning earth!

The name of my Blog was chosen a bit whimsically but to reflect the focus of my new line of essays. ZenSouçis is a phonetic play on the French “Sans Souçis” which means “With no worries”.  The Zen dimension was important as I expected to follow a certain philosophy which became apparent to be germane to my previous work as well, but without my fully realizing it to be the case. Now, I wanted to discover, along with my readers, how what I did, felt, thought or avoided could find a simple explanation in the Zen teachings and recommended attitudes.

… I wrote about dignity, identity, longing, love, harmony, beauty and goodbyes. I have used multiple cultures, languages, and teachings as templates when exploring about how one separates his ‘self' from the flow of time and the 'backpack' of history. We all carry that backpack-- some of us feel its weight when our shoulders are weary of the carry.

And last night, when the sky was full of stars and the desert around me eerily quiet, I picked up a book from my father’s collection and sat by the window to read.

The book is a legend in the world of biology and medicine. The author is Dr. Alexis Carrel and the title “L’homme cet Inconnu” or “Man, the Unknown”.  It was published in the early 1930s and I recall my father saying that no medical professional in those days could pretend to know biology, medicine or philosophy without having read this book. A quick search on the Internet proved his point and more: it is today a cult book, with followers who believe that the book remains science and art, attitude, philosophy and knowledge, from a teacher who was also a wonderer.

In short, a Zen book.

First, about the physical appearance of the book. It is leather-bound; the pages are yellow in courtesy to time, thinned like the hands of those in a nursing home bed. It was published in 1935 in Paris by Librairie Plon. However the most interesting detail about the printing was that only 286 copies were made on special paper for select collections. Is mine one of these copies?

I think so, but the physical character of the book is in the history of those who had owned it. The entire book is covered in handwritten notes using black, red and blue pencil. There are comments, references and thoughts written in French, English, and Armenian and even in Latin! More, there are cut columns from newspapers about the author and the book glued to its pages. Ninety years old glue! Turning the pages or unfolding the newspaper columns takes the careful and caring hands of a surgeon, and many are so thinned and almost transparent that I decided to leave that exploration for another day or perhaps another person.

Second, the previous owners of this almost-a century-old book had many interests. The first page of the book even has algebraic equations with legends written in French and Armenian! One legend, written in Armenian under the fourth equation says “Infinity” but not as one would use it in Algebra but as a poet would write about “perpetuity” or “endlessness”! 

What was that reader trying to do? Perhaps try to describe some of Dr. Carrel’s ideas in a formulaic format?

I will never know, but my curiosity for re-reading this book after 35 years was grander than ever.

.. So I did. I will not write about the book or its messages as one can find better analyses on the internet or a library. What I want to share are dormant definitions that were woken up in me as I read till the early hours of the morning. These are the definitions of Grace and Humility. So, after a few hours of sleep, I decided to research and read more about grace and humility with a special penchant toward the teachings of what can be called Zen.

·         

•       The word Grace has a Greek root as ‘Chairo’ and today it is used as Charis; it also has a Latin origin as ‘Gratus’ meaning thankful or pleasing; finally it also has a Hebrew root as ‘Chanan’ and is today used as ‘Chen’ meaning ‘favor’.
• ·         The word Humility has a more ethical meaning ranging from a posture (lowering oneself vis-à-vis others), to knowing one’s place within a larger context. Interestingly it is said that the act of imposing humility on others is called ‘humiliation’ which today perversely connotes an undesirable behaviour.

Why did those two concepts or definitions pop up in my mind when reading Carrel’s book? He does not discuss them directly, but the philosophy of the unknown, regarding human biology and medicine made me realize that the grace of the human body, human behaviour and the biology we transform into poetry, knowledge, celebration, the tremor of love, and the fear of not being loved is what we all need to recognize, cherish and celebrate. As for humility, I felt that the only way to recognize the grace and gracefulness of the ‘Unknown’ in us is by being humble yet cheerful.

And suddenly I thought about the algebraic equation on the front page—could it be that a reader, almost a century ago, passed through a similar thought process and tried to build an equation with two unknowns? Was the ‘X’ in that equation Grace, while the ‘Y’ addressed Humility?

Can it be possible that two minds converged toward such a distillation upon reading the book? Perpetuity, Infinity… But what about the ‘self’ that we cherish in many cultures? Is there a connection between the ‘self’ and ‘identity’? Or, as I proposed elsewhere (ref¹) there is “no I in Identity”? 

I wondered what Buddha had taught regarding these questions.

Interestingly, it is said that when asked about the above, he refused to answer. But as a good teacher he suggested that the better way to approach an understanding of the ‘self’ one should not worry about the existence of the ‘self’ but ask “How does the perception of the ‘self’’ originate?”

… I was done with the re-read of Dr. Carrel’s book and the hundreds of commentaries various previous owners had written in the margins. This time, I had a new attitude and perspective given the 35 years of life between the two readings. I doubt it very much that I will have another 35 years’ wait for a third reading.

So, I will cherish the years left with grace and humility, without worrying about infinity or any algebraic equation with two unknowns and Armenian legends!

¹ http://vahezen.blogspot.com/2013/06/i-dentity.html


And here are two links worth visiting:

http://academicdepartments.musc.edu/humanvalues/pdf/Transplantationat100years.pdf


http://beingintheformofaquest.blogspot.com/2005/07/wisdom-of-alexis-carrel-on-moral.html

November 26, 2014

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2014

In Skull Valley

                                                                                              "If a fool  would persist in his folly he would become wise"
                                                                                                                                              William Blake (1757-1827)


When I reached to lift the veil
I fell short of breath
Sunset was already dressed
In a night dress

In the valley
Quail ran, did not take flight
Granite shone in shades of gray
As if holding the day’s last lights

The valley was a tumbrel of rocks
Where a life was saved from its shame
As if a seamstress hiding her locks
Under a shawl and a false name

And in the cold of desert nights
I shared my pain, I cried a name
Without warm tears and free of fright
For of that granite my heart had become

… Yet, when I reached again
My soul was of that secret calm
Sunrise had washed its night in cyclamen
And the name I cried was now a poem

November 20, 2014
©Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2014

Konya, Rumi and My Grandfather

It is said that with time the sharp edges of one’s experiences get smoothed, like water does to rocks. That two lonesome violins can cry a bigger tear even when serenading each other. And, that eventually we keep only the good memories as our threshold for pain decreases.

I am not convinced.

This morning, I played Arvo Pärt’s “Tabula Rasa for two violins”. Nothing that made me feel that I had made a tabula rasa of my life, memories or identity. The two violins did not calm me. But the repetitive notes somehow put me in a transient mood, almost a trans, and made me think about the Whirling Dervishes of Konya. And in a rather surprising moment, I thought about my grandfather, a musician from Konya who has influenced my life in mysterious ways.

.. My grandfather died when I was 8 years old. For the past 50 years I thought of him as a grandson would occasionally do, with a yearning for a grandfather. But three years ago, while writing my most recent book, I realized how much of what he had shared with me in those short years and that these memories, lessons and teachings had stayed in me, somehow cached in a corner, for all these years.

And three years ago they came out, and I wrote about him and his legacy in a book (1) about Armenian history of the 19th century, the Genocide, why I was born in the Diaspora, and how one remains a descendant of his people, no matter where he is born and ends up dying. And this morning Arvo Pärt brought me back to these thoughts, and made me think about one of the famous sons of Konya, the mystic Rumi.

… In the trance that the two violins lead me to, I recalled words from my grandfather that previously had little meaning to me. He said:

“It was a beautiful tomb, carvings in black, orange and gold. He was a famous man who wrote about loving. After him, the Dervishes started to dance. They were still dancing when I left Konya.”

The West discovered the writings of Rumi only recently, through translations that often are unaware of the nuances of the original language. Born in what is today’s Tajikistan, Rumi lived in Konya for almost 50 years and is buried there. His mausoleum, or tomb as my grandfather described, is supposed to be grandiose and the site of pilgrimage. The epitaph on his grave reads:

         “When we are dead, seek not our tomb in the earth, but find it in the hearts of men”

He was a musician who played the rabāb, a luth-like instrument played in Urdu, Seljuk and Tajik cultures, although he is best known for his playing the reed flute or nay. It is said that he played the nay while reciting poetry.

My grandfather was a musician who played the Oud, a luth-like instrument one still finds popular in Arabic and Turkish instrumentals. He also played the violin but holding it vertically on his lap and moving the bow horizontally. My grandfather, Karnig Kazandjian, survived the 1915 Genocide of Armenians because he played for the Turkish harem ladies who helped him and a handful of friends leave town. A Schindler’s List of an earlier era. I have written about this here(2).

Back to Rumi. Now I am listening to Pärt’s Silentium and the piano accompaniment makes the violins less monotonous, less holding their cries back.

Rumi is said to have never physically written his poetry. Instead it seems that his over-active mind was restless, and he dictated his lines while his disciples anxiously took note. And in putting himself in this whirling mental state, he physically turned and danced reaching the “zone”. It is said that the Whirling Dervishes are a direct reflection and their dance a practice derived from not only the Sufi character of Rumi’s work, but also of his practice. Contrasting this thought to Pärt’s Silentium, I cannot resist thinking that if Rumi were a child in today’s Western World he would have been diagnosed with Attention Deficit and Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) and put on Ritalin!

… I have never been to Konya but have a few pictures of my grandfather, grandmother and uncle dated sometime around 1915. In this picture my uncle should have been less than 4 years old as he died during bloodletting at the hands of a Turkish barber who used his razor to shave during the day and practice “medicine” at night. He was 4 years old.

Then my grandfather surviving the exodus from Konya through the Syrian desert of Der-el-Zor arrived to Aleppo where he restarted his life, always as a musician. This picture, dating from the early 1920s, shows him as a handsome man teaching the Oud and violin.

… Now I am listening to Summa by the Chilingirian Quartet, and thinking about another famous line from Rumi:

                               “The wound is the place where the Light enters you”

What wound did open today? Was there light that found its way into my transient self partly in trance through Arvo Pärt? Was it light or The Light?

I do not try to understand. But know that fifty years later, the turbulent waters of life have not polished the sharp edges of my soul like rivers would do to rocks. That somehow, the words of my grandfather have surfaced from those inner caches of my own self to swirl and dance, making me think about the Dervishes of the Mevlevi Order and a mausoleum in Konya, where my grandfather was born but I have never visited.

With the ending notes of the Chilingirian Quartet I remain perplexed by this suggestion of Rumi:

           “Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within                                                                 yourself that you have built against it”                                                                                                                                              

November 8, 2014
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2014

(1) http://vahezen.blogspot.com/2014/04/this-posting-will-be-different-from-my.html

(2) http://vahezen.blogspot.com/2014/07/ottoman-times-armenian-timemakers.html

The Balcony of Baudelaire, Garcia Lorca and Neruda

Poetry and photography are integral pathways to my mood while reflecting upon a new environment, people I meet, or names I remember. As such, I tend to choose my cameras to reflect my mood and, I read or re-read from authors to match my état d’âme. For example I look for my 1969 Nikon F at times; or I feel like capturing street scenes with a 1957 Leica IIIF rangefinder; but undeniably I feel naked without hanging a 1948 Rolleiflex medium format camera from my neck no matter what other camera I am using.

Reading poetry is similar. There are themes that attract me to authors, and there are authors I like to re-read.

This morning I was thinking about balconies. For a strange reason I find balconies special places where one discovers the ordinary in an unusual way, or seems to escape from the architecture within which we live. A balcony is freedom from buildings, and as such, seems to allow for a bit more capricious thinking or behavior.  I have written about balconies, from balconies and while remembering moments upon balconies. In poetry or prose, balconies have found their way into my writings.

But today, I wanted to read from others, and three poets came to mind—Baudelaire, Frederico Garcia Lorca, and Pablo Neruda.  My French is better than my Spanish, but I feel comfortable reading poetry in both languages.  Of the three poets, I find Neruda the most versatile, accessible, diversified, and for the common mortal in all of us. Only a small portion of his voluminous work has been translated into English, and that is a pity. I was introduced to Baudelaire at school, but introduced myself to Garcia Lorca and Neruda later in life. Perhaps I was ready for them. Perhaps it was a choice based on who I had become in choosing pathways to my mood.

.. The balcony. Written as Le Balcon or El Balcón, it is never about the balcony itself but what or who it represents. Again, it is the platform for dreams, remembrances or new thoughts.

Le Balcon is a famous poem written by Baudelaire to his lover. As always all translations are poor, especially when it comes to poetry. So here are the opening lines of the original poem and one of the many translations into English.

Mère des souvenirs, maîtresse des maîtresses,
Ô toi, tous mes plaisirs! ô toi, tous mes devoirs!
Tu te rappelleras la beauté des caresses,
La douceur du foyer et le charme des soirs,
Mère des souvenirs, maîtresse des maîtresses!

And a 2001 translation by Peter Low

Mother of memories, mistress of mistresses,
you who are all my pleasures and all my duties,
you will remember the beauty of our caresses,
the sweetness of the hearth, the charm of the evenings,
mother of memories, mistress of mistresses.

Why did Baudelaire decide to use the Balcony for these lines? It is said that she might have been on the balcony and this was a “Romeo and Juliette moment”. Or that some of his memories of her were associated with a balcony. I am not sure. For me, the balcony in this poem is almost a symbol of evasion, in thought or in body, through two lovers.

The Farewell by Garcia Lorca seems simpler, yet more powerful. In a few short lines he identifies the ordinary that makes life so desirable. Perhaps even durable even in the face of death. The balcony door may open upon an existence that succeeds to life itself.

If I am dying,
leave the balcony open.

The child is eating an orange.
(From my balcony, I see him.)

The reaper is reaping the barley.
 (From my balcony, I hear him.)

If I am dying,
leave the balcony open.

Next are lines from Neruda where the word balcony is used, but is not about the balcony we all know. It has no concrete, no stone and no steel. Instead it is the balcony of the sea, a vantage point where the mind rests:

..and time and again the darkness would be broken
by the crash of a wave,
and every day on the balcony of the sea,
wings open, fire is born,
and everything is blue again like morning

This lovely translation, by his close friend Alastair Reid, feels almost as genuine as the original Spanish version. It is hopeful, it is about a new morning. Or at least about the memory of a wonderful past morning. The balcony, for me, is where one needs to find himself to be optimistic.

… So there I was, on a windy and cool November morning thinking about balconies. Or about what memories I have because of balconies. No matter, I was in the mood for poetry and again, Neruda’s definition of poetry seemed to fit my mood. In Plenos Poderes he wrote:

La poesía es blanca:
sale del agua envuelta en gotas,
se arruga, y se amontona,

Which was translated by Thayne Tuason as:

The poetry is white:
it comes out of the water wrapped in drops,
it is wrinkled, and piles up,

This is why Neruda speaks to the mortal in me, while Garcia Lorca may go a step further into the post-mortem optimism about our days. And Baudelaire… he is the one who lived the moment with no respect to what was next or could be next!

But all three speak of love. And Neruda may have found the right formula when he said:
                    “If nothing saves us from death, at least let love save us from life.”


November 1, 2014
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2014