Thursday, December 23, 2021

To Breathe Fire Again

 





On the path where I walk with my dog, someone had given life to a dead tree. This morning, a dragon looked over the path.

Volcanoes wake up hibernating mountains. Memories make us dream again. And mirrors reflect upon our changing faces over time.

Or, are mountains simply dormant volcanoes? Do dreams remind us not to let memories in the past? And, do our aging faces hope that mirrors, one morning, would reflect back the spark we once had in our eyes?

No matter. On that path the now dragon-shaped old tree is just a dead tree for my dog. But a moment of reflection for me.

 


December 23, 2021

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2021

Monday, December 20, 2021

The Way I Want to Remember Then Paint to Forget

 

 



Old leaves fell

And we walked

Over

Them

 

It was all silent

In the forest

Except

Our path

 

Which we never chose

But it took us

Where

The night ends

 

… Then

Old leaves fell

Even when

Our feet forgot

 

That the forest

At night

Makes

New paths

 

To take

Alone

At

Sunrise

 

December 20, 2021

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2021

 

This is a painting I did for memories I hope to recall more than once

Saturday, December 4, 2021

Saturnalia

 




 

Every candle burns

Only once

 

Every dissonant cord

Finds its tremble 

On a violin’s bridge

At intermezzo

 

Or when dormant

Unwept

Next to an unkept

Promise

 

Every candle burns

Only once

 

Then it becomes

That dissonant promise

Of sunset skies

Over parched lands

 

Where I lost

My violin

As I forgot

How fingers travel

How fingers bleed in silence

Over steel cords

 

To recall a name

As lonesome

As a candle

Flame

 

Yet candles burn

Only once

And my flame

Has now found

Its sunset 

Sky

 

December 4, 2021

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2021

Saturday, November 20, 2021

Cactus Flower

 



You do not need to be

An open wound

To be

A wound

 

You do not to be

An undealt card

To excel

At the game

 

You do not need

To hear the Orinoco flow

To celebrate

The promise

Of every rain drop

 

And you do not

Have to go

To Torino

To claim

Me ne frego

 

But you need 

To return

In a new form

And surprise

Yourself

 

November 19, 2021

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2021


Sunday, November 14, 2021

The Raven and His Roadmap

 


 


Cities of stone, faces unshaved

And doubtful

Lemonade with rose water

And uncertain tomorrows

 

Cities of steel, frigid autumns

And cold coffee

Brown eyes deeper than night

And forgotten promises

 

Cities dust, of desert sun

And lonesome walks

Burning vast skies

And wolves at dawn

 

Cities where my compass

And its South

Pointed only inward

And let me find

 

What I had never lost

In cities of stone, steel and dust


The promise

To find

My own

Way

 

November 14, 2021

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2021

Sunday, November 7, 2021

Veronica arvensis

 



 

And the piper got paid

While the show was

Still

On

 

It was an empty box

Tied with corn speedwell

Flowered in blue

And dry

 

And the piper

Kept that box

Next to a bed

Of orchids

 

In a place

Where winter weeds

Knew

Spring would come

 

Again

 

And the show

Will go on

 

November 7, 2021

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2021

Saturday, October 30, 2021

I Think that I Shall Never See/ A Poem Lovely as a Tree (Joyce Kilmer, 1913)

 



An autumn walk in the high desert of Arizona lead me to a fallen tree.  It was not just a tree but a hiding place for someone who built a primitive shelter next to it using fallen branches.

The setting was perfect for taking a break and remembering a few lines of poetry. The simple poem by Joyce Kilmer written in 1913 always reminded me of the Armenian romantic poet Mateos Zarifian. The lines are almost ordinary but the feeling becomes personal imperceptibly.

And the opening two lines of Kilmer’s poem, which I used as this essay’s title above, reminds me of something my father, a poet and writer himself, used to say:

                                   The most beautiful birth is the birth of an idea

… So I sat on that fallen tree’s trunk and looking at all the gray colour around me recalling Robert Frost’s lines:

Nature’s first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf’s a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

 

Perhaps. But gold is more than a colour; it is a pleasant memory as well.

Finally, a lesser known French poem’s lines about men cutting down a tall tree seemed appropriate for the moment. The poem is entitled “Dans La Forêt Sans Heures” (In the Forest Without Hours) by Uruguayan writer and poet Jules Supervielle who studied in France, wrote in French and was nominated for the Nobel Prize in literature three times. 

Here is the original

Dans la forêt sans heures
On abat un grand arbre.
Un vide vertical
Tremble en forme de fût
Près du tronc étendu.

Cherchez, cherchez, oiseaux,
La place de vos nids
Dans ce haut souvenir
Tant qu’il murmure encore.

 

The second stanza goes beyond the cutting down of the tree but fits nicely in the autumnal atmosphere where I found myself. The lines translate as such:

 

Look and look again, birds
For where your nests were
In this grand and tall memory
While it’s still murmuring
.

(Translation is mine)

 

There were no nests on the ground or birds looking for them, only the wind that swirled the autumn leaves into a lovely farandole.

But there was a temporary "nest" someone had built behind the fallen tree. For shelter, and for that golden personal space.

So I left.

 

October 31, 2021

©Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2021



Sunday, October 17, 2021

Anthropomorphism -- from Deity to the Desert Grasshoppers

 




“You have been here for almost a week and never left the conference center or your hotel.  You have to see at least one temple in Hyderabad before you leave. I will take you to the Birla Mandir temple.”

It was 1998 and I was, along with a university colleague from Baltimore, teaching a course in India. I had walked in the streets of Calcutta in 1979 while working in the Persian Gulf, but on this trip to Mumbai and Hyderabad my time was fully consumed by academic work. So, I gladly agreed and let my newly met Indian colleague and scholar play tour guide.

An hour later the train got us to the Birla Mandir temple, all white and glowing under the afternoon sun. It is said that 2,000 tons of pure white marble were used over the 10 years of its construction.  And built on a hill 85 meters high, the panoramic view of Hyderabad is breathtaking.  The main temple is surrounded by shrines to various Hindu gods where visitors go to ask for favors from the Hindu gods and goddesses.

While impressed by the architecture and the lack of bells (so visitors can meditate undisturbed) I was interested in learning more about the various gods. So, we took a tour of the shrines.

“Why do Hindu gods and goddesses have multiple arms?” I asked after seeing the statues and paintings of Brahma, Lakshmi, Shiva and Saraswati.

And that enchanted my scholar friend to an explication that I recall today more vividly than most of the temple’s architecture.

“See, deity is an anthropomorphic concept be that in deism or religion. We, humans, represent supernatural powers in forms borrowed from human anatomy and our postures. But since they are cosmic and all powerful, we alter these appearances to reflect the various powers they have and tasks they accomplish. For example, the Goddess Lakshmi has four arms and four hands representing the human condition – desire, righteousness, wealth and liberation from the cycle of life. Brahma par contre has four heads, three showing and one invisible. He also has four arms and four hands but does not carry and weapons in those hands as other Hindu gods do. And yet, not all gods have human faces. For example Lord Ganesha has five heads that have elephant trunks instead of a human nose.  And he carries an ax.

So, to understand how a god or deity is depicted, one has to start and accept the human proclivity to anthropomorphism.”

Here is a photo of a Brahma statue from Wikipedia site:



 

… When I looked at the grasshopper that landed on the outside of my window glass, I could not escape remembering that day in the Birla Mandir temple of Hyderabad.

I decided to take one close-up picture because the exoskeleton was perfect for a Halloween costume! But then, as if the grasshopper saw me on the other side of the glass panel, it started to move its arms. And that was when, reluctantly, I gave way to anthropomorphism…..

Here is the first photo

 


Then it “waved hello” to me when I took my second picture

 


And when I took a few more pictures, it seems to say “hurray!”

 


Hmm.  Was it really looking at me?

 


And those four legs, each moving independently or in harmony, was there a message?

 


It is the mating season for colourfully “dressed” desert grasshoppers.  When walking in the desert, thousands of them are around, often jumping and flying into my body. And sometimes, it is difficult not to interpret their movements or posture with an anthropomorphic penchant.  For example, I took this photo believing that the male was carrying his female on his back as a gesture of love and caring. And when I looked at the photo, I almost believe that they were looking at me and thinking “why is he peeping at us when we try to be alone in a cactus?”

Look at their facial expressions -- the male seems really upset, while the female seems curious about my taking a picture!

 




Many Hindu gods sat in or atop a lotus leaf. The desert grasshoppers, folding their two legs and four arms, chose a prickly cactus.

 

October 17, 2021

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2021

Saturday, September 11, 2021

Shoes Left Under A Tree

 


 

 It was an island surrounded

By itself

Where a wall invited

Two wanderers

 

To be

 

 

The moon was still round

When the flat land took shape

Joyful and in laughter

Tearful in regret

 

To let go

 

 

Bare feet on old stones

Learn to balance hope

In promise of new roads

Yet knowing they can’t take

 

To continue

 

 

… And that island remains

Now surrounded by sea

Where he tide of time

Once learned to stay still

 

To celebrate

 

September 11, 2021

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2021

 

PS/ I was reading verses from Iranian born now British academic Kamand Kojouri.  These lines inspired me to look back:

“Forget your voice, sing!
Forget your feet, dance!
Forget your life, live!
Forget yourself and be!”

Monday, August 16, 2021

La Musique Qui Marche au Pas, Cela ne M'intéresse Pas (Brassens)

 

 



 

Dormir seul

Mais se réveiller en

Compagnie d’un rêve

Qu’on ne se rappelle plus



Mais qui nous donne

L’espoir

De dormir seul

Encore une fois

 

Et pourtant

Quand on forme une bande

On se laisse perdre

Et on perd

Celle qui  ne fut jamais

La nôtre

 

Alors

Il se faut rester seul

Pour prendre à nos lèvres

Le nom qui comme un verre

Qui

Contient le son des soupirs

 

De jadis

Et qui nous hante

A travers nos passages et nos rencontres

 

Il faut accepter

Que la solitude nous laisse

Sans abris

Sans savoir comment

Mais qu’on se retrouve

Au milieu des foules

Qui ont déjà

Oublié

 

Mais quand l’heure sonne

Ou alors on croit l’entendre sonner

On se roule doucement

Et on se perd

Dans la bande de perdus

Dans cette foule

D’ingrats

 

 

Qui force à nos lèvres

Comme un verre de Bohême

Un vide

Qui

Ne contient plus

 

Ce qu’on avait gardé

En secret

Toute une vie

De troubadour

 

Le 16 Août 2021

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2021

 

J’ai pris cette photo au Costa Rica avec in Yashica 124

Monday, August 9, 2021

Every Form is a Base for Colour, Every Colour is the Attribute of a Form. (Victor Vasarely)



 


I have often eaten at the Fortuna Passage in Buda where traditional food is made for local people. My favorite is wild boar stew.

It was a cold day in Buda and my leather hat made me stand out in the crowd. 

When we sat down, and took my hat off, she said that I looked like one of the local men.

I ordered a beer, and she went for red wine.

 

“There are four types of people," she continued. "Beer drinkers, wine drinkers, vodka drinkers, and those who drink all three"

 

"What is the difference?" I wondered.

 

"Those who drink all three do so alone," she explained. "They drink only water in public."

 

Somehow that reminded me of a Loudon Wainwright song lyrics about a skunk smashed on the road:

 

Crossin' the highway late last night
He shoulda looked left and he shoulda looked right

.

“We all like to have secrets," I agreed. "But few of us have them for long. Eventually we drink water when alone too, don't we?"

 

"Yes, eventually," she murmured looking at an old man dragging his walking cane on the floor as he entered the restaurant. 

 

... I have stayed in Buda during most of my visits. I prefer the view of the Danube from atop the hill next to the Castle. And the Egri Bikaver somehow tastes better in popular taverns there.


"Bull's Blood dries your mouth easily," she noticed. "The bottle of cold water next to your glass will help you sleep better after the wine."

 

... I shoulda have looked left and shouda have looked right. But I shut my eyes and looked inward.

 

August 9, 2021

 

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2021


Saturday, July 17, 2021

The Importance of the Rose in the Arts, Philosophy and Politics

 

A colleague from Belgium, commented on a photo I had taken of plein air painters in Arizona.  She digitally “played” with the analogue original

 


and wrote:

“Your photography has a tendency toward impressionism, just like your poetry. You play with light as you do with words to take the focus off the theme you pursue. Sometimes I think of the song by Gilbert Bécaud “L’important c’est la rose” when I look at your work. Have you figured out what is the meaning of the rose in that song?

Hmm. Back in the 1970s there were three giants of French songs – Bécaud, Brel and Brassens. They were called ‘Les trios B de la chanson Française’. I found it funny that my friend did not choose Brel for her commentary, as he is the only Belgian out of the three!

So, I had to refresh my recollection of Bécaud’s lyrics.

 

Toi pour qui, donnant-donnant
J'ai chanté ces quelques lignes
Comme pour te faire un signe en passant
Dis à ton tour maintenant
Que la vie n'a d'importance
Que par une fleur qui danse
Sur le temps

L’important

C’est la rose l’important

 

So, the key lines seem to be:

It is your turn to say now
That life doesn't matter
Than by a dancing flower
In the time

What really counts is the rose

(The translation is mine)

 

Now, I was curious to guess why the rose was important!

… Immediately, the poem by D.H. Lawrence “Gloire de Dijon” came to mind, perhaps because of the French title and context, but also because he used the rose called Gloire de Dijon to describe a sensual and sexual moment. The specific lines are:

When she rises in the morning
I linger to watch her;
She spreads the bath-cloth underneath the window
And the sunbeams catch her
Glistening white on the shoulders,
While down her sides the mellow
Golden shadow glows as
She stoops to the sponge, and her swung breasts
Sway like full-blown yellow
Gloire de Dijon roses.

This poem is often interpreted through impressionism, like one would analyse a painting by Monet. It is fragmented, each line is self-contained and self sufficient. It is like the effect of light and shadows an impressionist painter pursues without focusing on a central theme.

Did Bécaud use the same style in his song, or is there more than style that make the song mysterious?

The definition of impressionism is:

 a style or movement in painting originating in France in the 1860s, characterized by a concern with depicting the visual impression of the moment, especially in terms of the shifting effect of light and color.

And

a literary or artistic style that seeks to capture a feeling or experience rather than to achieve accurate depiction.

Since both the song and the poem dealt with the rose, perhaps what a rose represents is worth investigating.

The rose is the most common flower used in religion, artistic writing, songs and painting as it has symbolism ranging from the veneration of Jesus Christ's mother, Mary to Greek and Roman goddesses of love, to Islamic, Indian and Persian interpretations of lust, love and death.

Indeed, in Christianity, the rose was the origin of the rosary. In Greek mythology Aphrodite preserved Hector’s body with the” immortal oil of the rose”. In Persia, the geometric designs of gardens revolved around the rose; and, the famed Sufi poet Hafez wrote that the rose gives lust to the nightingale’s song.

But the rose, while usually associated with sin and passion given its red colour, has more symbolism than for lust and veneration. For example, a blue rose connotes mystery; a yellow rose is for friendship; and, a white rose is for innocence or purity.

And, even today, these various colours are representatives of cultural celebrations or avoidance. For example, in Northern Spain, Catalans celebrate their patron Saint George (Sant Jordi) on a day called “lovers’ Day” (dia dels enamorats) by exchanging red roses.

But in recent history, some roses, especially white roses, have acquired a new political meaning regarding purity or innocence. A prominent example is from WWII when academic and students from the University of Munich started a movement called “die Weiße Rose”(The White Rose) in opposition to the Nazi party. In this instance the white rose represented purity opposing the cruelty and evil of Nazi regime.

The most enduring philosophical and political adoption of the rose started in the mid-1800s with the advent of socialism. The red rose subsequently represented socialism and the colour red communism. In post-WWII, the red rose became a political logo for socialist and social-democrat political parties. The visuals of the logo were a red rose in a fist and adopted by Socialist International, the French Socialist Party, and since the 1980s, the British Labour Party replaced its historic red flag logo with a red rose.

Finally, the symbolism of the rose would be incomplete without its place in mythology as representing secrecy. Indeed, Venus was known for her indiscretions, it is said that Cupid gave Harpocrates, the Greek god of silence, a rose asking him to be discrete about Venus’s indiscretions… A god of silence—what a valuable role he should have played in the firmament!

(I could not stop thinking that the name Harpo, the unspoken third Marx brother, came from Harpocrates. I searched the Internet for confirmation, but it seems that he was given that name when he played the harp at the Orpheum Theatre in Galesburg, Illinois.)

Today, we call that “sub rosa” as “under the rose” when we behave like Harpocrates.

So, what should I say to my friend in Belgium? That I still do not know why the rose was important to Bécaud? That I do not write, nor take photos, adhering to impressionism?

Or, that perhaps I do so sub rosa as in this photo I took in Oslo, Norway....



 

July 17, 2021

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2021