Like the aroma
In a room where many
Had cried through
Their open wounds
And wiped their fears
With scar tissue
When summer rain
Came through open
Wooden windows
And filled that space
With past names
And they walked along
In silent steps
In cities of concrete
And on paths of journeys
Taken only for the joy
Of the journey
Like stony walls
That did not stop the mist
To become cloud again
To become shade
Or just become
Places where journeys found you
As you always were
Places where regret
Lost its whisper
And
For the space
Of a secret moment
Forgot
The tears others cried
Through their closed wounds
In rooms burned like incense
Before the summer showers
At noon
January 31, 2025
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2025
About
this poem
The inspiration for this poem came with the first
snow of 2025. It is a magical moment for my senses when the desert gets its
white cover and the humidity fills the space with incense aroma from the
Juniper trees and the various shrubs. I often think of sandalwood, cedar and
myrrh after the first rain or snow in Arizona.
Unexpectedly, I recalled a poem by Paul Verlaine (1844-1896)
“Chanson D’automne” that was among
dozens we had to learn and recite in secondary school. Many a time it was a punishment for misbehaviour
in class – we had to learn a poem, stand up in front of classmates, and recite.
Today, I am grateful for the many naughty behaviours I was known for in
secondary school.
I had not thought about this romantic and
melancholic classic poem for decades, but with some hesitation and searching my
memory for the lines, my brain found them safely tucked away in my nostalgia files.
And I recited it, again, while filling
my moment with the aroma from the wet desert.
Chanson d’automne
Les sanglots longs
Des violons
De l’automne
Blessent mon cœur
D’une langueur
Monotone.
Tout suffocant
Et blême, quand
Sonne l’heure,
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
Et je pleure;
Et je m’en vais
Au vent mauvais
Qui m’emporte
Deçà, delà,
Pareil à la
Feuille morte.
Why did I remember this poem? Perhaps as Blaise Pascal wrote “Le coeur a ses raisons que la raison ignore »
(the heart has its reasons that reason knows nothing about) proposing that logic
alone cannot explain the matters of the heart. And, while I once thought “Automne”
was about the season, now I realise it is also the season of life when youth
remains a rite of passage in spring and summer.
Then, I search for a translation and found this lovely
site:
https://strommeninc.com/french-poems-10-most-famous/
Autumn Song
When a sighing begins
In the violins
Of the autumn-song,
My heart is drowned
In the slow sound
Languorous and long
Pale as with pain,
Breath fails me when
The hours toll deep.
My thoughts recover
The days that are over,
And I weep.
And I go
Where the winds know,
Broken and brief,
To and fro,
As the winds blow
A dead leaf.
translated by Arthur Symons
