The window was open
Like a door to walk through
The lilac bush was all bloom
But without the aroma
Of blooms he once knew
The teeth of a hippo
Made the piano clavier
But not the sadness
When he touched the “la”
It all ends
In Pure Minor
With an E
And three semitones
With no scales to remember
But it was not Sunday yet
And the window looked over a field
Of coquelicot
Fearing the slightest wind
That will make them shiver
Like unspoken words
¡Trste domingo!
July 7, 2021
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2021
I came across a photo I had taken in the Port of Baltimore and never published it. The composition was acceptable but I assume I did not find a story in it. So, it went to the “Rejects” box.
But today, years after the photo was taken with a 1953 Ukrainian Kiev camera, a single word came to my mind:
L’Albatos!
Indeed, it is a poem by the French poet Baudelaire published sometime in the late 1850s. When I was a teenager, it was one of my favorite poème noir as most of the decadent poet of “Les Fleurs du Mal”. In the L’Albatros, Baudelaire compares the albatrosses to a poet who in flight are the “prince des nueés”/prince of the clouds but when on land they are awkward walking because of their large wings.
Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuées
Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer;
Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,
Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher.
This approximately translates as:
The poet resembles this prince
of clouds
who haunted storms and sneered at archers;
now, banished to the ground, and surrounded by crowds,
its wings of a giant forbid it to walk well
Indeed, the photo above seems to capture seagulls in both of these states – as magnificent birds in flight reaching the clouds like a poet is in his thoughts and expressions, but also as unattractive avian when sitting on the docks.
So, as in Egyptian art where Isis is depicted with outspread wings, there is safety in flight. As there is safety in a poet’s emotions transcending earthly slings and archers.
And my own thoughts migrated to lines from Rumi:
"This is love: to fly toward a secret sky, to
cause a hundred veils to fall each moment. First to let go of life. Finally, to
take a step without feet."
Without feet. That is what Baudelaire saw so awkward in the walk of the albatross. Just wings. Toward a secret sky.
Now I was thinking about love and how it has been compared to a bird in poetry. Perhaps the most famous line is from Bizet’s Carmen, Habanera:
“Love is rebellious bird that nobody can tame, and it's all in vain to call it if it chooses to refuse.”
… In my college dormitory room I had a poster that read:
Love is like a bird – if you hold it loose,
it flies away. If you hold it too tight, it dies
And then, through
experiences sought or unwelcome, I learned that there was a third possibility –
love will end up with broken wings as Gibran described his tragic love of Selma
Karamy in Beirut. Is a bird a bird when its wings are broken? Is a poet a poet
when he cannot reach the clouds? And, is love worth celebrating when it cannot
haunt the storms of rejection?
… When I was taking
my driver’s license test in Beirut many decades ago, there was writing, in
Arabic, on the wall of the test site office. It read:
Do not speed – death is faster
And today, recalling
that line (which rimed beautifully in Arabic) I thought of the inscription on
the gravestone of Mary Woodson who died on her way to church to be married in
1785. It read:
Death had quicker wings than love
And this line is
still being used in many songs and literary works.
…I think the circle was
well traveled starting with the photograph, then the poet as an awkward walking
albatross, and finally love and death as they get affected by the flight of
time, experience and fate.
But before I stopped
writing, fate made me wonder if wings, when made of wax and feathers are worse
than the awkward walk of an Albatross.
I think Icarus would
wonder about that too!
June 22, 2021
© Vahé A.
Kazandjian, 2021
Donne-moi
L'espace que tu gardes
Pour ceux qui te passent
Et qui restent en toi
Pour ne pas se perdre
Parle tout doucement
Et dis les mots que j’aime
Comme une gamine sans face
Qui court dans les champs
Pieds nus et cœur battant
Laisse-moi être
Pour le court moment
Qui est notre carrefour
Le troubadour d'antan
Qui en t’attendant
A perdu son lyre
Et pour la première fois
Oublie les larmes du Fado
De Lisbonne ou d’Oporto
Que “partir é morrer oum pouco"
Et cours dans mes secrets champs
De coquelicots et tendres chants
Car demain
Un autre troubadour
Chantera ton nom
Du haut des toits
Où il restera, seul
Dans la douceur de l’espace
Que tu lui donneras
Comme revanche
Mai 15, 2021
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2021
When I
burned bitter dreams
Held by
a flat silver spoon upon a cup where
Pain
was washed down with cold water
As if dead
carp in the river
Next to
the catacombs of a city that has forgotten
How
evil turns to anger
Artemisia was absent but
I still called her name
Artemisia was now just a
name
Which
I once wrote on the sand
Of a city burning
Without a silver spoon
And without knowing why
I wrote on the sand
Of its beaches washed
By the times
By the tides
By unmoon nights
As I left the land that
became
Someone else's land
Next to the bluest sea
Where Artemis lost her
arrow
And her chastity
Under the half moon
And turned green
Like a fairy who lost
her way
In the catacombs of a
city
Next to a dark river
Where the beach was of
concrete
And the name I had
written
Was washed
In cold water
Over a flat silver spoon
Into a simple cup
That was now bitter
Because Artemisia was
absent
April 19, 2021
© Vahé A. Kazandjian,
2021
About this poem: Artemisia absinthium is the common wormwood historically used to make absinthe. I was inspired by a visit to the catacombs of Prague where absinthe, made with wormwood, is available for experimenting.
As such, this is not a poem about the 17th century Italian painter Artemisia Gentileschi....
Pull back
We had a swell
Time
Touched by a promise
We believed
In
Yet fell
Upon our backs
And waited
Push back
The low hanging
Fruit
Was picked last night
And the morning blue sky
Is now gray and dark
Peeping
Through the
Hanging
Old
Curtains
Hold still
Till the coffee percolates
And drips
With caprice
And with desire
In the unwashed cup
Left on the bed stand
Standing
Alone
And then
Recall a name
A place
A time
When face covering
Was a fantasy
To unveil
Yet another
Promise
To believe
In
March 28, 2021
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2021
I enjoy listening to songs or classical music while
driving more than I do in a house room or at the concert hall. So many
variables interact at the same time when I insert a CD into the dashboard – the
scenery keeps changing, the wind whistles differently depending on how much I
crack the windows open, the sound of the road constantly changes under the
tires, and I suddenly sound like a perfect tenor when I join the song!
So, I keep a multi-lingual selection of CDs in my
car. I have Italian opera, French troubadour songs, Portuguese Fado, Arabic
folkloric songs, Armenian popular songs, and Spanish classic guitar plays.
Recently I added the CD of Silk Road music by Yo-Yo Ma.
When I have a few hours of drive (even an hour), I
decide on the CD according to my mood at the moment.
A couple of weeks ago, when I had a drive to the upper
country of Arizona (meaning in the mountains of an altitude of about 7,000
feet) I decided to fill the thinning air with the vibrations of Fado.
Fado is a typically Portuguese genre of “blues” that
has its origins in port districts like Mouraria and Bairro Alto. Lisbon is
where it blossomed in the 19th century and today the best Fado
moments are still to be found in the “semi-dark ” bars in Bairro Alto where I had
my introduction to the often soul wrenching songs and the 12 steel strings guitarra. I can still recall Tasca Do Chico and Café Luso.
I have written about my early experience
here https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/4995164429340748464/5769353108438927210
with B&W photos of a fadista.
So, the CD I have is called FADO: um tesouro português. I immediately chose Gaivota by Amália Rodrigues and Ó
Gente da Minha Terra by Mariza. La grande dame of Fado is incomparable to
any other fadista and she remains the ambassador of my memories of Portugal.
But Mariza, for whom the above song was composed by T. Machado based on a text
by A. Rodrigues, takes me beyond Portugal, to all the countries where people
remember their land and ancestors or celebrate them if they are lucky to still
live in these ancestral places.
Here are a few lines:
Oh people of my land
Now
I understand
This
sadness which I carry on
Was
from you that I received
… I was now driving in the high mountains still
their tops covered in snow. Suddenly the desert was transformed into Nordic scenery.
It is a beautiful land. I felt humbled and lucky to live my days in this
context.
And without warning, I started whistling the notes
of the most popular American folksong by Woody Guthrie “This Land is Your Land”. While celebrating the grandeur of this
land, this song has raised historical, cultural and social issues in a country
that is three centuries old. This land has seen different cultures call it
their own over this time period. And yet, it remains a land with much space for
all.
Here are a few lines:
I
roamed and rambled and I've followed my footsteps
to the sparkling sands of her diamond deserts
All around me a voice was sounding
this land was made for you and me
Fatherland seems to be
the oldest term used in English language to describe one’s country. It may be
derived from the Latin patria,
meaning fatherland.
Motherland may have its
origins in the French language as terre mère.
Although now the French use “la mère
patrie” somehow mixing between motherland and fatherland.
Homeland does not refer
to the land of my mothers or fathers, but rather the land where I belong. It is
perhaps a reflection of the global movement of people and the globe being truly
globalized. … As I was thinking about Russia being Motherland yet surrounded at
its south by Nordic countries where their land is called Fatherland, I
remembered the lines by a famous Armenian poet Silva Kabudikyan. In a poem to
her son, she says:
And
son, no matter where you go
Or
under the moon wherever you stay
Even
if you forget your mother
Never
forget your mother tongue
(the translation is mine)
Perhaps the one who has given much thought to all
this is the four-year-old son of a humble farmer sat on a huge, gilded throne
in the Himalayan city of Lhasa. Then, in exile as a young man, he is declared
the reincarnated leader of Tibet. Now the most recognized monk in world
history, the Dalai Lama tells his story and the story of Central Tibet in his
book “My Land and My People” while
China classifies Tibet as part of the Motherland.
… I drove to the upper country of Arizona a few
weeks ago. I did not write any of these thoughts on paper (or on the screen) as
I did not further explore the ways in which our understanding of “my land” has
a long history in national identity.
But a few days ago, when I was walking with my dog (not
“walking my dog” as he is truly an
independent soul!) we came across a spot in the rocky hills where someone had
camped not long ago. And in the fire pit, I saw the partly burned tree trunk
that had a pristine bird nest on it! The sun being still in the East, the
shadows drew a perfectly sad face at one end of the trunk. And leaves near the
bird nest seemed like fingers protecting the nest.
I could not resist thinking about Gandhi, the Dalai
Lama and FADO songs! So, I looked for the definition of a nation used during
the debates between the British and Gandhi’s India:
“a
nation is a body of people, associated with a particular territory, which is
sufficiently conscious of its unity to seek or to possess a government
peculiarly of its own.”
So, now I could write these lines.
PS/ here is the photo original size
here is a close up of the nest:
And the face with so much sorrow:
March 22, 2021
©Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2021
Sometimes, reading poetry on a frigid and snowy day does not make me remember or project. On days like this, a comedy movie or a book of fiction feel like Glühwein and Vanillekipferl I more than once had next to the Stefan Dom in Vienna in Christmases past. The warm vapors of the mulled wine and the cinnamon aroma have stayed with me over many decades and have taken a surreal character!
Just like Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” which I picked up and leafed through.
I have to admit that I have yet to read the entire
book. It sits in my art studio among books of many languages, and when I feel
like taking a break from a project, I pick up a book and leaf through it.
This time, I stopped at lines I had previously
annotated. These are famous lines from Helena who remains my favorite
character. She said:
“Love
looks not with the eyes, but with the mind;
And
therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”
So, how does one avoid being distracted by abstract
structural beauty and find the way to look inside another person?
This time, it was another classic book, also in the
pile at the end of my workbench that I picked up. It is “Le Petit Prince” by Antoine de Saint-Exupery that has become a cult
book for understanding relationships. It is said that he “saw” the young prince
and the fox when in a daze from dehydration in the Algerian desert after his
plane made an emergency landing. So, it may not be a “Night’s Dream” but it
sure was a dream with some hallucination.
When the Petit Prince feels comfortable with the fox,
he asks about his life and what is exciting.
Ma vie est monotone. Je chasse les poules, les hommes me
chassent. Toutes les poules se ressemblent, et tous les hommes se ressemblent.
Je m'ennuie donc un peu. Mais, si tu m'apprivoises, ma vie sera comme
ensoleillée. Je connaîtrai un bruit de pas qui sera différent de tous les
autres. Les autres pas me font rentrer sous terre. Le tien m'appellera hors du
terrier, comme une musique.
(My
life is monotonous. I hunt chickens, men hunt me. All hens are alike, and all
men are alike. So I'm a little bored. But, if you tame me, my life will become
bright. I will know a sound of footsteps that will be different from all the
others. The other steps make me go underground. Yours will call me out of the
burrow, like music.)
And then came the
most recognized, powerful and deeply human passage:
Le renard se tut et regarda longtemps le petit prince:
- S'il te plaît... apprivoise-moi ! dit-il.
(-
Please ... tame me! he said.)
Years ago, I took a
photo of my son and my dog. It was a cold day, the river was frozen, and when I
looked at the negative under the loupe, I saw Le Petit Prince and the renard! The
“prince” and the renard have that exact posture of dialogue and request for one
to tame the other.
So, Helena still hopes that Theseus would see her
inner beauty and not desire the “outside” beauty of Hyppolita. But what kind of
looks can penetrate so deep? How can we trust eyes to find the beauty in us, in
others?
As a photographer and a painter I have a special
attraction to eyes. And when eyes look candidly into another being, I think it
makes for the best photo, the best painting and tells a universal story of love
and trust.
For example, while my last dog looked like the fox
in the previous photo, here a few years later he learned to look into a person’s
soul! I blurred the young lady’s facial feature for privacy, but the tender
moment between my dog’s “tamed” self and her remains.
And finally, a photo I took in South Africa of a
look that reminded me of looks I have seen around the Mediterranean where I
grew in age and expectations. That is a look that gives you no choice for
retreat. That is a look that even a blinded Cupid will see and tremble while
holding his arrow!
… The snowflakes are still dancing a funny farandole
outside my window. My dog, the one who succeeded Petit Prince’s renard, is
sleeping on an old cheep skin rug outside my door.
And I am wondering what Helena will say next time I
open the book….
March 16, 2021
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2021
