Sunday, June 25, 2023

Blurred Photo on a Wall

 


 


 

As if the old in all of us

On a rainy August morning

Walked away from the window

Which looked over to a brick wall

Held together

By the courtesy

Of frigid

Time

 

And left unturned the single bed where every spring

Still recalls the dreams and lonesome turns

Framed by walls where black and white moments remain

On warped paper, hanging on nails

To look over

Of the old in us

Listening

To the

Springs

 

A Meerschaum pipe and a bottle of Grappa

Next to the bed

Glow in the morning rays

That bounces upon the brick wall

For a short while, to start each day

For the old of us to leaf  

Through a poetry book

And recite

Aloud


Ja ma armastan Sind, sest

Or

Ho bisogno di poesia,

Questa magia che brucia la

Pesantezza delle parole

 

And

End in a murmur

With lines once whispered alone

Under a bridge

C’est la grâce

tremblante

à la force

appuyée,

C’est ta main

dans ma main

doucement

oubliée


June 25, 2023

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2023

Thursday, June 15, 2023

Growing Roses in a Garbage Pan

 



May was Lily of the Valley month. It is a flowering plant I like as it is very hardy and can be found in various environments, including the harsh ecosystem of deserts.

I also like the lily because of many references in the literature about its unassuming yet inviting flowers compared to the more flamboyant rose, which has captured the imagination of every poet who used a flower as a metonym for a feeling, such a passion, love, sorrow or dependency.  My favorite descriptions of the lily of the valley flowers come from Germanic legend and mythology. Indeed in Christian legend, Eve's tears are said to have turned into lilies of the valley as she and Adam were expelled from the Garden of Eden. And in Old Norse mythology, these flowers have symbolised the purity and humility of the virgin goddess Ostara, who transformed a  bird whose wings were frozen into a hare, so a bird that cannot fly can still live by hopping.

Among many uses of the rose and lily comparison in poetry, I have often returned to the rather simple words of Victorian poet Christina Rossetti (1830-1894).

The lily has a smooth stalk,

Will never hurt your hand;

But the rose upon her brier

is lady of the land.

Yet, the “lady of the land” is dangerous through her thorns. Perhaps Rossetti reminds us that sweetness and passion, when concomitant, have to be handled with care.

But almost a century before Rossetti, another famous English poet, William Blake, used the rose and the lily to tackle dimensions of love such as passion, loyalty, strength and purity.

In 1794 Blake included the poem “The Lily” in his collection of Songs of Experience. Here is one stanza reminding us of Rossetti’s poem:

The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,

The humble sheep a threat'ning horn:

While the Lily white shall in love delight,

Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.

So, using flowers to personify human (animal?) feelings and behaviour is a lovely strategy to convey both visual and philosophical guidance.

Growing up, one of the metaphors my father used was

                         “The best flowers grow next to the outhouse door”

to prepare me for optimism regarding the challenges of life.

 

… So May is Lily of the Valley month, reminding us of humility, resilience and beauty.

 

June 15, 2023

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2023

Tuesday, June 6, 2023

“Every Man Has his Folly, But the Greatest Folly Of all Is Not to Have One.” Kazantzakis/Zorba

 





If I show you the steps would you watch me dance?

I did not like to watch steps, but just let the dance guide me. And often, the serpentine path I found ahead of me, I did not follow. Perhaps I knew where it ended. Where all paths eventually get out of breath, a place with no foot prints.

 

If I whistle would you hear the summer rain?

Watching the window glass run tears reminds me, still, of August rains. And also of the exhale from asphalt roads, dirt paths, and angry seas. To listen again how quiet those tears once were; and how a lonely walk in narrow streets ended under balconies to shelter from hearing the whistle.

 

 If I give you the steps, would you dance?

Steps make a dance predictable. A dance should be a reflection of the moment, not a prescription. Kazantzakis best described it for all the inner Zorbas in us when Basil asked Zorba “Teach me to dance” – he was actually asking "Teach me how to find myself." “Teach me to live.”

The dance on that Greek island beach had nothing to do with dancing. It was a Sufi moment of exploration.

 

If I watch you dance, would you remember to stay still?

If I dance, I will hear the music. But when I stay still, I only hear myself.  It is like sitting atop a wall to hear the ocean. Eventually, one forgets the waves.

 

And if I change the steps, would you gently get up and dance alone when you hear the summer rain, again? 

All dances are lonely; all dancing is to end up alone. They repeat themselves softly to become one with rain, wind and memories.

All dancing shapes our steps to become a personal search.  And then, we remember a summer rain and we forget the steps. We just improvise.

 

June 6, 2023

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2023

Wednesday, May 10, 2023

Love Is the Rider Who Breaks Us All




 


 

 


I was on my daily walk with my dog when he pulled hard to greed another dog. I always let him decide who he likes to meet.

It was an old dog, sitting at the feet of an old man sitting on a bench.

“Good morning” I said and introduced ourselves.

“It is always a good morning when I can still be out with Florence” he replied.

 

By now, Ziggy was gently licking Florence’s face.

 

“Lovely” the old man said, “reminds me of days when I was young and wild”

And we started chatting knowing that our dogs would not want us to pull them apart.

 

From his careful choice of words and the optimism that comes with age, I assumed he was well read. So I asked him what he once did.

“I taught literature, even when students did not want to learn.”

I told him I had many of these experiences.

“You like poetry?” he asked.

And when I shared my love for words, spoken or otherwise, he turned to Florence with a smile:

“Flo, go ahead and recite a few lines from Dylan Thomas.”

Then, with a pensive posture he added:

“She is busy with Ziggy, I will refresh your memory myself”

And, just after sunrise, sitting on a public bench in a cowboy town five-thousand feet above sea level, the old man nostalgically started:

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieve it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night

“I was wild once, you know. Now Flo is 15 years old and I am five times older than her. It is good to meet someone who likes poetry.”

… I thought about him during the one hour walk. And a bit about Flo. Then, after giving Ziggy his breakfast, I searched for a poem I had read by Ribka Sibhatu, a contemporary Italian poet, entitled Parola.

The last stanza is my favorite

Parla parole ce

emanano profumo

e portano l’animo

nel tempo e nello spazio.   

 

(Speak words

that emit a fragrance

and carry the soul

through time and through space)

 

I hope to see the old man again.


About the photo: I took this in Barcelona. It seemed unlikely that I would see a man, well dressed, reading an Agatha Christie book, siting on the boardwalk, next to his old dog 

May 10, 2023

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2023

 

 

 


Sunday, April 23, 2023

I Muri Hanno Orecchi, Ma Aqua in Bocca

 





 

“It is like building a cyclopean wall. Large stones are not always at the base – just like major attractions are not what you build upon when meeting a person.”

… Cyclopean walls. In Greece and Italy I have walked along these walls. They are said to be built by Titans. It is from ancient Mycenae that comes the belief that Cyclopes built the walls of large boulders. The Titans were inspired by the Colossus of Rhodes named after the sun god Helios.

“It does not matter who built the walls. There is a colossus in all of us. There is a dormant Titan that makes us curious about the what and why we do things. Small and large.”

… Perched in the Alps, Trento surrounds you with a medieval tempo. And with megalithic walls, and pristine lakes. It is still a little bit Austrian, but the joie de vivre is all Italian. 

“We build cathedrals like we build stony walls. It is sometimes for protection, a glorious shield. Often, we protect ourselves from ourselves hoping to keep the titan in us asleep. Moving large megalith or boulders across vast spaces is easy compared to moving a feeling to the open. Suddenly a stone becomes a menhir, for all to see”



…  It was all about stones and walls that morning. It was all about metaphors.

“We place stones on graves to remember; we write on boulders a name for others to wonder about.”

“And we put a stone upon our hearts to forget. Not the person who left and left us alone, but the pain of continuing. Love is like a cyclopean wall – large and small stones should co-exist to keep that wall standing. But love should exist without using mortar -- the stones should fit perfectly.”

… And she looked at Lago Di Caldonazzo.

“Ma, l’aqua cheta la butta giú I ponti” – our best bridges can be destroyed by calm waters.

 

PS/ The photo of the cathedral is of the Armenian cathedral of Gregory The Illuminator, in Buenos Aires, Argentina. It has an angle of view I have not seen in other photos of the cathedral since I took it from my car.


April 23, 2023

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2023

Sunday, April 16, 2023

Sambuca and the Art of History Telling

 


I first tasted Sambuca in the 1970s. I was in Bari, on the boot heel of Italy where I stayed for more than a month. On that August day, I met a friend of my father, an older Armenian who had lived in Italy since he was a teenager. He was a historian and a musician, and invited me to lunch in an all’apperto restaurant overlooking the bluest sea.

“Should we have Sambuca to clean our palate?” he asked while rolling a cigarette.

I had tasted Lebanese Arak and Greek Ouzo, but not Sambuca.

“The fragrance of Anise is the same, but Sambuca has more history behind it” he replied.

When the dink arrived, there were five coffee beans floating in it.

“We call it ghiaccio e mosche” he explained. “meaning ice and flies. You can have 3 or 5 coffee beans in it, and these are the flies. Never an even number – it is bad luck.”

After his first sip and a deep inhale from the cigarette, he started:

“You know, sambuca was the name of a Roman war machine. In fact the sambucae were ships made for attacking a sieged city from the sea. They were invented by Heracleides and in Ancient Greek they were called σαμβύκη.  You will be interested in knowing that Heracleides was a physician and the first one to write a treatise on the Hippocratic Corpus.”

At this point the sambuca had made me relaxed, and while chewing on a coffee bean, I wondered why a physician had designed a ship-borne siege engine.

“Well, in ancient times, a physician was also a philosopher, a scientist and often a musician. A learned man cannot understand disease without understanding the man and his history.”

I often recalled his statement when I first read “Man, the Unknown” by Alexis Carrel, Nobel Prize Winner and father of organ transplant surgery.

“And the Romans took this Greek invention and tried it during the siege of Syracuse in 213 BC. But Marcus Claudius Marcellus was unsuccessful in bringing the city to its knees with sambucae because the Greeks had long-range stone–throwing artillery and catapults designed by Archimedes that prevented the sambucae to reach the shore and extend the ladders to climb the fortified city walls.”

“Do you like the Sambuca? Better than the Lebanese Arak? I know it is better than Ouzo” he added with a twinkle in his eyes.

“And now, let’s have frutti di mare con orzo perlato to celebrate our getting together.”

 

… It was a meeting that has remained in my memory as an Italian moment. I have often recalled a few lines from this historian through my past 50 years of experience with life.

Today I thought about him again because when I was researching the origin of the Kamancha, a string instrument used by Sayat Nova, a 1700s famous Armenian poet, and I came across the history of a historical musical instrument called a sambuca. Consulting Wikipedia, here is what I found:

The original sambuca is generally supposed to have been a small triangular ancient Greek harp of shrill tone, probably identical with thePhoenician  sabecha and the Aramaic   sabbekā. The sambuca has been compared to the siege engine of the same name by some classical writers;Polybius likens it to a rope ladder; others describe it as boat-shaped.

It was the last line of the above description that took me back half a century, to an open-air Italian eatery in Bari, and the company of an Armenian-Italian philosopher who introduced me to Sambuca.

 

April 16, 2023

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2023

 

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sambuca_(instrument)

Tuesday, April 11, 2023

She Once Held her Beloved Parrot (thinking of my mother)

 






 

 

Soon the mourning doves

Will return to their nest

Under the roof

By her window

 

She waits

Holding the teddy bear

That lost its glass eyes

A Saturday, decades ago

 

Dissociated, tasting old ashes

She sits at the window

Next to her narrow bed

Gazing carefree, waiting

 

Soon the mourning doves

Will mourn 

 

 

April 11, 2023

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2023