The Song of a Single Grape

Can it work in you

As if full of the autumn sun

When you are silently passing

And leaving all behind

For you have found and already

Given back

Can it make you love

A poem in Swedish

A saga in Old Norse

Or fingers who touched you in vain

To turn your page

To close your book

Can it lay a secret blossom

Upon simple words you soon will write

Then pass, without reading

For you have told your story before

And no one had listened

But you did not care

Because it was your story

After all

April 19, 2018

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2018

If You Give Me Back My Wings

I received a comment from a visitor of my photography site. It read:

                         “at the edge, but she looks like she does not want to fly”

Here is the photo:

And that reminded me of a poem by Christopher Logue:

Come to the edge.

We might fall.

Come to the edge.

It’s too high!

COME TO THE EDGE!

And they came,

And he pushed,

And they flew.

… Years ago, a robin made her nest atop our entry door. We watched her patient and maternal behavior till the chicks came out of the eggs. We gave them names, but kept our distance to not interfere with nature.

And one day, each bird took their first fly out of the nest.

And then we were left with an empty nest upon our door.

… Thinking more about Logue’s poem, I believe that most humans do not take their flight voluntarily. They are pushed by joy, pain, love or simple curiosity. And even then, most of us cannot fly well.

But we always leave an empty nest behind, atop someone’s door. Often someone who did not know we built a nest or took our flight.

That nest is built to remain empty.

March 30, 2018

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2017

The Rising of the Moon

Stone upon stone

And the sea is dark

A song from misty nights

Lets a boat pass by

A woman smokes a pipe

By the wall, near the port

While her man drowns in beer

His heart empty but free

Stone upon stone

With moss to hold time in vain

I hear that song again

And I go back , with simple steps

… The woman knocks her pipe

Against the stony wall

Sailors will stay at sea tonight

And the rain will soon wash away

The song from misty nights

And a name, left free at sea

March 17, 2018

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2018

Barefoot Wings

An amphora always has

Two arms

Yet it is the scent

Of drifting times

That one holds on

With two hands

And then lets go

For the old clay

Cannot whisper

Cannot promise

And cannot harbor

What one holds with two hands

Even if the amphora

Has two arms

In unrest

March 2, 2018

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2018

The End of a Question is the Answer

I grew up with metaphors and allegories. At school, fables were used to teach about values, antagonism, co-existence and survival. The animal characters in fables are easier companions to children then say Tarras Boulba or Churchill.

I recall my secondary school teacher once stating that “an answer is the death of a question” implying that a question should not be addressed with only one answer. More importantly, that we should ask questions without expecting the answer to be the reward. That we need to ask questions because curiosity is a fundamental attribute to cherish.

This line of thinking or teaching does not only come from school teachers but from our own life experiences. And nothing is as endemic to our experiences as is love. I recall one statement that has me wonder over the years. It proposes that “Love is the end of passion, and dependency is the end of love.” With age and my passage through life, I thought that dependency was between people. A state of supportive co-existence with mutual comfort. A natural evolution in relationships and human interactions.

…I was reading poems by W.B Yeats and Seamus Heaney this weekend. There is a line by Yeats that was repeated by Heaney and is one of the most reflected upon poetic moment in modern Irish literature. It reads:
                                                              The end of art is peace

I reflected upon that line again, as I have done many times before. The common interpretation is that lack of turmoil, perhaps defined as peace, does not promote the pursuit of creativity. That curiosity, be that artistic or intellectual, needs conflict, struggle and tumult. Indeed, that passion for expression cannot be kept ardent when the mind and soul are at peace.

But this weekend, as Yeats' original line made me put down my book and look at the snowy mountaintop outside my window, I made the connection between dependency and peace. It seemed to me that peace is not solely a state of the soul or mind, but a daily comfort with the predictable. In contrast, passion and love, for a person, an idea or a dream, are the explorations of the unpredictable. That is why the rewards and falls in and from love are exhilarating or devastating. There is no peace during the pursuit of a passion – there is only the high of the pursuit.

So, how did I interpret Yeats' statement?

As an artist, my passionate pursuit is expression. The modes vary, but to exteriorate what is brewing in the entrails of my curiosity is the birthing I push for. There is no peace in the process, although a relief and short respite soon after. Till the next need to express again.

But what happens if the brewing stops? When the well is dry? When I start just repeating myself? Would I have reached that peace, that predictability within which my dependency finds extended respite?

If that is the case, then it is not peace that ends the passion for artistic expression, but perhaps it is the reaching of the predictable expression that reminds us to stop repeating ourselves.

.. In Julius Caesar Shakespeare said:
        “Cowards die many times before their deaths. The brave experience death only once.”

Perhaps peace is the death of the brave, not the end of art.


February 20, 2018
©Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2018

Homens Bêbados

It is raining so I will not go to the desert today. Instead, I looked through my small library of books in one corner of my art studio to isolate myself from the weather.

I have books I collected over the decades, as well as books I inherited from my father’s vast library. These are books written in Armenian, in French, in Arabic, in Italian and in English. Some of the books are a couple of centuries old, including a few from the Ottoman days in Turkish but written in the Arabic alphabet.

Today I pulled out a book of poetry by P. Pessoa.

I often read Pessoa and P. Neruda on rainy days. And on rainy evenings I find refuge in an Armenian romantic poet’s lines, those by Mateos Zarifian. Will come back to him later.

I do not start with a theme or idea in mind. I let the pages reveal these as I slowly re-read poems I have known for decades. This morning my mind focused upon the fact that Pessoa died from cirrhosis of the liver. Not an unusual event for artists who push the boundaries of their feelings and imagination with the help of stimulants. 

So, I read one of the Sonnets by Pessoa, the Sonnet XI:

Like to a ship that storms urge on its course,

By its own trials our soul is surer made.

The very things that make the voyage worse

Do make it better; its peril is its aid. 

Peril and stimulants. Among them love and disappointment.

Which made me recall a poem by Neruda, interestingly titled Love Sonnet XI:

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.

Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day

I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps

The “liquid measure”. And that reminded me of the controversy about Neruda’s death. It was not cirrhosis, it was not cancer. It was never known.

What filled the souls of these poets? Rumi, another of my favorite poets of rainy days, suggested:

      Take sips of this pure wine being poured. Don't mind that you've been given a dirty cup.

… Billie Holiday, Jimi Hendrix, Pessoa. Was it the wine? Or were they given a dirty cup by destiny?

… I am reading a Pulitzer Prize Winner book titled “The Swerve: How the World Became Modern” by Stephen Greenblatt. It is a book one reads slowly given the vast historical context within which the author revisits the contributions of “ancient” citizens of our planet. Two biographies have captured my curiosity so far – the poetry of Lucretius and the true message of Epicure.

His poem De rerum natura ("On the Nature of the Universe") has been discovered and rediscover over the centuries through translations by scholars and monks. It has influenced the thinking of generations and nations from the Romans to this day. In this poem Lucretius writes about the mind and soul of all creatures, analyzes their sensations and thought, and transcends to celestial topics. He specifically posits about the development of the world and its ever changing nature; and explains a variety of celestial and terrestrial phenomena. De rerum natura  borrows heavily from the ideas Epicurianism, specifically the concept of Atomism and the analytic process of psychology. Lucretius was the first writer to introduce Roman readers to Epicurean philosophy. 

In synopsis, Lucretius proposes that our universe operates according to physical principles guided by fortuna or "chance". 

And that is the concept of atomism found in Epicureanism. The a-tome, or the non-further divisible, is what Epicure and Lucretius proposed as the fundamental particle making up all of us, our world and our universe. Their random (fortuna) movements eventually result in things, perhaps life and the celesta. It is called the Swerve, which is the title of Greenblatt’s book.

But Epicure was more than an atomic materialist – he proposed a way of filling our limited years of existence with joy. Epicurus believed that what he called "pleasure" was the greatest good, and that the way to attain such pleasure was to live modestly, to gain knowledge of the workings of the world, and to limit one's desires. This would lead one to attain a state of tranquility (ataraxia) and freedom from fear as well as an absence of bodily pain (aponia).

After reading the Swerve, I realized that Epicurianism is not about excess and debauchery, but about the way to minimize pain and enhance joy. If nothing else, that was a good outcome of my reading.

Now back to my “rainy day and night poets”.

Neruda, Pessoa and Rumi somehow touched on the teachings of Epicure. Love, wine and the tortured soul are the atoms of poetry. Or at least are the stimulants which when cannot be further divided, result in poetry. And that brings me to my favorite Armenian romantic poet, Mateos Zarifian.

I have read all of Zarifian’s writings many thousand times. I started when I was about 13 years old and have very often reread his work over the decades. I still have the 1950’s compilation of his works which used to be next to my bed as a teenager.

Zarifian died of pulmonary tuberculosis at the age of 30, but given his lifestyle, he could have died of liver cirrhosis as well. He produced a handful of small booklets of poetry but his simple yet tortured feelings about love and destiny have shaped generations.

And since today’s theme seems to be Epicurianism and cirrhosis, in a calm voice I recited in Armenian one of my favorite poems by Zarifian titled “Toast”:

Fill the glasses.

Let us drink to

aimless sheer delight

without reason,

without cause

mocking death

and life […]

Fill the glass

and let me drink

the very fire of hell

while death himself

toasts in return

to my good health.

To my delight, I found this translation into English on the Internet done by Diana Der-Hovanessian, author of twenty-three books of poetry, including ten books of translations.

…The wind is howling by my window just like the coyotes do at night. And the rain will soon turn the yellow-brown of the desert into a collage of vibrant colours. Meanwhile, my morning has been all poetry, and I am grateful to the rain for it.

So I give the last word to Neruda to sum up my feelings:

“Someday, somewhere - anywhere, unfailingly, you'll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life.” 

February 12, 2018

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2018

• The title of this essay is “Drunken Men” in Portuguese.

The Loudest Noise

In the mirror I have seen

A healed memory

Of who walked often-taken

Paths

And got lost

But there were others there

In search of their compass

In the hope they will not

Find the North

Nor the South

It is the moment

Often-taken paths take away

From those who forget

That to find

One must stop

And just listen

I have stopped often

To find others next to me

Listening

… In the mirror

I have seen the healed memory

Of all those who stopped a while

To share the secret

Of being lost

In the moment

On often-taken

Paths

December 13, 2017

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2017