arnaultcavalcanti

[arnaultcavalcanti]

There was a time, during the celebration of Durga Puja, when books became an essential embodiment of one’s very being, as though they were an intrinsic part of the festival itself. I found myself positively enthralled by the custom of acquiring volumes for the Puja season—whether one chose to delve into new tomes, essays, or verses, or revisited the venerable classics which beckoned for a reread, be they from the Victorian or Modernist age, the Avant-Garde or Experimental schools. It mattered not—whether the books were freshly minted or old, procuring them or discovering some rare gem was always a day worthy of great esteem, a noble endeavour to enrich one’s collection for the days to come.

Of late, however, it seems we are abandoning that spirit of festivity and individuality, as others presume to dictate how matters should be. This begs the question: are we, perchance, forsaking our heritage? I do not allude here to the act of worship or matters of atheism, but rather to those cultural traditions which, in my estimation, should be the rightful possession of all. Alas, it seems to be falling under the sway of mercantile interests, where others are now decreeing what attire, what fare, and even what songs shall be proper.

Though we are well acquainted with the patriarchal customs of yore, what I intend to express is that, in this day and age, we appear to be following the caprices of others. Our way of life is no passing fashion, and our traditions (some of which ought, no doubt, to be consigned to oblivion) are cultural touchstones, intended for the welfare of society. Why, then, do we permit these alterations to creep in?

[arnaultcavalcanti]

The culture and lineage of books, the emotions they stir, the prestige they command, and the hubris they have accrued—alongside the mechanisms of capitalist publishing and the commodification of literature—are phenomena we must scrutinise over the past millennium. Books have enlightened and misled us, rendered us both sagacious and naïve, propagated falsehoods, and even provoked violence. We have borne witness to these multifaceted roles. Yet, the critical inquiry remains: why, after centuries, do books continue to wield such formidable influence? What intrinsic qualities have enraptured us so profoundly? What accounts for this enduring obsession? What trajectory lies ahead for books, and what profound questions remain unanswered? What course of action ought we to take?

[arnaultcavalcanti]

Agha Shahid Ali

[arnaultcavalcanti]

Ezra Pound

[arnaultcavalcanti]

It is scarcely conceivable that poetry embodies a greater degree of the imaginary than it does an array of distinct personae...

Ezra Pound...

[arnaultcavalcanti]

In the solitude of the subject, what emerges as a peculiar companion is not a clear object of desire but rather the manifestation of ambiguity, an emblem of the fragmented self. The question is not situated in the domain of what action should be taken, for this inquiry misrecognises the fundamental structure of the unconscious. Instead, it is this very ambiguity, this internal lack, that paradoxically offers a form of jouissance, standing as an ever-present witness to the subject’s alienation in the Symbolic Order.

Perhaps what is at work here is the mastery of the alienation inherent in loneliness. During those instances when the Other is absent, this ambiguity, this split in the subject, becomes all the more prominent, patiently awaiting the subject’s engagement with their divided self. It entices the subject into a dialogue with their own fragmentation, inviting them to traverse the fantasy, to direct their aggression inward, toward their ego-ideal, and toward the world that constructed their objet petit a. What once appeared as a potential site of meaning or hope is now revealed as nothing more than the excess of signification—the ambiguity that structures desire itself.

Even as the subject approaches a state of weariness—though not yet reaching the Real of death, for that cessation is the ultimate foreclosure—this ambiguity persists, lingering in the gap between the Imaginary and the Real. Within this suspended space, the ambiguity assumes a new guise, one that resembles a deceptive promise of meaning. It waits for the subject to decide: Will they remain trapped within the Symbolic’s entanglements, or will they make a move toward the Real, confronting the truth of their divided subjectivity?

[arnaultcavalcanti]

Anon, life doth present diverse seasons, which but a poet alone may rightly describe.

Odysseus Elytis

[arnaultcavalcanti]

Love to share this unbelievable armenian poets poems translated by #metamorphesque

my translations of Armenian Poetry 🌻

Vahan Teryan

"I love your guilty dusky eyes...", Vahan Teryan

"Two Phantoms", Vahan Teryan

"I shall come to you ...", Vahan Teryan

"To forget, to forget ...", Vahan Teryan

"Sweeter Than Living", Vahan Teryan

"In the empty words", Vahan Teryan

Paruyr Sevak

"Unexpected Storm", Paruyr Sevak

"One of Us", Paruyr Sevak

"Close your eyes", Paruyr Sevak

"I love to love...", Paruyr Sevak

"To Go Mad", Paruyr Sevak

"Your Name", Paruyr Sevak

"You don't love anew ...", Paruyr Sevak

"People are not alike...", Paruyr Sevak

"To Live...", Paruyr Sevak

Hovhannes Tumanyan

"In slumber's grasp...", Hovhannes Tumanyan

Eghishe Charenc

"Sister, it might be ...", Eghishe Charenc

"All of these flames ...", Eghishe Charenc

Hovhannes Grigoryan

"Songs of Farewell", Hovhannes Grigoryan

"Armenia", Hovhannes Grigoryan

"I'm no longer looking for you", Hovhannes Grigoryan

"An evening with aged maidens", Hovhannes Grigoryan

"Perhaps, it's spring ...", Hovhannes Grigoryan

"Don't you ever die", Hovhannes Grigoryan

"A letter that will never reach you", Hovhannes Grigoryan

Henrik Edoyan

"I did not do what was written ...", Henrik Edoyan

"I remember many of them...", Henrik Edoyan

"A biography that might as well have been mine", Henrik Edoyan

Vardan Hakobyan

"Love One Another", Vardan Hakobyan

[arnaultcavalcanti]

#metamorphesque I am profoundly appreciative of your work. It has been an immense privilege to be introduced to this preeminent poet of Armenia, whose existence was previously unknown to me.

"In the empty words ...", Vahan Teryan (translated by metamorphesque)

[arnaultcavalcanti]

I dare say that perusing a magnum opus is akin to beholding a commendable intellect. Yet, when one delves into the life of a sentient being, it is as though one's soul is elevated to the heavens. This must mirror the process undertaken by Naguib Mahfouz, the illustrious Egyptian author who conjured life within his own celestial garden, with the Cairo Trilogy as his botanical masterpiece. Presently, I am engrossed in the first volume, "Palace Walk." As a Bengali, I am intimately acquainted with "Pather Panchali," a dynamic magnum opus crafted by Bibhutibhushan Bandopadhyay. This work persistently lingered in my thoughts as I commenced reading Mahfouz's "Palace Walk." I endeavoured to recall the myriad memories associated with our journey through "Pather Panchali." Rather than noting mere resemblances, I prefer to underscore the shared themes of livelihood, familial bonds, and communal relationships. Despite a particular family's struggles within the confines of their specific religious society, which adheres rigidly to its doctrinal norms, the inexorable march of life continues. Nevertheless, individuals must discern their true desires as a family, their intrinsic needs, and what they genuinely seek from their community, which has become an ornament of grievances. They find themselves unable to discard it, yet bereft of it, they are left with naught.

[arnaultcavalcanti]

This initial photograph of mine for the current year holds marginal appeal to me, as I generally eschew the penchant for capturing visual representations. Nevertheless, there exists a pragmatic utility in utilizing images to manifest one's presence in the contemporary milieu. I conceptualize my persona as a nuanced amalgamation of introverted and extroverted attributes, harbouring a proclivity for distancing myself from prevailing fads, which, unequivocally, prove to be vexatious and transform one's existence into an arduous ordeal. The contemporary zeitgeist, bereft of poeticism, authenticity, and genuine affection, becomes an ostentatious facade, where ostensibly cherished connections are but disingenuous posturing. Occasional recourse to imagery serves as a mnemonic device, facilitating recollection of one's intrinsic essence and the latent potential for affection, even in moments when life greets one with salutations of despair. Is it not an acknowledgement of the despondency inherent in the transience of enduring significance?

[arnaultcavalcanti]

In the realm of human interaction, as one engages in introspective discourse with their own intellect, a pervasive sentiment emerges — that of sharing one's innermost sentiments with a cherished companion. However, in contemplation of the disconcerting prospect that none shall extend genuine concern, an existential quandary unfolds. Faced with the absence of external regard, a profound question arises: how ought one navigate the intricacies of their existence in a world seemingly indifferent to their essence

In such a circumstance, is it befitting to lament the dearth of attention from those who fail to reciprocate? Is there solace to be found in mourning the neglect of one's presence by the indifferent masses? Perhaps, for within the confines of grief lies a potent force, an enduring companion that surpasses the ephemeral nature of love, loved ones, or the tender recollections crafted with a special soul.

Grief, with its perpetual embrace, assumes the mantle of an everlasting boon. Its longevity unfolds akin to an epic narrative, with diverse rhythms, resonances, and expressions that shape the cognitive journey, providing a conduit to transcend the vicissitudes of life. In this tapestry of existence, grief emerges as an enduring muse, fostering resilience and fortitude in its poignant cadence.

[arnaultcavalcanti]

In the symphony of existence, as we engage in introspective dialogues with our minds, the notion of having a cherished confidant to share our innermost sentiments is a ubiquitous pursuit. Yet, amidst the vast expanse of worldly indifference, what facets of our being remain unattended? Contemplating our significance, bereft of the caring touch of others, beckons profound introspection. Do we lament the absence of attention from those who neglect our essence? Is there solace to be found in grieving for the unresponsive souls?

In the tapestry of life, grief emerges as a timeless companion, its enduring presence akin to an epic narrative unfolding in varied cadences. Unlike the fleeting embrace of love or the ephemeral allure of cherished memories, grief, with its persistent resonance, becomes a steadfast ally. Its protracted journey, akin to an epic saga, weaves through the tapestry of existence, providing a unique rhythm and expression that guides the train of thought through life's intricate landscapes.

[arnaultcavalcanti]

People's apprehensions about their cherished companions, particularly those from Generation Z, prompt introspection on the discernment of entwining affection. Contemplating the endeavour to embrace or succumb to romantic inclinations unveils an intricate interplay with one's capacity to navigate the idiosyncrasies of another. The collective consciousness often neglects the profound consideration of this dynamic, ensnaring individuals in a perilous predicament. Engaging in amorous pursuits necessitates a nuanced evaluation of one's fortitude in the face of potential tumult. Observing this societal phenomenon, my predilection gravitates towards the consumption of despondent romantic comedies. These narratives serve as poignant reminders that existence transcends mere tragedy, metamorphosing into a rich tapestry of satire and rhetoric. Life, akin to a bittersweet confection, acquaints the palate with acerbity, yet through familiarity, metamorphoses into a saccharine reminiscence reminiscent of the cherished patience of childhood. It is akin to beholding the nostalgic specter of one's favored playthings, enduring as cherished companions until the onset of life's tragic sensibilities.

[arnaultcavalcanti]

In the throes of midlife, contemplation befalls us all, as we ponder the prospect of traversing life's tapestry unaccompanied. I am in the pursuit of discerning the juncture when our earthly sojourn concludes, leaving behind a trove of incomplete endeavours and cherished recollections. Perhaps, it is conceivable that we carry the weight of our tribulations and sacrifices into the beyond, serving as poignant mementos of our shared humanity. These enduring remnants may be the sole treasures transcending all else. The mirthful moments we once revelled in could metamorphose into sardonic anecdotes, casting a shadow upon our erstwhile joy. Happiness itself transmogrified into a lament, might assume the guise of folklore or myth, rendering our denial akin to a resurrection—a return to existence to fulfil the unpaid internship in this fantastical realm.

[arnaultcavalcanti]

When perusing the works penned by luminaries like Rani Chanda, envy stirs within me, for she was graced with the fortune of intimately knowing the Renaissance Man of Bengal, Rabindranath, and the venerable Abanindranath. Nightly, I immerse myself in the tome that unveils profound simplicity, unravelling what we once deemed intricate as the pinnacle of artistry. As individuals, we often misconstrue the elaborate as a testament to our intellectual prowess, failing to recognize that beneath the veneer lies nought but a fool, oblivious to the profound beauty of simplicity that resonates with the core of our being.

In our journey through life, we neglect the inherent tragedy that surpasses the allure of adventurous escapades to distant mountains. While I appreciate the tranquillity of mountains, there exists a serenity in the silence of self-dialogue, where no ears heed the uttered words. Yet, amidst the quiet companionship of souls who need not speak, a profound connection thrives. Shall we not revel in the profound silence that echoes in the depths of the ocean, where even amidst the vastness, one converses with their soul, their truest companion?

For in this expansive solitude, where souls commune without the need for spoken words, there lies a trade with the silence of Shangri-La, where companionship pales in comparison to the profound exchange with one's own soul, a rare and invaluable union.

[arnaultcavalcanti]

Ezra Pound