Fragment #15

Same old, same old.

Love not coming,

stalled, incomprehensible

present, there.

Not out-of-reach, but.

That which I know already,

unsatisfying.

How did I come to this?

Like a magnet set exactly

the opposite polarity.

A note of anger,

unsettled. Unnerved.

Why do I bring this out

in people?

I must have let myself become

the wrong type of guy.

Perhaps I engage too much

in solitary activities.

Perhaps I have lost touch

with whatever life is about.

06/07/12, Tours, L'Adresse

 

What The Water Gave Me

When I first listened to this Florence and the Machine song, from Ceremonials (2011), the band's second studio album, I didn't immediately think of Kahlo's eponymous painting. I thought of Virginia Woolf. I know quite a bit about Woolf and have read and admired most of what she wrote, so it's no wonder it rang a bell.

What I couldn't make sense of at a second hearing I quickly researched, and it finally dawned on me that the song was far more complex than it appeared at first. I'm going to try and interpret the song in terms of imagery, and link it with its known sources and more. Everything I'll write pertains to my opinion, with which you're more than welcome to disagree and to which you can add your pinch of salt.

I hadn't shot wildly in the dark with Woolf and Kahlo. Here's what Florence Welch had to say about the song in an interview:

'"It's a song for the water, because in music and art what I'm really interested in are the things that are overwhelming," Welch said. "The ocean seems to me to be nature's great overwhelmer. When I was writing this song I was thinking a lot about all those people who've lost their lives in vain attempts to save their loved ones from drowning. It's about water in all forms and all bodies. It's about a lot of things; Virginia Woolf creeps into it, and of course Frieda (sic) Kahlo, whose painfully beautiful painting gave me the title."'

Here's a good quality version of Frida Kahlo's painting Welch is referring to.

Of course, death by drowning is a topos in all the arts (think of this this, this and that), so there's nothing new there. Nonetheless, it remains a powerful theme which Welch explores with a lot of insights and weaves it with the motifs of water, life and time.

I'll try and construct a(n almost) line-by-line analysis, so it will look pretty deconstructed...please bear with me. Each comment starts on the same line as the line it reflects on. (N.B. the lyrics can be had in a regular format from a link at the end of this article.)

Time it took us To where the water was That's what the water gave me And time goes quicker Between the two of us Oh, my love, don't forsake me Take what the water gave me Lay me down Let the only sound Be the overflow Pockets full of stones Lay me down Let the only sound Be the overflow And oh, poor Atlas The world's a beast of a burden You've been holding on a long time And all this longing And the ships are left to rust That's what the water gave us So lay me down Let the only sound Be the overflow Pockets full of stones Lay me down Let the only sound Be the overflow 'Cause they took your loved ones But returned them in exchange for you But would you have it any other way? Would you have it any other way? You could have it any other way 'Cause she's a cruel mistress And the bargain must be made But oh, my love, don't forget me When I let the water take me So, lay me down Let the only sound Be the over flow Pockets full of stones Lay me down Let the only sound Be the overflow (x2)

Water is here seen as the end of everything yet water gives much in its present state. We don't know yet what it is. Love seems to connect this “us” in the first line. Time is important, but it's both short (first line) and long. Like water, it's ambivalent (both benevolent and malevolent). It echoes very strongly with her last letter to her husband: “Dearest, I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can't fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can't even write this properly. I can't read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that—everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer. I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been. V.” Water is still the source of a great gift, like something you'd pass on when you're gone Take a moment to read Michael Cunningham's beautiful prologue to his book The Hours. The pockets full of stone will thus make sense. As you can read at the end of the extract to Cunningham's prologue, sounds have a very important place, as in a lot of Woolf's writings (one example, read The Waves) The image of Atlas carrying a great burden but having to endure it is much reminiscent of Woolf who had to bear a great burden for a very long time, which is made poignantly clear in her lesser-known last letter to her sister before committing suicide:“Dearest, You can’t think how I loved your letter. But I feel I have gone too far this time to come back again. I am certain now that I am going mad again. It is just as it was the first time, I am always hearing voices, and I shan’t get over it now. All I want to say is that Leonard has been so astonishingly good, every day, always; I can’t imagine that anyone could have done more for me than he has. We have been perfectly happy until these last few weeks, when this horror began. Will you assure him of this? I feel he has so much to do that he will go on, better without me, and you will help him. I can hardly think clearly anymore. If I could I would tell you what you and the children have meant to me. I think you know. I have fought against it, but I can’t any longer. Virginia.” By the roundabout way, Atlas was made to carry the celestial spheres (i.e. the sky), not the Earth or the globe as commonly thought, on his shoulders. Initially I thought of Helen and the Greek fleet, but then I thought of Iphigenia. Made much more sense considering the ships left to rust could be the ones at Aulis because of unfavourable winds. Iphigenia is the daughter of Agamemnon who agrees to sacrifice her to gain back the favours of Artemis whom he has crossed – by the way I'm taking my reference from Euripides' Iphigenia in Aulis – but when it becomes clear to her that she'll be sacrificed and not married to Achilles as she was first led to believe, she decides to let her be led to the sacrificial altar willingly – it's a gut-wrenching moment in the play, forcing the admiration of many – in order to keep her honour intact. If we are left to think of Iphigenia accepting her fate, it makes a lot of sense to hear her ask to be laid down. Aulis is a port, so the overflow could be the flow and ebb of the sea. She doesn't commit suicide, but her death is, like Woolf's, connected to water. This could be said to Agamemnon, but it could also be said of many parents who have lost a son to war, or it could be said to someone who has sacrificed him/herself for the benefit of a majority, as in the example of Iphigenia. This 'she' could very well be Fate (often personified as a woman, and remember the old saying: “Fate is a cruel mistress”) with which bargains must be made, or sacrifices – but as in any shipwreck, some things can be salvaged. What the water taketh away, the water bringeth back. Complete surrender to the water, hence back to Woolfian motif. She 'lets' the water take her, having regained some control over her death. If you look closely at Kahlo's painting, you'll see that if the water reaches the overflow, it will submerge everything, even herself. The tram which knocked her down and broke her pelvis could have left her paralysed from the waist down, and her ability to walk freely would have been taken away from her. It left her in constant pain throughout her life, and the “lay me down” could be construed to refer to Kahlo's possible suicide (read Note 1 of this blog post which summarises the most contentious points).

In a nutshell, I was amazed to realise that this song deals with death and suicide in a subtle, literary way. The various 'surrenders' to water, the reference to the burden one has to bear, sometimes alleviated by time and water itself, will be submerged, overwhelmed by Fate, Life, Time – whatever name you want to give this driving force that sometimes drowns people metaphorically, psychologically, crushes their destiny underfoot. There is an element of resignation and acceptance on the narrator's part, which the imperative form also imparts on the person addressed (I / two of us / my love) some form of acceptance and resignation.

What Welch says in the interview, namely “ I was thinking a lot about all those people who've lost their lives in vain attempts to save their loved ones from drowning”, is to be taken both literally and figuratively: drowning is death by being submerged by a body of water, but also when your sorrows, your problems, your demons drown you. So it's not entirely Water specifically with which one fights, but Time, Life and Fate too. Bear in mind the way these are described as flowing, or seen like a an irresistible current against which one can't fight.

Finally, I have to say that I've always liked Florence and the Machine a lot, but I do even more so now. It's a great song with powerful, thought-out lyrics and great fitting orchestration (I wish I were better versed in music to be able to connect the instruments and the lyrics/sources).

I took the lyrics off Google Play Music. Follow the links to access the sources.

 

Bottles

I buried bottles in the ground when others threw them in the sea

I did so not in the hope to be found

– I was there to be methodically forgotten –

but in that they not be found by anybody else but me

– I remember the pounding of my heart when

my dirty nails were inspected by suspecting wardens –

– their message untouched, raw, like an overexposed polaroid

– the picture blurred for many while it would be so clear to me –

– so clear to me –

– like a knifestab to the side, a noose tightening my throat with emotion –

I filled bottles with words of hope, pain, love and betrayal

– while others emptied them for these very same reasons –

– all things began in Monemvasia –

the attachment to the ground, the attachment to the sea

– where I learnt that feelings could be stored in a bottle

only to be opened much, much later, even though

happiness and freedom may acquire a corked taint if left to sit for too long

– I – like these bottles – was a body with minimal supplies of air –

but buried over the ground – they thought gagging me would suffice –

– they should rather have tied my hands to have dumbed me altogether –

– these hands wrought more good because they could have been tied –

– this heart felt more love because it had been spurned –

– these lungs breathed more freely because they were constrained –

I buried bottles the way some bury their dead

– confined them to repose in the bosom of mother earth –

– keeping in those discarded shards on which I honed my music –

– like some would whet their knives –

– and suddenly, on the boat back from a beast of a place –

– a particular bottle – upon remembering what was in it –

weighted more and more heavily as the memory unfolded

– much like the weight of a coffin burying into your shoulder

walking from the hearse to the hole in the ground –

– the body inside so young, so frail, yet so heavy every step hurts –

– dark vessels in the sombre night of life and death –

– I somehow knew that these bottles would acquire a meaning –

– the same way a shooting stars gathers impetus –

– the same way dandelion gather momentum in the meltemi –

– when, back at my desk, they would conjure up vivid images –

– of gut-wrenching childness – of utter loneliness – of unconditional love –

– all from a handful of sand, stolen paper and a piece of burnt wood –

while the night

while the night awaits

I unroll the high tide like a blanket

tightly under my chin

the waves like silken bedsheets

my body immense under the unlit sky

my arms stretching across the bay

my legs and feet unfolding far

far towards the invisible horizon

my head resting on the shelled sand

my lidless gaze resting in space

you can't understand if you haven't been there

but I'll let you come with me, if you wish

the waves tucked against my cheeks

the gentle glow of the stars

the silent scorch of the abated sun

the mind-music humming

the verses binding the thoughts

this perfected unity lulls me to sleep

I'll let you come, I'll let you come with me

to hear the heart of the sea pulse

while the night awaits

in that semblance of sleep

when memory takes over and starts dreaming

the soul-search commencing in the details,

in the inflexions of the voices,

in the shape of the sun,

in the form of the waves,

in the wrinkles at the corner of the eyes,

in the words, the meaninglessful words,

you can't understand if you can't see

you can't understand if you can't hear

yet if you have forgotten how to feel

or what it takes to listen

to hold a hand

or to withhold a hand

for they are like tears

I'll let you come with me

if you really want to see

if you really want to see

if you really want to see

when the world forms

what the world was, is, will be

while the night watches

while the blanket of the seas

envelops us both in loneliness

in exile, in brotherhood, in love

while the remanence of trees and rivers

traces arid songs of exile, brotherhood and love

and loneliness

bottled up deep in the ground

I'll let you come with me

and hold hands

and set the stars free

by breaking open glass poems

here, under the domed sky of Gyaros,

of Efstratios, of Makronisos

where my name is once again

and forever, Yannis Ritsos

to Rena

 

prairie fire

the general tiredness of being

of the self, the consummation

of the nerve of the blazing mind

like a prairie on fire

on constant fire

constant wakefulness

like a self-imposed hunger

to keep the mind sharp

a window wide open

to stay awake at the wheel

umpteenth cup of black coffee

watching the blaze advance from the porch

never quite the repose

tense vigil of the senses

nose in the air to detect wind changes

the body carries on, fragile equipoise

on the tip of conscience

incessant tinnitus

like an anthill or a beehive

or a prairie fire

thoughts in motion

synced with the pendulum of the arms

pulling back before the torched ground

the flames unchecked

keeping awake night and day

the roar, the roar above every sound

controlled habit of running away

organised chaos of leaving everything behind

flammable possessions at the mercy of the inferno

pictures, books, writings

all left behind to be burnt

necessary sacrifice to preserve

the crystallised legacy of the instant

thoughts after thoughts after thoughts

my mind like a prairie on fire

on constant fire

 

Ohm

Claims of achieved greatness,

of being a remarkable man

have been drowned

once and for all

all possible events were now

sunsets seen from rooftops

dousing the plain with fire

prime location to witness the end of the world

you put an end to us

you left me on the pavement

unwarned, unprepared

with nothing on but what I wore

you were a swarm of locusts

and hail like fucking cannonballs

a great tinnitus that wouldn't stop

a roaring gale felling trees

and you didn't care

you had to move forward

– leave corpses if need be –

it was a beast of a year

and you almost killed me,

I have to say,

first with love

then with hate

– oh, how much more potent hate is –

that great force you used

like a typhoon's

could hardly be resisted

turning soil into mud

levelling houses and minds

you were a freaking natural disaster

and quite oblivious of the magnitude

of the earthquake which you were about to raise

I stood there in the palm of your hands

and suddenly your hands

were in a fist packing a snowball

with locked jaws and a frowned brow

It's going to take a while to recover,

you know,

like learning how to walk again

(yes, I know what it feels like

it makes you wince

and cringe

and sometimes cry)

but I'm breathing

against all odds I should say

and, like you, moving forward

not as easily as you strut and parade now

looking great and feisty even

it's the slow march of a dead man

on his way back into the light

but one thing you made me realise,

haggard and panting and uncomprehending,

with fantasies of death dancing before my eyes,

is that I was happy and you weren't

– you couldn't and will never be –

so you went ballistic

and laid waste where our house stood

where our family might have existed

and be ruined much, much later,

because of you.

but claims of near-satisfaction

and of happiness

will be made once more

even if on an atoll somewhere

lost on a mountain range

on a squall-battered beach

daydreaming in front of a blank page

in a bloody bookshop I don't care

because to walk is to be happy

because I'll be happy again

I shall leave, then,

and not glance back

steadfast and fierce

in my exile

in my silence

cunning and subtle

scheming

perhaps dying alone, yes

but my spirit able

my voice untethered

unnormed

whole

like a tremor swelling from the ground up to the chest

 

The lost art of spinning plates

 

while the plates whirl

in white bouquets of porcelain petals

like gyring butterflies

defying the gravity of the situation

spiralling like flat earths

their barycentre elsewhere

well-known flying objects

in typical domestic brawls stilled

common household paraphernalia

hurtling through apparent inertia

while the hunched man announcing the show

moves like a gorilla in an impeccable suit

weaving platitudes and

praising the infinite movement

while the audience sees through the lies

they know the ropes and tricks

the plywood effect

the ridge under the plate

the impression of flatness

the distractions histrionics

while all of this is just coordinated effort

strategical jerks of the wrist

a keen eye for loss and gain

and a good supply of plates

while the spinner doesn't do much

just entertains the delicate balance

dishes out the illusion of control

with pivoting accuracy

on the axis of ceramic cynosure

makes our heart fluster at every turn

while other hands pick pockets

the motion captivates our emotions

the looped words and gestures

the invisible orchestra twirling symmetry

our mind wobbles out of focus

while all our eyes can rivet on

is the swirling of the spinning plates

while we want and don't want catastrophe

it will happen no matter what

with soft bangs and loud whimpers

while the plates whirl

 

Dazed

Days like dark, rainy sheets of night,

dazed like a man just told he had cancer

longer than the longest night ever

unmoored, left to wander and fight

on their own, each step a stumble

yet giving every appearance of peace.

 

Days like lasting days and days

with interspersed periods of heartsease,

short, relative lulls,

atolls of tinnital silence

drowned in tidal rage,

numbing roars and senseless fury.

Days like these hurry the departure,

ready us out, give logic

to the horror, the horror of leaving,

leaving behind the atolls, the lulls,

blur the contours and with

absolute clarity of mind make us see

what the others dare not imagine:

lightless shores stretching to the horizon.

Edinburgh 28.VII.14

 

Au temps la mer

On attend que le vent change

on serre les dents en attendant

que le grain passe

on tourne on chavire

ficelé dans la nasse

on flotte dans des maillons étranges

on s'attend au pire

on n'est plus dans son assiette

pourtant rien ne s'arrête

on ourdit des plans

qui tombent à l'eau

on tisse des rêves de liberté

en un instant

qui file comme une éternité

et qui revient au point de départ

on veut changer le sens du vent

on veut changer l'essence du vent

on s'emmêle dans les contretemps

rebattus par la galerne

les lames vont et viennent,

battent contre le vent qui durcit

battent contre le ventre qui s'endurcit

les franges laineuses des vagues

comme des nuages de semonce

on tisse, on tisse, on défait l'ouvrage

l'orage détrempe les fils

on panique, on retisse

les foules se tordent malaisées

on rapièce le bateau de Thésée

du mieux qu'on peut

et puis, avec le mauvais temps,

progressivement,

on se détache du fil du temps

on se laisser porter par la houle

par la foule par ces flots

brodés de mille fils d'une eau

ni tout-à-fait verte, ni tout-à-fait bleue

et à perte de vue au loin, l'écheveau

des nuages qui rumine

déjà une autre ruine.

 

Sur la colline

Nous sommes les enfants qui jouent sur la colline

tombe la pluie, tourne le vent

nous jouons dans les blés qui côtoient les vignes

à colin-maillard presque tout le temps

tombe la pluie, tourne le vent

Nous faisons des rondes jusqu'à l'ivresse

tourne le vent, tombe la pluie

nous dormons tard souvent car rien ne presse

nos souliers trempés aux flaques de nuit

tourne le vent, tombe la pluie

Nous échangeons des baisers et des regards

tourne, tourne le vent !

nous jouons à cache-cache dans le brouillard

nos mains cherchant, nos mains cherchant

tourne, tourne le vent !

Parfois il arrive que l'un d'entre nous meurt

tombe, tombe la pluie !

tombé de la colline, petit dormeur

petit sauteur, tombé du nid

tombe, tombe la pluie !

Nous ne connaissons pas la tristesse

vive la vie, vive le vent

nos cœurs sans cesse bercés d'allégresse

nous sommes tous bien vivants

vive la vie, vive le vent

Nous célébrons les levers de soleil

sombre la vie, triste le temps

nous admirons les lunes vermeilles

nous chantons à nos cœurs palpitants

sombre la vie, triste le temps

Mais chaque réveil décuple nos ardeurs

triste la vie, sombre le temps

nous dessinons des fleurs aux mille couleurs

nous nous embrassons haletants

triste la vie, sombre le temps

Nous sommes les enfants qui jouent sur la colline

tristes et sombres et joyeux et lents

portés par la vie et chantant la pluie opaline

peu soucieux du monde et du temps

tombe le vent, tombe le vent

Old haiku

Fought Death I have
though much was destroyed
none was defeated

***

Kites like rainbow dragonflies
hover furlongs above the
smell of the sand

***

Lovers in the setting sun
halting to embrace
one shadow on the shore

***

Seagulls reeling all
afternoon in the warm air
cold sobered them up                                                 28/02/2012