A note about @PWchaltas on Twitter: Seems I can’t gain access to my Twitter account so i can’t see “connect and  interactions”. Should any one want to reach me you can email me at pwchaltas@gmail.com till I can get this figured out . Thanks …Meanwhile a new post …

Serge Gainsbourg / Love and the Human Condition *

The first time that I ever heard of Serge Gainsbourg was on a trip to Paris with my wife last September . That trip will always linger in memory as a sort of an aesthetic and spiritual voyage into hell complete with a troubling beauty all its’ own . Just by chance my wife and I booked a small Hotel on Rue de Verneuil which happened to be right across the street from the residence of 60’s composer poet singer and musician Serge Gainsbourg . His residence has been turned into a sort of mausoleum & a shrine of graffiti. I noticed the front walls all full of graffiti and asked myself  why is all this here ? Not that graffiti is unusual in Paris at all . Paris has become a city of graffiti and more so of late…. it’s everywhere .  Some of  it is an expression of discontent but some of it, just sheer artistic expression in and of the street. What a beautiful gallery backdrop the Parisian streets are . Sometimes the two radically different expressions of beauty conflict . What piqued my interest on this particular wall of Gainsbourg graffiti was one depiction of Serge embracing his one time wife Jane Birkin whom I believe he deeply loved. She was apparently the love of his life . Unfortunately they divorced but he did remain close and very much connected to her right up until his death.
Near that depiction of his wife and himself a line read in French ” You know my little girl there is no cure for life”. I thought to myself that is very “Cohen ” but with a darker twist . That graffiti and a couple of very vivid dreams I had of Gainsbourg while staying in the hotel across from his residence triggered my fascination with Serge Gainsbourg . Serge who passed away at the age of 62 of a heart attack  still has a very loyal and almost fanatical cult following in France. ( and so does Leonard Cohen by the way )

Born Lucien Ginsberg, son of Jews who fled the Nazi occupation, he changed his name to Gainsbourg after his love of the art of Thomas Gainsborough. I soon found out from our charming & charismatic hotel  front desk attendant that Serge’s mother often visited the Gainsbourg residence but never stayed there after her son’s death. She always stayed in the same Hotel across the street from it . His daughter Charlotte Gainsbourg, a famous singer in her own right from his marriage with Jane Birkin , visits & stays at the Gainsbourg  residence and insists as did her father that nothing be changed at the darkly appointed residence . One day while at the hotel I thought I might have seen Charlotte exiting from the mausoleum / residence.
Serge Gainsbourg’s favorite recurring musical theme  is love. A man of poetry,passion,  alcohol, cigarettes, love and lust he had many romantic partners & friends Including Brigitte Bardot and Catherine Deneuve. Slim with big ears, roman nose , bulging and always intense eyes , he was  not a physically  attractive man in a Hollywood sense of the word. He was a very talented musician/ singer , a gifted songwriter/poet and it seems to me a tortured but sensitive soul . He loved music art and obviously was completely absorbed by love in all it’s diverse forms and in all it’s offshoots . He had that attractive quality of being vulnerable, flawed ,and so ultimately susceptible  to the frailty of the human condition as we all are , yet always remained true to himself in his artistic expression regardless of the cost .  For some reason in spite of a sometime kamikaze and often passionate unbridled lifestyle, some of it I’m sure contrived for marketing and PR reasons , he was often described by friends and acquaintances as kind and a sensitive high priest of Love . As he progressed through his life journey ,that changed in certain ways. He also came to be  known as a “shock jock” of his time , however most of what was considered shocking  in his music and videos  is probably tame compared to some of the shock tactics , obscenity, sex , abandon & outrage that are sometimes expressed in the media and arts today . Although personally I think the large part of his sometimes outrageous behaviour and excess was a byproduct of something that was eating him up from inside : What was his inspiration ? Perhaps  love and lust, loss and disconnectedness may have been the sources of his pain and may have possibly ignited his music & verse. I say “ignited” because he was a musician /poet living in hell . Many poetic souls ,artists and writers occupy hell either temporarily or permanently.  Serge was one . Oscar Wilde, Sylvia Plath &  Bukowski are examples of others . Bukowski once wrote an appropriately titled collection of poems called “Pleasures of the Damned”. Some poets artists and writers  are preoccupied by hell and some even aspire to it . Nick Tosches is one of them . I read his book “King of the Jews” while i was staying in Paris on Rue de Vernueil that very same trip.
His book  was  a masterful & unorthodox work about the life and times of Arnold Rothstein son of a righteous man and a gambler who supposedly fixed the world series . Reading the book itself was a descent into hell all on its’ own.  I came out of reading it and offset it by reading Mathew .
Some of  these themes and threads are evident in the verse and video below  of Gainsbourg’s Song “Tha Javanaise” which is a dance ..The translation of the song follows:

The Javanaise

I had
a few
tough years.
Didn’t you
my true love.
until
at last
you crossed
my path
my true love

If you don’t mind
While dancing the Javanaise
our love lasted
as long as a song

What do
you think
that we
have seen
of true love?
Let me
tell you
I was
deceived
my true love.

If you don’t mind
while dancing the Javanaise
our love lasted
as long as a song.

Alas
April
In vain
draws me
to true love.
I was
willing
to see
In you
this true love

If you don’t mind
while dancing the Javanaise.
our love lasted
as long as a song

Life is
pointless
when it’s
devoid
of true love
but that’s
the choice
you made
for us
my true love

If you don’t mind
while dancing the Javanaise
our love lasted
as long as a song.

1/ The video itself of Serge singing “The Javanaise” below demonstrates uniquely and graphically the changing nature and vulnerability of the human condition, as well as the music and lyrics of love and loss. Have a look  at all 4 videos of Serge Gainsbourg at  different stages of his  life .They are real eye openers..

2/ In the video clip below Serge is at an early, and more traditional part of his career. You can see the some of the quirkiness starting to coming out (This clip reminds me of vintage  footage I’ve seen of a young  Willie Nelson in suit and tie around the time  he wrote “Crazy”, long before the long hair and braids appeared on the scene )

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IzuTdVJG-ck&playnext=1&list=PL315DE2B5B71C7A08&feature=results_main
3/ This is so cruel…very cruel ..Cohen’s phrase “Death of a Lady’s man ” comes to mind . You don’t have to understand French to know what is going on here …love and faith are the only things  that make the inevitable frailty of the Human condition bearable . The part where Gainsbourg holds up the picture of himself as a child with a shaky hand is particularly moving and striking.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jbJjcWJwfPE

4/ Gainsbourg’s  preoccupation with, and his taste in art, shown at the end of this video segment is interesting . “Raft of the Medusa” by Gercault is about a real life shipwreck and was a turning point in art and certainly indicative of .the human condition …..The saint with all the arrows……Love …… Pain ….Suffering ,,,,, This would have been an appropriate post for Feb 14th..
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b8mvlcrHmCs&NR=1&feature=endscreen

Ruminations of the Dead

The dead ruminate in their sleep

and their sleep

is a very deep

and fire quenching

sleep.

The dead…

some live deep inside

our heads;

not so dead.

Others live only

in their deep

and ruminating sleep.

They are truly dead.

The dead think about

the things that were,

about the Book perhaps

they never read,

Some think about the book

that was never written.

The whiteness

of it’s blank pages is

a silent nightmare

in their head.

Some think about

the words

that were never said,

Some about

and the words

that were better

left unsaid

in the world.

Some think about the thoughts

that crystallized into

words, acts and deeds.

Some think about the anger,

Some about the peace.

Some think of those

left still alive,

some of whom are blind

and sleep

while they’re left

still standing on their feet.

They can’t divine

or read or write

the Book

before them.

Some think only of

the child ,

of the children’s grief,

About their suffering,

About how they long

To be whole.

The thoughts

of the dead float amongst

the monotone drone

of a monk’s prayerful song

and the single strum

and twang on the instrument of soul.

The ruminations of the dead

are long,

bodies now long gone,

they contemplate,

the bag of fertilizer

that they were,

and that we are,

to be spread across

the fabric of the universe.

Their ruminations

move beyond.

They think of the

gate

and of the broad

and upward tree

that spreads arms

well past the ages

unto the ages

and into an embrace beyond.

“From Ruminations of The Dead” by PWChaltas

Dance

Dance with me

My love

Let me feel

the ethereal weight

of your palm

in mine

with extended arms,

my right hand lightly

touching on

your back,

and yours on mine.

Together we will twirl

across celestial skies

We will pirouette

among the stars

and constellations

stepping both in time,

lit up by the moon.

Together

we will commune

and be alive

gliding across

those endless skies

of moonlit

milky white

that fall

into the dark black

spaces at the bottom

of the night.

Let’s dance

In eternal motion

and in the twinkling

rhythms of love.

Dance with me

Love,

Let’s both be made alive

for now,

for eternity,

and for the moment .

 From “Ruminations of the Dead “by PWChaltas

No Money in Poetry

They say

there is

no money in poetry,

and that  all poets

have other jobs,

or are people of means,

or even dilettante sons and daughters

of the rich,

except for Bukowski

who took a leap

among the cockroaches,

the booze

and was taken care of.

They say there is no money

In poetry unless

you’re  a Cohen

and can sing,

or just fashionably famous,

wise and  can win

a Nobel prize.

I say so what.

You do what you love,

and what feels right.

You say what you

need to say

to make the pain

go away,

and say what needs

to be said,

simply because it needs

to be said.

Sometimes the obvious,

sometimes obtuse truths,

Sometimes the unspeakable,

must  be said

because in the

final analysis

and human denouement,

we are all dead…

so might as well

say what needs

to be said

before the time comes

that we all end up

that way,

to see If anybody out there listens,

anybody out there cares,

If anybody out there

wants to hear

a truth or two,

or make a difference.

I bet a poet’s income

that they do..

 From “Free Verse in Useless Times ” by PWChaltas

Water and Words

Water and words

can wear

and break things

down.

They conversely

can give life

and fortify

another round,

 perhaps a win.

They can make,

the hardest hearts

and walls cave in,

or make the will of stone

wear down

persistently and slowly.

Water and words

whether taking many shapes

or meanings ,

whether clear or frozen,

whether cleansing or polluting,

make the stuff

of victory and love,

of hate or sin ,

of life or dissolution .

 From “Next Steps to Paradise” by PWChaltas

Give it a Rest Buddy

Give it a rest buddy.

Have a heart.

Let’s not give

the varying

shapes

and sizes

of humanity,

such a start.

Be gentle,

It’s easier

all the way around .

He can’t help himself 

can’t you see?

Why pulverize him

into dust

and put him down

into the ground.

Give it a rest buddy.

Don’t go to town.

Just have a heart 

and let him be. 

He’s been seriously

hoping to be free 

from his afflictions ,

and he’s dying too,

just like you ,

just like me. 

 From “Mercy Brother ” by PWChaltas

Man of Tall Letters and Passion

The T was a thousand stories high

And when they hung him

from the top,

It made the vestal virgins

sigh with sorrow.

It made them cry

the Tears that stood for T.

The I was less than

a single story high

because for him

The I meant nothing.

And so The I

that he became

stood for

for Immemorial,

which his remembrance

was to be.

The M was 40 stories high

and a reflected

mirrored symbol

of the passion

He endured.

It stood for Mortal Mantel .

The E was too

a thousand stories high .

It was made of

human  Error,

one top the other

like mortared

carnal bricks

piled high.

Together the letters

of the man of passion

spell a word through

which he travels

and

beyond which he

has traveled,

and survives.

The Orphan, the Immigrant, and the Survivor.

The Orphan , the Immigrant

and the Survivor..

They are three.

Sometimes,

and at different times,

we are all of us orphans,

and some are more than others,

and for longer times.

And some always remain

orphans in their minds.

And sometimes we are immigrants,

traveling from one place to another,

leaving behind all the familiar

and our comforts, our attachments,

and our home,

to know and feel

just what it means

to be human,

and to be free,

and all on our own .

And there is

another immigrant too

that is in us,

and that we are in,

that is our soul,

that travels

across space

and time,

and dimensions

without number.

Some of us may be martyrs ,

but not all of us are survivors..

They are a special breed,

with well connected

thought and deed,      

they survive to often spread                                                                  

their seed.

They are themselves devoted,

and are disciples of hope

or faith or greed ,

and sometimes of all three.

And kindness must be shown

to the orphan,

and to the wandering immigrants,

on their journey all on their own,

as the survivor must remember

that the survivor is often left,

and remains alone,

and all on his own,

unconnected to wander,

whether In the physical world,

or in the well traveled corridors,

of the survivor’s mind.

Without question,

and sometimes without mercy,

the survivors are all left in time,

to contemplate their fate,

and the final

dropping of the stone,

that must be faced alone,

and with a singular

survivor’s resolve,

that is tested to the bone .

From”Dreams For A Saturday Morning ” By PWChaltas

This poem is based on a character from Orlando Furioso . It is the third and final “Pig Poem”. The poem is not autobiographical or about any person living or dead, but there are and have been those who exhibit Senoir Brunello’s particular peculiar characteristics and traits .

Only Senior Brunello Knows

Only senior Brunello

knows

just what happens

late at night .

He’s always readyfor a fight .

He’s always right.

He rarely ever spends the evenings

with his wife

except for balls

and special events .

Senior Brunello’s brothers

only know bits and pieces.

Sometimes he takes one

or two out at a time,

But always different ones

at different times,

only where needed and

always according to his plan .

He’s the only one who knows it all ,

and that’s all that he cares to say ,

as he takes a page from Frankie and

Paul’s harmonic notes

and does it all his way.

Senior Brunello

likes them young,

as do certain well accomplished

men his age.

He gets what he wants

when he wants,

and gets to play the sage.

He’s tamed his girls

and his wavy curls,

with hair slicked back,

professionally coloured,

just the right way,

and eye brows plucked,

to hide his age .

The priapitic advances

of doctors help him perform,

otherwise he’d

just have to use his tongue

as he did in days of old

on toes and such.

Success comes

no matter what

the cost,of that,

Senior Brunello makes sure.

His intentions are somewhat

something less than pure.

It’s seems to

Senior Brunello

and all his aides

that he’s never at a loss

for actions or for words.

And Senior Brunello

unadmittedly is getting old

but still is so very much in love

with cash and gold.

Although now he naps just a bit more

during the day

and sometimes,

very rarely,

he forgets, they say.

But sometimes late,

late at night,

after the shinning latex

and the black nylons

are all gone, he cries alone,

even though

he’s been desensitized

by money, lust and fame.

He knows what he practices

and preaches will one day

come his way,

and he thinks about his Momma .

( Everybody’s got a Momma .

He’s got a Momma too.)

He knows that sooner or later

there will be

“no mercy brother “.

So Senior Brunello

just may decide to quit

and sleep most of the day .

And senior Brunello

can be likened to

a sometime sentimental pig,

the closest animal to a human,

with a facsimilie of the human brain,

who plays the  piggish game,

wallowing In the lavish

pen of his own making .

And he is intimate with,

and the only one who  knows

each and every spec of his surrounding filth.

Lately though there’s been

a nagging inkling

and he’s been quite seriously thinking

there may be one Other

whose been watching all this time,

over his very shoulder.

He wonders about the visibility

of his crimes.

And as is common knowledge and

as we all know ,

ultimately

pigs in pens are always bred

for slaughter.

This most everybody knows.

From “Mercy Brother” by PWChaltas