Wednesday, 6 July 2011

Ne me quitte pas

I was clearing out the debris of five years from my room. It hurts me to think that time has passed by so soon, and yet I have not changed. Notebook after notebook of hastily scribbled notes: Kafka, Shakespeare, Milton, Beowulf: my eyes turned misty. The back of each notebook had little conversations-some of them were funny, some were romantic in a silly way, and most were profoundly forgettable.

Ne me quitte pas.

It was Jacques Brel or Edith Piaf, I forget which. It was playing when I discovered my old poetry notebooks of 2004 onward. I marvelled at the way my handwriting has changed, and I was surprised at the way my mind worked- then. I seem to have been a pretty sophisticated thinker even then. And I was definitely more honest and transparent. There was no love poetry. A lot of poems on animals. Allegory. There is something so obvious about allegory. I was obvious, yes. But now, it seems as if I have forgotten allegory and embraced deceit. Deceit i.e., love.

Ne me quitte pas.

Have you seen Jacques Brel's face when he sings this?
Don't leave me now
I'll invent for you
Such senseless words
That you'll understand
I'll speak to you
Of those lovers there
Who have seen two times
their hearts all ablaze
I will recount for you
The story of that king
Dead for not having
the chance to meet you
Don't leave me now...

When I see his tearful, perspiring face, his quivering lips, his devastated eyes, the muscles on his face taut and unrelenting- I think that Brel does not sing it to a woman, I think Brel sings it to himself. And with that horrible realization, my passion spent, I turn to my juvenile notebooks, going back seven years...

Don't leave me now
We must forget
All can be forgotten
It escapes already
Forget the time
The misunderstandings
And the moments lost
We must know how
Forget those hours
Which killed at times
With each thrust of why
The heart of happiness
Don't leave me now...

Who can understand the senseless words we invent for ourselves? To understand would be to love, and like fiction, love too is a lie.
Ahona, ne me quitte pas.


Elendil said...

Eto French marish na. Shobai bujhte pare na. You're not writing for a Parisian salon.

Aar eto cynical hosh na. It seems like you're just SO jaded with existence.

But this was quite a deep post. Made me think.

Arse Poetica. said...

"ne me quitte pas" means "do not leave me"


it is a very famous song.aar kauke bujhte hobe na, this post was about that only. ufff.

Magically Bored said...

Damn. I leave in a year. :|