HENRIK EDOYAN: Three poems
THE RUINS OF ACROPOLIS
Time passes
over me now
like a blind bird
leaving a feather
with which I write
on the gaping call of my memory
the names of
men
things
cities'
This is the image of a fina; assurance,
these are the ruins
of Acropolis
among which entangles
the stare of a casual
tourist.
TWO STATES
1
The sun plays on my face
running like a fly.
The street is floating
in a summer tide.
I remember
some mantras (translated from
Sanskrit) thinking of their
essence.
No, I am no Jesus,
I am no Buddha, either:
I can't ressurect anyone,
I can't sanctify
Mary Magdalene.
Can't even heal an ailing arm.
2
The raindrop
falls and rolls
from leaf to leaf,
running and playing
like a kid.
The same old world
before my eyes.
Seems nothing has changed'
the same old drop running
along the curving branches of my years.
Sitting on this bench
today, I haven't
recalled your name,
nor have I thought of you,
to say 'Listen to me, if you can.'
A man and a woman walk along the alley.
Grayhaired,
they carry a puppet.
They didn't look
at me. Just passed me by. Gone.
EZRA POUND'S TREE
The day grows in me,
being filled and ripened; slowly, the hours
dissolve in my veins;
the waves beat against the shore,
it inflates, flowing out from all sides'
it is in me, although
it's voices come from the outside.
I give away to it some blood-drops of mine,
some of the air I breathe,
of my vigor, my distress, my silence'
it takes what I take,
I furnish it with life'
its teeth exhume my chest
and reach my soil.
Translated by Samvel Mkrtchian and previously published in Garoun Magazine.
