Y. Stephan Bulbulian: The Art of Pruning Vines

for Berge, who taught me this art

Under the morning ceiling of the tule fog,
Walk proudly in the vineyard of your father.
Know every grapevine personally;
From the very planting, watch them grow.

Understand the pecularities of each,
Which one of the rows grows vigorously,
What vines will produce a hearty crop.
Know the places where the soil is sandy.

Wear two hats as part of your uniform
In the vineyard. At the start, put one hat
On the end-post to mark the place you begin.
Pull down the other hat over your ears.

Take off your gloves early in the day,
To dry from the frost on the limbs and canes,
Hang one of your coats on the vineyard wire
When the sun comes out later in the day.

Gangling vine canes with slender stems
Seem more numerous than life’s misfortunes.
Keep your pruning shear sharply honed.
At harvest, every grape has a thousand wasps.

Near the road, at the head of the vineyard row,
Square off, standing in front of ancient vines.
Slash the overgrown brush wrapped on the wire.
Remove the old growth that yielded the crop.

Take the handle of the shear under your arm;
Hold the other end in the palm of your right hand.
Draw the limb to you, cut it, toss it to the ground,
In the mud, the dirt, the weeds that survive the cold.

Follow the vineyard row & the daydreams
That occur in the field while working, for here
Are the thoughts that lead to the art of pruning.
Wrap branches on the wire. Don’t let them hit you.

Hard work means long life & short days.
Make the sacrifice to cut the little spindly vines;
Slice the weak ends back to 2-1/2 feet long.
There is little choice: the shear is wealth.

As the day denies the promise of night,
“…. a hundred vines to cut before dark.”
Labor in vain is lost for good. Looking ahead
To the next crop is the art of pruning vines.



ARMENIAN TOWN: poetry by Paul Aloojian, James Baloian, Y. Stephan Bulbulian, Ronald Dzerigian, Michael Krekorian, Brenda Najimian-Magarity. Foreword by Dickran Kouymjian, copyright 2001 by the William Saroyan Society

JAMES BALOIAN: The Armenian

for Garabed Baloian

The last number is the first
And the curve in the straight line
Is only a river that runs from a desert

I would name that river
But by nature it leads to the sea
I would enter from north
And climb the backside
Of Mesrob’s mountain
To watch the city of Palu operate

Multicolored scarves and vegetable markets
Awaken indestructibly among stars
To measure the space between breaths
Streets dance with the music of work
Out of the mouth of the mountain
Stone arches crown the Euphrates
It is the beginning of time

I have not yet been born


ARMENIAN TOWN: poetry by Paul Aloojian, James Baloian, Y. Stephan Bulbulian, Ronald Dzerigian, Michael Krekorian, Brenda Najimian-Magarity. Foreword by Dickran Kouymjian, copyright 2001 by the William Saroyan Society

ՀԱՄԱՍՏԵՂ։ ՀԱՅՈՒ ՈԳԻՆ

Նուէր Սրբուհի Համաստեղին

Մի հարցնէք ի՞նչ է, ո՞ւր է,
Ո՞ւրկէ կուգայ Հայու ոգին:
Ինչպէս արևն է հուրհրան,
Ինչպէս կանանչն է դաշտերուն,
Ա՜յ ճիշդ այդպէս, ամէն տեղ է
Հայու ոգին:

Մեր հովերուն, մեր լեռներուն
Մեր դաշտերուն հոսող առւի
Կանչին հետն է
Հայու ոգին:

Մեր դաշտերու հովը որ կայ, մեղեդի՛ է.
Մեր ձայնաւոր աղբիւրները, ըսես՝ սաղմոս ու շարական:
Երդիքներէն, բուրրվառ ու վառ թոնիրներէն
Ջերմ աղօթքի ու խունկի պէս դէպի երկինք՝
Կապոյտ ծուխն է
Հայու ոգին:

Մի հարցնէք, ուրկէ՞ կուգայ, կամ ո՞ր ճամբով:
Եկած է ան՝ Հայկէն կարշնեղ, կապարճն ուսին,
Գեղապատշաճ:
Եկած է ան՝ թըլոր Դաւթի թուր կէծէկէն,
Մեր հեթանո՛ս նախնիներէն,
Բագիններու բոց կրակէն եկած է մեզ,
Հայու ոգին:

Ան եկած է կռւի ճակատ մեր դաշտերէն:
Բիւր նիզակներ, նետ ու վահան երկաթակուռ. ևև
Սաղաւարտեայ այր ու ձիեր, գրոհ, արի՛ւն:
Էդ արիւնի, ու արցունքի ճամբաներէն եկած է մեզ
Հայու ոգին:

Ան եկած է Աւարայրի մեր յաղթական պարտութենէն,
Շէն Անիի հազար ու մի գմբէթներէն,
Ու հազար մի զանգակներու ղօղանջներէն:
Մեր հողերուն նետւած բեղուն
Սերմերուն պէս ապրող սիրտն է
Հայու ոգին:

Ան մեզ կու գայ մեր վանքերու քարո՛ւտ ճամբով,
Ժամ-վարժարան բանուկ ճամբով:
Մեր պապերու ոսկորրներէն, գերեզմանի տխուր ճամբով:
Արևին հետ ան վար կ'իջնէ, մեր արտերուն, մեր սրտերուն,
Ու վեհափառ Արարատի անե՛լ, անյայտ ճամբով կու գայ
Հայու ոգին:

Հայու ոգին կա՛նչն է սիրոյ աղջիկներուն և թէ տղոց.
Պապկէ՛ պսակ, պակկէ՛ նարօտ հարսնիքներուն:
Ե՛րգն է ուրախ, տափ ու ծնծղայ, արծա՛թ ծիծաղ,
Աղջիկներու պա՛ր հեզանազ:
Հայ մայրերու գութ ու բարի, ու միւռոնով լեցուն սրուակ
Աչքերէ՛ն է որ կը կաթի
Հայու ոգին:

Մեր պապերու հնադարեան դպրութիւնն է ու հին լեզուն:
Ձմեռ բուքին, Նարեկացու վանքի խուցի ճրա՛գն է ան:
Մագաղաթէ հին, հին մատեան տաղարանի
Ու Մեսրոպի գերեզմանին ու երազին
Այբենդիմն է
Հայու ոգին:

Մեր լեզուն է արևավառ որ թէ՛ մարմին, թէ՛ հոգի է.
Կը բաշխւի որպէս նշխարհ, որպէս հաղորդ ու նկանակ:
Կը բաշխւի որպէս մարմին, որպէս գինի,
Գինի ու մաս՝
Հայու ոգին:

Այդ ոգին է որ կը գաղթէ, կ'ելլէ ճամբայ
Մեր երկնքէն ու մեր հողէն, ու կը գտնէ
Ուր Հա՛յ մը կայ ու անոր հետ զրոյց կ'ընէ:
Ան կը ժպտի, ան կը տխրի, ու անոր հետ արցո՛ւնք կուլայ:
Ու կը հսկէ որ ոչ մէկ Հայ չըլլա՛յ շեղի էն լոյս ճամբէն:
Մեր հոգիի էն լո՛յս ճամբէն, որ մեր հողին
Ու երկնքին մեզ կը տանի
Հայու ոգին:

Ինչ ալ ըսենք, բայց դեռ քիչ է,
Ի՞նչն է իրաւ հայու ոգին:
Եթէ նայիք ձեր հոգւոյն մէջ,
Պիտի գտնէք մեր պապերէն բազմութին մը.
Պիտի գտնէք սաղաւարտեայ բանակ մը հին.
Պիտի գտնէք իմաստութիւնն ու ճրագը մեր վանքերուն:

Ձեր հոգւոյն մէջ պիտի գտնէք
Ձեր լեռներուն ու ժայռերուն մէջ թաքնւած,
Արձագանգի պէս թաքնւած,
Հայու ոգին:

Abraham Terian: Nightfall on Ararat

Last night I watched the horizon melt;
there were cracks in the sky.
I heard the flare of colors,
the end of “Sabre Dance”.

Today I feel the embers of yesterday.
Just now faded the last of notes
from the melted strings
on the ashes of violins.

1988

This poem has appeared in VOICES literary magazine.

Abraham Terian: Playing Dvorak

I watched Dvorak go round and round
as the needle moved the hypnotic grooves;
I read his name more than a hundred times,
till he was reborn a whirling Dervish.

1993

Abraham Terian: South of Monterey

Click hear for the audio clip South of Monterey read by Lola Koundakjian.


With so many things common on my mind –
interlaced layers of memory and feeling –
I’m waiting like a catcher with a mitt
for the sinking sun.

In my mind I’m adding to the poetry of my time,
talking to myself with familiar, elegiac feeling;
my footprints in the sand a readable text
on longing and loss.

The sun is just about to kiss the yearning ocean,
to adjourn once more with a lingering embrace.
I’m watching jealously as seagulls cheer
the eternal lovers.

January 10, 2005

James Baloian: Fresno Indian

I lived underground during the 1950’s
in the wake of my father’s habitual
and unknown rage to weave himself
through the stagnant air creating an alphabet
of icicles from the eave of his wooden
tongue—
He struggled in web of private conversations
and kept us silent with threats and abandonment—
orphaned to invisibility where dreams
survive
on the urgency of boredom.
…..And being 10 years old I would slip
like a lizard into a pool of shadows
finding a pathway from his dark window
down the yellowy fragrance of a lemon
tree
studded with thorns
and into my grandmother’s backyard garden
where imaginary winds dusted with sunlight
lingered beneath a veil of star-faced jasmine—
I listened to the growing of things
whose boundaries opened into wilderness
where the city stopped and farmland
spilled like ink over the landscape for
miles
Screen doors swung easy like clockwork
in a trusting wind which seemed strange
on a planet where nightly
blue-collared fathers knee-deep in backyards
dug bomb-shelters after work and on
weekends
with nightmare delusions of reddened skies
swallowed by mushroomed clouds
Families struggled sinking
silently into a lifetime of expectations
Their other selves left to keep appearances
ran for discovery from this grand illusion
of green lawns and a perfect death
No one really slept
buried up to their necks in schedules and
telephones
watching children disappear into a blank
margin
of no return…….across an outfield of
timeless summers
forged with long hours and hunched
backs
looking for work and the American grail
even on Sundays before dinners in coppertinted
rooms
tanned by the oily seasoning of garlic and
lamb
where windows hung like portraits of
hunger
from far away lands
At 13 I heard schoolmates point in slow
motion
at the Armenian in me and the invisibility
that was visible
in a Kingdom where dreams survive on
long tables of diplomacy
and reality speaks from the splintered lips
of baseball bats
threatening the heroes of this poem
to bleach their dark skins white
They called Armenians, “Fresno Indians,”
with our hollowed eyes and eagle-beaked
noses
but my grandmother said
they called us, “Starving black Armenians….
first.”
Those whose promises
promised nothing
in a land that genocided its natives
with no reservation
We were no strangers to genocide
Fugitives of dust
We blurred into borders and brown-faced
hills
to wait like grass for winter’s first rain
We survived the delirium of previous lives
as if some god had forgotten us
and ordered our children to bleed
and our earth bitten and bled
by tooth and nail……
We breathed life without a cry
our skins emerging from an undergrowth
of syllables
unfold from the simple grace all miracles
grow
…….The ranches I knew as a boy have
turned to salt
and winter like my grandmother’s unbunned
white hair
haunts the ruins of broken mirrors
in empty stations looking for the river
back to eden
praying a melody on the green side of
childhood….
She assumes what is necessary for the moment
to shape what remains after death
And who once having lived
a life on the edge
sits at an empty table
Her hands drink a headful of bad dreams
and everything that she was before
commands the wind
to sing in Armenian

ARMENIAN TOWN: poetry by Paul Aloojian, James Baloian, Y. Stephan Bulbulian, Ronald Dzerigian, Michael Krekorian, Brenda Najimian-Magarity. Foreword by Dickran Kouymjian, copyright 2001 by the William Saroyan Society.

RONALD L DZERIGIAN: July

In the summer
Fresno is an open flame
beneath our feet,

makes our mouths
sensitive to stolen loquats
We see canals explode

with cliff swallows,
all curves and arrows.
The dust in our rooms

settles at family reunions
on the pond
with a few leaves

floating clouds above
the tangerine Koi
in the backyard.



ARMENIAN TOWN: poetry by Paul Aloojian, James Baloian, Y. Stephan Bulbulian, Ronald Dzerigian, Michael Krekorian, Brenda Najimian-Magarity. Foreword by Dickran Kouymjian, copyright 2001 by the William Saroyan Society.

Abraham Terian: Dear Vincent

Yesterday I picked a few magnolias in half bloom
and thought of you, your countenance,
and then some. Your art is always on my mind,
you know. I’m enclosing a pressed blossom –
a little white and pink for your yellow and blue.

April 19, 2005

Y. Stephan Bulbulian: Ararat Cemetery

At the Ararat Cemetery
in Fresno, California,
the Armenian gravestones
have small oval pictures
of their namesakes,
in the area behind
the Pharaoh’s mausoleum.
It could be a village,
this section,
where the faces in the
pictures have profound
straight noses,
deep-set eyes,
every face sad
for its death, glad
to be buried next to
cousin Mesrob,
or the neighbors.
Grandma’s new grave
is unmarked next to
her husband, Mikael,
whose face shows
a sad but happier time.
Friends are close by.
One grave, on the fringe,
has a picture of a husband
and a wife, a large oval:
the man gravely sick,
the wife’s best attempt
at life’s happiness
in her sad smile.
Dispossessed said their faces,
he’s been dead for five years,
the year of her demise
not yet etched.
“Together, forever,” it read,
but not yet….

Well-crafted lives
lead to larger monuments
in this marble village.
some stones,
names in the undecipherable
ancient language
only few could know.

An old, hefty-man
in a black eye-patch
stares through the
remaining porcelain,
his only eye searching
for his mother’s name,
while his younger brother
wanders among names
of old friends, names
ending in the
same refrain,
the son of ….

Or, those shortened
names: Ross or Peter,
on gravestones
like marble steps
leading to the top
of Mount Ararat.


ARMENIAN TOWN: poetry by Paul Aloojian, James Baloian, Y. Stephan Bulbulian, Ronald Dzerigian, Michael Krekorian, Brenda Najimian-Magarity. Foreword by Dickran Kouymjian, copyright 2001 by the William Saroyan Society

PAUL ALOOJIAN: The Melon Pickers

This poem is about the Westside of the Valley in 100 degree heat.

The local dropouts relayed stolen
watermelons from the sidecars
of stalled field trains
to a pickup badly needing a paint job.

Above the field, beyond the mountains,
a blistering cherry shot through
         a blue jellyfish of pyrotechnics.

Body aching from the days before,
     another day picking melons one by one,
            and one’s mind wanders,
as the dragonfly wings of the loading machine,
as young girls drink lemonade on back porches,
     watching vines grow.

Between the furrows,
    gravity strapping us to the ground,
we bite the flesh of cantaloupe,
blue chambray shirts and red bandanas
    soaked through with juice and sweat.

Bending back and legs, lifting the balls of fruit
   onto the rolling conveyor
   12 hours a day for three weeks,
         then back to school or Mexico,
                whichever comes first.

ARMENIAN TOWN: poetry by Paul Aloojian, James Baloian, Y. Stephan Bulbulian, Ronald Dzerigian, Michael Krekorian, Brenda Najimian-Magarity. Foreword by Dickran Kouymjian, copyright 2001 by the William Saroyan Society.

Christopher Atamian: Three Wise Men (Murder on 187th Street)

(What a Christmas present, in December, 1933…


Oh they knifed the Bishop dead!
He was a Saint, a Godly man
A leader of our flock
The first man, a Ramgavar, said.

Oh they knifed the bishop dead!
He deserved it, the bastard betrayed Gomidas
To the Turkish Secret Police and let Smyrna burn
The second man, a Tashnag, said.

O they knifed the bishop dead!
Who will sleep with my wife now
When I am too tired in bed?
The Third man, no party affiliation, said

You had better wash that altar clean
At old Holy Cross Church in Washington Heights.
So much blood spilled, so much sin.

Alene Terzian: Not a Love Poem #9

Click here for the audio clip Not a Love Poem #9 read by Lola Koundakjian.


My lover sent me a vacuum for my birthday.
A tall, yellow machine, hypo-allergenic
complete with adjustable, two speed motor
and five-year warranty.

First I vacuumed the bed sheets, sucked in cookie
crumbs, paperclips, bobby pins, one black sock
and a nickel caught in the folds of blue
duvet cover.

Then I moved through closets, over dress
shirts on wire hangers, half-knotted ties,
khakis and button flies, band camp t-shirts,
and a misplaced Playboy.

I went to the office next, behind the computer
desk and stacks of bills, appointment cards,
Doonesbury cartoons on corkboard, my picture,
and the ringed stain on wood.

Last were the tiny scraps of paper on the nightstand,
where we’d scribble parts of dreams: unicorns
and evil eyes, crosses and frozen lakes, parting
words, and that night with no moon.

I vacuum every room, collect fibers and hair,
watch them catch in blades, twist and settle
in ballooning bag. Each evening I empty it,
reflect on the perfect, loveliness of dust.




Copyright Alene Terzian. Used here by kind permission of the author.

Interview of author and editor Harry Keyishian

Christopher Atamian: Being

Հայը այն է որ կը տագնապի իտէալ հայ չ՛ըլլալուն համար.
Վահէ Օշական

(The Armenian is he who suffers from not being an ideal Armenian)
Vahe Oshagan

We try to hold in our minds
The inability to understand
What it is that we are searching for.
East and West, Old and New
Opposites stripped of meaning
Grasping for a past that constantly eludes us.
A prophet from Edessa, a giant from Moush
Nomads sprung from desert and rock,
Traveling backwards through Cilician time
Mourning for memories
We try to suppress.
And always the yearning
For something we cannot ever reach.

Kevork Kalayjian: TAX TIPS FOR ARTISTS AND WRITERS

First you have to add all your expenses.
An expense is any outlay of cash,
or anything of monetary value
which is deemed necessary
to get you that which drives you;
to repeat the noises you hear,
to convey the feelings you live,
to express the things you imagine,
to transform the pain to laughter,
to put tears in the eye of the cynic,
to put a smile on a child's face,
that which you call inspiration.

Everything you do to achieve
inspiration, is a deductible expense;
the trip you took to Utah
to see the gas station attendant
who replaced the murdered one,
your search of your roots
in Upstate New York, Rumania,
England, France or Tasmania,
your trip to the corner drug store,
your experience of 'love' on 42nd Street,
your train ride, just to witness
the walls pass you by,
all are deductible expenses,
as long as you can document them
with your diaries and receipts.

And then of course your entrance fees
at 'T. T. The Bears' or the other place
your beer, your cigarette, your ... as long as,
it's instrumental in getting you inspired.

Once you add all your expenses
it's time to figure out your income.

An income is anything of monetary value
which you obtain in the process of
dispensing inspiration.

So you add all your royalties,
a "thank you" here, a "good work" there
sale of your book, 13 cents each,
sale of your waterbed 89 dollars,
sale of your soul to your creative impulse.

Add to your income the profit you share
from throwing yourself into the ocean
don't forget to say something about
the survival of the whales,
the concentration camps,
they are still popular, and a good source
for a quick return on investment,
like justice, truth, and the happiness pursuit,
they are the in thing, and they will bear fruit.

Don't forget the income you obtain
from your part-time work at McDonalds,
your full time trial period at the museum,
the hospital, the grocery store, the office job.

When you have all these facts and your backups,
place them all in a shoebox, and go to
the I. R. S. Taxpayer Assistance line,
or you can all come to me,
I have no problems
in counting your blessings.


--
Kevork K. Kalayjian, Jr. poems have been published in Ararat .

Christopher Atamian: Mixobarbarians

Mixobarbarians at the gate
Carrying take-out fusion
Diasporan specials, hold the curry
More kim chi please
Divided souls, fifth columnists
Guilt-ridden BMW stick shifters
One eye eastward the other West.
Long gone are the days
Of Pledge Allegiancc to the Flag-
Now Jansenists at heart
Questioning everything
Accepting nothing
Globalized skeptics.

Lory Bedikian: Beyond the mouth

On the back of every tongue in my family
there is a dove that lives and dies.

At night when my aunts and uncles sleep
the birds comb their feathers, sharpen beaks.

They are carriers, not only of the olive
branch, but the rest of our histories too.

As from the ark, we came in twos
with tired eyes from Lebanon, Syria,

the outskirts of Armenia and anywhere
where safety said its final prayers and died.

Like every simile ever written, the doves
or our tongues are tired and misread.

Dinners begin with mounds of bread, piled
dialogues between the older men.

Near our dark throats, the quiet
birds lurk to watch meals descend,

take phrases that didn’t reach
the truth and spin them into nests.

Now and then, we spit them out in shapes
of seeds, olive pits, or spines of fish.

The men never watch what enters past
the teeth, what leaves their moving lips,

and the doves know this. The women shut
their mouths when they don’t approve

of the squawking laughs. There is a saying
(or at least there should be) that if one doesn’t

believe what is said or true, they can ask
the dove on the back of the tongue

and it will chirp the ugliness or the pitted
truth, of how we choke on what we hide.




“Beyond the mouth” was first published in Timberline.

Christopher Atamian: Hana Spills the Milk

for Gregory Djanikian

It is nineteen eighty something
And Hana Mandlikova has Chris Evert by the throat
Up five games to zero in the third as I watch nervously
(How I wish to be truly American and blond like she
Every fiber of my body aches and wants to kiss the very ground she walks on)

“Well anyone’s better than that dyke what’s her name? Pfuh” my father
spits.”
“Martina I answer and my heart sinks. Martina is a sister
Gay as a picnic basket, pink as a rubyfruit jungle.

And slowly Chrissie comes back
Apple pie, Chevrolet, one game, now two
Ice Maiden, Queen of Cool, (a thinking man’s sex pot)
Now three games and four, that’s what she does best

And as she finally takes the lead, it all comes out:
The Marxist-Chrissie-hating-American-bashing.
The shame of it almost makes me scream
(because Hana is Czech and the Czechs are behind the iron curtain
and so are Armenians so we must love her over Chrissie
even after the tanks have rolled into Prague.
And their names are hard to pronounce too
so we must feel kinship, empathize.)

At five games to six, my father can barely contain himself.
He jumps out of his seat
As if he were at a World Cup final
Knocking over his madzoon and plate of pilaf.

“Aggh my son! My son! Look, Hana is going to spill the milk!”
I nod dutifully and smile with inner glee.
Apple pie and Chevrolet is about to win the Open again
Sputnik and the commies can go to Hades.

And before leaving the house, I cannot help but correct him:
“It’s spill the beans, dad, and cry over spilled milk.”
Pause for effect, look straight into his Anatolian eyes.
“All she did was choke-plain and simple. No metaphors or fancy
turns-of-phrases required.”
And my father looks up and stares at his long-haired American son, befuddled.

Sdepan Keshishian: The Winter Dragon

I.
Instances of stand-still time:
the bus-stop or a cashier line,
at all of which the winter dra-
gon lurks.

II.
I walked into the sun this evening... and global warming
seeped back through the contours of my eye
sockets. until Spring, I will blow out the contempt
into a tissue. For all of eternity.

III.
At an undisclosed left-hand turn,
my face barrels along gusts of wind,
its shell cracking and peeling off at the finer points.
Such is life in the ventilation system.

IV.
voyeuristic third-story pixelated vistas
above electric roller discos
-captured a tail, a trail of spines
while supermarket security reported flaming toehairs.

I crept through the stainless kitchen ceiling
and hung point five stories up and around
the brick corner, off the fire escape-
just out of range from rolling breath.

keshishian sdepan
Boston 2008