Saturday, December 31, 2011

Եղիշէ Չարենց : Նոր տարուայ համար

Ես Նոր Տարի եմ մտնում, - բայց նոր ի՞նչ բանի
Ձգտում է սիրտն իմ տրտում...
...Մի հսկայ անիւ,

Անկախ կամքից իմ ու քո կամքից, Ղեկավա՛ր,
Շուռ է գալիս ու դառնում -- յաւիտեան ու յար ...

Ու դառնալու է անվերջ... մինչեւ չմնայ
Ո՛չ մի ձգտում, ո՛չ մի կամք -- աշխարհի վրայ ...

Օ, Նիրվանա տեւական, քե՛զ եմ անրջում, -
Իմ փոթորկոտ, իմ յախուռն օրերի վերջում...

1934, 31.XII գիշեր


For the New Year

I am entering a New Year – but for what new thing
Is my sad heart yearning…?

…An enormous wheel --

Inspite of my or your wishes, oh, Leader --
Keeps turning round – forever and ever…

And its turns shall be endless… it is all preset --
No more yearning, no more commands – on this planet…

O, everlasting Nirvana, of thee I fantasize --
At the close of my tempestuous, reckless days…

Yeghishe Charents
1934, Dec. 31, Night
Translated by Tatul Sonentz

Friday, December 30, 2011

Quote of the Month: ԶՈՒԼԱԼ ԳԱԶԱՆՃԵԱՆ

«Խմենք, ընկեր, եւ մի տրտմիր,
աշխարհն ունի օրէնքը իր:»

ԶՈՒԼԱԼ ԳԱԶԱՆՃԵԱՆ
«Կեանքը, Քոյրս»

Friday, December 23, 2011

Aram Saroyan at Columbia Colleage Chicago

ARAM SAROYAN: MY JOURNEY AS A WRITER (PUBLIC LECTURE)

TUESDAY, JANUARY 24, 6PM
STAGE TWO, 618 S. MICHIGAN AVE.
STAGED READING: FOUR MONOLOGUES
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 25, 7PM
POETRY FOUNDATION, 61 W. SUPERIOR ST.
ARAM SAROYAN is an internationally known poet, novelist, biographer, memoirist and playwright. His poetry has been widely anthologized and appears in many textbooks. Among the collections of his poetry are Aram Saroyan and Pages (both Random House). His largest collection, Day and Night: Bolinas Poems, was published by Black Sparrow Press in 1999. Saroyan's prose books include Genesis Angels: The Saga of Lew Welch and the Beat Generation; Last Rites, a book about the death of his father, the playwright and short story writer William Saroyan; Trio: Portrait of an Intimate Friendship; The Romantic, a novel that was a Los Angeles Times Book Review Critics' Choice selection; a memoir, Friends in the World: The Education of a Writer; and the true crime Literary Guild selection Rancho Mirage: An American Tragedy of Manners, Madness and Murder. Selected essays, Starting Out in the Sixties, appeared in 2001, and Artists in Trouble: New Stories in early 2002. His play At the Beach House, starring Orson Bean and Alana Ubach, was produced in the fall of 2005 in Los Angeles. The recipient of two National Endowment for the Arts poetry awards (one of them for his controversial one-word poem "lighght"), Saroyan is a past president of PEN USA West and a current faculty member of the Masters of Professional Writing Program at USC.

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Armen Tarpinian: L’Adieu en rimes

Là où je suis je ne suis plus
Mais c’est à travers ce poème
Qu’une fois encore et à jamais
Je vous dirai que je vous aime.
Ne laissons pas la nostalgie
Rompre la joie souveraine
Et retenons de la peine
Le prix qu’elle donne à la vie :
Quelle autre rime à poésie
Que le grand oui qui nous saisit ?

Monday, December 19, 2011

Armen Tarpinian: AINSI COMMENCE

Ainsi commence le bonheur, un silence où les mots s’accordent.
La vie, la mort sont les deux lèvres du soleil,
La terre éclose en nos visages,
O bouche ouverte à la naissance !
D’invisibles oiseaux volent dans nos racines. L’âme est plus grande que son nom.
Mais la peur seule a le sourire du démon, a ses poumons de sable.
La peur qui nous conduit dans la mort sans lumière.
Portons la plaine dans nos jambes, et la montagne en nos épaules.
Donnons la colline à la femme, rendons sa douceur au mystère.
Soyons de terre aimante ! Le malheur est un lion que l’amour apprivoise.


Thus It Starts

Thus starts bliss, a silence where words fuse.
Life, death are the sun’s two lips,
The earth comes to light in our faces,
Oh, gaping mouth to genesis!
Invisible birds soar in our roots. The soul exceeds its brand.
But only fear has the demon’s smile, and its lungs of sand.
Fear, that with no light, leads us onto demise.
Let us carry the plain in our legs, and on our shoulders, the mountain.
Let us give the hill to woman, rendering her appeal to mystery.
Let us treat the earth with love! Misfortune is a lion tamed by love.

Armen Tarpinian
Translated from French by Tatul Sonentz

Sunday, December 18, 2011

Armen Tarpinian: LA VÉRITÉ DU CYGNE

L’horizon est un mot qui sans cesse s’invente,
Une source où la soif rêve de s’étancher mais qu’elle éloigne.
Cygne, sur la mer libre entraîne la pensée !
Qu’elle apprenne l’amour comme un seuil tracé dans le repos du temps.
Et l’horizon bu, dépassé, les yeux fermés.
Miroir à notre cœur, ta liberté nous engage.

Saturday, December 17, 2011

Armen Tarpinian: Compagne du silence

J’ai dévalé les villes de la douleur. Les pavés connaissaient des désespoirs bien clos.
Ce sont les toits d’abord qu’il faudrait regarder et ce pont de fraîcheur qu’ils jettent jusqu’au ciel.
Mais je voyais des portes dilatées de mystère.
Je recherchais la nuit comme un point de lumière. J’oubliais une enfance tout enroulée de plaines, un bonheur traversé de rivières, des visages m’offrant leur jardin pour la vie. Et ce luxe de l’âge où le froid même chauffe.
Mais dans l’ombre du temps, dans l’ombre de moi-même où tant de présages s’éteignirent, ton amour éclairait la chance du malheur.
Donnant sens à ma vie tu éveillais mon âme,
aux fruits de la confiance.
Compagne du silence ton sang coule en mes mains, coule en toute la terre dans les mains ouvertes de la chaleur.

Friday, December 16, 2011

Armen Tarpinian: L’homme est à la guerre

Brisant le soleil vivant
L’aimant obscur régit la terre.
Et le jour qui serait un baiser d’eau pure
Pleure sur l’enfant déchiqueté.
Œil noir de la vipère,
La ténèbre est en nous.
Et le ciel est plus lourd de ne pas exister.
Dans le silence des larmes
Qui cherchons-nous encore ?
Le porteur de promesses
Ne peut vivre qu’en nous.

Thursday, December 15, 2011

Un livre et son auteur: Armen Tarpinian et "Le Chant et L'Ombre"

Armen Tarpinian: La Poule

Jarrets accordés à l’écorce de la terre,
Jarrets tendus dans l’attente du grain,
Les ailes plus épaisses que l’air,
La poule poursuit son destin.

Sa crête boit la vague sèche,
Le claquement de la faim.
Son impatience un peu rêche
Nous arracherait les mains !

Droite sur ses jarrets taillés pour une bague,
Son œil mâchant le minuscule espace,
Le cou pensant par saccades,
La poule affairée nous regarde.

Tabernacle vorace et pointu,
Son bec martèle le pain !
Poule, fonction élue !
Cycle premier du grain.

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Յովհաննէս Ասպետ: ԵԿՈՒՐ

Ձօնուած Ժօաննային

 

Եկ՜ուր իմ նազենի կոյս,
Քու աչքերուդ հայեացքին տակ,
Թող չմարի տենչանքն սիրոյս:

Եկ՜ուր իմ չքնաղ կոյս,
Այս պահն սպասումի,
Թող չսպառի անյոյս:

Եկ՜ուր իմ գեղանի կոյս,
Թող քու սիրոյ համբոյրին մէջ,
Փարատի ձանձրոյթը հոգւոյս:

Եկ՜ուր այս իրիկուն իմ պարտէզը հսկումի,
Քու ձեռքերուդ խնամքին տակ,
Հոն ո՝չ մի ծաղիկ թող չըթարշամի:

Եկ՜ուր իմ քաղցր հոգիակ,
Թող տուր, որ մոռնամ ցաւ ու տառապանք,
Քու սիրոյդ մէջ յստակ:

1968

Սոյն բանաստեղծութիւնը քաղուած է ՛՛Սիրոյ Քնար՝՝ի էջերէն.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Peter Balakian: Photosynthesis

The slips of the day-
lilies come off.

The wind blows
in from Vermont,
blows the silk kimonos

off the delphiniums,
blows the satin cowls
off the jack-in-the-pulpits.

Let it blow
the detonated-pollen
green, acid-rubbed,

plumed and rotting day--
blow into the leaves

their silver undersides
wet you at night.

Slide your tongue
into the green dark

so you can see the ultra-
violet scars on the goldfields
where the bees come in the day.

The night air rises
like steam
from a mud-pot,

and you see nothing.
Hear no voice.
See no light.

Just yourself
staring back at you
in middle age,

as if the novocain
of the sea urchin
froze your lids.

You see the window
you built

where you placed your hands
and broke your turquoise jars
and saw the stones

of scalding yellow
where the steam had burned
things back to where your private lust

and your longing for history
were colorless, and the blood
of the dianthus was gone.

You see your life rise
and slide away like steam,

feel a goat-tongue
lost in a mountain
wet you down.


This poem appeared in Balakian's June-Tree: New and Selected Poems, Harper Collins 2001, and in To Stanley Kunitz, with love from poet friends, for his 96th birthday. Publisher: Riverdale-on-Hudson, N.Y. : Sheep Meadow Press ; [Hanover, NH] : Distributed by the University Press of New England, ©2002

Saturday, December 10, 2011

Diana Der Hovanessian: Tell the Armenian story

Tell the Armenian story in

 black and white please. 
We've had enough shades 
of blood and red 
and purple prose. 
We've had enough amber 
sunsets, hennaed tufa, 
enough golden wheat. 
Let's have some rest. 
Tell the Armenian story 
but not the gory past. 
Let it remain buried 
with the roots of poppies 
on our plains. Let the blue 
light of morning and the bright 
greens of Karabagh remain 
our secret. Keep the orange 
flame of Dzidzanapert 
and the yellow city sunsets 
ours alone. Show the pink 
and beige monasteries
and the citrus-shaded birds
all in shades of gray.
Don't show the violet mist
and blue snow of Ararat
nor the aquamarine Sevan
being gilt at sunrise.
Don't tint the apricot trees
with pink evening inks.
No gold or bottled green
in the valleys just silver
cold and bright. We do not
want the heart to break.
We want only light.

This poem has appeared in To Stanley Kunitz, with love from poet friends, for his 96th birthday.
Publisher: Riverdale-on-Hudson, N.Y. : Sheep Meadow Press ; [Hanover, NH] : Distributed by the University Press of New England, ©2002

Friday, December 09, 2011

Կոստան Զարեան։ Հիւրը

Մի յուզուիր եթէ կամաց
Մէկը դուռը բաց անի
Մտնի
Սենեակից ներս
Եւ գայ նստի
Հացիդ առջեւը կարծր։

Ուղղիր շուտ սփռրոցը
Եւ ժպտիր
Ամբողջ սիրտդ
Աչքերիդ մէջ առնելով

Եւ թող այն հրեշտակը
Բաժակը
Սանի շրթներին
Եւ գինին օրերիդ
Կում կում խմի
Մինչեւ տակը։


Մի յուզուիր եթէ կամաց
Մէկը դուռը բաց անի
Մտնի



Կոստան Զարեան, ԲԱՌԵՐԻ ՈՍԿԻՆ, Բանաստեղծութիւններ, ars poetica, Երեւան, 2009

Thursday, December 08, 2011

Կոստան Զարեան։ [Արշալոյսի շրթունքների թարմը քամին]

Արշալոյսի շրթունքների թարմը քամին
համբուրում է լագունայի ցուրտ ապակին։
Օդը վարդ է գորտի սրտից,
եւ ժամը լուռ՝

ափին կապւած խաղաղ նաւակ՝
Լուսնին նայող գորտի աչքով
յաւէրժի մէջ փոս է բանում
եւ իր սիրտը երկու ձեռքով օրօրում։

Սպասում եմ։ Ի՞նչ իմանամ՝
ծովում բուսնող ալիքների վերին յարկից
ի՞նչ տրտմութիւն պիտի ընկնի։
Նոր երկնքի փողոցներում թափառում է  հոգիս մենակ --

Հրեշտակ, հրեշտա՛կ,
մեր հարեւան մեռած տղան
Եկաւ հասա՞ւ,
թէ մոռացաւ իր հաւատքի տւած հասցէն,
թէ կէս ճամբին մնաց շւարած
եւ իր ձռքի պայուսակի մէջը ժողւած
տրտմութիւնը ընդմիշտ լքեց կայարանում
տարածութեան
ու յետ դարձաւ դէպի դագաղ։

Ի՞նչ իմանամ…

Վեն[ետիկ] 30-IX-30


Կոստան Զարեան, ԲԱՌԵՐԻ ՈՍԿԻՆ, Բանաստեղծութիւններ, ars poetica, Երեւան, 2009


The Fresh Wind of Dawn’s Lips
 
The fresh wind of dawn’s lips
kisses the casement’s cold pane.
The air is a rose of frog’s heart,  
and the hour -- a hushed,
becalmed boat moored to the shore --
digs with eyes of a moon-gazing frog
a pit in eternity and rocks its heart
with both its hands.

I hang around, not knowing
what sadness shall descend
from the top story of waves
swelling in the sea.
My soul wanders alone in the streets of New heaven--
Angel, angel,
did our neighbor’s dead boy
reach there safe and sound?
Or did he forget the address given by his faith?
Or got stuck half way adrift
and abandoned forever in the vastness
of the station the melancholy
collected in his handbag
and returned
to his casket…

How can one tell?

………………… Kostan Zaryan
Translated by Tatul Sonentz

Wednesday, December 07, 2011

Armenian Writers support the Occupy Movement

http://occupywriters.com/

Կոստան Զարեան։ Առաւօտ

Մերկ ոտքերիս տակ, առաւօտ
մարմարիոն է պաղ։
Թրթռուն մարմնիս մէջ
զովը ընկղմած
համբոյր է խաղաղ։

Ժա՜մ արեւաքաղ--
առաւօ՜տ…։


Կոստան Զարեան, ԲԱՌԵՐԻ ՈՍԿԻՆ, Բանաստեղծութիւններ, ars poetica, Երեւան, 2009

Morning 


Beneath my bare feet, first light
frigid marble.
Within my quivering body
a serene embrace
sinking in coolness.

Hour of sun-reaping --
morning…

Kostan Zaryan
Translated by Tatul Sonentz

Tuesday, December 06, 2011

Կոստան Զարեան։ Ժամերի Քայլը

Լերան ետեւ ծնծղաաները ԱՐՇԱԼՈՅՍԻ
լուսատափ ձայնեցին

                                             ու ԱՌԱՒՕՏ

եղաւ դաշտերում ոսկեալիք ցորենների
ուր լալազար ու մարեմխոտ
ճաճանչափունջ վառուեցին։

Բլուրից ի բլուր արփիաթոր ադամանդներ
եղան հեղուկ ապառաժներ

                                            ու ԿԷՍ ՕՐ

եղաւ աղուոր -
մարմանդ օդից բոյր ըմպող օր
եղաւ նոր
ու նստեցի           լուռ
լռութեան մէջ     հուր։

ԵՐԵԿՈՅԻ

                            պատմուճանի հետ թրթըռեց
սողսող այրւեց
դաշկը լուսեղ։ Յետոյ ձորը, յետոյ լեռը,
յետոյ նորից դաշտը լուսեղ,
ու անտառը հազարկանթեղ
սպասում է, սպասում -

ու՞մ -

մինչ ես լեռն եմ մագլցում։

Այնտեղ բարձրում, լերան գլխին
                                                      ԳԻՇԵՐԸ,
գլուխս դրած մի գիսաւոր աստղի սրտին
գիշե՛րը, լսում եմ գիշերը
եւ աստղերի դաշտում դալար
փնտռում ճամբան, ճամբան հիավառ
իմ նոր, ին վեհ աստուածութեան,
իմ լուսաստե՛ղծ լինելութեան։


Կոստան Զարեան, ԲԱՌԵՐԻ ՈՍԿԻՆ, Բանաստեղծութիւններ, ars poetica, Երեւան, 2009







Stride of the Hours

Behind the mountain, the cymbals of DAWN
intone in a shower of light
                                            and MORNING


comes to golden-waved fields of wheat,
where poppies and hemp burst
into a beaming blaze։


From hill to hill, sun-drenched rocks
turn to liquid diamond
                                            and MIDDAY
looks lovely --
imbibing aromas from mild air  
day becomes fair
and I sit down     mute
in a silence          of fire.


With the EVENING’s
                                            tunic ripples
slithers and burns
the bright meadow. Then the valley, then the mountain,
then again the bright meadow,
and the thousand-lanterned forest
waits and awaits --


whom?


While I climb the mountain.


There, in the hights, at the summit,
                                            at NIGHT,
My head resting on the heart of a comet,
the night, I heed the night,
and in the green field of stars
I seek the road, the marvelous road
of my new, majestic divinity,
my entity born of light.




Kostan Zaryan
Translated by Tatul Sonentz

ԳԻՐՔ ՄԸ ՀԵՂԻՆԱԿ ՄԸ Կոստան Զարեան ու «ԲԱՌԵՐԻ ՈՍԿԻՆ»

«Սարգիս Խաչենց» - Փրինթինֆո հրատարակչական ծրագիր, (Երեւան)
2009թ.

Monday, December 05, 2011

Alan Semerdjian: Crush


I once had a crush on the word
     reconciliation
how it moved in and out of my life
          its slippery cil rounding corners


and rubbing up against the hard con
     how I misused the word
on more than one occasion
          meaning almost clear


at once here and never here
     there but never somewhere.
And though the past may sound
          a lot like history


it was about love, and it’s always
     about love, this forever
balance of stretching and returning
          this push and pull


like some sad scavenger hunt or
     tug of war for the soldier
never quite back and the object
          of his affection


like a word broken at the syllable
     the need for more space
her always here, her never left.
          This is how it goes.


Time ends up making a postcard
     from him to her
and two rooms on either side
          of the world


his boots heavy with memory’s lead
     in one bed, her need
to reconcile in the other, and me
          still in love


with a word, with an idea
     all of us
are so desperately
          trying to understand.




This poem has appeared in the online version of ARARAT.

Sunday, December 04, 2011

After All, Who Remembers the Armenian-American Poets?


by Shahé Mankerian


Last night, I had a long, heartfelt conversation with Ms. Lola Koundakjian, the curator and the producer of The Armenian Poetry Project based in New York, the most substantial online poetry bank committed to perpetuate and celebrate the works of the Armenian poet. The reason for my call was simple. I wanted to know if she was aware of any Armenian-American poet that had penetrated the hub of all literary publications, the Norton Anthology of the English Literature.

Why the Norton Anthology? Because The Norton Anthology of English Literature has remained the sine qua non of college textbooks since it first appeared in 1962, setting the agenda for the study of English Literature in this country and beyond. Its editors, therefore, hold one of the most powerful posts in the world of letters, and are symbolically seen as arbiters of the canon. Simply put, if Norton publishes it, the writer becomes a household name.

I had done my homework before calling Lola. I had checked all the Norton and even Oxford editions that I had kept since my college days and failed to find a single Armenian name in any of the indexes. Let me retract, in the Oxford Book of American Poetry (2006), my eyes were titillated when I saw the name Lyn Hejinian. A name can’t be more Armenian than “Hejinian,” I thought, but this excitement was short lived. I was familiar with Ms. Hejinian’s work. Many years ago, I had purchased all her poetry books from the City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco because her name made my heart beat with pride. Later, much to my dismay, I discovered Ms. Hejinian’s origins were Irish, and she had the fortune or misfortune of borrowing her Armenianess from her first husband.

Let me confess, I so wished to have misread the names of the greats like Daniel Berrigan as Daniel Berrigian or the famous Romanian poet John Balaban as John Balabanian. Lola tells me to breathe. She emails me with a list of noteworthy publications that have included Gregory Djanikian’s poems. The list includes: Best American Poems 2000 (Scribner, 2000), Poetry Daily: 366 Poems (Sourcebooks, 2003), Anthologies: 180 More (Random House, 2005) edited by Billy Collins, Good Poems for Hard Times (Viking, 2005). This is an impressive list, but it’s no Norton Anthology, I am tempted to write back.

This reminds me, I like to discuss the pentagon of the Armenian-American poets of the second half of the 20th century and the early part of the 21st. The names of these magnificent five dominate the Armenian-American poetry section of my home library— and libraries and bookstores around the country. The names trickle down as follows: Diana Der Hovanessian, David Kherdian, Aram Saroyan, Peter Balakian, and Gregory Djanikian.

For the last fifty years, these are the names that have squeezed themselves into a predominant position in the American poetry scene. The best poetry journals and magazines have published these names extensively both nationally and internationally. Each poet has published several poetry books by a major publishing house or a major university press. These names carry with them an impressive list of major poetry prizes. Their voices have broadcasted or have been televised; some have cracked the New York Times best-selling list; and some have found their temporary nest in the syllabi of college professors. Time is too short to talk about each poet separately, but remember these names because they have paved the way for a new generation of Armenian-American poets, like Arpine Grenier-Konyalian, Tina Demirdjian, Lola Koundakjian, Armine Iknadossian, Alene Terzian, and today’s top-prize winner Lory Bedikian. By the way, Armenian female poets dominate the Armenian-American poetry scene of the 21st century.

On my recent visit to Chicago, I made a point of visiting the multi-million dollar library of the Poetry Foundation. In this beautiful structure dedicated solely to the art of poetry, with two stories of wall-to-wall shelves full of verse, I became the typical Diasporan Armenian. I neglected the entire Beat Poets’ section; I overlooked rows dedicated to Byron; I even managed to bypass the Bukowski corner. My mission was to find the pentagon, and much to my relief, they were all there: the aging copies of Der Hovanessian, the slanted Kherdians, minimalistic Saroyan, a noticeable collection of Balakian, and my puny but dear selection of Djanikians. These were my Armenian poets, shoulder to shoulder, with the best of them.

So what if no one remembers the Armenian-American poets of the last fifty years. So what if they never make it to print on the thin sheets of the Norton Anthology. So what if they never get invited to major festivals. So what if they never win the Pulitzer or the Nobel. These are our modern day troubadours, who breathe and speak about our Armenianess in the most trite language in the world, English.

They are marginalized. Their books might be forgotten in a dusty, dark corner of a used bookstore, but they came before us. They tasted, smelled, felt, saw, and witnessed better than most of us. And if no one remembers, then the hell with them. Poets write to stir up the soul for a brief moment, and then like a candlewick burn, burn, burn, until the soul or the poet is put out.

Los Angeles
November 22, 2011

This introduction was written in honor of Lory Bedikian, the winner of the 2010 Philip Levine Prize in Poetry, for her manuscript, The Book of Lamenting. It was read at her book event in Glendale. 

Alan Semerdjian:Two Towers



Bending around the highway
slicing the horizontal still: two towers.


The sun between verticals then later
blinding two towers.


Radio spitting fire, the correspondents
still for two towers.


History and historians, two towers
in and out of focus.


Birds circumnavigating
clouds above two towers.


Not sure if maybe on
a clear day but two towers.


A flag for two towers; a pin
approaching a balloon.


The idea of two sinking
then rising – the towers


out of the sink, the sink
rising up from the towers.


Two dogs, off leash, proud
down avenue C: both towers.


Two memories swaying, window
open revealing towers.


On the way, photoshopping covers
with towers, a plane to catch.


Two lovers shouting their heads off:
two towers.


Two apartments, blocks, trains,
miles to go from two towers.


To build or not, to cry
or always cry for towers.


Forgetting two towers, then one,
then another, then none.




This poem has appeared in the online version of ARARAT.

Saturday, December 03, 2011

Alan Semerdjian: Letters

Letters
after Saroyan


The War Department is a bucket of rain
we left out on the porch.



Each day the water gradually disappears
like family members



after holiday dinners; one by one
the sleep takes over them



until the bucket is emptied, the soldiers
all returned to Ithaca.



This, of course, can only happen in summer
when the heat simmers



all memories dry. But oh the winters,
heading to and returning from,



the bucket seems forever filled, heavier
from the weight of it all.






This poem has appeared in the online version of ARARAT.

Friday, December 02, 2011

ՄԱՐՕ ՄԱՐԳԱՐԵԱՆ: [Ես տէր եմ հողին ու երկնին կապոյտ]

Ես տէր եմ հողին ու երկնին կապոյտ,
Իմն է աշխարհը ափից մինչեւ ափ,
Ես աշխարհն այս մեծ սիրով եմ չափում,
Սրտով ընկալում թռիչք ու տագնապ։

Ես օրէնսդիր եմ եւ ես դատաւոր,
Ես լսում եմ ինձ եւ ինձ հաւատում,
Ծածկում եմ սիրով անդունդները խոր,
Կիրճերը մթին ծաղկունքով պատում։

Ես յոգնած եմ շատ ու վաստակաμեկ
Եւ շատ μան գուցէ կը թողնեմ թերի,
Բայց հոգով երμեք չեմ ընթանայ թեք,
Չեմ դառնայ μնաւ ստուերի գերի։

Երազներն են ջինջ իմ ուղին պատել,
Իմ քոյրերն են եօթ գոյներն արեւի,
Ծիածաններն են իմ ճամμան հատել,
Ես կեանքի համար, աշխարհի, մարդու
Ինչ-որ մի լաւ μան կþանեմ երեւի։