Thursday, January 16, 2014

Albert Kapikian: Lamentations from the Armenian

the last light    loiters
wet in the trees

a voice     waivers
unwombing dawn

I unweed your tapestry
of stars. Some bleed when I yank
them out. I want
to throw them back up
into the sky, I want to unleash
our arms, the exquisite torture of hands


the year is strange I did not want to see it
sometimes I dream of coming home
even my old bootprints are here
I dream of sinking into them
never coming back

I dream of a childsong
a pulse of my own
as we watch the sky
in cups held like mounds
of earth in our hands


I will never wait again for their faces
They have no more stones to bring me
To burden me with. Only casual whispers
And decrepit feet. They are watching something else

The sun perhaps. Or the stones that drop from the sun
When our dreams no longer wait for us

They are lost. They do not listen to me
They will always have these stone faces now
In the dark as we labor by the sea
The sand wailing in between our toes


Where is the end, dark Jesus, Suicide
Rich in thunder and river blood, where are
The trees that will take root in our bowels,
The storms, where are the storms, let us gather
At the mouth of the storms and take them up
Like broken flowers, sober shapes of
Death, let us restore them now
And forever and unto the ages
Of ages. Let the leaves, that fall in-
Furiate us.


it is late and white
there are no prisoners or psalmists
only flies and air

the moon is a wafer of light

we snatch at last things and tuck them away
like tired children
in the dark we excavate a last prayer
and cover it with stones leave it out without a name


We choose Hell
- Vahan Tekeyan

The wind is leaves and stars tonight.
It is done, done. Dawn, done. The hour, done.
The bell, the flower, wind. The water, wind.
Come, you may come. Touch us. You without
a face. Without a life of your own. You, Death.
Break now. Heart. Go triumph in the black wound
Of trees by the sea. There we will spawn such dark
That night itself could not speak our name.
This night, anyway, is here. Let us mourn
And be fruitful, and in the deep furnaces of the earth.

Let us multiply

Albert Kapikian

This poem has appeared in the Winter-Spring 1987 issue of Graham House Review and appears in APP courtesy of the author.

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