Literary Quote for November 2016

un poème est tout ensemble un corps étranger, un nid de résistance, un lieu de perdition...




Vahé Godel (1931- )

Nancy Kricorian: Homage to Bourj Hammoud

Have you heard a thrush sing while its nest burns in the wind?
—Khalil Gibran

Listen. In the morning you can hear the bright strike of hammers and the rasp of saws. Children carry sand from the riverbanks in their school satchels. First they build the church, then the school, and finally a house for each family according to its means. The tents and shacks are taken down one by one. Each family plants a mulberry tree and tends its garden.

The remnants of Marash create a new Marash. And so also Nor Sis, Nor Adana, Nor Giligia, and Nor Hadjin are made. You can hear the sounds of the trades learned in the orphanage workshops: carpenter’s plane, sewing machine and cobbler’s bench. The sharp smell of the tannery is in the air and in their clothes. All Beirut wears their shoes.

Look at the children outside the church in their freshly pressed clothes, and the girls have ribbons in their hair. Look at the food spread on the luncheon table and the hands that pass the platters. Someone has told a joke and there is laughter. Someone pulls an instrument from its case.

Speak of those times, or don’t, when the parties take up arms against each other. How the women of one church throw boiling water out the window on the men with guns. When all Beirut stops fighting, for how many more weeks do the Armenian men continue to shed each other’s blood?

Speak then of the flowering: the neighborhood children grow tall. Among them are musicians, actors, painters and poets. In this world their parents have rebuilt from ashes, they now believe anything is possible, and everything is new.

Remember this: when the Civil War comes, neutrality is no amulet against the bullets and the bombs. Jewelers flee the downtown souk for Bourj Hammoud, where the militiamen patrol the night and then also the day. So many boats leave the port. Carrying leather suitcases to the airports, so many are exiled again.

Remember Nor Adana, Nor Marash, Nor Sis. Men still play backgammon and grill meat on braziers on the sidewalk. Remember the narrow alleys and wooden houses of Sanjak Camp, razed for a shopping plaza. Oh people of long memory, listen, look, speak, remember: your stories are a homeland.

Nelly Keoseyán: ORACIÓN POR EL CUERPO

Abusé de ti, malamada.

Te maltraté como al peor de los esclavos.

Te obligué a desnudarte ante los otros,

a descender conmigo hasta los bajos fondos.

Eras objeto de saciedad y de goce:

Acudías como una perra obediente a mi llamado.

Cuántos pasaron por encima de ti

como caballos pisoteando la hierba.

Cuántos bebieron de tu simiente

la savia de la sabiduría.

Corté todas las rosas del jardín.

No floreció ni una sola semilla.

He de morir contigo.

Y de nosotras

no quedará ni una huella.

PREGHIERA PER IL CORPO

Ho abusato di te, mal amata.
Ti ho maltrattato come al peggiore degli schiavi.
Ti ho obbligato a spogliarti davanti agli altri,
a scendere con me fino ai bassi fondi.
Eri oggetto di sazietà e di piacere:
accudivi come una cagna obbediente al mio chiamare.
Quanti sono passati sopra di te
come cavalli pestando l’erba.
Quanti hanno bevuto del tuo seme
la linfa della saggezza.
Ho tagliato tutte le rose del giardino.
Non ha germogliato né un solo seme.

Devo morire con te.

E di noi
non resterà traccia.

Nelly Keoseyán: SALMO

Nunca le pregunté al destino
si me tocaba seguirte.
Simplemente me fui.

Me desnudé y te dije:
bajemos. Metámonos
más hondo en el infierno.
Hagamos ahí dentro en lo obscuro
el paraíso del placer.

Abre la puerta negra
Hurga Entra
Desciende el misterioso abismo.

Y tu pasión fue mía y tu goce.

Luego te di mi alma y te dije:
Haz de mi fuego el tuyo
Bebe de mí
Muere de amor conmigo.
Te haré mitad demonio y mitad santo
Te saciaré con látigos y con cilicios
Te ataré a la pilastra y al muro
y a la cruz del martirio
hasta que estalles.

Hasta que nazcas por dentro en mí
y en un instante sin fin te fugues
de la cárcel del cuerpo.

Y me arrojé contigo al precipicio.

Introducing NELLY KEOSEYÁN

Los Amantes se aman

To hear the audio clip, click here.
Poem by Nelly Keoseyán; read by Mónica Morales

Los amantes se aman
porque amando la vida es más intensa.
Los amantes se gozan, se desnudan,
se entregan silenciosamente a su pequeña muerte
y en la profunda oscuridad del alma es que se pierden
sus cuerpos
se unifican, se funden, se hacen un solo ser eterno.
Los amantes se aman a través de los cuerpos,
a través de la piel y los sentidos,
a través del deseo, del corazón, de sus fuerzas más
íntimas.
Se aman por la pasión de vivir hacia adentro,
se aman para penetrar los límites,
hacer con el ojo del cuerpo visible lo invisible
y aprender de su polvo a renacer.
Los amantes se buscan, se acarician, se flagelan,
se arrancan de la memoria de la carne
el dolor de nacer y la violencia,
se vacían, se desprenden,
sacrifican el alma y la sangre
a los dioses del éxtasis y la embriaguez.
Los amantes se aman porque la vida es breve,
porque no basta para vivirla un cuerpo,
ni una vida para morir mil veces,
ni los cielos del dulce paraíso,
ni la espada invencible del infierno,
ni universo ni tiempo para nombrar la vasta eternidad.
Los amantes aman la vida, la vida intensa.



Nelly Keoseyán (1956- ). Nació en la ciudad de México, en 1956. Estudió literatura en la Universidad Nacional. Ha traducido a poetas ingleses y estadunidenses, entre ellos Wordsworth, Coleridge y Yeats. Su producción poética comprende dos libros: Fuego interior (1986) y Los paraísos del sueño (1998).

Upcoming reading at the Zohrab Information Center

Dana Walrath, a writer, artist and anthropologist, likes to cross borders and disciplines with her work. After years of using stories and art to teach medical students at University of Vermont’s College of Medicine, she spent 2012-2013 as a Fulbright Scholar in Armenia where she completed her first book, Like Water on Stone a verse novel about the Armenian genocide of 1915. Loosely based on the story of her grandmother, Like Water on Stone is a Notable Book for a Global Society Award Winner, a Bank Street Best Book of 2015, a Vermont Book Award finalist, and more. Her just released graphic memoir, Aliceheimer’s about life with her mother, Alice, before and during dementia, has been featured in the New York Times, the Los Angeles Review of Books and the Philadelphia Inquirer. She has spoken extensively about the role of comics in healing throughout North America and Eurasia including two TEDx talks. She has also shown her artwork in a variety of venues throughout North America and Eurasia.

Her anthropological work on childbirth, genocide, and the end of life has appeared in edited volumes and anthropological journals and she is a co-author of one of the leading college textbook series in anthropology. Her recent essays have appeared in Slate, Somatosphere and Foreign Policy. She holds a PhD in Anthropology from the University of Pennsylvania, an MFA in writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts, and a BA in visual arts and biology from Barnard College. She lives in the mountains of Vermont.

Co-curator Lola Koundakjian enjoys her poetry diplomacy, touring the world to read at poetry festivals, and, promoting Armenian culture through the Armenian Poetry Project. This fall she is reading in three venues around New York City: in September as part of National Translation Month in the Inkwell series at the KGB Bar, a literary institution in the East Village neighborhood of New York City; in October, in the Americas Poetry Festival; and in November at the ZIC. She is the author of The Accidental Observer (2011 USA) and Advice to a Poet (2014 Peru; 2015 USA)

Shahé Mankerian is the principal of St. Gregory Alfred and Marguerite Hovsepian School in Pasadena and the co-director of the Los Angeles Writing Project. As an educator, he has been honored with the Los Angeles Music Center's BRAVO Award, which recognizes teachers for innovation and excellence in arts education.

His poems have won Honorable Mentions in 2011 Allen Ginsberg Poetry Award and Arts & Letters Journal of Contemporary Culture. Shahé was a Semi-Finalist for the Knightville Poetry Contest. He was the first place winner of 2012 "Black and White" anthology series from Outrider Press.

Mankerian's most recent manuscript, History of Forgetfulness, has been a finalist at four prestigious competitions: the 2013 Crab Orchard Series in Poetry Open Competition, the 2103 Bibby First Book Competition, the Quercus Review Press, Fall Poetry Book Award, 2013, and the 2014 White Pine Press Poetry Prize. His poems have been published in numerous literary magazines.

Poetry and Music Presentation in San Francisco

“Portrait of an Unknown Ancestor”
An Armenian Poetry and Music Presentation

Poetry reading by James Baloian accompanied by Live music with Max Baloian and Friends.

A first Edition, signed copy of Jimmy’s new book

“Portrait of an Unknown Ancestor” will be for sale.

Sunday, November 13, 2016 - 1:00pm

275 Olympia Way, San Francisco, CA

Phone 415.661.1142|info@stjohnarmenianchurch.com

Alan Whitehorn: Forgetting and Recalling

There is an advantage of writing

compared to speaking before a live audience.

In putting pen to paper,

I have time to wait for the train of thought

to come around the track again.

Hopefully, this time I will not miss my carriage.

What is that I hear?

Is it the engine whistle in the distance?

Quick.

I must begin to get ready.

But wait,

what track was it scheduled on?

I need to remember.

I need to remember.

Damn.

What was that sudden swoosh in the night?

Have I missed the train again?

Alan Whitehorn

October 28, 2016

Յովհաննէս Ասպետ։ ԵՐԱՆԳ ՅՈՅՍԵՐ

Ա՜հ, այն ծաղիկ-յոյսերը՝ որոնք երանութեան մէկ պահին մէջ մտքիս աղբիւրներէն ցայտուն զիս պարուրեցին անհուն պերճանքներու մէջ խանդավառ:
Ես անոնց տուի իմ հոծ խանդաղատանքիս ծիածանը՝ ուր անձրեւէն վերջ կը թաւալի իմ բոլորտիքը ու ծաղիկներ ալ կը թօթափեն իրենց արցունքն արեւին ցոլքերուն տակ. Անոնց քաղցր բոյրերուն մէջ հոգիս ալ կարբենայ, երբ անուշ հովիկն կանցնի իմ մօտէն, անոնք կը սփռեն հոգւոյս նոր երանգներ տենդագին:
Բայց աւաղ, որ ամէն ծաղիկ աշուն մը ունի իր ետին ու խամրում մը ցաւագին, ի սպառ անոնց խամրումին հետ հոգիս ալ կիյնայ, աշնան հովերուն դէմ անզօր, կիյնան ձիւնի փաթիլներուն պէս հոգւոյս յատակը՝ ու շատ շուտ կը բերեն ցրտագին միայնութիւնը, դատարկելով այն ինչ որ իմ հարազատն էր: Անյապաղ խորհրդաւոր նոպաներու այլանդակ շարժուձեւերուն մէջ պահ մը կը նուաղիմ:
Ու յետոյ կսպասեմ անհամբեր նոր գարնան արեւին, որ լի բաղձանքներով պիտի ժպտի իմ դալկադէմ միայնութեանս վրայ: Այն ծաղիկները, որ սառած ինկան, հիմա՝ նորէն կը ժպտին արեւին պէս, անոր ջերմ կենդանութեանը տակ կարթննան ու կը ծաղկին, անոնք ցրտահար ինկած կսպասէին արեւին, որ հրաշքով մը արթնցներ իրենց վաղանցուկ քունէն:
Հանգոյն ես ալ ծաղիկներուն պէս մեղմացումի շիթ շիթ արցունքներէն վերջ, նոր գարուն մը կը բերէ զիս ծաղիկ-յոյսերու զարթօնքին, բայց ես կը վարանիմ անոնք քաղելու:

Յովհաննէս Ասպետ

Ara Alexandre Shishmanian: îneacă-te-n oglindă

îneacă-te-n oglindă de o mie de ori – îneacă-te
pînă cînd oglinda se va preschimba într-un zbor al imaginii
îneacă-te-n oglindă mai ales fără oglindă –
golul îţi va adânci atunci în noapte zborul
îneacă-te-n labirint până cînd labirintul
se va preschimba într-o rădăcină a tuturor sevelor
îneacă-te-n labirint mai ales fără labirint –
golul te va scoate atunci din rădăcina infinită a gândurilor
îneacă-te-n singurătate de o mie de ori –
îneacă-te-n singurătate pînă cînd o siluetă de sticlă
va străbate diagonala tuturor singurătăţilor
îneacă-te-n singurătate mai ales fără singurătate –
transparenţa absolutului te va lăsa cu atît mai singur
pe ţărmul cu buze argintii
unde doar neantul mai poate să-ţi numere paşii

Drown Yourself in the Mirror

Drown yourself in the mirror a thousand times over—drown yourself
until the mirror will change into a flight of images
drown yourself in the mirror especially without a mirror at hand—
the emptiness will deepen your flight into the night, then
Drown into the labyrinth until the labyrinth
will change into the root of all saps
drown into the labyrinth especially without one—
the emptiness will lift you up from the infinite root of all thoughts, then
Drown yourself into solitude a thousand times over—
drown yourself in loneliness until a shape made of glass
will pass through the diagonal of all solitudes
drown yourself into solitude especially without solitude—
the transparency of the absolute will leave you all the more alone
on the shore with silvery lips
where only the naught could count your steps.

English translation by Flavia Cosma, previously published in http://ragazine.cc/2016/07/3-poems-by-ara-alexandre-shishmanian/

Ara Alexandre Shishmanian: La fereastră cu singur

uneori parcă am merge pe cer –
parcă asfaltul însuşi s-ar rătăci undeva
în dosul amurgului •
fiecare pas e ca un pariu – nu-l ai decît după ce-l cîştigi •
nimic – şi anume doar pentru nimeni •
de asta poate ne consolăm mereu
cu tunele – ne consolăm cu o lume sub pămînt
tot pămîntul ăsta e un corp format din alte corpuri
ce se-nghit unele pe altele •
pămîntul e de fapt monstrul absolut –
numai vidul, pe care nu-l întîlnim niciodată
deşi-l purtăm adânc în noi înşine,
e mai monstruos •
un fel de aripi-pleoape – priveam în timp ce zburam –
numai nimicul •
eu, nimeni •
am luat asupră-mi rănile ei –
mă ura acum
pentru că nu se mai putea vindeca singură
prin nefiinţă dureroasă •
oricum, dacă nu s-ar fi simţit vinovată
ar fi rămas mereu ceva fals •
de fapt încercam s-o trezesc
la adevărul rănilor ei ruşinoase •
se apăra şi rămînea astfel prizoniera
nevinovăţiei ei factice •
sufletul ei nu avea nevoie de răşină –
dublu, se jena să-i fie ruşine –
ruşinii-i prefera răşina neutră a uitării •
amnezia mai degrabă decît vindecarea •
e greu să respiri cu ochii închişi –
cu aripile ochilor închise •
căci ochii sunt şi un soi de plămâni –
respirăm cu ei nu aerul ci cerul înăuntrului •
nu doar plecarea de-acasă ci şi plecarea din lume •
de aceea nu mă întorc pur şi simplu acasă
ca să nu mă-ntorc niciodată în lume •
înainte îmi făceam grefe de ceasuri pe creier –
omul-oră devenea omul-minut •
mai recent am început să-mi fac grefe de ceasuri pe inimă –
semn că omul dispăruse de tot •
acum orele se-nşirau singure
la fereastră cu singur •
nimeni nu era în stare să-mi citească litera •
scriam texte ce curgeau deasupra literelor
ca peste nişte pietre de râu •
doar nimeni citeşte pietrele din albia râului •
doar nimeni ştie să mai citească râul în adânc •
doar nimeni poate să intre de două ori în aceeaşi apă •
cu siguranţă – doar nimeni •

Fenêtre avec esseulement

Parfois c’est comme si on marchait à même le ciel
comme si l’asphalte lui-même s’égarait quelque part
derrière le couchant,
chaque pas est un pari – tu ne l’achèves qu’après l’avoir gagné
pour rien – et précisément rien que pour personne
c’est pourquoi peut-être nous nous consolons toujours
avec les tunnels – avec un monde souterrain
toute cette terre est un corps formé d’autres corps
qui se dévorent les uns les autres
la terre est en fait le monstre absolu –
seul le vide, que nous ne rencontrons jamais,
bien que nous le portions profondément enfoui en nous-mêmes,
est encore plus monstrueux –
une sorte d’ailes-paupières – je regardais pendant le vol –
seul le rien…
Moi, personne,
j’ai pris sur moi ses blessures – elle me haïssait maintenant
parce qu’elle ne pouvait plus guérir toute seule
par douloureux non-être
de toute façon, si elle ne s’était pas sentie coupable
quelque chose de faux aurait toujours persisté
en fait je tâchais de la réveiller
à la vérité de ses blessures honteuses
elle se défendait et restait ainsi prisonnière
de son innocence factice
son âme n’avait pas besoin d’être ointe –
double, elle se sentait gênée d’avoir honte
à la honte elle préférait la neutralité ointe de l’oubli
l’amnésie plutôt que la guérison
Il est difficile de respirer les yeux fermés –
les ailes oculaires occultées
car les yeux sont aussi une sorte de poumons
nous respirons avec, non pas l’air mais le ciel du dedans
non seulement le départ de la maison mais le départ du monde
c’est pour cela que je ne retourne pas tout simplement à la maison
pour ne jamais retourner dans le monde
Avant je me greffais des montres sur le cerveau –
l’homme-heure devenait l’homme-minute
dernièrement j’ai commencé à me greffer des montres sur le cœur
signe que l’homme est disparu complètement
maintenant les heures s’étalent toutes seules
à la fenêtre avec esseulement
personne n’était capable de lire au moins mon écriture
j’écrivais des textes qui s’écoulaient par-dessus les lettres
comme sur les galets d’une rivière
personne seul sait lire le lit d’une rivière
sait encore lire le texte du tréfonds
personne seul peut entrer deux fois dans la même eau
certainement – personne seul


Traduction de Dana Shishmanian. Parût dans http://www.latoiledelun.fr/

Ara Alexandre Shishmanian: Păpădia albastră

ţin în mână o păpădie albastră – neştiută –
ce mă priveşte încet gânditoare •
opţiunea ei ciudată ar fi să mă culeagă cu privirea •
eu însumi sînt un ciudat copac –
cu multă clorofilă în dreptul ochilor •
plămâni şi aripi – zburînd respir •
păpădia albastră gândeşte încetinind secunde –
şi-n palmele mele secundele înoată ca nişte peşti •
obraz lipit de vid cântăresc impalpabilul •
plină de neant mi se descuie ruginita poartă a inimii •
fiara adoarme sub lumină ca o pagină în ghiarele semnelor •
păpădia albastră-i o navă cu care navighez
împărat al imperiului gândurilor •
purtat de briză-n crepuscul
mă preschimb într-un zeu cu paşii de toamnă •
învăluit în dezamăgire •
splendori de frunze mi se ofilesc sub tălpi
şi ning în vreme ce înaintez prin aer –
în mână cu sceptrul meu albastru şi magic •
cu sceptrul care mă priveşte şi mă gândeşte •
pe când la rîndu-mi privindu-l nu mă pot dumiri –
care din doi îl visează pe celălalt •


Le pissenlit bleu

Je tiens dans la main un pissenlit bleu – inconnu –
qui me regarde lentement et pensif
son option étrange serait de me cueillir avec son regard
moi-même je suis un arbre bizarre
avec plein de chlorophylle au niveau des yeux
des poumons et des ailes – en volant je respire –
le pissenlit bleu réfléchit tout en ralentissant les secondes
et dans mes paumes les secondes nagent comme des poissons.

La joue collée au vide, je pèse l’impalpable,
pleine de néant s’ouvre la porte enrouillée de mon cœur
la bête s’endort sous la lumière
telle une page dans les griffes des signes…

Le pissenlit bleu est un navire sur lequel
je navigue – empereur d’un empire de pensées –
porté par la brise au crépuscule,
je me change en dieu aux pas d’automne
enveloppé de déception
splendeurs de feuilles se fanent sous mes pas
et je neige
tandis que je m’avance dans l’air
tenant à la main mon sceptre bleu et magique
le sceptre qui me regarde et me pense
alors qu’à mon tour, le regardant, je ne peux me résoudre :
lequel de nous deux rêve de l’autre ?




Blue Dandelion

I hold in my hand a blue dandelion—an unknown one
it is watching me thoughtfully
its strange option would be to harvest me with its eyes
I am myself a strange tree—
with a lot of chlorophyll around my eyes
my lungs and my wings—flying I breathe
The blue dandelion thinks slowing down the seconds—
and in my palms the seconds swim like fish
A cheek glued to the void, I weigh the impalpable
Full of nothingness the rusty gate of my heart unlocks
The beast falls asleep under the light
like a page in the clutches of signs
The blue dandelion—a ship I navigate
Emperor of my thoughts’ empire
carried into the crepuscule by the breeze
I change into a God with autumnal steps
wrapped up by deception
carpets of beautiful leaves wither under my soles
and I am snowing
while I advance through air
In my hand I carry my blue, magical scepter
my scepter that is watching me and thinks of me
while watching it in my turn I can’t figure out—
which of the two is dreaming the other

Traduction de Dana Shishmanian. Parût dans http://www.latoiledelun.fr/
English translation by Flavia Cosma, previously published in http://ragazine.cc/2016/07/3-poems-by-ara-alexandre-shishmanian/

Ara Alexandre Shishmanian est historien des religions, auteur de plusieurs études sur l’Inde védique et la Gnose, parues dans des publications de spécialité en Belgique, France, Italie, Roumanie, États-Unis. Il est également l’auteur de 15 volumes de poèmes parus en Roumanie depuis 1997.

Ara Alexandre Shishmanian is author of several studies in Vedic literature and Gnosis, written in French and English and published in specialty revues and collective volumes in Belgium, France, Italy, Romania, United States. He also has published fifteen collections of poems in Romanian. His first collection in French, Fenêtre avec esseulement (Window with solitude), translated by Dana Shishmanian, was published in 2014 by Editions Harmattan (Paris).