Friday, April 26, 2024

Jen Siraganian: How To Teach Atom Egoyan’s Ararat To Twelfth Graders

Pause the film. Ask them to Google the Armenian Genocide.


Lazy but keeps my voice from quaking.

A girl in a hoodie looks up from her computer,

why weren’t we taught this in school?


Toss (underhand) key words. Denial. Forgetting. Jailed journalists.


One student asks to be excused,

half-hides his phone in his sleeve. Is he Turkish

or just rejected from Stanford?


Don’t tell them I’m Armenian. 


A colleague told me she recommended a book

about the genocide to her student. She was called

into the headmaster’s office the next day.


Turn the movie back on. 


The boy and his phone haven’t returned.

Maybe he’s texting his mom. Maybe I’ll be fired.

A moth lands on the screen. I swat it away.


Don’t nudge the girl in the hoodie when she falls asleep. 


The boy slips back in the room as a mother

is raped on a horse cart. The camera tilts down.

She is holding her daughter’s hand. 


Mention nothing about this morning, wrapping a towel around my hair, asking the shower-steamed mirror if Turks would take me.


After the credits, a girl comments,

Schindler’s List made me feel more. Another

complains, the Turks were too villainized.  


As they leave class, don’t speak of my grandmother who was raped, or what happened to her mother. Smile, the secrets lodged like seeds in teeth.

_____________

Jen Siraganian, Los Gatos Poet Laureate, has been featured in San Francisco Chronicle, the Mercury News, and NPR’s KALW. Her chapbook Fracture was released in 2014, and her writing has appeared in Best New Poets, Southwest Review, Cream City Review, Mid-American Review, and other journals and anthologies.


Reprinted from MIZNA

Tuesday, April 16, 2024

Ատրինէ Տատրեան: ՎԻԷԹՆԱՄՑԻՆ

Աչքեր մթին

  կեանքի եզրին

ծուռ բերաններ

  խորշոմ ճակտին

յօնքեր դարձած

  ու քէն ըրած

իրենց սրտին

  պայքար անզէն

  անհաւասար

  կռիւ

  ցրիւ:

 

Ունի սակայն,

  սիրտը յուզող

  հերոսութիւն

  ու լեռներու

  մացառներու

  ապառաժին

  վիէթնամցին...

 

Մահը իրն է

  մահը խրոխտ

  մահը խորհուրդ

  հայրենիքին

  փրկութիւն

  վիէթնամցին,

 

Հպարտ է ան

  վիէթնամցին

  Հերոսացած,

Արեւներէն ուժը առած

  վիէթնամցին...

սիրտն է ազնիւ

բազուկն է յաղթ

հողով յուռթի

կրնայ կռուիլ

Վարդանի պէս

Վիէթնամցին

Վահանի պէս

հալածողին

  ինկած սուրին

  չըլլար գերին

  վիէթնամցին:

 

Թող ամչնան

անոնք որոնք՝

փոքր են սրտով

եւ կը չափուին

փոքր ազգի մը

մեծ այդ սրտով:

 

  Լայն ճակատով

  սեւ քու մորթով

  փայլուն աչքով

  վիէթնամցի՛...

  լաւ կը ճանչնամ

  քու կռուողի

  քու հերոսի

           սի՛րտդ

  վիէթնամցի...

  լաւ կը ճանչնամ

  տոհմդ հերոս

  իմ տոհմիս պէս

  որ միշտ գիտէ

          մեռնի՛լ...

  հերոսօրէն

  նոյնքան սակայն,

          ապրիլ...

          ապրիլ:


Ատրինէ Տատրեան

 Լոյս տեսած է «Պայքար» (Պոլիս), 11 Յուլիս 1968

 

Wednesday, February 21, 2024

UNTITLED by JOSEPH POLADIAN

I

Am Cupid’s daughter.

Mistake and design begot me.

Under the silver sun,

I brush away my identity.

A few blots here, a few strokes there,

And all the men gather round me.

The people above,

Impeached,

Glare down at me,

Yet, still I dance

And cherish this ineffable circumstance.

I spend the nights

Swinging between restless arms,

Swathed in sordid kisses

And garnished with love bites.

Beyond this place

Of discord and hate,

I move my hips

And feel the night

Gently stroke my face

With the long, dark blades of its fingers.

I go home,

Smelling like a thousand men.

My flamboyance

Lures natural nonconformists

Out of their comfort.

I shake their grounds

With every coaxing sway,

Until I mitigate their pangs

Of unjustified guilt.

Passersby under the sun

Think I’m a harlequin.

But all I am

Is a goddess,

Devoid of coarse remorse.

My very being is nothing

But benign poison.

When the harrowing hour of the dawn strikes,

Ghost-quiet as every truth awakes,

Then,

And only then,

Does my freedom disintegrate

Back into the infinite sunset.

Only then,

Do I see

What they see

Only then,

Just then,

Do I remember,

I am somebody’s son.


This poem was previously published in Rusted Radishes, the Beirut Literary and Art Journal, founded in 2012. 

Joseph Poladian

Joseph Poladian is a 20-year-old student of English literature at the Lebanese University. He has been passionate about the written word ever since he knew what different combinations of the alphabet can do. Being an avid reader, he started writing his own poems and short stories, experimenting with words, genres, and structure.

Sunday, February 11, 2024

Arpine Konyalian Grenier RIP



Suchness, What Noise


Daftar blue dualities intervene to convene
lines and shapes of context and word
levitation surmises

        remember architecture?

the tool-master’s need stands in the way
congruence and correlation fester
main tenant
                    full scale social/political lungs oh yes

        transience

how different that is from all things durable
to come together to just become so
this and that
experience

conditioned and mediated ausgang haben
how is ownership generated then?
(some rocks at Death Valley are walking they say)

gauge symmetries are unobservable
what I say to my love is the song
chew it slightly for taste

I wanted a last word with you
no schnell no halt
no gyavoor
                    the rub is otherly
déjà rêvė déjà parlė
déjà lu
                    vėcue



what social basis do I come from?

Published in Word For/Word




I and U at IU and the Dogwoods



Ajune in Armenian is what remains after passing
Ajine in Arabic is yeast which makes bread
living continues Ajine to Ajune
to Ajine and so on

                        said Arpine, and passed



Arpine Konyalian Grenier, a frequent contributor to APP, died on January 9, 2024.