Alan Whitehorn: The Battle of Vank

 

May 24 - August 22, 2005

The Battle of Vank

Well off the main highway travelling North in Nagorno Karabagh,

on the way to the monastery at Gandzasar,

we travel a country dirt road for many miles.

In contrast, the fields are lush green,

with grazing sheep, horses and foals.

We admire the mountain view.

We pass the occasional hut but little else.

Suddenly, I observe the sight of rusted metal.

We quickly pass by four destroyed armored personnel vehicles.

They have formed a column of death.

It is a grim reminder of the bitter war for independence.

The hydro sub-station, now intact,

was no doubt the primary target a decade ago.

I did not dare take a photo.

This a regime under siege and martial law.

And I am a civilian foreigner,

just passing through.

But what happened to the crew?

Someone surely knew.

Many probably died that day,

 that is all I can say.

I am a civilian foreigner,

just passing through.

Many probably died that day,

 that is all I can say

I am a civilian foreigner,

just passing through.

The poem was appears in Ancestral Voices: Identity, Ethnic Roots and a Genocide Remembered (Winnipeg, Hybrid Publishing, 2007).

Alan Whitehorn's contributions to our Call for Poems on the topic of epidemics, illness, medicine, death and healing

Alan Whitehorn, of Kingston Ontario, has shared this original work. APP thanks him 

Poetic Times

Living in self isolation
seems to create a self-reflective
and writing milieu.
It is the proverbial silver lining
in a very dark cloud.

                                                    Alan Whitehorn

Alan Whitehorn: An Old Woman Reaches Out

Tear upon tear flow,
one by one
seemingly forever.
But ever so slowly
each tear also releases:
first the fear, then the anger,
next the frustration,
and lastly the despair.
And so eventually,
one day a child is born.
An elderly woman’s
weathered hand
reaches out
and gently touches
a young infant’s
tiny fingers.
At that precious moment,
hope and love begin anew.
In touching the hand
of the newborn Anoush,
my metzmama Siroun
could see a better and happier future.
In the end,
love prevailed over hate,
and life over death.

Alan Whitehorn

Alan Whitehorn: Olden Times

These days

I am reading lots

Writing less

Worrying more

And mostly aging.

Alan Whitehorn

Alan Whitehorn: Traveling Slower

As I gaze out upon the large intercity expressway,

I know all too well that I am no longer speeding in the fast route.

I am now in the slow lane.

But at least, I am no longer stopped in the parking lot.

And the old engine is still running,

although I can hear creaking sounds that have never be present before.

I just hope the car body and engine hold up a little further.

I still have a long way I want to go.

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

Alan Whitehorn's work in Grakan Tert

The Armenian Poetry Project is happy to read that Alan Whitehorn, a regular contributor to the Armenian Poetry Project, has been translated into Armenian and published in Grakan Tert.

Alan Whitehorn: Armenia and the Double Helix

Two intertwined strands,

not quite identical,

yet from the same original genetic source.

Positioned differently in crucial ways.

Like a complex double helix,

Armenia and the Diaspora

intertwined,

but also distinct.

Each needing the other

to sustain a dynamic and vibrant community.

Hayastan and Armenia, twin strands,

defining each other.

A complex nation

that has struggled to survive

and is a wonder

to behold.

Alan Whitehorn

Alan Whitehorn: Travels, Friendship and Connecting

Part of the joy of travel is getting to meet incredible new friends.

Yet, part of travel is the frustration in realizing

that often it is difficult to see each again

before too long a time has passed.

And so,

we live in hope of seeing each other once more,

just East of Mt. Ararat.

And then on that special day,

we will raise our glass to toast each other

and a friendship that trascends

the oceans and continents.

Till then,

safe travels dear soul.

Safe travels on our journey.

 

 

Alan Whitehorn            

Poet Alan Whitehorn in Gragan Tert

Alan Whitehorn: Shipping Protocols

Despite much and costly delay already,
some say we should not set sail at this time.
It might risk a nearby sinking ship, with it valued cargo.
It might create more jeopardy.
Should we, in turn, reset for a different course in this hazardous channel?
Or should we advise our comrades to finally abandon their listing ship?
After all, it has been adrift for most of this past year.
That vessel is obviously no longer under control and seems less and less buoyant.
Perhaps it is time, before it is too late,
to clear the damaged ship from the channel.
It is urgent that others proceed in these important waters.
We all might be better off to try another simpler and more seaworthy vessel.
The shoals and currents are dangerous enough,
without facing the additional risks of drifting wreckage.
Please advise the Port Authority as to the final decision.
Safe voyage, dear friends.
Safe voyage.

Poetry reading in Toronto, ONT, Canada

Alan Whitehorn: The Verbs of Genocide

Categorized
Stereotyped
Stigmatised
Marginalized
Disenfranchised
Deprived
Victimized
Robbed
Ghettoised
Deported
Stripped
Raped
Tortured
Murdered
Mutilated
Dismembered
Discarded
Denied

Forgotten?

Alan Whitehorn: An Armenian Novel

Each year I go to Armenia and stay for a month.
It is like reading a novel.
I read one chapter after another.
At first, the number and newness of the characters are overwhelming.
The setting seems unfamiliar
and the story not yet developed.
But as I turn the pages,
and read one chapter after another,
year after year,
I learn more about each of the local characters.
Fascinating new persons are introduced into the story
and the plot becomes increasingly intriguing.
I eagerly want to know more about these people
and their lives.
I am pulled into their profoundly moving accounts.
It gets harder and harder to put the book down.
And so,
I begin reading more intensely and more swiftly.
In fact, instead of being just a reader,
I feel like I am transformed into a minor character in the story.
I am caught up into the drama.
I have just read another chapter,
and want to race onto the next,
to see how the story ends.

Alan Whitehorn: One

One historic year.
One cataclysmic event.
One unforgettable bleak memory.
One ominous political concept.
One people almost annihilated.
One blood-stained colour.

One orphan child,
and then another,
and another...

Somehow, a nation survives.
One extended family grows.
One searing memory penetrates to the bone.
One horrific deed now a people’s defining identity.
One people unable and unwilling to forget.
One terrible deed,
and endless nightmares it did beget.
We do not forget that one historic year.
One catastrophic event that defines who I am,
and who I always will be,
Now and forever.




This poem appears courtesy of Alan Whitehorn. It has appeared in "The Armenian Genocide" [with Lorne Shirinian] and "Ancestral Voices".

Quote for the Month of January

"Poetry is my refuge. But it is not without its own visionary critique and, I trust, message of hope".


Alan Whitehorn

Alan Whitehorn: The Cascade

There is the famous Cascade in Yerevan.
From the surrounding hills,
its waters gently spill down
the white stone marble steps,
from one garden terrace to another.
Finally and spectacularly, it reaches the city.
It is an impressive and beautiful sight.

But there is another cascade
in this land of three million persons.
As I am introduced to one individual,
that person,
in turn,
introduces me to another,
and another,
and still yet,
another.
Soon it becomes an exhilarating torrent.
And I am overwhelmed by the glorious cascade.

Alan Whitehorn: Coffee Paradoxes

In a society so poor,
what is striking
is the number of stores selling large flat screen TVs.

In a society with so much pollution,
what is puzzling
is the number of disposable plastic bags for everything.

In a polity where the state-media attempt to control the message,
what is challenging
is the number of cell phones.

In a society with such persistent poverty,
what is shocking
is the multitude of high-end coffee shops.

Perhaps in those smoke-filled cafes,
they reflect on these paradoxes.
Or maybe,
they just sip their coffee.

Alan Whitehorn: North Avenue

In a stone cutter's efficiency,
the new North Avenue slices through historic old neighbourhoods.
In place of old three-story buildings,
new ten storey high-rises dominate,
with their stunning architecture
and sky-high prices.
Already, fashionable boutiques and trendy bars
have opened
on the ground floor.
Yet, to my surprise,
scores of families seemed to mill about.
I wondered:
'What is so fascinating about this newly completed block?',
Day after day, at about the same time,
early in the evening,
without fail,
crowds of families appeared.
It is true that the traffic-free boulevard provides safe relief
from the frighteningly swift cars.
Still, it seemed a pre-occupation with an avenue
and new shops
that I could not fully comprehend.

But tonight, I finally understand.
I was told by a politics student
that silent protesters gather on this boulevard
to show their unwillingness to accept the presidential election results.

To my amazement,
I had been amidst a protest,
and did not even know it!

What kind of political science professor am I?
It seems I need to have my prescription glasses checked.
I also need to listen to the students more.


Alan Whitehorn, May 2008, Yerevan

Alan Whitehorn: Studying Genocide

The more I study genocide,
the less I feel I know.
The enormous magnitude of the suffering,
the vastness of the tragic personal accounts,
the multitude of social, economic, political and cultural causes,
and the almost uncountable number of victims.
The continuation and new iterations of the terrible deeds,
all overwhelm.

And so,
I continue the long journey into the dark night
in hopes that eventually I will understand
and find the light.


Alan Whitehorn, May 2008, Yerevan