Alan Whitehorn: Searching For Mother Armenia

My friend Vasken told me of his unsuccessful search.
He had looked all over,
but could not find a post card of the towering statue of Mother Armenia.
I said I knew of some good gift shops and bookstores to try.

And so, I set out on my hunt.
Last year, the cards had been aplenty.
But as I searched,
I gradually realised that this year seemed to be another story.
Wherever I looked, I could not find such a card.

Disappointed, I returned to the hotel apparently defeated.
But I would try one last place.
The new gift shop in the hotel,
athough not fully stocked,
might have it.
The young lady said she had only one postcard of Mother Armenia,
but it was in a box of 60 various cards.
I certainly didn't want that many,
and so I politely declined.
As I began to go out of the shop,
the lovely lady graciously offered me the single card.
When I offered to pay,
she generously declined.
It was her gift to me.

I, in turn, passed on the special card to the receptionist,
who, subsequently, gave the precious item to Vasken.
He was delighted that he could now send the image of Mother Armenia
to his dear friend in America.

And so,
we discover the true spirit
in many small kind deeds.



Alan Whitehorn, May 2008, Yerevan

Alan Whitehorn: Crossing Yerevan

May 14, 2007–March 19, 2008

The traffic moves so swiftly and unexpectedly.
I wonder when to cross the street.
I fear for my safety at each major intersection.
And so, in cowardly fashion,
I follow the young stylish woman,
or the middle aged mother with child,
or even the elderly metzmama.
In so doing,
I arrive safely,
but somewhat sheepishly.
It may be a man’s world,
but I follow a woman’s lead.



Copyright Alan Whitehorn. Crossing Yerevan, submitted by the author, is to appear in a volume "Selected Poems" scheduled for fall 2008/spring 2009.

Alan Whitehorn: Hayastan

We journey in search of a path,
back to Ararat,
back to my ancestors' village,
along centuries-old trails
that meander across the dry, rocky landscape
that I call my homeland.
To cradle a bit of soil
amidst my weathered fingers
that have been numbed
from too much pain.
And so,
I caress the soil to my face
to feel one last time
my Hayastan,
my precious Hayastan.



Copyright Alan Whitehorn December 14, 2007. Used here by kind permission of the author.

Alan Whitehorn: Armenian Poetry Project

One by one the Armenian poets,
scattered in the diaspora,
come to the website.
It is quite a revelation to me.

Several nights a week I sample from the menu
I taste the flavours of Armenia.
I hear the sounds of family and friendship.
I experience the profound feelings of loss and love,
and the quest to read more from the menu....
for so much is still to come….

September 15, 2007

Copyright Alan Whitehorn. Used here by kind permission of the author.

Alan Whitehorn: Struggling With Memories of a Genocide

My grandmother
an orphan child of the Armenian genocide
lost
her entire family,
Genocide Denial
and never knew her real name
or her true age.
She endured
five years in refugee camps
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
before traveling to Egypt
to be adopted by an Armenian family.
Now part of the scattered diaspora,
a marriage was arranged with an older man.
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
Metzmama’s first child
was a daughter -
my mother.
It was the beginning of a family.
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
Soon, a second child was expected,
but my grandfather
could not cope,
with the awful memories of genocide.
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
Grandfather committed suicide.
He became another victim
choosing to end his suffering.
Grandmother was now an orphan
turned widow.
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
Somehow,
Metzmama endured.
A child prematurely aged,
but still a survivor
with memories and responsibilities.
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
With the help of a new husband,
she raised three children
who, in turn, had four grandchildren,
and still more great grandchildren.
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
Genocide Denial
We live
We remember
We are even willing to forgive.
But first,
we demand one thing:
Stop genocide denial.



Alan Whitehorn



Unpublished poem, drafted while attending the Zoryan summer workshop on comparative genocide and human rights, Toronto, August, 2007.

Alan Whitehorn: Echmiadzin

Echmiadzin the holiest shrine for apostolic Armenian Christians.
So old, so traditional, so revered,
yet filled with contradictions.
A Christian Church, but built on pagan ruins.
A priest walking alone in black robe,
while talking on a cell phone.
A quiet contemplative garden,
yet just beside a children's brightly coloured amusement park.
Old traditional grave stones and khachkars
next to a newly-filled earthen grave,
which is adorned with 24 red carnations
and dedicated to "Bob".

From Ancestral Voices: Identity, Ethnic Roots and a Genocide Remembered, published by Hybrid Publishing. Used here by kind permission of the author.

Alan Whitehorn: Atom Egoyan's Calendar

One calendar year in Hayastan;
twelve months, twelve churches, twelve photographs.
A husband and a wife and the ancient mountains.
With traditions so steep, so precipitous, so rocky.
A panorama so sweeping, so fear-gripping, so memorable.

One calendar year in the diaspora;
twelve months, twelve sanctuaries, twelve peoples met.
A man and a woman and an impersonal city.
Modernity, so alienating, so lonely, so paralyzing.
A nostalgia so deep, so profound, so unshakeable.

One calendar year after another
remembering Hayastan
and a loved one
far away.


From Ancestral Voices: Identity, Ethnic Roots and a Genocide Remembered, published by Hybrid Publishing. Used here by kind permission of the author.

Alan Whitehorn: Armenia Between East and West

Armenia
so rooted in Christian Eastern religion
and now increasingly on Western technology,
Khachkars and cell phones.
The land of a unique Indo-European script,
but also with street signs in Cyrillic and English.
So much history, such dramatic current events, so hopeful a future.
Turn the street corner
and shift back or forward a century or two.
Elderly stone carver or middle-aged e-email businessman.
Old widow praying in a church
or high-heeled young lady strutting along the boulevard.
Armenia on the Silk Road
between East and West,
where caravans meander up and down,
along winding paths through rugged ancient mountains.
Armenia: between East and West.
Always between.


From Ancestral Voices: Identity, Ethnic Roots and a Genocide Remembered, published by Hybrid Publishing. Used here by kind permission of the author.

Alan Whitehorn: Obsidian Obsession

The quest for a special rock
to take back from my ancestral homeland
begins with an existential question.
What sort of rock should it be?
Then I ask:
Where will I find it?
What shape will it have?
I repeat my questions to several different persons,
and each time the answer is unanimous:
“Black obsidian rock
to be found on the road to Lake Sevan”.
A volcanic rock formed under enormous pressure so long ago
seems apt for a land that has witnessed so much suffering in its history.
The colour black evokes memories of the genocide.
The rock’s hardness is a reminder of the toughness needed to survive in such a rugged land.
And thus at a rock cut on the road to Lake Sevan,
I cross the four lane highway and select my precious obsidian.
And I hold in my hand a piece of my ancestral homeland.

Alan Whitehorn

This poem appears by kind permission of the author.

Alan Whitehorn: two poems about Hrant Dink

Hrant Dink



In the fields of Anatolia,
another,
more recent victim of genocide
joins his ancestors.
As we did before,
we mourn the loss.


January 20, 2007



Remembering Hrant Dink




Almost a century ago,
amidst the crumbling Ottoman Empire,
Turkish militants slaughtered over a million Christian Armenians,
piercing forever the heart and soul of the Armenian nation.
These Young Turk revolutionaries ruthlessly grabbed
the victims’ ancestral lands and possessions.
Today,
the Turkish government denies that its predecessors
even committed a genocide.
And yet,
this state is ever so fearful that the beam of truth will pierce the cloud of lies.
The government in Ankara prosecutes the few brave writers and activists
who dare to question the regime’s repeated lies.
Meanwhile,
fanatics try to finish the deeds of long ago.
An assassin’s bullets
rip through yet another Armenian.
The mindless brutality continues to shock.But the spirit of one special man and a nation survive.
An empathetic chorus cries out:
“We remember. We do not forget.
Truth will prevail.”
And so, we raise our voice in peaceful protest.
We remember the multitude of dead, as if it were yesterday,
and the ever so brave man who died today.
If need be,
we will even mourn tomorrow’s dead.
But we will no longer be silent victims.
No more.
Never again.
We say ‘Never again’.
We remember
that piercing pain.
We remember.
And we are resolute.
Hrant,
we remember
your brave resistance.

Hrant Dink,
another victim of genocide,
but not a silent one.
Your voice inspires us still.
We remember.


January 19-20, 2007



These poems appear with the kind permission of Alan Whitehorn. His new book Ancestral Voices: Identity, Ethnic Roots and a Genocide Remembered will be published April 2007 by Hybrid Publishing Co-op Ltd., Canada