Archie Minasian: The Message

Though I go my way calmly,
humble in countenance,
know, my love,
my soul is loud with rebuke,
my mien restrained,
my desire fierce.


Selected poems, Ashod Press, 1986. Copyright by Helen Minasian. 

Archie Minasian: Memories of my Father

the wind spoke to me
I went to the orchard,
leaves came down
of every kind
with busy whisperings
I could not understand.


Selected poems, Ashod Press, 1986. Copyright by Helen Minasian. 

Archie Minasian: The Workers

In my presence
the men work feverishly at their tasks
denying themselves tobacco
and conversation.


In my absence,
like air bags expiring,
they link to comfortable places
and roll cigarettes
and discuss cheap labor.

Selected poems, Ashod Press, 1986. Copyright by Helen Minasian. 

Archie Minasian: The Holy War

We go to the meadow,
a small army,
We are going to gather mushrooms,
and fire wood.
We carry spade and axe
and gunny sacks.


Nothing will stop us.




Selected poems, Ashod Press, 1986. Copyright by Helen Minasian. 

Archie Minasian: Parlor Talk

The guests sat on the new sofa,
they talked of old things
we sat on old chairs
and talked of new things.


They talked of new things and grew old,
We talked of old things and dashed out.






Selected poems, Ashod Press, 1986. Copyright by Helen Minasian. 

Archie Minasian - A Tribute

Archie (Khatchik) Minasian passed away 25 years ago on Thanksgiving. His concise, beautiful poems have long been favorites of mine and readers of APP. This week, we will honor Archie's memory with a few more selections of his work.


Lola Koundakjian
Editor and Producer 
Armenian Poetry Project

Archie Minasian: The Road

We sit, and gazing on the hills
My thoughts to wild.
I see the road that led me to her house in snow.
And Autumn just begun,
I cannot bear the long months in my mind,
or push the drift.


They bring me raisins, figs, and dates, 
And press me to the wine.
They see my father in my face
and ask of home.
I give strange answers.

Hairenik, 1934-1939. An anthology of short stories and poems by young Armenian writers in the United States, and translations of selected short stories from the original Armenian, collected from issues of the Hairenik weekly, 1934-1938 inclusive. With an introduction by  William Saroyan. 

Archie Minasian: The Tiger Wind

The wind,
playing in the violets,
sprang upon me.


Oh! I thought,
if I could be so familiar
with her.
____________________________


Published in ARMENIAN-NORTH AMERICAN POETS: AN ANTHOLOGY (St-Jean-sur-Richelieu, Manna Publishing, 1974), Lorne Shirinian, editor.


In 1945, Khatchik Minasian won the Edwin Markham Gold Medal for Poetry. He was born in Fresno, CA in 1913.


El Viento del Tigre
(Traducción de Carolina Contino)
El viento,
jugando en las violetas
saltaba sobre mí.

Oh! pensé,
si pudiera serle a ella
así de familiar.

Khatchig (Archie) Minasian: The Little Feet

Click here for the audio clip The Little Feet read by Lola Koundakjian.



We mark a patch of early snow
with little feet
quite deep and neat.

There's not a place we wish to go
with sheets of chill
upon a hill.

There's not a cure our steps will show
in any track
you follow back.

There's not a thing we wish to know
with little feet
quite deep and neat.

Khatchig (Archie) Minasian

Archie [Khatchig] Minasian: Becoming Great

We look at Goethe,
and Schiller,
huge bronze statues
in the park,


and we think,
someday we'll be like them --
you Goethe and I Schiller.


Then through narrow park lanes
we crawl along,
solemn and confident,
eloquent and witty,
ignoring the boys that pass on bicycles
and the girls in shorts
carrying tennis rackets.



Volviéndonos grandes

Traducción de Carolina Contino


Observamos a Goethe,
y Schiller,
enormes estatuas de bronce
en el parque,

y pensamos,
algún día seremos como ellos,
tú Goethe y yo Schiller.

Luego, por los angostos caminos del parque
nos arrastramos lentamente,
solemnes y confidentes,
ingeniosos y elocuentes,
ignorando a los chicos que pasan en bicicleta
y a las chicas en shorts
con sus raquetas de tennis.

Archie [Khatchig] Minasian: The Cure

Click on the audio link The Cure read by Lola Koundakjian.



Restless,
I pace my little room,
swing the windows and look out.

The trees on the hill are tossing madly;
I watch them,
I am thrilled at their madness.

I turn to my bare room satisfied.

Archie Minasian: A Bald Prospect

In our youth
neigbor Sanasar and I
passed for twins.

Now that time has passed,
I wonder if we haven't taken
too long to discover
there's not a hair of truth
between us.



From "Armenian-American Poets: A Bilingual Anthology", ed. and trans. Garig Basmadjian (Detroit, MI: Alex Manoogian Cultural Fund of the Armenian General Benevolent Union, 1976).

Archie [Khatchig] Minasian: The Inner Joys

While my friends sought the glitter,
I followed my inner joys,
tramping the gardens and the wilds
in harmony with nature.
I bared my soul
and sought in return
the ways of her infinite mysteries
that nourished my questionings and desires.

I sought and was nurtured,
I to her giving and she to my quest.

I found in time that we were one,
exposed to an abiding law.

When the winds of Time arrived
and swept the weary fields and woods,
and called on all things to submit,
I too as one in harmony,
touched by the icy couriers,
knew my quest had been fulfilled
and naught remained and summoning.

"Prepare thy hearth," I thought,
"for what has been
shall surely be again
for he who cares to seek this room."

Published in ARMENIAN-NORTH AMERICAN POETS: AN ANTHOLOGY (St-Jean-sur-Richelieu, Manna Publishing, 1974), Lorne Shirinian, editor.

Archie [Khatchig] Minasian: A Romp With the Wind

the wind threw rose petals at me,
tugged my hair
and pushed me around.


flattered
I ran with the wind
and called it names.
____________________________


Published in ARMENIAN-NORTH AMERICAN POETS: AN ANTHOLOGY (St-Jean-sur-Richelieu, Manna Publishing, 1974), Lorne Shirinian, editor.


In 1945, Khatchik Minasian won the Edwin Markham Gold Medal for Poetry. He was born in Fresno, CA in 1913.

Un revolcón con el Viento(Traducción de Carolina Contino)
el viento me arrojó pétalos de rosa,
tiró de mi pelo
y me atropelló.

halagado
corrí con el viento
y lo insulté.