Զաւէն Պիպեռեան: ԸՍԻ-ԸՍԱՒ

Click here for the audio recording read by Nora Baroudjian

Կաղանդ է կ'ըսեն կոր, ըսի,

Ի՞նչ ընեմ, ըսաւ,

Բան մը մ'ըներ, ըսի,

Բան մը չեմ ըներ կոր, ըսաւ,

Ինչո՞ւ չես ըներ կոր, ըսի,

Ինծի՛ ինչ, ըսաւ,

Դուն մարդ չե՞ս, ըսի,

-Չեմ գիտեր, ըսաւ:

Մեզմէ չե՞ս, ըսի,

Ի՞նչ գիտնամ, ըսաւ,

Ի՞նչ գիտես, ըսի,

Ուտել գիտեմ, ըսաւ,

Ի՞նչ կ'ուտես, ըսի,

Ի՞նչ որ գտնամ, ըսաւ,

Ինչո՞ւ կ'ուտես, ըսի,

Ապրելու համար, ըսաւ,

Ինչո՞ւ կ'ապրիս, ըսի,

-Չեմ գիտեր, ըսաւ:

Հարցուր, ըսի,

Որո՞ւ հարցնեմ, ըսաւ,

Խիղճիդ հարցուր, ըսի,

Խի՞ղճը ով է, ըսաւ,

Դո՞ւն ով ես, ըսի,

-Չեմ գիտեր, ըսաւ:

Ծնունդ է կ'ըսեն կոր, ըսի,

Ո՞վ ծներ է, ըսաւ,

Փրկիչը, ըսի,

Ետիգուլէ է, ըսաւ,

Աս ուրիշ փրկիչ է, ըսի,

Չեմ ճանչնար, ըսաւ,

Երջանի՞կ ես, ըսի,

-Չեմ գիտեր, ըսաւ:

Ո՞ւր պիտի երթաս, ըսի,

Ե՞րբ, ըսաւ,

Կաղանդին գիշերը, ըսի,

Ո՞ւր երթամ, ըսաւ,

Ո՞ւր կ'երթաս, ըսի,

Կամուրջին տակ, ըսաւ,

Ի՞նչ ընելու, ըսի,

Քնանալու, ըսաւ,

Ինչո՞ւ կը քնանաս, ըսի,

-Չեմ գիտեր, ըսաւ:

Դրամ ունի՞ս, ըսի,

Չունիմ, ըսաւ,

Ինչո՞ւ չունիս, ըսի,

Չեն տար կոր, ըսաւ,

Աշխատէ, ըսի,

Գործ չկայ, ըսաւ,

Ինչո՞ւ չկայ, ըսի,

-Չեմ գիտեր, ըսաւ:

Ժամ երթանք, ըսի,

Ի՞նչ ընելու, ըսաւ,

Տօն է, ըսի,

Ինծի՞ ինչ, ըսաւ,

Կ'աղօթենք, ըսի,

Ինչո՞ւ աղօթենք, ըսաւ,

-Չեմ գիտեր, ըսի:

Մնաս բարով, ըսաւ,

Երթաս բարով, ըսի, 

Օդը աղուոր է, ըսաւ,

Ո՞ւր կը տեսնամ քեզ, ըսի,

Ամէն տեղ, ըսաւ, 

Մինչեւ ե՞րբ, ըսի,

Մինչեւ մահ, ըսաւ,

Պիտի մեռնի՞ս, ըսի,

Օր մը, ըսաւ,

Ինչո՞ւ համար, ըսի,

Ե՜ս գիտեմ, ըսաւ: 

1945, Պոլիս 

I Said...He Said

They say it's New Year's Eve, l said

What am l supposed to do? He said

Nothing, l said

I don't intend to do anything, he said

Why aren't you doing something? l said

It doesn't concern me, he said

Aren't you a human being? I said

I don't know, he said

Aren't you one of us? I said

I don't know, he said

What DO you know? I said

I know how to eat, he said

What do you eat? I said

Whatever l find, he said

Why do you eat? I said

To live, he said

Why do you live? I said

I don't know, he said

Ask, l said

Who? He said

Ask your conscience, l said

Who is 'conscience'? He said

Who are YOU? I said

I don't know, he said

They say it's the Holy Birth [Christmas], l said

Who's born? He said

The Saviour, l said

It's the one in Yedikule, he said

This is another saviour, l said

I don't know him, he said

Are you happy? I said

I don't know, he said

Where are you going? I said

When? He said

On New Year's Eve, l said

Where am l supposed to go? He said

Where are you going now? I said

Under the bridge, he said

What for? I said

To sleep, he said

Why do you sleep? I said

I don't know, he said 

Do you have money? I said

I don't have any, he said 

Why? I said

I'm not given any, he said

Work, l said

There are no jobs, he said

Why? I said

I don't know, he said

Let's go to church, l said

What for? He said

It's a holiday, l said

It's got nothing to do with me, he said

We'll pray, l said

Why do we have to pray? He said

I don't know, l said

Goodbye, he said

Goodbye, l said

The weather is nice, he said

Where am l likely to see you again? I said

Everywhere, he said

Until when? I said

Until death, he said

Are you going to die? I said

One day, he said

Why? I said

I know why, he said

Translated by Z.T. Balian

 Zaven Biberyan (Armenian: Զաւէն Պիպեռեան; 1921 in Istanbul, Turkey – October 4, 1984) was an Armenian writer, editor, and author from Turkey.

Կարօ Կարապետեան։ ՅԻՇԷ…

Click here for an audio clip of the poem

Յիշէ՛, խեղճ հոգիս, երբ մընաս մինակ, 

Կոյրերը ամէն – մութ հագած մարդեր,

Մութ՝ գիշերներէն, լոյսերէն անցնող, 

Ծովէն՝ օրօրուող, կեանքի հանդէսէն ։

Յիշէ՛ դուն յաճախ խուլերը նաեւ.

Երգին հովերուն, ծառերուն hեւքին, 

Խոր զանգակներուն, ջուրերուն թափուող, 

Եւ նուագներուն տեսնողն անականջ։

Յիշէ՛ համրը դուն, որ խեղդէ պիտի

Ձայնը հոգիէն շրթներուն իջնող, 

Եւ պայթի ընդմիշտ խանդը իր ուժին,

Մէջն իր ձեւերուն խօսքեր փընտըռող։

Դուն կա՛ղն ալ յիշէ, որ կ'ուզէ քալել

Ու վազել առոյգ մարդոց պէս ամէն, 

Ընել շարժումներ հոգին թարգմանող, 

Բարձրանալ ժայռեր. թռչո՜ւնը ապրիլ։

Յիշէ՛ եւ բոլոր հիւանդներն անզօր.

Զարնըւածներն այն, մարդէն, Աստուծմէն։

Յիշէ՛ ամենուն ցաւերը մըթին, 

Որ քո'ւ եւ անոնց վիշտերը կիսուին ։

Անել

ԱՇՈՒՂ ՇԵՐԱՄ։ ՊԱՐՏԷԶՈՒՄ ՎԱՐԴԵՐ ԲԱՑՈՒԱԾ

Click here to hear the song

Պարտէզում վարդեր բացուած`
Կը սպասեն սոխակի,
Առանց սոխակ թառամած,
Կարօտ են պսակի:
Արդեօք ո՞վ է, դուռն է թակում,
Ա՛խ սիրտս կը դողայ,
Իմ սիրուհիս, ո՞ւր է գնում,
Ա՛խ, սիրտս կը խաղայ:
Գետակի ալիքները
Գնում են խայտալով,
Սիրահարի աչերից
Արտասուք թափելով:
Սիրուհին տանը նստած`
Սպասում է եարին,
Քնարը ձեռքին բռնած
Նուագում լալագին:
Թիթեռը ճրագի մօտ
Շրջում է անդադար,
Մինչ իր վերջ սիրակարօտ
Չունի նա օր, դադար:
Սիրուհին տանը նստած`
Գրում է նամակներ,
Խիստ տրտում կ'անցկացնէ
Իր գեղեցիկ օրեր:




ԱՇՈՒՂ ՇԵՐԱՄ




Sheram (born Grigor Talian, 20 March 1857, Alexandropol – died 7 March 1938, Yerevan) was an Armenian composer, poet-musician (gusan), and folk musician (ashug).

Lory Bedikian: On the Way to Oshagan featured in "On Being"

Click here to hear an audio clip of this reading by Pádraig Ó Tuama.

“I stop the car, cross the dirt road
to see what the old woman’s selling.
Hoping for a cold drink, an extra
postcard to write this evening, I find
her tucked behind a table, under a tarp,
fly swatters swaying above her head.
Stacks of Marlboro boxes, packs of gum
are the only things I recognize among
the odd Russian, Armenian labels.
She must not hear me, because she keeps
rolling a square of newspaper into a cone,
fills it with roasted sunflower seeds.
I ask for one, saying ‘meg hahd hahjees,’
fumbling to find a dram among my dollars.

Her eyes, the color of two almonds
rise for only a moment before she asks
with a low, coarse, parrot-voice
if I like America, if I’m married and where
exactly is this place called ‘Glendale?’
With an awkward smile I drop indifferent
answers for her, like coins in the palm.
Until this exchange I had convinced myself
that I do not look like a tourist. After all, having
an ancestral name, firm family tree, the language
ironed to my tongue since the day I was born,
how could I be just another Amerigatzi? I say
this to myself, though I’m the one with the walking
shoes, the camera, the plaid-patterned pants.

She interrupts my thoughts with ‘Welcome
to Armenia. Please take these seeds for free.’
When I extend the money, I notice her face
shrinks in the afternoon light. Back in Los Angeles
I would have insisted to pay. But with this unexpected
visit I simply remembered how I was raised,
before the textbooks, the corporate cubicles,
before I learned to get fashion magazine
haircuts, attend culturally sponsored events.
I hear my parents say, ‘Love this seven-member family
all your days and nights, learn to take every offering
with grace, no matter the given size.’
I bow my head, say thank you. She insists
it’s nothing, asks that I come back soon.

Forgetting why it was I stopped at all,
I walk back across the dirt, cracking
one open. Its shell tastes of the same
salted seeds tucked by my grandmother
into coat pockets for evening walks.
Like a small communion, I contemplate
the seed with my tongue and swallow.
I almost turn to wave, but get back
in the car. For miles around, there is nothing
but land I follow on the map.
There is nothing but this old woman
and her convenience stand
made of brick and woodon the edge of a beaten road.”

 

From The Book of Lamenting

Lory Bedikian: PANDEMIC TALLY: AT ODDS WITH MAY

Click here for an audio clip of the poem. 

Apologies, mother, that you had no funeral. It was too close

to call the priest. Shovel of dirt. Flowers. Strangers with masks

in charge of lowering the coffin. Cyber condolences. Incense.

My sons face the screens. My sons face a future without most

of the people I loved. The teacher calls on those who are fast,

fed what they want for lunch. My sons clench their teeth.

All the funding has gone to the birds. Beautiful creatures, gleaming

feathers, whose babies have their feathers combed by aardvarks

and stool pigeons. These fledgelings always get to bed on time.

Postpone the check-up, the procedure, the poetry of mourning,

there’s a pandemonium of voices coming from a white tower

full of more fowl. Where are they all coming from?

Bombs. Children and mothers die together. They didn’t get

a chance to contemplate as they did on school days. The forests

destroyed. Their husbands already buried. Conveyer belt methods.

I don’t want to talk about kin, kinship or cognac. It always ends

with maps, my father’s voice, my ancestors kneeling by graves.

I want everyone to stand up to choir it out. Even the dead.

There is no such thing as writer’s block. There is no such thing

as writer’s block. (Their favorite pencil was left in their usual café,

while the chandelier doesn’t give its typical, shrewd light).

Prison. In prison because they always wrote, even when they were

told that you are pissing off the guy in charge. The guy in charge,

when he was a boy they should have given him ripe apricots, pencils.

A reference to Donna Summer doesn’t seem to fit the tapestry. Don’t

see why not. Donna Summer lived in Los Angeles, she sang, ignited,

died. People still play her songs on the corner of Hollywood and Vine.

Dad, did you find Mom? Before she died she wanted to hear Elvis Presley

sing I Can’t Help Falling in Love With You, but I don’t know if that ever

was taken care of. She never told me if she missed you.

An antimicrobial resistant infection is not an easy thing to take care of

when almost everything is limited, when almost everyone seems

daunting with their masks and no masks and deranged attitudes.

I hear Grant Green’s Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child

while I wash another sink full of greens. Sometimes motherhood

is a well without rope or bucket. Even the blue sky still hunkers down.

Lory Bedikian

Published in Adroit Journal

LORY BEDIKIAN: BEFORE THE ELEGY, SPEAK TO HER

Click here for an audio clip of the poem. 

Zevart, before you decide to go

anywhere, let me construct a ship of books,

sailable & plenty, free of disease & car rides,

a ship anchored to everything & nothing,

Zevart of my birth, a name I will not

simplify for them. Let them say it.

Zevart. Zevart of rose petal jam & calluses,

your mother, a desert walk, her mother

hovering above sheep’s brain stew,

Zevart. Zevart. All I have left

of my first blurred sight. All that’s

left of my own name, its song —

leave now & I won’t find the impossible

argument of daybreak. Depart if you want,

but the phone will keep ringing.

Voice of Zevart. Body of Zevart.

Bathing Zevart. The weight of your body

on my arm, as if holding a country.

May you never read this, never learn

what I’ve done. A tradition never yours

this scrawled before it should be, your name

a drum, the only part I’ll borrow, and so,

Zevart. The rest can stay in their glass

cases. Remember how our folktales began?

Gar oo chee gar. Once there was and was not

a life we knew full of produce & price

tags, tell me again before you go there,

how you & one brother took James Dean

to be a god. Aleppo tired of you.

Your mother never done in the kitchen.

What is it now that I’m doing?

Did I actually think this would preserve you?

How can I close this, when a train could take you

through a tunnel, a bag of dates & walnuts

on your lap, sudden darkness while you chew,

snickering at what you were never taught.

What did I promise? Oh, yes. This.

Zevart. Zevart. Zevart.

Lory Bedikian

Published in Adroit Journal

Adrian David: When The Euphrates Ran Red

Click here for an audio clip of the poem.


In a land south of the Black Sea,
we lived together in peace
for over a thousand years.
Then darkness engulfed us,
and life became a ghastly nightmare.

Reduced to second-class subjects,
we fell prey to the ruthless empire.
Brothers who lived alongside us
turned their backs in scorn,
owing to the entrenched bigotry.

Gendarmes stormed into our homes,
and dragged us out like animals,
leading us on death marches
across the desert as the sun blazed.
Countless skulls left scattered along the way.

Our homes were torched by the mobs,
devoured by the flames of hate.
Our women, abducted, raped, and killed,
succumbing to the fangs of supremacy
Our world turned upside down.

Innocent blood saturated the earth
as humanity came to a standstill.
Headless corpses lay in stagnant ditches,
letting the Euphrates run red.
Over one million futures were stolen.

Bidding a tearful goodbye,
we who survived fled our beloved homes,
stricken by distress and fear.
We lost our kin, our land, and our liras.
Yet, the one thing we never lost was our hope.

They strived to wipe us off the map.
But we rose from the ashes and thrived.
The prayers of our forefathers were not in vain.
We Armenians are still here, going strong.
Today, tomorrow, and forevermore.

(In memory of the 1.5 million victims of the Armenian Genocide)


Adrian David writes ads by day and poetry by night. His poems explore themes of conflict, existential crises, society, and everything in between, from the mundane to the sublime.

Lola Koundakjian: The Hiroshima Project

Click here for the audio segment only of The Hiroshima Project read by the author, Lola Koundakjian.

Hiroshima

When I returned from Japan, a young acquaintance of mine said, “You went to Hiroshima? So, you’re been exposed to radiation!” That was the meanest thing anyone had ever said to me.

Lola Koundakjian


I went to Hiroshima on December 6th, 2005.
Sixty years after the artificial sun.

I arrived amidst snow showers,
To witness a destroyed city reborn.

When I informed my mother of my plans
She asked if I was depressed.

I told my travel agent I needed
To go to beg for forgiveness.

Not that I pushed the button
You didn’t push it either
[But] our collective unconsciousness did.

*****

In an exhibit in this city*
I had seen the melted glass bottles

The fused coins and the frozen clocks.
There I saw much more,

Hollowed statues of Buddha
Images of people with burns

Their skin branded if
They wore patterned clothing

Wrist watches became microwave ovens
killing people with radiation sickness
*****

Hiroshima’s boulevards today bear witness
To the shadows of humans who left by evaporation.

Statues erected by benevolent associations
For volunteer doctors and nurses

*****

The roads leading to ground zero and the Peace Dome,
The only building still standing after the Atom bomb.

The Memorial cenotaph, the eternal flame and the Peace Bell
The museum filled with teenagers from nearby towns.

This was not an easy visit, nor should it be.
I walked to my hotel in silence.

*****

Lola Koundakjian





Postscript
The only people who should be allowed to govern countries with nuclear weapons are mothers, those who are still breast-feeding their babies.

NY Times, Wed, January 20, 2010 book review of “The Last train to Hiroshima” by Charles Pellegrino, reviewed by Dwight Garner.


*NYC

Nancy Kricorian: The Survivor

Click to hear The Survivor read by the author, Nancy Kricorian. 

All this pain is for which of our sins? 

 Catholicos Vazken I, 1988 

In this dream you walk past

the school’s sheared facade;

from their desks the children

call and wave. A teacher

points at a map of Armenia.

The ceilings drop like eyelids.

 

You wake to another dream

of soot-stained faced around

a fire fueled by broken chairs.

You wish the earth would

swallow the rows of coffins

in the playing field. The living

 

search for what they want

not to find; their eyes catch

like hooks at your skin.

You should have been the

hand of God reaching into

the school--the children

 

could have climbed onto

your palm that would hover

over the town until the earth

was still. But instead they

line up to write their names

in the book at heaven’s door. 

Copyright Nancy Kricorian

ԼՕԼԱ ԳՈՒՆՏԱՔՃԵԱՆ։ Նիւ Եորքի փապուղիները

Click here for the audio clip

Բոլո՛րս, ամե՛ն կենդանի էութիւն, միմիայն ոգիներ, ոչինչի ստուերներ չե՞նք:

Ոդիսեւս
(Սոփոկլես, «Այաքս»)

Երկար են Նիւ Եորքի փապուղիները,
Երկար են ու աղմկոտ,
Երբ ամեն առտու, երբեմն ամեն իրիկուն,
Կը քալեմ իր ստորերկրեայ շաւիղներէն։

Աղմկոտ են Նիւ Եորքի փապուղիները,
Աղմկոտ են ու գարշահոտ,
Բայց ամեն առտու, երբեմն ամեն իրիկուն,
Կը քալեմ ոլորուած ուղիներէն։

Ո՞ւր են գաղտնի անցքերը,
Սենեակներն ու խուցերը։
Ո՞ւր են հսկայական միջանցքները,
Անհաւանական անկիւններն ու թակարդները։
Միմիայն երեւակայութեանս մէ՞ջ։

Հոս կը տեսնեմ տասնեակ մը
անտունիներ՝
Ձմեռը աւելի։

Հոն կը բարեւեմ կայարանին աշխատաւորները,
Գնացքները ու գետինը աւլողները,
Մէզի հոտերը ու փսխունքները սրբողները
Ձմե՛ռը շա՜տ աւելի.

Հոս կը մտածեմ թէ օր մը
պիտի հանդիպի՞մ Օրփէոսին եւ Էվրիդիկէին
Ու կը փնտրեմ զիրենք
Ամեն եկող-գացողներուն մէջ,
Ամեն առտու, երբեմն ամեն իրիկուն։

Կ՚երեւակայեմ թէ այս անգամ
Էվրիդիկէ օթոյի արկածով մահացած
Օրփէոս՝ անհեթեթ
աշխարհի մէջ կը փնտռէ իր սիրելին,
ու ինծի պէս կը քալէ
Նիւ Եորքի փապուղիներուն մէջ,
կոյրի մը պէս, ճերմակ գաւազանի մը հետ
զննելով ամեն գաղտնի ուղիները,
սենեակներն ու խուցերը։
Յուսալով թէ կա՛ն հսկայական միջանցքներ,
անհաւանական անկիւններ բայց քիչ թակարդներ։

Օրփէոս միմիայն իր յոյսերուն մէջ,
կրկին կը տեսնէ Էվրիդիկէն
հարսի հագուստը հագած
հեռուէն մօտենալը
հարսանեկան փունջ մը ծաղիկը
ու ժպիտը։

Բայց այսօր՝ առանձին եմ
Նիւ Եորքի փապուղիներուն մէջ
ինչպէս ամեն առտու,
երբեմն ալ ամեն իրիկուն։

ԼՕԼԱ ԳՈՒՆՏԱՔՃԵԱՆ

Նիւ Եորք

Լոյս տեսած է Հորիզոն գրական թերթին մէջ։ 

Համո Սահեան։ Կգամ

Click here to hear it recited by Marina Hovhannisyan

Եթե մինչև անգամ
Լսած լինես, թե ես այս աշխարհում չկամ,
Միևնույն է, կգամ, ինչ էլ լինի, կգամ,
Ուր էլ լինեմ, կգամ:
Եթե մինչև անգամ ես կուրացած լինեմ,
Եթե մինչև անգամ լույսդ մարած լինի,
Վերջին հույսդ քամին առած-տարած լինի,
Առանց լույսի կգամ, ես այս անգամ կգամ
Մենության մեջ լացող երգիդ վրա:

Եթե մինչև անգամ
Քո հավատի հանդեպ դու մեղք արած լինես
Եվ համարած լինես, որ աշխարհում չկամ,
Եթե մինչև անգամ հողս մաղած լինես,
Եթե մինչև անգամ մտքով թաղած լինես,
Եթե մինչև անգամ ինձ վտարած լինես,
Վերհուշերիդ վերջին խոնավ քարանձավից,
Միևնույն է, կգամ, ինչ էլ լինի, կգամ,
Եվ կճչաս հանկարծ տարօրինակ ցավից…
Կգամ, գլուխ-գլխի ու ձեռք-ձեռքի կտանք,
Լաց կլինենք մեռած մեղքիդ վրա:

Եթե մինչև անգամ հազար սարի ետև
Հազար կապով կապված, խաչով խաչված լինեմ,
Տքնած-տանջված լինեմ, միևնույն է, կգամ,
Ինչ էլ լինի, կգամ, չկանչես էլ, կգամ,
Եվ կբերեմ ես քեզ ուրախություն մի մեծ
Անակնկալ դարձիս իրողությամբ—
Քո տան ու քո հոգու տարողությամբ,
Երազներիդ, կյանքիդ տևողությամբ:
Կգամ և կդառնամ գտած բախտի ժպիտ
Եվ հավատի ժպիտ` տառապանքից մաշված,
Արտասուքից խաշված դեմքիդ վրա:

Եթե մինչև անգամ մեջքս ծալված լինի,
Եթե մինչև անգամ ոտքս վառված լինի,
Եվ ճակատիս հազար հողմի հարված լինի,
Միևնույն է, կգամ, ուր էլ լինեմ, կգամ:
Գետնի տակից կգամ,
Մի հեռավոր, անհայտ մոլորակից կգամ,
Կգամ ու թափ կտամ
Հարդագողի փոշին շեմքիդ վրա:

Aaron Poochigian: THE COUNTDOWN

Click here to hear the poet reading his poem

10, 9, 8, 7, 6 …
so many things are tough to fix—
love-lives and people, politics.
Me? On the threshold of the year to come
I hope to lose at last
the sad reluctance of my past,
like a grasshopper shedding his exuvium.
5, 4, 3, 2, 1 …
now, with the old year nearly done,
my molting labor has begun:
I swear harder than I have ever sworn
that I will live all-out
and all-in and to Hell with doubt.
You hear me, everyone? I am a man reborn.


Published in the Rattle—from Poets Respond January 1, 2019

Վեհանոյշ Թեքեան: Ղարս

Հեղինակ Վեհանոյշ Թեքեան կ՚ասմունքէ Ղարսի նուիրուած բանաստեղծութիւնը զրոյցի ժամանակ Յակոբ Կիւլլիւճեանի հետ որը տեղի ունեցաւ Ապրիլ Գրատան մէջ 11 Նոյեմբեր, 2018ին.

Vehanoush Tekian reads one of her poems dedicated to Kars during a conversation with Hagop Gulludjian at Abril Bookstore on Sunday, November 11, 2018.

Փանոս Ճերանեան։ Քամի

Click to hear the audio segment.

Պատանեկան տարիներուս
Օր մը ինծի սիրոյ մասին շշնջացիր
Եւ շուտափոյթ հեռացար
Ըսէ, հիմա ծիածանի ո՞ր մէկ կողմը
Քեզ փնտրեմ
Այդ երբեմնի շշուկդ ջերմ
Կրկին անգամ
լսելու …


***



Սէր իմ
արեւը մայր կը մտնէ ամէն օր,
Օրը կը մթագնի ամէն օր,
Դուն կը մնաս գիշեր-ցերեկ ամէն օր։





Փանոս Ճերանեան Մոնրէալ
Այս բանաստեղծութիւնը լոյս տեսած է ՄԱՐՄԱՐԱ թերթին 16 Մարտ 2017 թիւին մէջ

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).

Alan Semerdjian and Aram Bajakian collaborate with PRIMER

Armenia, you are more than a piece of ass parade on the newsfeed.

Armenia, you are the split decision.  Armenia, the schism.

The first tribe to be converted.  Armenia is a country of a metaphor

tucked into the folds of breath and veil.  In between forever

bordered and borderlust, in love with a mountain felt

in the pit of the groin.  This aching, this naming,

this never having, thick with Eurovision’s beard, sick with genocide, 

sucking the holy thumb and the Russian cloak spit on with angels, 

miles with lambs, cathedrals, monasteries, characters in suits 

working on tracks with impeccable shoes, pride cascading down 

the runways, more than all of this, a lake cupping the delicious seeds

of history, which may or may not ever break the internet.

I want to write a poem for you, young Armenians from here to there.

I want my poetry to ring loud and clear like a song from a mountain

for all the girls and boys who eat dolma, for the marginalized

who eat dolma, for the wealthy, for all of us ate dolma once in our lives.

I want to make something that makes sense for you and all of them,

and because some poetry just doesn’t make sense with all its matter

of fact witty humor and subtle stabs and no big heart and big laugh,

I want to make a poem that slides off of William Saroyan’s mustache

and lands in a plate of fasulya.  I want to write a poem that shines a flash-

light on the dark rooms of my grandfather’s house of art and your grandfather’s 

and your great grandmother’s and her sister’s and their brothers’.

I want to make sure that my words don’t alienate but reverberate, make sure 

that everyone in Kentucky even, near the beautiful Ohio River, in the Galt House

overlooking the pedestrians, the walkways and highways and in every way

can relate in the heart and in the head.  If Tom Sawyer were Armenian,

he’d throw pomegranate seeds at the girl or boy he loved and use the tongue

to make sure each and every last one is tasted and swallowed.  If Emily Dickinson

were Armenian, well, she already is – pause and hesitation equal longing,

and longing is what we know, young Armenian beauties, what we use

to mark the time, the great and indifferent calendar of the internal universe,

which is, after all, the only real universe for us or for anyone with a heart.

And if Neruda were, and if Anansi, and if Obama, and if Mother Teresa.

I want to make something, anything, that fills even a part of your void, 

young Armenians from here to there, even if you think you’ve filled it up

with prayer, culture, or lahmajoun, friends, miles, or Facebook, modernity or 

solemnity, genuflection, navigation, or irrigation for the new gardens

of the world.  The void, which is everyone’s void, every nation, every person

forgiving and forgiven.  I want to write a poem.  And give it to you.  Now.

The audio clip of this poem is available at http://www.lolakoundakjian.com/RSS/Primer.mp3

Writer, musician, and educator Alan Semerdjian’s poems and essays have appeared in over a hundred print and online publications and anthologies including Adbusters, Diagram, Ararat, and Brooklyn Rail.  He released a chapbook of poems called An Improvised Device (Lock n Load Press) in 2005 and his first full-length book In the Architecture of Bone (GenPop Books) in 2009, which Peter Balakian has described as “dynamic” and “well worth your reading.”  His songs have appeared in television and film and charted on CMJ.  He earned his MFA at Goddard College in 2002 and currently teaches English at Herricks High School in New Hyde Park, NY.  Alan resides in New York City’s East Village.

Guitarist Aram Bajakian has worked extensively with Velvet Underground frontman Lou Reed, jazz vocalist Diana Krall and avant garde maven John Zorn. Bajakian's latest solo album, there were flowers also in hell (2014, Sanasar Records), has received universal praise, and was called "one of the best instrumental rock records of recent years," by New York Music Daily. Bajakian’s other 2014 release entitled Dálava, is a collaboration with his wife, vocalist Julia Ulehla, and was called "groundbreaking" by Vancouver’s Georgia Straight and “a masterpiece” by acousticmusic.com. Bajakian received a Masters Degree in Music Education from Columbia University’s Teachers College in 2002. 

“Primer” is the first in a series of collaborative experiments between Alan Semerdjian and Aram Bajakian combining poetry and music.

Alan writes: The poem is a bit of a meditation (Ginsberg style?) on this desire to connect and embrace the other side of our hyphenation.  It stemmed from the attention (good and bad) on social media newsfeeds and beyond around the Armenian Genocide centennial, the reverberations of that attention, etc.  Aram's wildly inventive and free guitar playing was composed after the poem was written from the other side of North America and then pasted together to make what you have here.  It's an idea that was born quickly with lo-fi punk aesthetics and, hopefully, old-school avant-charm.  We all want to write for each other in the end.  The many of us.  And be heard.  Sincerely.  

This collaboration it is being released jointly through both Hye-Phen Collective and The Armenian Poetry Project.

Kosrof Chantikian: To the Old Man in the Rhodes Cafe

I enter the small cafe in the early morning
rain falling lightly
huddled together a dozen Greek men

smoking their interminable
cigarettes drinking coffee and cognac
are talking loudly

old now from years of hard toil
I can see the wrinkles and holes in their faces
like cold sponges on the ocean floor

and yet these old men   I know their laughter
I know their laughter means
this is the beginning of another day

would you relive your life?
live it over to make sure your face had no holes or scars?
you say you would – if only you could have a face new

as smooth and soft as sand on the beach
but how would you do it?

in the early morning rain
these old men squeezed together between
five small round tables

sit with their legs crossed
and watch each other
smoke and talk and then laugh

how much is this laughter worth?  the old man next
to me orders a last coffee and cognac
he looks at me and waves asking me to join him

I cannot help feeling he has read my thoughts
I was thinking about his death
thinking that he would die soon

and how foolish some questions are
this old man is not going to relive his life
none of us will

in the end he had answered my question again
laughter was more than death
laughter was the beginning of each morning

of each night   was the sky and slow falling rain
I looked at the others and I saw countless cigarettes
and then laughter overwhelm the quiet sky


This poem appeared in the Marin Poetry Center's website with an audio recording. 

Live from Holy Cross: Pierre Joris and Nicole Peyrafitte reading Shushanik Kurghinian

Click to hear the audio segment

Pierre Joris and Nicole Peyrafitte - photo by Khatchik Turabian

I Want to Live

I want to live–but not a lavish life 

trapped in obscurity–indifferent and foolish, 

nor as an outright hostage of artificial beauty, 

a frail creature–delicate and feeble, 

but equal to you–oh men–prosperous 

as you are–powerful and headstrong– 

fit against calamities–ingenious in mind, 

with bodies full of vigor.

I want to love–unreserved–without a mask– 

self-willed like you–so that when in love 

I can sing my feelings to the world 

and unchain my heart–a woman’s heart, 

before the crowds?ignoring their stern 

judgmen’s with my shield and destroy 

the pointed arrows aimed at me 

with all my vitality unrestrained!

I want to act–equal–next to you– 

as a loyal member of the people, 

let me suffer again and again–night or day– 

wandering from one place to another– 

always struggling for the ideal 

of freedom?and let this burden 

torment me in my exile, 

if only I may gain a purpose in this life.

I want to eat comfortably–as you do, 

from that same fair bread–for which 

I gave my share of holy work; 

in the struggle for existence–humble and meek, 

without feeling shame–let me 

shed sweat and tears for a blessed earning, 

let scarlet blood flow from my worker’s hands 

and let my back tire in pain!

I want to fight–first as your rival, 

standing against you with an old vengeance, 

since absurdly and without mercy you 

turned me into a vassal through love and force. 

Then after clearing these disputes of my gender, 

I want to fight against the agonies of life, 

courageously like you–hand in hand, 

facing this struggle to be or not.

I PITY YOU

I pity you, dull-witted women,
for chasing after rouge and beauty aids,
wasting away your time without a goal,
with faces adorned for lewd sale.

For using any possible means to
always please and gratify men,
day and night obsessing only
how to set traps of jealousy.

For robbing those who love you
of their last penny earned in pain,
at times of distress, callous and low
like owls you hoot, playing the victim.

For having a subtle instinct of marketing,
selling yourselves for the highest price,
bickering endlessly over style, appearance,
a circus show of fashion rivalry.

I pity you, vain captives, whose
thoughts are lost in folds of velvet
for having minds that are utterly vacant,
for having hearts that are tainted with deceit.

WE ARE THE ONES COMING—

In our worn out jackets, oil-stained and sooty,
Trampled caps and dirty hair,
Jaundiced, poor, barefoot,
Sometimes pale, sometimes docile,
Sometimes marked with the black stamp
Of hunger and quiet suffering,
Sometimes filled with riotous disdain,
Unruly rage and vengeance!
With the wearisome pain of aging too soon,
Longing for the light and fresh air,
Hopeful for a dignified life,
With deep wounds still raw in our hearts—
WE ARE THE ONES COMING . . !
……………………We, the workers—
Unpaid hands toiling for the bloated stomachs,
Layers of fat, mounds of gold . . !
……………………We, the workers—
Comrades in sorrow and tears,
Half-starved life, prison, and exile . . !
……………………We, the workers—
Twisted in the drive to live and cheaply sold
In the base marketplace of existence . . !
O monstrous leeches,
Vile stranglers of invention, of human life,
You, insensible moles
With your corrupt lust for opulence,
You, shameful gravediggers and
Hangmen of sacred freedom,
You, soul-snatching demons of new hopes,
……………………You, sated bodies!
Impoverished souls!
Perhaps our afflicted faces
Aren’t moving enough for your gentle senses?
For isn’t it true that
……………………You feed yourselves,
……………………You prosper and grow
From every drop of our blood,
Our salty, bitter sweat,
Our endless flood of tears,
Our strong, laboring arms,
Our bent backs, restless souls,
Our terror of unimagined death
Always lurking above our heads . . ?
And disgruntled you throw a few petty crumbs
As payment for our labors,
As if we were humanity’s stepchildren
And you—the fittest wrestlers of enjoyment
……………………And unjust life . . !
YES! WE ARE COMING—
Out of the age-old furnace of privation
Out of persecution, out of slavery,
……………………We, the neglected class—
To smash the rulers’ glory with our chests—
To break the throne of violence—the slave’s chains—
To build a new path for ourselves and others
Deserving of freedom—
……………………THAT’S HOW WE ARE COMING . . !

1907. All poems translated by Shushan Avagyan

Live from Holy Cross: Aaron Poochigian reading Daniel Varoujan

Click to hear the audio segment

Aaron Poochigian - photo by Khatchik Turabian

ALMS

TO THE STARVING PEOPLE.

“There is famine; bread, bread !”

Who is sighing?

On the threshold of my cottage, who is sighing?

My love has gone out, with the flame in my fireplace.

Ashes within me, ashes around me; oh, of what use is it

To sow tears on ashes?

I have nothing, nothing! To-day, with my last

Small coin I bought poison;

I shall mix poison within me.

Come to-morrow to the graveyard, thou Hungry One,

Through the storm, early, when around the village

Wolves are still wandering.

Come to-morrow! As bread, from my grave

I will throw into that bag of thine

My poet’s heart.

My poet’s heart shall be thy blood, the blood of thy orphans,

As long as thy grief lives.

Come to-morrow to the graveyard, O thou Hungry One!

Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell

The Longing Letter

My mother writes: “My son on pilgrimage, 

How long beneath a strange moon will you roam?

How long a time must pass ere your poor head

To my warm bosom I may press, at home?

“Oh, long enough upon strange stairs have trod

Your feet, which in my palms I warmed one day—

Your heart, in which my breasts were emptied once,

Far from my empty heart has pined away!

“My arms are weary at the spinning wheel;

I weave my shroud, too, with my hair of snow.

Ah, would mine eyes could see you once again,

Then close forever, with my heart below!

“Always I sit in sadness at my door,

And tidings ask from every crane that flies.

That willow slip you planted long ago

Has grown till over me its shadow lies.

“I wait in vain for your return at eve.

All the brave fellows of the village pass,

The laborer goes by, the herdsman bold—

I with the moon am left alone, alas!

“ My ruined house is left without a head.

Sometimes for death, and always for the cheer

Of my own hearth I yearn. A tortoise I,

Whose entrails to its broken shell adhere!

“Oh, come, my son, your ancient home restore!

They burst the door, they swept the larders bare.

Now all the swallows of the spring come in

Through shattered windows, open to the air.

“ Of all the goodly flocks of long ago

One brave ram only in our stable stands.

His mother once—remember, little son—

While yet a lamb, ate oats out of your hands.

“Rice, bran and clover fine I give him now,

To nourish his rich dmak,* of noble size;

I comb his soft wool with a wooden comb;

He is a dear and precious sacrifice.

“When you come back, his head with roses wreathed,

He shall be sacrificed to feast you, sweet;

And in his blood, my well-beloved son,

I then will wash my pilgrim’s weary feet.”

_____________________ 

* A mass of fat which hangs down behind sheep of this breed, in place of a tail.

Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell