Brenda Najimian Magarity: For My Muse: Wherever I May Find Her

Oh, black-haired nine that did brave
my most grave moments to send me a song:
Each day, you bask in the sunshine
of my praise, and like seashells
nesting on an ocean bank
you wait for me to cast my net
and gather your choral wave of heroic hymn.

Pierian roses, I found you on the low
end of the city in the open hands
of the ragged man asking for work.
“Anything’ll do,” he said
You ached to reach into the deep
pockets of his coat, but could not.

I found you in the reflection
of a barroom mirror, costumed in sari
you stole a magic carpet to cut an extra
hour out of the night, then gave it up
when your sad eyes signaled you home.

I found you in a gallery, too shy
to speak to the artist;
you hid in the shadow of a corner
of the room. I managed to carry
your words home in a basket
and watched as you hung them out to dry.

And once, when I thought you were lost
to me forever, I found a remnant
of you caught like a loose thread
between the lines of an old poem;
and I rediscovered the simple beauty
of a single word: Muse,
and you played a symphony in my mind.

Brenda Najimian Magarity © 1990

This poem was previously published in California English, 1990 and California Victory, 1992

Brenda Najimian Magarity: Carpet Weavers

I

It is 1910,
and I hear
the voices
of young women
as they weave.

One says,
“Let us read
Sayat Nova
at midday.”

“I, too, am a poet,”
another says,
“but tell no one,
the Turks despise
Armenian poets.”

And they giggle
with hearts
that flutter
like those of doves
in spring
believing
life will go on
like this forever

working, weaving
casting the dye
into a
deeper, deeper
purple
that they weave
around a sunburst design.



II

In 1915
everything changed;

a nation’s people
were lined up
and marched to sea.

Hands,
that could write
rugs
in the language of color,
colors
derived from herb and root
and the earth itself,

hands, that could write rugs,
fell
limp
at their sides.

Most died crossing the desert,
bones bleached by the sun
left
sticking out of sand
pointing, pointing
to a God they had known.

One nation
jostled out of a sweet dream
and forced
to leave
their carpets sleeping,
one nation
caught in the Turk’s jaw,
his iron teeth
clamped down
and opened
the grid of genocide.

And the breast of Armenia
ached
to suckle the children
who were gone.


III

It is present,
yet memory
makes the past
present too.

Somewhere
one
still collects
the wool
from the backs
of sheep,

and somewhere
one
still weaves
a double-headed eagle
that dreams of Eden’s Garden
when it was new,

and somewhere
in a place
not unlike Mount Ararat
the nightingale
sings
of an angel
woven into an unfinished design.

An angel,
who patiently waits
for her weavers
who call themselves
Armenians.


©1986 Brenda Najimian Magarity

This poem was previously published in Ararat Quarterly (1996) and Armenian Town (2001)

Brenda Najimian Magarity: Exit Saroyan

Why Saroyan
are you not
of this earth
anymore?

Where will your
typewriter
blink out
the lights
tonight?

And when will your
ashes
shower over Bitlis
as you wished?

You have taken all
the answers with you
cunningly,
succinctly,
and left the world
to argue
as you willed it?

Yet, in the end
you asked:
Had not
this earth
the time
to make
another day
with you?


Brenda Najimian Magarity ©1984

This poem was previously published in Ararat, 1984, Armenian Town, 2001 and William Saroyan: Places In Time, 2008

Brenda Najimian Magarity: Language of Flowers

Flowers aqua and yellow
pressed between your Russian
and our English.

Flowers tidy and dry
colored portraits
pastel shades
a flattened bud pointing
to a word or phrase:
A reservoir left open.

I have forgotten why I put them
here
these book barnacles
living on the rhythm of a line
all these years
getting lost in translation.

Ah,
Akhmatova

I wish I could have softened
the down of your cold pillow
in Kiev.


Brenda Najimian Magarity © 1982
This poem was previously published in Encore, 1982

Brenda Najimian Magarity: On the Eve of the Death of Carl Moosoolian

A tardy goose honks its way back to its watershed;
night is a hand’s length and breadth away.

Love escapes somewhere in the distance;
a bullfrog croaks a somber warning, throwing

in the towel for the night between
stars laying their silvery stitchery in fallow air;

and the moon, whose patience has been stirred with a
knife, surrenders momentarily to a spider-like mask.

Pinkish webbed veins stream over that once proud face;
in this stark silence there is but one conclusion:

There will never be another you or me, we shall
exist as Poe’s raven declared, “Nevermore.”

Only the complexion of this night’s air and stagnant
sky shall survive. Though the moon under heavy guard

tries to whisper encouragement, the embroidery
of her dark robe patterns the itinerary of life’s

journey; and this I know; love shall turn itself
inside out, comb the earth’s gravity for a place to

hide, then fade away forever. Desire casts no spell
upon that which can be depended upon. Tonight,

even wicked stepmothers hold their hoary breath
and cross their crooked fingers. The wish for

morning has a severe way of manipulating us into
compliance, all of us with some good, some evil.


Even those with too much of one or the other
shall never forget the solitude of a hopeless

paradigm of stars crested in irregular sequence
at the mouth of the moon. There is no way to judge

the sun when one fears never seeing it again.
We beg for the sun and his potent majesty

to mediate any error of space or time that elapsed
between the dread of days gone marching through

this splendor of irrevocable harm. Love is an
endangered species soon to become legend or myth

like the unicorn, bold, brazen – horned spectacle
of virtue. Error transcends momentary fear of grace.

The water is too shallow for the goose; he dreads
the thought of leaving at dawn. How can

we blame him? He mercilessly plucks out his own
strength in the night until only his feathers remain.

Brenda Najimian Magarity ©1996
This poem was previously published in Ararat, 1996 and Armenian Town, 2001

Brenda Najimian Magarity

Brenda Najimian Magarity is a second generation born in America Armenian writer whose work includes poetry, fiction, non-fiction and memoir. Some of these have appeared in publications such as Pandora, Sing Heavenly Muse!, California English, California Victory, Ararat, Hye Sharzhoom, and Encore. Her work has also been included in these books: Armenian Town, William Saroyan: The Man and the Writer Remembered, and most recently, William Saroyan: Places in Time. She writes of loss, joy, reverence, danger, panic, adventures with William Saroyan, Armenian history and culture, and significant moments of the human predicament.

An incredible event in her life led to much of her writing. William Saroyan frequented her father’s dry-cleaning shop in old Armenian town of Fresno, California. Because of this, Brenda met and quickly began a fond friendship with the great author. In the mid to late 1970s, Brenda became an unofficial chauffeur for her mentor.

In January of 1977, Saroyan went to school with Brenda. At the time, she taught drama and English at Madera High School. The day became memorable for students, teachers and staff alike, as her Armenian hero enchanted audiences all day long. Currently, Brenda is writing Driving Saroyan, a memoir of her years as his friend.

Brenda Najimian Magarity: Zephyr

Sweet Mother,
you carry with you
the smell of mint leaves
in summer.

You are the mediator
between the grief
of darkness
and the utter calm
of daybreak.

You betray no one but
yourself
when you change
direction.

Gentle breeze,
only you could
untie the knotted
shoelaces of
childhood error.

Only we
can worship
the wind
for its manifest mystery.

Brenda Najimian Magarity ©1978

This poem was published in Citybender, 1978, California Victory, 1994, and Armenian Town, 2001. It appears here courtesy of the author.