And our epidemic series grande finale: poems written by 8th Grade Students, St. Gregory Hovsepian School, Pasadena California

The Armenian Poetry Project thanks longtime contributor and friend, Shahé Mankerian, principal of the St. Gregory Hovsepian School, Pasadena California. We thank the principal and all the students who participated in this project.

EPISTLE POETRY IN TIME OF QUARANTINE

Inspired by “A Letter” by Langston Hughes

The Fifth Season

Dear Daydreamer,

I walk through the rows of roses admiring their beauty.

The clouds are swirled into a series of perfect wisps.

The birds have taken it upon themselves to make music;

I tip my gold Crown as a greeting when I pass by each of my people,

Ignoring the hissing Serpentine hiding in the bushes.

It’s Spring. At least I think so.

I wave to the bees in the buttercups.

The soothing sound of the Golden Streams lull me to sleep.

The sun kisses my skin with soft, warm lips.

Life feels like nothing more than a lucid dream.

I search for shade, but that’s where the Demons hide.

It’s Summer. At least I think so.

The sky bleeds a beautiful orange,

Even the slightest breeze gives a shower of brown leaves.

We sit around the campfire watching the smoke float up.

The harvest is bountiful this time around.

I disregard the dancing shadows peeking from underneath the pile of leaves.

It’s Fall. At least I think so.

I skip through the paths of perfectly shoveled snow.

I spot every animal’s burrow,

Each unique snowflake, handcrafted and carved by taloned hands.

The last Unworthy Rose pokes its head out the snow,

But before it can see the light of day, the phantoms snatch it from its roots.

It’s Winter. At least I think so.

The once perfect utopia is shattered.

The patchy cardboard buildings collapse to ruin,

Leaving dents in the ruler’s mind.

Her Crown can’t protect her anymore, for paper is no match for rain.

It was Gold. At least I think so.

The Serpentine have poked holes in her bubble with their venomous fangs.

It’s on the verge of bursting; no dream is strong enough.

She runs until her legs can carry her no more,

And karma is right at her tail.

You’re okay. At least I think so.

I hear a distant popping noise, and I’m awoken from my dreams,

But I’m still trapped.

The wolf wore the sheep clothing as a perfect disguise.

The dream wore reality as a perfect imperfect disguise.

There was no one to abandon me, so I abandoned myself.

Sugar and Salt. At least I think so.

The Serpent is strangely quiet, but never silenced.

The Demons wait for the chance to unsheathe.

The Shadows lurk in the woods, hiding between the pines.

The Phantoms sit on a brick wall, watching me with crooked smiles.

I sit among my throne, a Grave of Dreams.

It was inevitable. At least I think so.

For even the last Unworthy Rose needs both sunlight and rain to bloom,

But I only received heavy showers.

Sincerely, Sophie Shahinian… At least I think so. 

Dear Baron Shahé,

I no longer have the freedom that I used to have.

I am now trapped within four walls.

If I attempt to escape, it can result in sickness and death.

I have to wear gloves and mask to keep myself protected.

I have not seen anybody in months. It is scary out there.

It is unbelievable how a simple situation can escalate.

                                                                        --Berlyn Kendirian

P.S. Shipping may be delayed due to Covid-19.

Dear Father of the School I Attend,

I found a bomb in my yard a few years back.

I found it while I was digging to plant flowers

and while watching two white doves create their nests

on the tall tree, in the corner, left on the street I was living on.

The bomb—covered with white, flowered lace—

was beautiful and unique. It was nothing compared

to other bombs. In the middle, there were two

large white roses, poking out from the inside.

The bomb had water in it, keeping the flowers

hydrated and alive. Captivated by its beauty, I took it

home and used it as a decorative piece.

I added it to the shelf where I keep my Swarovski.

As time went on, like all flowers, I witnessed the shedding

of petals and leaves. The top of the bomb stayed barren

during this period. Nonetheless, the flowers growing

from the inside still had strong and healthy roots.

The barren pistils didn’t make a difference

to the beauty of the bomb. The petals always grew back

when spring came along. Besides, I cleaned up the mess

on my shelf with two swipes.

One time, I forgot to fill the bomb up with water.

Naturally, the petals wilted away. The stems, though dry,

stood still. The roots turned to vulnerable dust.

The fallen petals and pollen turned the dainty lace dirty.

I tried to clean the lace—stained by the pigments—

in my yard, as I watched the neighbors have a barbeque.

I saw a small burnt paper fly through the wind.

If only the lace wasn’t dirty, I could’ve joined the fun.

I spent my day washing a bomb.

I miss you greatly.

Sincerely,

Ellen Vartanyan

Web of Emotions

by Levon Shenian

As the days go by, my body begins to weaken.

I stay inside all day, away from illnesses

without realizing what is ahead of me.

My heart crumbles when I think of my friends,

knowing we will be separated for a while.

Yet I feel a new side of me spring forth from the back of my brain.

It’s a sign of independence and maturity.

I understand what the real world is like.

It’s not everything we dreamed of as kids.

It’s scary, a bit harder than we think.

This is quarantine. A lot harder than I thought.

I will be ready to move on and start a new chapter.

Dear Baron Shahé

            By the end of the day, my phone’s and computer’s batteries are dead and I end up with an immense headache. I am now well acquainted with the Amazon delivery guy, and my bookshelf has exploded. The crow that always flies over our house, when this little bird sits on the powerline and chirps, is named Treasure Hunt, and the little bird, Ex. Ex marks the spot. I thought it was amusing, but my sister is now worried for my sanity. I blame it on being cooped up all day. To entertain myself I get a bag of M&M’s and microwave them. Then, I get one in my left hand and one in my right, and hold them up with my fingers. Then, it becomes a competition as I squish them to see which one cracks first. The uncracked champion versus the next M&M in line, and so on and so forth, until the last M&M standing. You may find my champion M&M in the envelope I mailed you. Please forward my champion to the M&M headquarters for breeding purposes.

                                                                                                            Thank you,

                                                                                                            Aleen Kojikian

Dear Baron,

I’m a bowl of soggy organic wheat waffles cereal from Whole Foods. It was the only option available; it’s quite good actually. Cultural and societal standards seep into every crevice. They ponder; they revile my appearance. Before they consumed me, they were just thoughts.

            “Friends” treat my loyalty like the bowl, an outsider. They think if you break it, you can just buy a new one, a replacement; cleaner than before, unused, untouched, stable. Do they realize a new one is a backstab? Lingering is a backstab.

            Almond milk is my heart, vegan. I miss someone I’ve never met. I love someone I’ve never met. How did I establish that relationship in my head when they don’t even know I exist? Their acting gave it all away, so profound, so emotionally abusive. Its familiarity is making it addictive. No matter the warp it puts me in, I crave it. It’s dominant, but it was a joke from the start. It broke the internet.

            I placed a spoon in the fridge the night before. Why? I knew when I woke up my eyes would have the reminisces from the hours of leftover curdled water I had shed until 3:36 a.m. Double the size, size 24 to be precise; font Arial not Times New Roman, and not double spaced. They were single-spaced, thin lining, red. Minus the subduing of outside forces I have repressed myself from those whom I thought I knew. They did it first. “A relationship isn’t about one person trying to force a connection. If It’s not reciprocated, move on.”

                                                                                                            --Natalia Agadjian

Dear Baron Shahé,

I sit here in my home surrounded

by four thick walls. The local newspaper

is filled with dullness. The VHS tapes

have been worn out and stopped working.

The orange tree, that produces those bright,

juicy oranges, has stopped giving fruits.

I used to pick and squeeze them. The neighbor

next door finally moved out after she saved

enough money. She always wanted to move.

I send much love and hope all is well.

Say hello to your daughter from me.

                                    --Emily Markarian

Dear Baron Shahé

            Quarantine is like being a fish in the ocean,

scared and vulnerable, not knowing what’s out there.

Covid-19 is the shark that’s chasing after all of us.

The school of fish means more food for the shark.

The ones that stay away, have a better chance to survive.

I’m one of those fish, scared of the world, not wanting

to leave my home because the predator is ready to attack

at any moment. I live in fear, not wanting to be hit

by the monster that is out there killing people one by one,

not wanting to be a part of those numbers, not wanting

to be the one who dies. It’s a scary world we live in.

We never know what will come next.

                       

                                                            Best regards,

                                                            Claudine Azilazian

Dear Baron Shahé,

I wake up every morning

to a beautiful sunrise. I eat breakfast

with my eyes barely open. I begin

my schoolwork until I go outside  

for a break. I watch the birds fly

from left to right, chirping to each other.

Then, at lunchtime, I eat. I finish

my schoolwork until night. I realize

my days are about eating and doing

homework. I need better days than these.

I wake up the next day. The cycle continues…

                                    Your student with gratitude,

                                    Anthony Keshishian

Dear Baron Shahé

I’m hoping this letter finds you in great spirits.

All thoughts, emotions, and mental expectations

Have been halted due to this shelter in place order.

All forms of communication, social interaction

with friends and family seems a thing of distant past.

Oh, when will we ever experience normalcy or even

breathe freely without restrictions or lockdowns?

Spending countless hours thinking how someone’s

lack of responsibility placed the entire world

into this position of uncertainty.        

                       

                                                Best regards,

                                                Alique Klahejian

Dear Baron,

As time flies and walks, I’m still stuck

in a cage, stuck in a prison, frozen in a game.

This life is broken, but I still find a way

to strive through it. I look into the future,

and I don’t remember the past.

I feel as if I’m controlled,

and the only time I’m in control is at night.

My brain feels like a boat;

the more it tilts the more I lose.

                                                Yours truly,

                                                            Your student,

                                                                        Alex Kassardjian

Dear Baron,

            I’ve been doing nothing

but watch Netflix and complete

my online school assignments.

I wake up, stay home all day,

and go back to sleep. There’s no

graduation or nothing in general.

Honestly, I’m in a pointless cycle.

I can’t wait till all of this is over

so that I can finally be free.

                        Respectfully,

                        Cynthia Vanesian

Darkness

Dear Baron Shahé

My thoughts are everywhere. I look

at my right. I see a blue sky covering

people’s struggles. I look at my left.

I see a dark sky pulling people into sadness.

I get called by two of them,

yet they still feel the same.

                                    Respectfully,

                                    Natel Artin

How Do I Survive?

by Hagop Latchinian

            The lockdown has happened.

Being at home all day, every day, feels

overwhelming. I read the memo that

our school is cancelled. I freak out

slightly until I understand. My parents

give me facts. They are not worried

that we’ll contract the virus, but

they are concerned about the economy.

I am beginning to hate schedules.

I’m trying to be active. I watch videos

On YouTube for yoga. We are taking

Walks when weather permits.

                         

Dear Baron Shahé

Where did the years go?

It only seems like yesterday…

So many fond memories to cherish.

The day we separated is the day we stopped…

The day we meet again is the day we rejoice.

                                    With gratitude,

                                    Mihran Simonian

Lory Bedikian's contribution to our Call for Poems on the topic of epidemics, illness, medicine, death and healing

Lory Bedikian of Tujunga, CA, USA, has shared these poems  APP thanks her.

Sestina, as my mother cooks

by Lory Bedikian


I tell her it’s a problem of the nerve.
She doesn’t look up, but eases a scar
on each small olive, making room
for the marinade to soak in. Not one eye
blinks as she does this. Like before, I’m pretty
sure that this is my cue to leave.

But I think back, when she had to leave
Aleppo with my father, each good-bye plucking a nerve,
hitting notes against her chest—quite pretty
for a plainly dressed Protestant. Like a scar
they mark the bible with this date. One eye
on the future, they fly and find a one-room

apartment in New York. Now, my mother acts as if this room
holds only her. She mumbles there’s nothing wrong, just leave
the past alone and you’ll be fine. I lunge my twitching eye
toward her. But she doesn’t have the nerve
to look. I wonder how she handles the brush of scar
below her abdomen, where I entered the world, pretty

different than most. She asks me to put on something pretty
for once. The L.A. noon heat rises. I pace the room
thinking of how to tell this woman of the scar
tissue the doctor found; how I tried to leave
the office smiling, grateful it wasn’t worse, just a nerve
disorder, its radar placed in the sphere of an eye.

After so many years, she still gives me the eye
over. What I say next is anything but pretty:
Has she ever thought each cell, each nerve
of my body is conspiring in rebellion to the room
we’ve always held between us? She says she must leave
for work, she’s late. My fingers shake. I say another scar

will form from this—like each scar
you brought across the Atlantic. I feel as small as the eye
of a needle. A cutting board, an empty sink is what we leave
behind us. She walks ahead, down the hall. I stop. Pretty
soon she’ll reappear. In this house I have no room
left, so I grab my keys, knowing it’s enough that I’ve struck this nerve.

This is how she survives, making sure to leave the house looking pretty.
Not one scar visible to the eye. She doesn’t question this world, how it has
the nerve to move us from room to room, so far from where we started.

This poem was published in The Best American Poetry 2019 edition.


Partial Tubectomy Revisited

             There are many reasons why a woman falls
      to the floor. An optimist surely imagines
lovemaking, or the uncontrollable writhing

             of modern dance that sweeps across the stage,
      not a harsh plunge onto hardwood, the tumble
so sudden one thinks the old furniture

             has slipped, crashed, cracked the tile.
      Let’s work backward. She is lying there
screaming her husband’s name. The right

             tube gave up, gave out
      like an old rubber tire does after much
wear. All it needed was a nail. All it took

             was an embryo to get stuck along its path,
      the pressure unbearable, and the day before
no increased human chorionic gonadotropin,

             though twenty days of bleeding while
      going back and forth to the hardware store
to mend the fixer-upper, same age as her,

             fallen siding, withered eaves,
      should have been the obvious sign.
So, she is lying there and the husband

             rushes her to the emergency room
      and she does not die as the doctor
said she would have had she not signed

             the paperwork. When she wakes
      she discovers the tube is gone,
couldn’t be saved. On the television

             an old black and white with wagons,
      women in ankle-length skirts, poke
bonnets almost like a trap for hair,

             boots full of dust, their hands rough
      as pumice stone. And if these
settlers fell to the floor, she wonders,

             who would come, who would hear them
      and realize those long aprons had become
flags fluttering at the cabin door?

This poem originally appeared in Tin House, Fall 2018.

ՎԱՀԻԿ ՍԱՐԳՍԵԱՆ: Կորոնավիրուս

Անցեալում էլ եղել են շատ բարդ
հիւանդութիւններ,

Որի պատճառն է եղել տարբեր
վիրուսներ

Եղել է մերս, սարս ու անֆուլանզա
Եղել է թոքախտ, տիֆուիտ ու աբուլա,
Բայց հիմա եկել է այս նոր վիրուսը,
Որ կտրել է բոլոր ժողովրդի յոյսը
Այս վիրուսը կոչւում է կորոնավիրուս,
Որ չի թողնում ժողովուրդը տներից
գան դուրս

Բոլորն ասում են եկել է աշխարհի վերջը
Ապաշխարում ու աղօթում, իրենց
տան մէջը,

Թէ որ յոյս չունես եւ Աստծուց խնդրում ես,
Թէ ների՛ր ինձ դու, մեղաւոր եմ ես
Դէ ու էլ ների՛ր ծանօթիդ մեղքը
Թող որ լինի քո վրայ, Աստծու ձեռքը
Զանգի՛ր քո ծանօթին ու բարեկամիդ
դու շուտ
Մի ասա՛ կը զանգեմ վաղը՝ ես անշուշտ
Կարելի է, թէ վաղն էլ շատ ուշ լինի
Մի նոր վիրուս գայ ու բարեկամդ էլ չլինի:

Այս բանաստեղծութիւնը լոյս տեսած է ԱԼԻՔ օրաթերլին մէջ, Մարտ 18 2020

Stay Home, Stay Safe poem with illustration Տանը նստի'ր, դուրս մի' գնա բանաստեղծություն

Տանը նստի'ր, դուրս մի' գնա


Գրեց' Էդուարդ հարությունյանը
Նկարիչ_մուլտիպլիկատորներ'
Մանե Պողոսյան
Թենի հարությունյան

A poem in Armenian about staying home during the 2020 pandemic was made into a cute animé

Written by Edward Harutunians. Illustrated and animated by Mane Boghozian and Teni Haroutunians.

Published in Alik in March 2020


ՏԱՆԸ ՆՍՏԻ՛Ր, ԴՈՒՐՍ ՄԻ՛ ԳՆԱՅ


Թագավարակն եկել ահա
Չոքել է մեր հոգու վրայ,
Սակայն բնաւ մի՛ վախենայ,
Սա էլ կանցնի, հանգիստ մնա՛,
Տանը նստի՛ր, դուրս մի՛ գնայ:


Գործով տարւած՝ միշտ մտազբաղ,
Տարիներդ միապաղաղ,
Պոկւել էիր կեանքից, աւա~ղ,
Լաւ առիթ է եղել հիմա,
Տանը նստի՛ր, դուրս մի՛ գնայ:


Բջջայինդ մի կողմ նետի՛ր,
Հոգուդ անդորրը պահպանի՛ր,
Ու խուճապի մի՛ մատնւիր,
Կեղծ լուրերից հեռու մնա՛,
Տանը նստի՛ր, դուրս մի՛ գնայ:


Բալիկներիդ հետ զբաղւի՛ր,
Դո՛ւ էլ նրանց պէս մանկացիր,
Հեքիաթ ասա՛ հետաքրքիր,
Նրանց համար մի բան կարդա՛,
Տանը նստի՛ր, դուրս մի՛ գնայ:


Վաղուց է գիրք չես կարդացել,
Գիր ու գրքին օտարացել,
Լաւ է մէկ-մէկ մի գիրք բացել,
Մի՞թէ աշխարհը փուլ կը գայ,
Տանը նստի՛ր, դուրս մի՛ գնայ:


Ընտանիքով սեղան նստէ՛ք,
Կերէ՛ք, խմէ՛ք, զւարճացէ՛ք,
Ընտանիք էք, մտերմացէ՛ք,
Կեանքի հաճոյքն ա՛յ, դա՛ է դա՛,
Տանը նստի՛ր, դուրս մի՛ գնայ:


Մնա՛ տանը, բայց լաւ կանես՝
Կնոջդ հետ չգժտւես,
Փոխարէնը՝ նրան օգնես,
Իր խօսքերին ականջ արա՛,
Տանը նստի՛ր, դուրս մի՛ գնայ:


Մարդիկ տանը որ շատ մնան,
Գուցէ յոգնեն ու ձանձրանան,
Բայց դա կօգնի նաեւ նրան,
Որ սերունդը կը բազմանայ,
Տանը նստի՛ր, դուրս մի՛ գնայ:


Տանդ դուռը փակւած պահի՛ր,
Չորս բոլորդ ախտահանի՛ր,
«Օճառ քեռուն» ապաւինի՛ր,
Ձեռքերդ շատ յաճախ լւա՛
Տանը նստի՛ր, դուրս մի՛ գնայ:


Թագավարակն ամենազօր,
Որ աշխարհն է բռնել բոլոր,
Անցնող է, կը չքւի մի օր,
Մինչ այդ օրը, որ շուտ թո՛ղ գայ,
Տանը նստի՛ր, դուրս մի՛ գնայ:


ԽԱՐԱԶԱՆ

Ani Karen Babojian's contribution to our Call for Poems on the topic of epidemics, illness, medicine, death and healing

Ani Karen Babojian of Maracay, Aragua, Venezuela has sent us this original piece in Spanish, with translations. APP thanks her.


Raíz
A las seis y cinco suena la primera alarma y abro un ojo.
Estiro mi brazo
acaricio el colchón
en busca del botón "cinco minutos más".
Los minutos se vuelven una hora.
A las siete y cuarto
abro los dos ojos,
me arropo,
saco una mano de la sábana para alcanzar el teléfono.
Pienso que puede esperar.

En este pueblo ya nada es igual.
Le temo a un pequeño organismo
que destruye todo a su paso.
Tiemblo
en mi soledad.
Descubro que la raíz es el refugio.

Respiro.
Volteo hacia la ventana.
Miro hacia el cielo,
una nube blanca pasar
y me digo:
aún hay vida en mi pecho.


Ani Babojian

Root

At five past six the first alarm goes off and I open an eye.
I stretch my arm
I caress the mattress
looking for the "five more minutes" button.
Minutes become an hour.
At quarter past seven
I open both eyes,
I tuck in,
I pull a hand out of the sheet to reach for the phone.
I think it can wait.

In this town nothing is the same.
I fear a small organism
that destroys everything in its path.
I tremble
in my loneliness.
I discover
that the root is the refuge.

I breathe.
I turn to the window.
I look up to the sky
a white cloud pass
and I say to myself:
There is still life in my chest.



Translation by the poet

Nancy Agabian's contribution to our Call for Poems on the topic of epidemics, illness, medicine, death and healing

Nancy Agabian of East Walpole, MA, USA has shared her original poem. APP thanks her.

Into the Needle

If the virus doesn't ever go away

            or worse, worsens, what will I do?

            I don't let my mind go there. I stay close

            to the day, the hour, the minute,

            the present, I sew a mask, stitch

            by stitch, the prick of the needle,

            a small dash of thread, one moment

            into another, a thought leading

            to the next--

Sometimes I let myself imagine a

            new year, a new home, a new

            line of work. Surroundings change

            and I'm the same, my body superimposed

            on a background like Colorforms,

            a toy from childhood. The real magic:

            the way two surfaces stick together

            without glue, an object peeled and fixed

            onto a picture, belonging, temporarily.

I know life's not this smooth,

            like glass, like the surface of a still pond.

            It's rough and ragged, jagged

            as a mountain no one has ever

            seen before. I must train to

            scale this passage, but perhaps I am

            building new muscles, however

            slight: a shift of the eye, a snip of thread

            cut square, a breath in, and out, of care.

Mariam Ashchyan Chobanian's contributions to our Call for Poems on the topic of epidemics, illness, medicine, death and healing

Mariam Ashchyan Chobanian of Racine, WI, has shared this original work. APP thanks her.

Թագավարակ 

Թագավարակն այս անկոչ

Մարդկության դուռն է թակում անխոնջ։

Ի՞նչ է սա իրականում արդյոք․

Կենսաբանական մի զե՞նք անողոք

Թե՞ նոր ջրհեղեղ կործանող։

Գուցե ոմանց համար սպասված հյուր,

Բայց շատերի համար հանկարծահաս լուր։

Ավելի ճիշտ գույժ է այն,

Որ սավառնում է օդում անձայն։

Ու պատահականությամբ թե անզգուշությամբ

Կամ թույլ իմունիտետի առկայությամբ

Մարդն անկախ իր կամքից՝

Պարմայում է այս վարակից։

Այս խորհրդավոր գազանը

Ի վիճակի է կարճել կյանքը

Թույլ, տարեց, հիվանդ մարդկանց,

Որոնք ունեն արև դեռ ապրելու,

Արարելու և վայելելու

Աստծո կողմից պարգևած

Լուսապայծառ օրեր օրհնված։

Աղոթքս առ Աստված բարձրացնելով՝

Քեզ եմ ապավինում Տեր ամենազոր,

Որ կօգնես մեզ գտնել այդ սպեղանին՝

Փրկելու համար կյանքեր թանկագին։