Sofia Kontogeorge Kostos: REMEMBERING (Haiku in Four Languages)

“Remembering”
Forget! Forget! Forget!
I close my eyes,
but cannot.

Mnhmosύnh ς
Ξέχασε! Ξέχασε! Ξέχασε!
Κλείνω τα μάτια μου,
mά δέν μπορώ.

—Σοφία Κοντογεώργου Κόστος

—Sofia Kontogeorge Kostos, English original and Greek translation.

Յիշում

Մոռցի՛ր Մոռցի՛ր Մոռցի՛ր
Ես կը փակեմ աչքերս,
Սակայն չեմ կարող:

Գրեց՝ Սոֆիա Քոնթոճեորճ Քոսթոս
Թարգմանեց՝ Տ. Հայր Տիրան Ա. Քհնյ. Փափազեան

— Armenian translation by Rev. Fr. Diran Papazian, Archpriest


— Sofia Kontogeorge Kostos

— Syriac translation by Fred Aprim, Author and Assyrian Historian.

Karen Karslyan: I love you according to Google

This poem appears by kind permission of its author.

Karen Karslyan's official website where this poem appears
can be viewed here.

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.

Meredith Z Avakian: Picking Up the Pieces

Some call it a vase & some call it a vase
I alternate depending on what mood I’m in
I’ll choose to say vase today
But regardless, it’s symbolic of a people
A great people that were displaced
Like the pieces of this broken vase

Scattered & distorted
Picked up & aborted
Moved & confused
But they remain the same
Different pieces of the same vase
Many linking to one
One land. One nation. One people.
One greater whole.
That we’ll never know
But understand that it once was
It once was
It once was
And always will be
One beautiful vase

I am a piece of this broken vase
I may not look the same as the others
But the whole is incomplete without me
My matter is tattered
But that doesn’t matter
Because I am no less than the bigger pieces
Nor larger than those
Whole colors are exposed
And fit the unity of the once believed identity
From which eternity birthed infinity
Which calculates as the sum I’ll never know

Pick up the pieces
I challenge you to find one
From the same mold – young or old
That you’ll recognize as an equal…
Contribution without exclusion
Considered a mere sequal
Embrace the difference
And recognize the similarities
You’re part of the same vase

Yes, it may’ve been broken
Beaten, hidden & damaged
Some were lost along the way
And others seemed to manage
It’s not complete
Without unity
How can we recreate?
But if you constantly search
And pick up the pieces
One at a time
And keep them together
Bound by need
You’ll gather the remains and be amazed
When you start to see
What is still the makings of
One beautiful vase.

April 18, 2007
Copyright Meredith Z Avakian
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.

Narine Karamyan: New poem

Անսովորն հենց այդպես էլ լինում է,
Ճիշտ կարծես սովորական`
Հորդառատ ձյան տեսքով իջնում է
Փաթիլներով օրհնության:

26/02/07

Helene Pilibosian: EARTHQUAKE MONUMENT

They ask me to be involved.
I send 50 blankets,
100 bars of unscented soap
and 1000 pencils for schoolchildren.
I can’t send my shock.
They ask me to shed tears.
My river overflows.
My dry eyes sigh.
My morning juice sours.
I see double sometimes.
They ask me to spread the word.
I type too fast.
My images are pasted on the past.
My daily trek is vexed.
Memory still consults my mind.
They want a monument.
Spitak and Gumri are still floss
on the mill of no response.
I hew names on the marble of thoughts.
This is too heavy to send.
They wish remembrance.
I name my poems for them.
I light 50,000 beeswax candles
in the church of national history.
My ideas are edged with commemoration.
They say I should listen.
The announcer of 1988 gave the news
loud enough for a century
of survivors and sympathizers.
I heard and continue to understand.

Time to turn from nature's mannerism, remembering earth is not an enemy; to recommend soil that gobbles seeds and gratifies us with plants; to plant our reprimands and gather the green of their leaves;
to suspend negative moments like dangling participles in a sentence;
to repair the crafts that need new glue, even flour mixed with water;
to repair ourselves and the twitch of face that happens after dearth;
to fill the lanterns outside ourselves with light and craved raves of esteem.


Copyright Helene Pilibosian
This poem appears by kind permission of its author.


Helene Pilibosian's work has recently appeared in such magazines as The Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review, Louisiana Literature, The Hollins Critic, North American Review, Seattle Review and is pending in Art Times. Some of her poems have won prizes or finalist status in competitions such as New Letters and Madison Review. She published her first book, Carvings from an Heirloom: Oral History Poems, in 1983, and the second, At Quarter Past Reality: New and Selected Poems, in 1998 under the imprint Ohan Press. The latter won an award from Writer’s Digest. Formerly she worked in journalism and editing at The Armenian Mirror-Spectator; now she is head of Ohan Press, a private bilingual micropress which has published seven books. The web site is at http://home.comcast.net/~hsarkiss.

William Michaelian: Armenian Music

If you could hear
someone's heart breaking,
it would sound like this.

Or a mythic waterfall,
splashing upon stones
near a hermit's cave.

Or a widow's sigh,
when war is done,
and she is all alone.

Copyright William Michaelian. This poem appears courtesy of the author.

Alan Semerdjian: Forensic Knot Analysis

Then, they taught me how to tie my shoes,
this band of migrant characters:
Monkey’s Fist, Sheetbend
Round Turn, Turk’s Head,
Prussick, Diamond
Rodi, Half-hitch.
One is a snake charmed in the grass.
One is a kneeling buddha,
one, directions for angels, and
another, a judaic priest lost in Williamsburg.
One is the captain of the
Harvard crew team.
One, a plowing tool.
There are llamas and cranes,
two swans on a lake,
kangaroos with celtic staffs-
workbooks of people- in my alphabet.
They parade around the incensed corners
Of my life freezing in tangled poses when I dare to look.
A musketeer’s ostrich plume hat-
tricorne cocked,
pomegranate seeds, halva manifested,
all a turn of the lip around the word
asvadtzim, my god. Jigsaw minded composition,
theater of angles, the soft script of candle and flame
alive in a night about to breeze,
alone on a page of resurrections,
you are the desert wizard in a sandstorm
conducting last dances
of a fading people in
secret evening gatherings of ink.

Copyright Alan Semerdjian
Used here by kind permission of the author

Յարվարդ: ԼԻ

ներկա ՛յ ներկա՛յ ներկա՛յ ներկա՛յ
ներկա՛յ ներկա՛յ ներկա՛յ ներկա՛յ
ներկա՛յ ներկա՛յ                 ներկա՛յ
ներկա՛յ ներկա՛յ ներկա՛յ ներկա՛յ
ներկա՛յ ներկա՛յ ներկա՛յ ներկա՛յ
ներկա՛յ ներկա՛յ ներկա՛յ ներկա՛յ

* Չորսով-վեց աղիւսակը պատահականութեան արդիւնք չէ: Ապրիլ 24: Վիճակագրութիւն է, կ'ուզենք գիտնալ վերապրողներուն թիւը: Ներկաները արդէն կ'ըսեն «ներկայ», քանի որ կան հիմա, ներկայիս, կը շեշտեն իրենց ներկայութիւնը: Միակ բացական զոհն է, ըսելիք չունի. եւ կամ, ըսելիքը՝ « »՝ մեծ ու ցաւալի լռութիւն մըն է, չակերտեալ: Բացակային զետեղումը պատահական չէ, «պաստառ»ի գեղագիտական կեդրոնն է, ըստ նկարչութեան: Քսանչորս հատ ներկայ՝ նուազ մէկ, կ'ընէ քսաներեք, Ապրիլ 23, Համաշխարհային Մանուկներու Օր, Թուրքիա... որ եւս պատահականութեան արդիւնք չէ... Մանուկներ, որ չեն գիտեր իրենց «ներկայութեան» բուն պատճառը:


Յարվարդ/Harout VARTANIAN, «ԼԻ», 2007

Alan Semerdjian: THE ARMENIAN ALPHABET

for Mesrop Mashtots- inventor of the Armenian alphabet

Font

It is not simple mathematics
and symbols, not just
characters on a page. Language
is an almanac.

My alphabet is a crew of dolphins,
a verdict of slanted joshua trees
in transmission,
in ocular mistrust of neighbor,
from the bellies of which spark sharp green fragments
and cadaverous song.

My alphabet is a tank of definitions
foliating like apricot leaves.
It haunts the hinting of its crescents,
the spaces that ellipse themselves
to ceiling of planetarium
to the nebulous of memory,
brazened photographs’ tapestry.

My grandfather taught me how to swim
with onions on his tongue.

I pried the index of his fingers free
to inked palms and shells of thumbs.

I was bent inside my mother
until they cut her open.

Someone told me four blind mice
lay down in somersaults across my name.

They each had a story to tell
about my mutation.

Copyright Alan Semerdjian
Used here by kind permission of the author

ԱՐԱՅԻԿ ՄԱՐԳԱՐՅԱՆ: Ա Ղ Ո Թ Ք Ն Ե Ր

Մի բան տալիս, մի բան առնում,
Մի բան առնում, մի բան տալիս,-
Ես չտեսա երբե՛ք, երբե՛ք,
Մեկտեղ լինի երկու երնեկ:

Հեշտ է տալիս, դժվար առնում,
Հեշտ է առնում, դժվար տալիս,
Տեր իմ, տուր ինձ գոնե մեկ-մեկ
Ամբողջական երկու երնեկ:

Ինչ որ չար է, թող որ գնա:
Ինչ որ լավ է, մնա՛, մնա՛:
Մի քսան տարի ինչ կատարվի
Թող որ լինի միայն բարի:

Չէ՞ որ մի պահ է քսան տարին
Անչափելի քո դարերին:
Մեկ էլ թույլ տուր քսան տարի անց
Նորից ուղղեմ ես քեզ մի հայց:

Մի բան տալիս, մի բան առնում,
Մի բան առնում, մի բան տալիս,-
Ես չտեսա երբե՛ք, երբե՛ք,
Մեկտեղ լինի երկու երնեկ:


Copyright Araik Margarian. 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.

David Boyajian contributes a song for APP's first anniversary

Click to hear the special anniversary audio clipOLD BEGINNINGS sung by David Boyajian.

ՀԻՆ ՍԿԶԲՆԱՒՈՐՈՒԹԻՒՆՆԵՐ

Ուտի ծանօթ ձայնանիշեր
որ հոգւոյն լոյսը կը բերեն,
լռման մէջ շուտ կը սողոսկին
ինչպէս հաւատք, տեղեր, անձեր:

Եար, ո՞ւր էիր, եկո՜ւր իմ մօտ,
զէյթուն աչքերուդ կը զմայլիմ.
ծիրան ուտենք ծառերէն, որ
այս դեռ օտար հողով ծաղկին :

Կռունկի անկաշկանդ թեւեր
ծովուն միւս կողմը չեն տանիր.
նոյնիսկ եթէ կարող ըլլան ,
հին ստուերներ խապրիկ չունին:

Եար, ո՞ւր էիր, եկո՜ւր իմ մօտ,
զէյթուն աչքերուդ կը զմայլիմ.
ծիրան ուտենք ծառերէն, որ
այս դեռ օտար հողով ծաղկին :


OLD BEGINNINGS

The familiar strains of the oud
that bring forth the light of the soul,
so quickly slip away into silence
like faith, places, and people.

Where were you my love, come close to me,
I am enchanted by your olive eyes.
Let us eat apricots from the trees
that would flourish in this still strange soil.

The broad wings of the crane
cannot carry him across the ocean,
but even if they could
old ghosts do not have new stories.

Where were you my love, come close to me,
I am enchanted by your olive eyes.
Let us eat apricots from the trees
that would flourish in this still strange soil.

David Boyajian: vocals, oud, cymbals;
Ara Dinkjian: guitar, bendir, organ.

First Anniversary Online Poetry Blast

The Armenian Poetry Project (Հայ Բանաստեղծութեան Համացանցը)
invites its friends and readers to a
First Anniversary Online Poetry Blast
on April 30, 2007

+ Suggestion for entries must be full poems by authors of Armenian origin whose language of expression is Armenian, English and/or French
+ Individuals may submit their own work or their favourite poems
+ Entries may include a short biography and pictures of the poet
+ All entries MUST provide online or print sources
+ Translations without original poems and translator's name will not be considered


Send all entries to armenianpoetryproject@gmail.com