George Kirazian Jr: To a Young Wife

Strict and dumb we are,
Like scholars on stools
Until you lift us from the pages,
And our dirge fancy,
Rhythmed by your eyes
Begins its shrill weave.

You enjoy our druidry;
And while the day slowly blends
Each of us leads you somewhere
Beyond the machine's monody --
Until with forced smile
You turn off the afternoon

To twist away through thickening streets
Toward quiet evening
And the soft hour when he
Gathers your choraling limbs into calm.



This poem has appeared in Ararat, Volum II, No 2, Spring 1961

George Kirazian Jr: Beethoven's Death Bed

His whispers limp into the air
And mute the insect sounds of friends.
The cane-like limbs strain
As he turns to his piano,
Folded and preposterous in the silent corner.

Only a glowing now
From all that force,
But deep within the obedient body
A final curse at the lightning's claw.


This poem has appeared in Ararat, Volum II, No 2, Spring 1961

George Kirazian, Jr: Das Weinende Kind

For those few moments she was a woman.

Often I had seen her
Spinning in the sun
To her own music,
And prayed that no smudged playmate
Would take away that birthday laughter.

Yet her forehead rested on the stair,
And a world of ribbons and fresh mornings 
was hidden.

This poem has appeared in Ararat, Volum II, No 2, Spring 1961