Leonardo Alishan: Untitled

I could not look
my victim
in the eyes
though he was dead

I shaved

without once
looking
my victim
in the eyes.




This poem has appeared in RAFT, A Journal of Poetry and Criticism, Volume 4, 1990.

Leonardo Alishan: Anniversary Poem (For Neli)

Leonard Alishan (1951-2005)

Plucking petals is a sin.

Listen to my song, my love,

though I sing it silently;

though I sing it 

through the tired blackbirds

nesting in my eyes.

Like gold dust

settling at the bottom of the pan,

your love has settled

in my bones

and blood.

This love, buried under

sixteen generations of red ripe apples

and sixteen layers of golden leaves,

is a treasure,

the gold of a bygone era

that lives in its coins.

I love you

though the narrow pass of my throat

grows increasingly dangerous

for a caravan of words.

Words reach your ears

pillaged and plundered,

cut off from the rest,

making no sense.

Accept the nonsense

with extended arms,

palm tree,

well of clean water,

safe shade.

When I lived

on a small unchartered island

in an unsailed sea,

I saw you in the sun

stitching the leaves of the palm tree

to the white clouds

with golden needles,

keeping my island afloat.

And I love

your life imbued Armenian fingers

wheat scented

and sun burned

but finer than the long thin tail

of a small tropical fish.

Plucking petals is a sin.

Take the flower, my love,

and smell my love song

from a kiss.

This poem has appeared in RAFT

Տարեդարձի Քերթուած
                                  Նէլիին

Թերթերը պոկելը մեղք է։
Լսէ՛ իմ երգս, սէ՛րս,
թէեւ երգս լուռ է.
թէեւ կþերգեմ զայն
աչքերուս մէջ բոյն դրած
սեւ թռչուններուն ընդմէջէն։

Տապակին յատակը նստած
ոսկէփոշիի նման
սէրդ է նստած
ոսկորներուս եւ
արեանս մէջ։

Այս սէրը, թաղուած
հասուն կարմիր խնձորներու
տասնըվեց սերունդներու
եւ ոսկէ տերեւներու տանըվեց
խաւերու տակ
գանձ մըն է --
անցած օրերու ոսկին՝
որ կþապրի իր ստակներով։

Կը սիրեմ քեզ,
թէեւ նեղ անցքը իմ կոկորդիս
երթալով վտանգաւոր կը դառնայ

բառերու կարաւանի մը։
Բառեր կը հասնին ականջներուդ
կողոպտուած եւ աւարուած,
պոկուած մնացածէն
անիմաստ դարձած։
Ընդունէ՛ անմտութիւնը
բաց թեւերով --
արմաւենի,
ջինջ ջուրի հոր,
ապահով շուք։

Երբ կþապրէի
փոքր անծանօթ կղզզիի մը վրայ
անծանօթ ծովու մը մէջ,
տեսայ քեզ արեւին մէջ
կարելդ արմաւենիին տերեւները
սպիտակ ամպերուն
ոսկիէ ասեղով
կղսիս ալեծածան պահելով։
Եւ կը սիրեմ
քու կենարար, ցորեն բուրող
եւ արեւահար
հայու մատները,
աւելի նուրբ քան երկար, նիհար
պոչը փոքր արեւադարձային ձուկին։

Թերթերը պոկելը մեղք է։
Ա՛ռ ծաղիկը, սէ՛րս,
եւ հոտոտա՛ համբոյրէ մը եկած
սիրոյ երգս։


......................Լէոնարտօ Ալիշան
Թարգմանեց՝ Թաթուլ Սոնենց

Leonardo Alishan: Untitled

At my birthday parties 
we played musical chairs. 

Whoever was left standing 
got a big hug from Granny. 

She knew all too well how it felt 
to be the last one, left alone, standing.


This poem has appeared in RAFT, A Journal of Poetry and Criticism, Volume 4, 1990.

Leonardo P. Alishan: a new collection of poetry

A new collection of poetry by the late Armenian-Iranian-American poet, Leonardo Alishan, "Dead Man's Shadow," is now available. 


Edited by Lucian Stone it is published by Blind Owl Press, an imprint of Mazda Publishers




2011: xlix+145,6 x 9. ISBN:1-56859-287-6; ISBN 13: 978-1568592879(softcover).
For more information and to place an order  
click on this link

Leonardo Alishan: Christmas Eve, 1988

Angels sleep on a stack of gambling debts
gathering dust and interest.
The ivy loses five leaves every day.
I helplessly count
the last sleeping pills
on my unfamiliar fingers.
The Christmas tree is a village maid
all made up for her wedding night.
The fireplace is a big, black yawn.
Yellow leaves should not be left
among the green.
(Why does Granny's ghost
sleep under my son's bed?) . . .
The big win, the sure bet
never was and never came.
I kissed the bottle goodbye
but the apricots never kissed me back.
A cigarette butt burns my nostrils
but I am too tired
to put it out.
My guardian angels sleep
with their broken wings
on my soft stack of gambling debts.
In the mirror I see
God's corpse burning in the acid seas.
The tired ivy hangs her bare arms languidly.
(I'm too tired to bend,
raise the blankets from my son's bed,
and play peek-a-boo
with Granny's ugly ghost.) . . .
It [is] . . . frustrating
. . . counting sleeping pills
and having extra fingers left.
In the end, the old fireplace
will have the ultimate pleasure
of belching smoke
after making a meal of the Christmas tree.
(Merry Christmas Granny and good night.)

Leonardo Alishan: Apparitions in April (Rhapsody for Gayane)

II

It's April, as all months are on my calendar,
and every day's the twenty-fourth.
And in April everything's in bloom in Utah;
tell me, love, why is my landscape always this desert?
The same bare, barren, burnt desert
with nothing in sight but a bottomless bottle
balanced on the tightrope of the horizon?

This desert is our home, my love,
with its black hills of scavenger birds
and its black seas of burning stones.
Hold my hand, granny, I'm just nine
and you are, after all, fourteen years old.


Leonardo Alishan
This poem was published in ASPORA, Volume II, 1995.

Leonardo Alishan: Anahit as Armenia

Papa broke the bread in
half. The aroma. I remembered
you. A bone, somewhere in me,
broke. Hungry, I kissed mama
good-night and left. All night
I tossed in my sleep, dreaming
of your scent, of mama's hair.
I have never known you Anahit,
but I know your perfume well.


Copyright Leonardo Alishan.
From the volume Dancing Barefoot On Broken Glass, Ashod Press, New York, 1991.

Leonardo Alishan: The Miracle

The lion came to the city
asking for me.

He did not find me.

I was in the church praying
for the lion to arrive.

Copyright Leonardo Alishan.
From the volume Dancing Barefoot On Broken Glass, Ashod Press, New York, 1991.

Leonardo Alishan: Communion

Bach?
No.
Give me mad Komitas.
Give me the compositions
he composed
in the last years of his life
in the last cells of his soul,
and wrote
on the desert sand.
No.
Bach's God
is a cathedral God,
mathematically too precise.
Give me my mad Komitas searching
for his handful of notes
amidst one million and five hundred thousand
dead.
Give me music made with bread
baked with blood.
Let the flawless Father
be Bach's,
let Bach's flawless music
be his Father's.
Give me that simple necklace
made with the teeth
of a mutilated God.
Yes. Give me
Komitas.


Copyright Leonardo Alishan.
From the volume Dancing Barefoot On Broken Glass, Ashod Press, New York, 1991. This poem has also appeared in RAFT, A Journal of Poetry and Criticism, Volume 4, 1990.

Leonardo Alishan: Lazarus

Today I celebrate my health
with the taste of cigarettes
and the smell of fresh coffee.
Today I can pass
the ordeal of molten brass.
I can walk on fire
and survive poisoned wine.
Today I am a divine king
dressed for a festival
in rags.
Today the sun is a golden disc
I flung into the sky.
The sparrows are my courtiers
chirping proper praises,
and all the lights turn green.
Today jealous gods argue
over my fatherhood
and my worst poems
look good.
Though it is not noon yet
and by late afternoon
I may be begging a worm
to lend an ear to my woes,
it is not noon yet
and there is time to walk
unrecognized among my people,
to wipe a tear with a joke
and gloom with a compliment.
Today my wings feel fresh,
today my hands feel fine.
Today my heart is as happy
as a drunk vagabond
invited into a brothel
for the night.
And, who knows, by tonight
I may feel up to it
to fly into the sky
and light the moon for you,
for today I am alive,
my lungs are bigger
than a pelican's beak,
my liver is as soft
as a swallow's breast,
and nothing
seems impossible.

Copyright Leonardo Alishan.
From the volume Dancing Barefoot On Broken Glass, Ashod Press, New York, 1991.

Leonardo Alishan: Earthly Paradise II

Sitting by the soft fire, I will
sip my tea and tell my grandsons that
yes, I was there, on that ship
with Odysseus, though I was
a simple sailor with wax stuffed
in my ears, and I did not hear
the Sirens' song. And that
is why, my children, we are
here, together, now.

Copyright Leonardo Alishan.
From the volume Dancing Barefoot On Broken Glass, Ashod Press, New York, 1991.

Leonardo Alishan: The Game

Click to hear the audio clip The Game read by Yeraz Markarian.

When papa was in a good mood
he played hide and seek
with my little brother and me
in grandma's huge orchard in Isfahan.

Sacco hid the best.
Papa, the worst. And I
didn't like to hide at all.
But we were together and it was fun.

We went on playing
as the years went by. One
hid in England, one in America,
and papa stayed counting in Iran.

Then we found each other again
and again we played.
But there was a problem now:
whoever hid, could not be found again. . .

Oh, my most beloved ghosts,
this is your brother, this is your son,
and I'm done counting!
Ready or not, here I come.

Leonardo Alishan (1951-2005)

Leonardo Alishan was born of Armenian parents in Tehran, Iran. He came to the U.S. for graduate studies in 1973 and from 78-97 he taught Persian literature and comparitive literature at the University of Utah in Salt Lake City. His poems and stories have been published in a variety of national and international journals and have been the recepient of a number of literary awards. Alishan's first collection, Dancing Barefoot on Broken Glass, appeared in New York in 1991. His second, Through a Dewdrop was published in Glendale, California in 2002. "Tired Thoughts" was awarded the People Before Profits Poetry Prize for 2003.

Leonardo Alishan: Tired Thoughts

Click the link to hear Tired Thoughts read by Yeraz Markarian.

They have buried ten million mines
in Afghanistan, one land mine
for every two or three Afghans,
regardless of age or ethnic background.

They have planted death in the womb
of the mother. Prosthetic limbs are airdropped
with food. They have planted a mine
under God's pillow and his dreams of doves.

Every night a new dark dream spreads
its wings in my sleep. This morning I woke
with a throbbing headache. I woke tired.
I had defused or detonated mines all night.

A dream so real, I checked my limbs.
They were still mine. A dream so dark
I checked my heart. God was still there.
But also still mine and also still there

was the problem of ten million mines,
ten million limbs, ten million lives, ten million
dreams, blown apart in the heart of a God
who plows with the farmers and lives in my heart.

Leonardo Alishan (1951-2005)

This poem won the 2003 People Before Profits Poetry Prize.