Michael Minassian: THE ARMENIAN VILLAGE - 1915

The soldiers stand

in clumps

smoking cigarettes

and kicking

the dirt

with their boots.

Half the village is empty

although the well

is stuffed

and overflows;

across the center square,

the church spire leaks

thick black smoke

spewing ash that falls

like winter’s leaves.

A century later,

rain weeps through

the deserted streets

and washes the salt

from the tears

of the dead

stirring under the earth.

·      originally published in Third Wednesday magazine, 2016.

Michael Minassian: The Fortune Teller

On the streets of Seoul,

fortune tellers sit cross legged

next to birdcages

on the blank sidewalk:

the bottom of the cage strewn with tiny scrolls, 

and on a perch a single 

white finch with clipped feathers. 

I lean down to ask how much

and nod at the price,

handing her the bills folded like the pages of a book

The fortune teller speaks a single Korean word,

and the bird hops down, 

taking a scroll in its beak

which is quickly removed and unrolled.

“You will have long life,” she says

“and make your living with words.

Your parents very happy with your choices,

but a neighbor is jealous.”

But when I urge her to go on,

she gets angry, barking

at the bird, causing it to hop

from leg to leg on the perch, 

then hang from the side 

of the cage and look over its shoulder.

“Take the bird and leave,” she says,

opening the cage and thrusting the startled finch

into my hands. “Take money, too,” then changes

her mind and snatches the bills back.

I am left standing with the finch

and cannot walk with it in my hand

or find room in my pockets,

so let it sit on my tongue,

opening my mouth to let it breathe

and selling fortunes to anyone who will listen.

Originally published in Diverse Voices Quarterly, 2014

Michael Minassian: Conversation in Connecticut

On this crisp fall afternoon, 

Jack swings the axe 

in one smooth motion,

splitting the logs one after another;

gazing out past the driveway

to the stand of bent white elms,

he pauses, then hands me the axe

as if he were asking me to write

a chapter in his latest novel.

“When I left Tehran,” he says, 

“the only thing my father said

was that we would talk again.” 

As I swing the axe down,

the loud thwack startles the crows

hiding among the elms, and I imagine

I can hear them talking in a low murmur

like smoke curling under a door.

Jack grunts and seems to dismiss 

the crows with a wave of his hand,

then fills his pipe, and lights it,

closing his eyes, and I wait for the end

of the story that I know will come,

and he says, “Of course, we never did.”

Later, we stack the wood into long piles

next to the back door, and I build a fire

in the stone fireplace in Jack’s study

while he clacks his ancient Remington

creating his father’s inner world: 

“Something has to burn,” he says, 

“if there is going to be light.”

and I picture the words flaring into flame

on the page like love annihilating loss

or black crows scattering against gun metal gray clouds

on their way to an ocean too vast to cross.

Originally published in The Aurorean, Fall/Winter 2013-14.

Recently relocated to San Antonio and Michael Minassian is adjusting to life as a Texan.  Some of his poems have appeared recently in such journals as The Broken Plate, The Comstock Review, Exit 7, Main Street Rag, and The Meadow.  Amsterdam Press published a chapbook of his poems entitled The Arboriculturist in 2010. His blog is http://www.michaelminassian.com 

Author's Note:  The Jack in this poem is based on my uncle, Jack Karapetian  (1925-1994), who wrote under the pen name of Hakob Karapents. Born in Tabriz, Iran, Jack was a prolific Armenian-American writer who wrote almost exclusively in Armenian. As a toddler, I followed Uncle Jack around the three-bedroom apartment in the Bronx and sat on his lap as he pounded away on his typewriter. In later years, he encouraged my writing and often read my poems and short stories, making comments and suggestions. After he retired and moved to Connecticut, we would  go for long walks and discuss the craft of writing. I still consider him my mentor and muse and have written a series of poems around him.

Michael Minassian: THE GREAT DEPRESSION

In 1929, my grandfather’s boss 

at Hovanian Oriental Carpets 

ran out of money, so paid him his wages 

in brightly woven rugs from Armenia, Turkey,

Afghanistan and China, “Take this, home,”

the owner said, “d’ram cheega.”

So week after week he brought home carpets,

tacking them to the floors then the walls 

of the three bedroom apartment 

in the Bronx, using a large 

Persian rug as a bedspread, 

and another to protect the couch.

Then my grandmother covered 

the kitchen table, refrigerator, and stove,

the bathtub, toilet, and sink;

next, she stitched together clothes:

pants, shirts, underwear, and socks,

and convinced the cobbler down the block

to make shoes for the whole neighborhood;

then they lined the street and sidewalk

with carpets and tapestries, remnants, and rugs.

Soon you could walk barefoot on Bathgate Avenue,

while up in the apartment, my grandmother 

cut strips of fabric to bake or fry,

serving the pieces mixed with rice pilaf,

or toasting thin slices in the morning,

stuffing the rest into the coffee grinder

boiling it down as thick as Turkish coffee,

a stiff bitter tonic

served with salt and sand.

Michael Minassian

"The Great Depression" was originally published in the Red Earth Review 's Summer 2015 issue.

Michael Minassian: Moons And Mothers And Monsters

In the middle of the night
I hear a radio speaking
in a foreign language
I cannot understand,
so I get out of bed
to tune in the channel;
the voices escape loud and clear
telling me to forget the past.

Somewhere in the world, skeletons
shake off their derelict dust
and set off in sailing ships and coffins,
carrying their chromosomes with them,
saying “bury the intellect”
and “bury humanity” while the sky
turns to sand, spills from the open sockets
of moons and mothers and monsters:
drink, America, drink,
here are the matches, the airplanes, the missiles,
here are the masters,
bring me a womb to plant
while we drinken, America, trinken.

This poem has appeared in Diverse Voices Quarterly. Michael Minassian now lives in San Antonio, Texas. His most recent publications include poems published in the Comstock Review and the Iodine Poetry Journal. His work has also been translated into Dutch for inclusion in a poetry anthology entitled LICHT published by Amnesty International.

Michael Minassian: EYES ON FIRE

With what burning eyes

do I see the past

the black ash

that eats the edges

of the photographs,

the white ash

that covers my eyelids?

With what burning throat

do I recite the names

no one alive remembers,

names I have reduced to titles,

events, and relationships:

great-grandmother,

brother who drowned in Lake Van,

grandfather’s first wife and son?

with what burning ears

do I hear the wind

traveling from the past;

the sound reaching my brain

with a series of sharp

cracks and scratches,

like old 78 rpm recordings;

the labels written in English

and Armenian –

one language bleeding

into the other,

as the record begins to spin

and I hear the music:

                        duduk, oud, my own voice?

Michael Minassian lives in South Florida. His poems have appeared recently in such journals as Aurorean, Iodine Poetry Journal, Poet Lore, Main Street Rag, and The Meadow. He is also the writer/producer of the podcast series  Eye On Literature available on iTunes. A chapbook of his poems entitled The Arboriculturist was published in 2010 by Amsterdam Press.

Michael Minassian: OFFERING

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OFFERING read by the author, Michael Minassian.

Here
grandfather

here is the
stump of the tree
we cut down

when my hands
were too small
to fit around

the handle of the saw.
Here is the tree
you nurtured
w/ its green apples

now rotting
on the ground.

Here is where
I peed on your shoe
near the grape vine

whose leaves
we used to eat.

Here is the fireplace
we sat around
while you sang
me songs of
the old country
in the language

the others
had forgotten.

Here is the house
you built
& the garden you grew

the piece of land
that you loved.

Here
grandfather –
I know you are here.

I have brought you
my son.

Copyright Michael Minassian.

THIS POEM FIRST APPEARED IN ARARAT MAGAZINE IN WINTER - 1978 and is used here by kind permission of the author.

Michael Minassian: THE HILLS OF MEMORY

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THE HILLS OF MEMORY read by the author, Michael Minassian.


“They say the owl was a baker’s daughter.
Lord! We know what we are,
but not what we may be.”

- Ophelia

In the evening with the sun gone
I could see the stars appear
one by one, then in pairs,
trees deep dark green
stark against the disappearing gray,
silhouetted like the hills of memory.

There, near a row of pines
feet cushioned by the dewing grass,
I thought of the owl
that was the baker’s daughter;
was she chaste as a bird,
the heat of hunger in her breast
chasing prey at night, the push
and rush of wings as currents
of wind stroked back feathers,
talons out, sweeping low to the ground,
striking and feeling the last frantic
beats of some creature’s heart,
beak parted, eyes so wide
she could almost fly backwards
through her sight;
at that moment, did she remember
all the way back to her other life,
the smell of bread, the taste of sweet cake.

Copyright Michael Minassian

THIS POEM FIRST APPEARED IN CONNECTICUT WRITER MAGAZINE SUMMER-1988 AND WAS AN HONORABLE MENTION FOR BEST POEM. It is used here by kind permission of the author.

Michael Minassian: CHERRY TREES

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CHERRY TREES read by the author, Michael Minassian.

Down a foot worn path
on the outskirts of the forest
the cherry trees stood
surrounding an abandoned field
some farmer had left
to the sun, wild grain, and dandelion fuzz.

Picking cherries, the sun
beat on our backs
as my grandfather held me
among the branches, my limbs stained
red with cherry blood,
my shirt stuck to my skin
with the sun’s hot breath.

One day we took a different path home
our pails bumping together,
brimming with cherries
full of sun and juice and pits
to the home of a woman,
an old friend, my grandfather said,
and gave her a bag of our stolen fruit.

Later, I heard, this woman
would sing to her chickens
before she wrung their necks,
and bare her breasts to the sun,
loving life, she said;
then disappeared
from memory for thirty years,
until I brought her back,
wrinkled and naked,
yearning for the warm
juice of fresh-picked fruit, the skin
of old men, and young boys asleep
on the neck of a bird.

Copyright Michael Minassian

THIS POEM FIRST APPEARED IN KARAMU MAGAZINE IN SPRING-1995 and is reprinted here by kind permission of the author

Michael Minassian: BROKEN PROMISES

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BROKEN PROMISES read by the author, Michael Minassian.

Let me take you
to a stone altar
somewhere north of
Arabia

on the road
to Holy Russia
we stop to
loot & plunder

the sands of dry
river beds.

Let me bring you
dark delights
in palaces of pleasure
which disappear

each dawn
with the cracking sun.

Let me take you
to black tents
fluttering
in the desert wind

to hard rides
on camels –
changing horses
on the plains
of Asia Minor

arriving finally
at the base
of Mt. Ararat

to old men
selling splinters
of wood

pieces of the Ark.


Let me take you
where the ancient grasses
keep their own secrets

to the lakes & seas
of Armenia

& tell you tales
of massacres
while we eat
purple grapes
in the foothills.

Let me sing you songs
of love & freedom
of men who escaped
across the ocean

to wind up
the lonely dead
in Boston & Manhattan

who never forgot
the broken promises
or the words
that brought them there.

Let me take you
to streets
paved of gold

on the other side
of rainbows –
to tattoos
in the sky

where the wind
speaks in broken
English.

Copyright Michael Minassian

THIS POEM FIRST APPEARED IN ARARAT MAGAZINE IN SPRING - 1976 and appears here by kind permission of the author.

Introducing Michael Minassian

MICHAEL MINASSIAN was born in the Bronx, New York. He currently lives in South Florida and is a professor at Broward Community College in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. Michael has a certificate in creative writing from California State University (Dominguez Hills) and in 1997, he was named best poet by City Link magazine. His award winning poetry and short stories have appeared in such journals as: Ararat, Bitter Oleander, Common Ground, Karamu, Poet’s Lore, and The Savannah Literary Journal.

Click here for Michael's website.

Michael Minassian: DESERT SONG

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DESERT SONG read by the author, Michael Minassian.

I

As I rub my eyes with cracked hands,
objects appear to waver,
dissolving like a mirage
along hot, dusty roads;
we turn the windshield wipers on,
next the headlights;
sand seeps in through the cracks
around windows and doors.
The car stops, its parts
clogged with sand.


The wind blows and blows;
the desert loves itself;
it moves, it changes,
it kills for more.

There is too much dust in the air;
sand spills from the mouth, the nose;
motes the size of boulders
clog the sight.

This is what comes of looking too far.
I yearn to see Ararat,
but stuck here a thousand
nights away, I swim in the desert
like a star lost upon the milky way.












II

Ararat,
I burn for you.

Ararat,
I slit my wrists
for you: out comes sand.

Ararat,
I kiss your breast
shaped peaks;
the nipples I thought
were cool white snow
are sand.

Ararat,
I cry for you;
these tears a mirage,
this smile a scimitar,
this ride a trip back
through deserts of time.


Copyright Michael Minassian

THIS POEM FIRST APPEARED IN ARARAT MAGAZINE IN WINTER-1990; it is reprinted here by kind permission of the author.