Nancy Kricorian: The Survivor

Click to hear The Survivor read by the author, Nancy Kricorian. 

All this pain is for which of our sins? 

 Catholicos Vazken I, 1988 

In this dream you walk past

the school’s sheared facade;

from their desks the children

call and wave. A teacher

points at a map of Armenia.

The ceilings drop like eyelids.

 

You wake to another dream

of soot-stained faced around

a fire fueled by broken chairs.

You wish the earth would

swallow the rows of coffins

in the playing field. The living

 

search for what they want

not to find; their eyes catch

like hooks at your skin.

You should have been the

hand of God reaching into

the school--the children

 

could have climbed onto

your palm that would hover

over the town until the earth

was still. But instead they

line up to write their names

in the book at heaven’s door. 

Copyright Nancy Kricorian

Don't Look Away: A Literary Series for Artsakh

Dear friends and colleagues,

On September 27th, Azerbaijan, directly aided by Turkey, launched a massive assault on Nagorno Karabakh, an ethnically Armenian territory known to Armenians as Artsakh. Since then, both Artsakh and the Republic of Armenia have been under attack. Artsakh’s capital, Stepanakert, has been relentlessly bombarded by drones, missile strikes and military aircraft. Azerbaijan is targeting not only military forces but also the civilian population and vital infrastructure like hospitals and schools, and evidence shows they have used lethal cluster munitions, which can wreak havoc for decades. In July, Erdogan promised ‘to fulfill the mission our grandfathers have carried out for centuries in the Caucasus,’ a statement with clear echoes of the Armenian Genocide. Armenians fear this assault is an attack on our existence as a people, and we need your help.

On behalf of the International Armenian Literary Alliance, I invite you to the first reading in our series, Don't Look Away, which will raise funds and awareness for Artsakh. The reading will provide context on the conflict and feature award-winning authors Peter Balakian, Carolyn Forché, Nancy Kricorian, Anna Turcotte and Lory Bedikian.


When: Saturday, October 10th at 3 pm Eastern
Click here to join us on Zoom (Password: IALA2020)


Click here to donate to the cause.


Thank you for your support.--

Olivia Katrandjian
www.oliviakatrandjian.com

Nancy Kricorian: Homage to Bourj Hammoud

Have you heard a thrush sing while its nest burns in the wind?
—Khalil Gibran

Listen. In the morning you can hear the bright strike of hammers and the rasp of saws. Children carry sand from the riverbanks in their school satchels. First they build the church, then the school, and finally a house for each family according to its means. The tents and shacks are taken down one by one. Each family plants a mulberry tree and tends its garden.

The remnants of Marash create a new Marash. And so also Nor Sis, Nor Adana, Nor Giligia, and Nor Hadjin are made. You can hear the sounds of the trades learned in the orphanage workshops: carpenter’s plane, sewing machine and cobbler’s bench. The sharp smell of the tannery is in the air and in their clothes. All Beirut wears their shoes.

Look at the children outside the church in their freshly pressed clothes, and the girls have ribbons in their hair. Look at the food spread on the luncheon table and the hands that pass the platters. Someone has told a joke and there is laughter. Someone pulls an instrument from its case.

Speak of those times, or don’t, when the parties take up arms against each other. How the women of one church throw boiling water out the window on the men with guns. When all Beirut stops fighting, for how many more weeks do the Armenian men continue to shed each other’s blood?

Speak then of the flowering: the neighborhood children grow tall. Among them are musicians, actors, painters and poets. In this world their parents have rebuilt from ashes, they now believe anything is possible, and everything is new.

Remember this: when the Civil War comes, neutrality is no amulet against the bullets and the bombs. Jewelers flee the downtown souk for Bourj Hammoud, where the militiamen patrol the night and then also the day. So many boats leave the port. Carrying leather suitcases to the airports, so many are exiled again.

Remember Nor Adana, Nor Marash, Nor Sis. Men still play backgammon and grill meat on braziers on the sidewalk. Remember the narrow alleys and wooden houses of Sanjak Camp, razed for a shopping plaza. Oh people of long memory, listen, look, speak, remember: your stories are a homeland.

Nancy Kricorian: Letter to Palestine (With Armenian Proverbs)

In a foreign place, the exile has no face.

You wake up in the morning and forget where you are. The smell of coffee from the kitchen. The sound of slippers across the linoleum floor. It could be any country.

When you look in the mirror you see the eyes of your grandfather. He expects something from you, but he won’t tell you what.

Better to go into captivity with the whole village than to go to a wedding alone.

The fabric was torn. With scraps you have made a tent, you have fashioned a kite, you have sewn a dress, you have wrapped yourself in a flag.

They have separated you with gun, grenade, barbed wire, wall, prison, passport. They have underestimated your will.

The hungry dream of bread, the thirsty of water.

Passing from one village to the next, without obstacle, without document, without your heart thumping up near your throat.

Turning the key in the lock, you enter through a door you have never passed through before except in your grandmother’s stories and in your dreams.

Nancy Kricorian

First published in Clockhouse Review, Volume 2, 2014.

Nancy Kricorian: Letter to James

This morning after you left

I slept until the phone rang,

and I let it ring. Then

the woman upstairs threw water

down the fire escape, which set

the pigeons off. I was hoping

a few of them got clean.

Sleep again, and dreams that

our house was besieged by starving

cats. I set bowls outside both

doors, filled with heavy cream.

My mother hung over the house

like a great bat, that kind

of shadow, that kind of fear.

But when finally I couldn’t sleep

any more, I had some cereal like

we do each morning, and thought

it sounded funny, one bowl and one

spoon. Some mornings the spoon

against your teeth bugs me, but

living with someone is like that.

Originally published in The Mississippi Review, Spring 1991

Nancy Kricorian: Ghost Children

Click to hear
Ghost Children read by the author, Nancy Kricorian.

At lunchtime I stand
at the stove spooning soup
into three white bowls.
My children eat bread
at the table. They laugh
at the milk moustaches that
I wipe from their faces.

On the pantry floor I see
the narrow shadows of the
other children, the one
whose bones I left in the
desert in a garden of bones.
The sand is still in my hair;
their high voices in my ears.

My American children can't
see their unlucky brother and
sister who follow close by
my skirt. Mairig, the ghosts
complain, we are hungry. Mairig,
give us something to eat.


Copyright Nancy Kricorian. Used here by kind permission of the author.
This poem has appeared in Ararat, Summer 1995.

Nancy Kricorian: My Armenia

Armenia is a country where someone is always crying.
Women punch in and out on the clock, grieving in shifts.
1895, 1915, 1921, the thirties, 1988, 1992, 1993, 1994...
White handkerchiefs flutter in their careworn hands.

The Armenian orphans have oversized heads and eyes
the color of bitter chocolate. They don't complain about
the harshest winter. They are grateful for the same dull food.
In their faded uniforms, they sing off-key for visitors.

Cher, who was born Cherilyn Sarkisian, travelled to
Armenia where she wore a scarf and kept the tattoos covered.
She visited the orphans, and brought them Barbie dolls.
She said she would star in Forty Days of Musa Dagh.

I want to direct a bio-pic of Commander Avo, Cher's
distant cousin, who died a "freedom fighter" in Karabagh.
How did Monte Melkonian of Visalia, California come to
join the Armenian Secret Army for the Liberation of Armenia?

The camera, the handkerchief, the rifle, the massacres,
Monte dead in Artsakh, a shrapnel wound to the head.
Plum blossoms, apricots, we will make a picnic under
the trees, fresh bread, madzoon, cheese, garden greens.

Children will race through the grass, and when the sun goes
down the field will be lit by the moon and a thousand fireflies.
The men drink raki , and sing: A person dies only once, but
fortunate is the one who dies for the freedom of his people.

Are there fireflies in Armenia? Do the women edge their
handkerchiefs with lace? Armenia is a country in my body,
the right side only because I'm half-Armenian. I choose it --
my imaginary homeland, my handkerchief, my name.


Copyright Nancy Kricorian

Nancy Kricorian: Armenia

For Mariam Kodjababian Kricorian

I. Syria


This is what I remember:
I would make fine stitches
in scraps of cloth and my father
would look up from his work
and praise my tiny row of seeds.
I loved to sit among the buttons
and bolts of cloth and hear the rock
of the pedal and sewing machine.

One winter morning when the snow
drifts stood as high as my head,
my father swung me to his shoulders
and carried me two miles to school
past the white mountains of cedar.

I don't know why it happened.
A notice nailed to the wall
in my eighth year and we gathered
few belongings, and all our people
marched and stumbled toward Syria.
My mother fell by the road,
and we left her there.
The great dark birds followed us.
The soldiers were dogs, and we became
less than nothing in the desert.

My father died, and my small sisters
grew thinner to their deaths.
There was me and my brother Sarkis,
and the black tent flapping in the sand.



II. Cyprus


There were twenty beds to make,
double back the stiff cuff of sheet
over the rough blanket, the cotton cover,
and baste it all together twenty times.

Then the long boards of the floors,
quick dance of the broom, splash
of the pail and the mop and thirty
stairs from the top
to the bottom of the inn.

My uncle's wife had me earn my keep.
My brother was made an apprentice
to the drunken tailor in the next village,
where straight seams happened in the morning
and not much in the afternoon.

He arrived late one night at the inn,
a tall narrow man in American suits.
His stare made my hands tremble
and the milk pitcher smash to the floor
when I served his meal.
He tucked notes in my apron pocket
when he passed me in the hall.
I tore them up unopened.
I was sixteen and he twice my age.

My uncle asked, Mariam, will you go
with this man to America?

We left Cyprus one week later
on a ship as big as our village.
My name was made Mary, my age eighteen.
I never saw my brother again.



III. Egypt



Our wedding picture was taken
in Cairo. My husband's cousin
helped me with the row
of small buttons down the back
of the ivory satin gown; she loaned me
gold earrings and a bracelet.
I sat in a chair and my feet
in their pale shoes barely
grazed the floor.
Leo stood beside me,
a hand on my shoulder,
staring straight into the eye
of the machine and the man
under the black cloth behind it.
With the flash of light
I saw the fierce sun of the desert,
and felt the fear rise up,
great wings beating against my ribs.
I saw Sarkis waving from the pier.
I thought of letting my long hair down,
and nothing else.



IV. America

My husband and I stood on the ship’s deck
watching lace-topped waves roll by.
The salt wind blew strands of loose hair
in my face and pulled on my shawl’s edges.
The ocean spread so far in all directions
I felt like a grain of sand in God’s shoe.

From the train I saw pastel wooden houses
speed by and frozen shirts sway on lines.
The bare arms of winter trees held up
low-slung skies. When we reached Boston
I pulled my wool coat tight around me,
breathing air that smelled of exile.

A new cooking pot, a new bed, a new life:
my husband gave me all these things.
No one could return to me
my brother and my dead.

Copyright Nancy Kricorian

Nancy Kricorian: The Angel

Click to hear the audio clip of The Angel read by the author, Nancy Kricorian.

My grandmother is in heaven. This heaven has no Turks, no women in skimpy bathing suits, no squirrels in the pear trees. Her mansion is very clean and there are plastic covers on the furniture. In the morning she combs out her long hair and puts on a blue-flowered dress. Jesus stops by for coffee and cheoregs. She claps her hands when she sees the fuchsia he has brought her. Grandma and Jesus sit in the kitchen and talk about plans for the new Armenian Cultural Center. They look at old photo albums and the day passes quickly. When it is suppertime, Jesus goes back to his place next door. Knowing it will soon be dark in Watertown, my grandmother rings the bell for the angel. She gives the angel a Three Musketeers bar for the trip. Just before I fall asleep, I hear the rustle of the candy wrapper behind my headboard.

“The Angel” was originally published in Caliban 2 (1987).
Copyright Nancy Kricorian