(One clad in Chanel, the other holds a broom)
She sweeps the street of our Homeland
Whistles to keep stray dogs away.
She’s old, she’s rugged, she smiles a lot.
As though lacking worries herself,
With her warm smile took yours away.
How does she feed? Where does she live?
And you with your pearls, clad in Chanel
Did you even see her?
Did you look well?
© copyright: Nora Armani 2007
Since I belong nowhere
I'd like to come and do my
Not-belonging here.
Will you help me fit in... to my clothes?
Or are you busy trying yours on for size?
Nora Armani, The New Londoners, June 2008
Home is where the hearth is
Home is where the heart is
Home is where the earth is
Home is where the art is
Home is where the ear is
Home is where all these
exist in harmony.
But can someone
please tell me where…
My home is?
© Nora Armani, 2007
Abovian,
Nalbantian,
Hanrapetutyan,
Tumanyan,
They all end in Yan.
Said one woman who was there
for the first time.
She had no notion what they meant,
But added,
At least they are names…
Not numbers like 46th, 50th, 8th, 4th and fist.
© copyright: Nora Armani 2007
The waitress is under age
Says she can’t serve me
wine herself.
I ask if she has sex
She smiles, through a blush
and says yes!
Impaired judgments
That destroyed nations
Or sometimes built them
Could be blamed equally on sex
Not as often on wine!
A world gone awry about
Not serving wine till you’re 21!
But killing, at any age, seems fine.
© copyright: Nora Armani 2009
Click here for the audio Mother read by the author, Nora Armani.
Mother
The sound of your violin
The world was not to hear
You kept it in your heart
Your sad smile was its sole reflection deep
Mother, your violin was sold.
Is someone playing it now?
Was it used for burning wood?
Or, did it become the cross on your lonely tomb?
© Nora Armani, Paris, 1993
Click hear for the audio clipI am writing now read by the author, Nora Armani.
Mother lived her life like this pen
Beautifully wrapped in its original box,
Never stained with ink,
Waiting for the day, when a special occasion
Would warrant its use.
That pen, she never used.
That special day must have come.
I her extension, am using it
To refer to her unlived life,
Like this unused pen.
Mother, you lived for me.
You kept this pen for me.
Can I in turn live for both of us?
© Nora Armani, Paris, 1993
Sojourn at Ararat started as a play based on translations of Armenian poetry through the ages. Staged as a two person play, it was created and performed by Gerald Papasian and Nora Armani. It opened at the Edinburgh Festival in 1986 and toured internationally in its English and French versions from 1987 to 1999.
The 20th anniversary revival was performed in Marseille's National Theatre La Criee, and in Paris, followed by a recording of the French version in Bordeaux. The English version revival is playing now through July 29th at the Fountain Theatre in Los Angeles.
The English language CD and DVD are now available. For more information, visit The PemArt website.
Click here to hear a segment of the show Sojourn at Ararat, provided by Nora Armani for the readers of APP.
Click here for the audio clip Fruits of Love read by the author, Nora Armani.
When my mind is away,
When my reason is asleep,
I’ll steal away to be myself.
Then the earth will make love to me
And impregnate me with fruits of the universe:
peaches for love, apples for lust and pomegranates for plenty.
The earth will make love to me and I will fly
To spread the pollen of good will, to bring the nectar of harmony,
to the world, sweet as original sin.
And the fruits of love will fall back on earth like rain.
© Nora Armani, Paris, 1993
Click to hear the audio clip Exile read by the author, Nora Armani.
Once more an exile, an exile for all living memory.
Stuck to my genes, this state of mind,
like colour of hair, skin, mode and manner,
forms an integral part my being… other.
No civil wars, deportation, forceful displacements for me.
Handed down through generations, not racial though genetic,
This innate property is my dowry at birth.
I am a native exile
Copyright Nora Armani, 2004
This poem was recently published as part of the “Poet Tree Project”, a collaboration between Refugees and the Arts Initiative and the London Borough of Newham. It raises the profile of Refugee artists and art created by, for and with refugees and asylum seekers through poetry and literature. For more information visit: www.artsinititive.org.uk
It was also published in a recent anthology: Forgotten Genocides of the 20th Century, 2005 by Garod Books, UK.
Click here to hear
This August is not read by the author, Nora Armani.
This heavy rain in August
Bears witness to the topsy-turvy
world we’re in.
On the eve of yet another one of my birthdays,
I am not sure if it is an occasion
To look back and value or regret?
Thank God I made it so far
But what good is that without those
that loved me so, and who I
didn’t have time to love half as much.
Life is strange, stranger than death,
a stranger to death.
My choice is tough
as strangers are not welcome here.
And yet, after a rainy day there’s sun.
After the storm comes peace.
After death… nothing
Particularly for those who survive!
©Nora Armani
August 30th 2006
After a sleepless night on a rainy day in Paris
Nora ARMANI, actress and author, born in Egypt of Armenian parents and educated in England, has appeared extensively on stage and screen worldwide. Her own stage creations Sojourn at Ararat, Nannto, Nannto and On the Couch with Nora Armani have earned international accolades during extensive tours on four continents in over twenty five cities.
Full biography is available at her website http://www.noraarmani.com
APP and its producer, Lola Koundakjian, retain the right to accept or reject any poetry submission(s) based on the criteria provided by the project description.
Send your comments to armenianpoetryproject[at]gmail[dot]comFollow us on Twitter: @armenianpoetry
Click here for our 15th anniversary clip on youtube.com
