Raffi Joe Wartanian: Phantom Tongue

The Armenian Poetry Project is proud to share this unpublished poem by the Inaugural Poet Laureate of Glendale, California,  Raffi Wartanian, and his pictures of Խուլավանգ, which is the church in Kharpert that he referenced in the poem.

Phantom Tongue

by Raffi Joe Wartanian

Somewhere in the world 

my history is erased

my name is changed

Րաֆֆի Վարդանեան 

կլլա

Րաֆֆի Վարդանեան 

glla

Raffi Vartanian 

becomes

Rayfee Wartaynyin

Wartanian

Like the tan on your wart

Stylized melanoma

Signifying the end

Or Wartanian

A song of war

Death, destruction, murder

Nothing I stand for

Mixed into the moniker 

Not here: Vartanian

Warrior sons and daughters 

Defiantly defending a people

Only to have their nom de guerre lathered

Like suds swirling down the drain

Of the car wash on Jackson Street

Under an American sun baking flesh white

Calls for change, or at least a discount, stifled by the heat

Somewhere in the world 

my ancestor’s creations are destroyed

          crosstones of a medieval Armenian necropolis on the banks of the Araxes River reduced to rubble

a stone church, Խուլավանգ, in the golden wheat fields of Kharpert, on its crumbling column defiled with a spray-painted swastika

homes in Hajin, Adana, Zara, and Kumkapi

 never to be known

only to be evoked

during visits, with maps, in verse

their names are ghosts who saunter in meadows of the amnesia I recall

so that sometime in the future

I can sit down with my boy

look him in the eye

and have “the talk”

Will the news destroy his innocence 

The day I tell him

That we were, are, will be

Objects of genocide?

How will he come to understand the unfathomable?

A series of moments…by osmosis…

Lighting candles at the church

The old typewriter hanging on the wall

A grainy image of emaciated corpses

Their sunken eyes somehow familiar

Protestors demanding recognition from violent nations we now or once called home

Or will he already know? Was it coded in his bones? 

When will he learn that the imposed tension 

Between erasure and endurance

Is not just a thing of the past

But a choice today

Between internalizing the oppressors’ will, 

And facing the question

Answers illuminating a path

Fraught with the promise of truth’s daggered thorns

Poking holes in our language

“Endangered” like a fading phantom living in my throat

Կոկորդս, Լեզուս

Spoken to my child

Hearing him voice the revenant

On his tongue does she live or die? 

Maybe both. Maybe none of it matters, especially once we’re erased. 

Have we already arrived?

And once we’ve arrived, can we finally begin to return?

Raffi Wartanian: Ani

Ani

Are you a city?
Are you a person?
Are you an angel?

Were you my love?
Were you my home?
Were you always baking softly in the sun?

When did the fortress start to crumble?
When were the churches scorched to earth?
When were crescents cut from crosses?

Whose eyes absorbed this unthinkable dismantling?
Whose voice was swallowed by the Akhurian River?

For how many centuries has that bird sung?
For how many revolutions will these bees swarm?
For how many miles will this vast chamber
Echo the dog bark, the church bell, our wavering voices,
Into the bottomless gorge?

Is man so stubborn as to think his questions matter?
That countries can endure?
That species can survive?

As our ruins shudder
As our population declines
As the black smoke rises over the minaret
    Chilling a headless church in its shadow,
Do we see ourselves in you, Ani?

Do you return to us as we honor you with namesakes and stories?
Or have you hidden forever
Behind the cloak of
History and nation,
Memories and myth,
As we helplessly try uncovering the mystery
And capture justice
In our dogged pursuit
Of something lasting
Something fair
Something ours?

We as individuals
As a people
As a humanity
Bound by genetic hope

And a vision of the future before our very eyes
In this fallen city.


Raffi Wartanian.
This poem originally printed in h-pem

April 24th 2019 reading in New York City (streamed event)

The event was streamed:

https://www.facebook.com/AsianAmericanWritersWorkshop/videos/2117403338561093/

Րաֆֆի Վարդանեան։ Պարտէզը

Լօլային

Հայկ Նահապէտին պարտէզէն դուրս

Լեզուս թաղեցի
Հօրս պարտէզին մէջ,
որպէսզի Ուժ տայ բնութեան,

Որովհետեւ հոգիս
լռութենէն ալ յուսահատ է ։
Անյոյս է
Որպէս սփիւռք
Որպէս ինքնաօտար
Որպէս հոգի ու վկայ եւ
Աքսորի զաւակ։

Պատերազմ և ողբերգութիւն
Կը կոչուին այդ երես լզողները, Ու ծնողքս,
իրենց հաճոյքը կը պահեն
Մեծմօրս գրպանին մեջ։
يعني sabersiz, mon ami

Այս կեանքը բնական չէ
Որովհետեւ ան
Կը ծաղկի
Կմախքի մը կողէն
Այն գերեզմանատան մէջ
Ուր կը Ֆր-ֆրա Հովը - Թուրքիոյ, Հայաստանի ապա, Ռուսաստանի հովը, Ամերիկայի, Չինաստանի, Ուրուկուաի հովը - Նահատակներուն հովը, Զոհերուն, Երգիչին և արհեստաւորին հովը:
Բերնէդ բրցուած լեզուն
ընկղմեցաւ
Մելանին մէջ
ուր կրցաւ
պատմական նիւթեր գրել։

Ծովափին աւազներուն վրայ
Դարերու ընթացքին
Տարիներով
Օրերով
Մրջիւններով,

Türkçe dilinde,

En français

بللغة العربية

Րաֆֆի Վարդանեան

Raffi Wartanian: Palabras Del Camino

I

Durante la noche

Queremos amor, Queremos vida.

Durante el día,

Necesitamos bocadillos con queso.

II

Ahora es el tiempo de Cola Cao;

Yalla Habibi, leche calor.

¿Que es eso? ¡Eso es queso!

Queso y jamón en todo mi cuerpo.

III

Hay más en mis pantalones

Mas - amor, chocolates, pimientos -

Verde, rojo, naranja frutas;

Los árboles significan la vida.

IV

Hay un fuego en mi corazón

Por todos las chicas del mundo,

Del país de Contador;

Y Los Catalonskis por supuesto

Y los Basqaderos en Pamplona

V

Cuando el sol entra al día

Tengo mucha felicidad en la vida

Sra. Paetow, muchos gracias,

Tú eres la verdad, no hay más.

VI

Ay árbol - ay. Qué vida.

Qué pueblo.

Necesitas una navaja para lavar

Sus pelos - yalla.

VII

¿Qué significa la vida?

¿Qué significa el amor?

No hay una realidad, no hay.

No hay Tú, no hay usted, no hay yo.

By Raffi Wartanian

El Camino De Santiago, 07/2008

Special thanks to Ana Arzoumanian

Raffi Wartanian: shapes

around every corner,

a circle.

inside every circle,

a triangle.

At triangle’s tip,

hips

oscillating,

feasting,

purring,

on sideways eights.

inside infinity,

a broken line,

it’s teeth -

yeasty & yellow.

outside hexagons,

spacetime

informed,

inconceivable,

impenetrable,

by man,

monkey,

octopus,

or fire cylinders.

around every circle,

corners.

inside your lips,

an abacus,

hollow-centered

and dashed,

sliding and

sliding and

counting

waiting

breathless.

Raffi Wartanian: Beneath Beneath

The ground dissolves beneath my feet

The earth dissolves beneath the ground

The universe dissolves beneath the earth

The                 dissolves beneath the universe

The                 dissolves beneath the

The                 dissolves

The

Raffi Wartanian: dear stranger who is probably homeless and has sat next to me for the past three-and-a-half hours

you think i don’t notice you sitting there

next to me?

i’ve been here

three-and-a-half hours

typing verse,

structuring plots,

and you have sat there,

right next to me,

staring blankly,

at nothing,

with feigned interest.

where did you find those papers in your hand?

the fed ex care package you cradle like a newborn,

and its accompanying papers that connect you to

a body

and time

and place

that i could never surmise

nor trust that it is any more likely authentic

than your digging it up from a trashpile

to validate a sense of justification to sit in this bourgeois café.

and the fact i think these things about you,

that i doubt your belonging here

makes me look at myself with disgust,

and ask,

“who am I?”

when i went to the bathroom,

i took everything

because i didn’t trust you;

i only left the cup of water

that kept inflating my bladder,

forcing me to confront this dilemma.

the awkwardness when I returned,

we both felt it,

my distrust alarmingly apparent;

you fidgeted, i know it,

and it made me fidget

though i never let on.

why would i think for a second that

somehow i belong here more than you do?

because there’s (more) money in my pocket?

because i was born with more opportunity than you?

how would this scene play out,

who would we be,

if the roles were reversed;

if i endured your life,

and you mine?

do i choose to distrust you,

or am i programmed to distrust you?

do i choose to obey the programming?

do you?

would you feed me if i was starving in your arms?

would you throw me a penny if i begged for salvation?

what is your name?

what is your story?

why are you this way?

why am i?

why am i unable to ask you?

i hate you

and

i love you.

Raffi Wartanian: The Worst Poem In The History Of Poems ("Give yourself some credit," they demanded.)

Dear Reader,


I am going to write
The worst poem you have ever read.


As you read it,
Flashes of kindness and generosity
Inside you
Will seek meaning and art and substance
In my ill-conceived and sometimes (let’s not kid ourselves…ALWAYS) arbitrary words;


But soon,
The meaning of words and images
Will stack so high
They’ll become incoherent
For the sake of being artful.


This is when your eyeballs
Rocket out of your face
To shout into your mouth
In a language that
…tastes…
like the
…juices…
of a senile
…hippo’s…
acrid urine;


…


And you’ll have to perceive it all
Through your sense of hearing, damn it,
Since you’ve now learned, can’t flab it,
That your eyes have a
…mind (whoah!)…
of their own,
And, baby,
It’s not your mind
Clinging to visionspheres
With the optic nerves you might mistake for
An umbilical chord (gross!);


No, it’s the eye’s mind.
(Not the mind’s eye, you hippy space cadet freakFace with your inflatable four foot hammer that squeaks on contact and draws glances of distant Bedouins)
- Alarming Klebsielaesque Adrenals –
The little brain enjoying rod and cone massages
To best generate
Proclamations
In a purely unique language
With a purely unique alphabet
That, anglicized, says,
“Ali Pap Sukapindi,
Dep Defersechok,
Yabamba Yabamba.”


-----
This is Raffi Wartanian’s biographical blurb. It’s about himself, written in the third person because writing it in the first is both pretentious and unconventional. He’ll stick with tradition on this one. Raffi studied writing with people and traveled places. He has a unique background, like everyone else. He includes this blurb to be professional. Most importantly, he loves you.

Raffi Wartanian: We Are All

We are all gods


We are all devils


We are the howling spirits

We are all obstetricians


We are all murderers


We are the mirror fragments pointed at each other

We are all brilliant


We are all buffoons


We are the shards of meta-meninges

We are all alive


We are all dead


We are the nightmares of Jupiter

We are constructive destructors


We are destructive constructors


We are the cotton wrecking balls

We are all rising


We are all falling


We are dancing in our sleep

We are all sporks


We are all shovel-fingers


We are the children of economic dictatorships

We are all friends


We are all freaks


We are the Deepwater Horizon


We are all Jacques Cousteau


We are all British Petroleum


We are the earth’s exploitation


We are all humble


We are all self-obsessed


We are the cohesion of left and right

We are all spokes


We are all sparks


We are the true wheel

Raffi Wartanian: Between You And Me

Between Time and Space

Between You and Me

            There is something

                        That cannot be explored

                        With words

                        Or silences perceived as meaningful

                        Or eyeballs looking deeply into eyeballs

                        Or hugs

                        Or smirks to diffuse a tension born of

                                    Misunderstandings,

                                                Neglect,

                                                            Fear,

                        Or target variables

                                    Identified

                                                As Determinants of Destiny.

            There is something

                        That transcends Time and Space

                        You and Me

                        Planet Earth

                        Milky Way

                        That-planet-whose-name-I-dare-not-mention.

            There is something

                        That weeps and laughs

                        And holds on with

                        Steel strands of hair

                        Against some odds

                                    Perhaps all.

            There is something

                        That shrinks 4 hours

                                    Into 4 seconds

                        And burgeons the central nervous system

                        To stand up against

                                    Chattering teeth –

                                                Goosebumps –

                                                            Thoughts of warmth –

                                                                        Logs popping.

                        That sets appetite

                        Into a four-bar phrase

                        That crescendos

                        With two dotted repeat symbols

                        That crescendos

                        With two dotted repeat symbols

                        Then, again,

                        Satisfaction just a distant wave

                        Appearing and fading

                        In a horizon

                        Where gushing oil

                        Smears a coarse fluid of non-being

                        Against the purplebluegreenyelloworange sky

                                    Veiled with altocumuli

                                                So fresh it looks like it’s been airbrushed

                                                By some masterful, cosmic artist

                                    Who we must believe

                        Possesses some sort of answer

            Some sort of word

To express

That which is

Between Time and Space

Between You and Me.

By Raffi Wartanian

May 2010, New Jersey Turnpike