Silence is my enemy
He'll try to shut me up
But no muzzle
Can silence my voice
Not a choice
Just a destiny
As fate would have it
Some were meant to speak
For those who don't
Not because they don't want to
But because they can't
Silence is my enemy
Though he'll never succeed
I like my peace and quiet
But writing’s a need
As long as the message is shared
Our people will overcome
But if it's discontinued
Our battle never will be won
That's why he’s my nemesis
Closed mouths haven't been fed
Since the genesis
Prepare to harvest the feast
Silence is my enemy
All prophets must agree
Without proper communication
What kind of world would this be?
Silence really would love
For truth to be hidden
But as long as I'm alive
He's got to be kiddin'
Silence is my enemy
But out of respect
Please hold the applause
For a moment of silence
Meredith Avakian, February 2008
night came suddenly.
A tree in front of me
blocked my steps.
I walked toward it.
The leaves turned gold;
they glowed in the dark.
I saw a book under the tree.
It spoke to me.
“Turn back,” it said,
“Go away. You’re not
wanted here!” The lake
behind the tree glimmered.
Two people played guards.
They called me closer.
I stood still. I played deaf.
The lake came closer.
I fell in. Everything
turned murky, I guess
this was the end.
I wish I was dry tonight
and walking home.
Marianne Azakian is a member of poet-principal Shahé Mankerian’s eighth grade class at St. Gregory’s Hovsepian School in Pasadena, California. Her poem echoes William Michaelian’s “Armenian Music,” which she chose to read during the school’s annual Café Poetry Night, held on April 19, 2008.
Click here to listen to the audio clip of Walking Home read by William Michaelian.
Click here to read the English and Armenian versions of Armenian Music by William Michaelian.
Սերս լույս է, գույն չունի,
Սերս օր է, ձև չունի,
Սերս սիրուդ խմորումն է ,
Անսահման է, չափ չունի,
Արևածիր քո հոգին է,
Կշիռ անգամ սերս չունի,
Սերս ձեռքիդ նուրբ հպումն է,
Չունի հստակ հատկանիշ,
Սերս` միակ, անօրինակ,
Բացառում է հոմանիշ,
Սերս կարգի անկարգություն
Ու սահմանման հակասում է,
Հոգեպարար քո ձայնն է այն,
Որ անզորիս հակասում է,
Սերս լույսն է քո աչքերի,
Մայրամուտն ու այգաբացն է,
Մեր երկուսի պարզ բարդության
Հորինվածքն է,
Բարդ պարզության խիտ մանվածքն է,,.
Սերս` անզոր քո ջերմ գրկում,
Սիրուս թևով քեզ եմ գրկում
Ու հասկանում, որ աշխարհում
Գեթ ինձ համար ակնհայտը,
Ճիշտն ու լավը, բարին
Եվ կյանքում անհայտը
Քո անկշիռ ու անտեսակ
Հանելուկով վարակվելն է,
Անձև, անչափ, անօրինակ
Սիրուդ բուռն ելևէջով
Գայթակղվել- համակվելն է:
Ճիշտն ու բարին այս աշխարհում,
Բնակվում են քո աչքերում,
Եվ հոսում են ավիշիդ հետ,
Սիրտդ դարձնում ինձ առհավետ
Ձև ու չափի անհայտություն,
Տիեզերքի նոր հայտնություն:
Հիմա կասես` մի բուռ սիրտս` ի˜նչ տիեզերք,
Դա էլ պիտի պատասխանեմ.
Այն ինձ համար անչափելի օազիս է,
Եվ մեծ սիրո լայնատարած
Զմրուխտ եզերք:
Արուսյակ Օհանյան
And yet the number
of dead soldiers
of famine and genocide victims
of homeless people has grown.
When will the tide turn?
June 7, 2007
ROUND TRIP I
Paris Orly Airport, January 4, 2006
airport lounge
children scream
lovers kiss
pink touches a woman’s hair and jeans
also bodies
draped like couches
are towed by grave mustaches
airport lounge
children scream
lovers kiss
errant eaters
clutching sandwiches
reel under
strips of infamous lettuce
airport lounge
children scream
lovers kiss
a father’s head
tilted
wants eye drops
only to writhe in desolation
airport lounge
children scream
lovers kiss
foggy weather in Istanbul announced
kinetic days (Hovsep handsomely a-saunter)
where you are forever
delayed
ROUND TRIP II
Istanbul airport, January 8, 2006
the windows of my world
hung low in the corner of my mind
hung shut in the prism of my dreams
hung blank in the yarn of my years
who says doors are entryways
in my case windows
a wintry city in twilight snow
and I come across my first window
joyous tidings at the siblings row
mother’s kisses tumble down below
my slippers of turquoise velvet though
were tossed onto the roof of sorrow
who says doors are entryways
in my case windows
the next noon beneath icy raindrum
towards my other window I roam
a child cringes before the awesome
a pedlar’s bear like a giant gnome
will cobblestep in cryptic boredom
my tinsel dimes for his kingdom
who says doors are entryways
in my case windows
now a porthole above the tarmac
slits the city aghast and far back
to each traveler a kismet rack
a seasonful of grinning knick-knack
one baby utters its howl exact
as if wired to a cloud’s milk-pack
the windows of my world
©Esther Heboyan
These poems were provided by the author for the Armenian Poetry Project's Second Blast .
in the gathering of the waters*
barricaded by distance
from the bludgeoning of war
we kept our lament strictly personal
in the mined night our pain
cradled like lost lovers
in our muted hearts
the indifferent world looked on
as little children
forgotten by man forsaken by God
were crucified in the rubble of disemboweled
buildings
as fractured bodies twisted limbs
torn from the erstwhile living
softcarpeted the festering streets
with offal and omnivorous snarling flames
an arrogant invader proud in arms
raped a people desecrated a country
posing as savior
hailed by those who had professed
blood is thicker than water
yet we too were fully implicated
secure from the war’s blind blows
dug-in in the deep trenches of unremembering
time
our hands and faces too were smeared
with unresisting blood
we too went on our daily living
we too did nothing to stop the carnage
by the mediterranean’s bitter waters
the women of tyre and beirut wept
for their children
and would not be comforted
Haig Khatchadourian
July-August 1982
July-August 2006
*Native American name for Milwaukee
Click here for the audio clip
Live for You read by Apollo
Your history.....your childhood.....
The dreams that once lingered onto the cave walls of your thoughts...
The blind bats that flew away using nothing but sound and feel....
The ones that never made it back....The ones that were forgotten...
I live for you....
The child that died inside all of us....The tears that were cried inside....all of us....The drops that landed on our lips, as if to remind us what it tastes like to feel pain..To quench our inner hungers that have been yearning to feel.... something....Anything...I live for you...
For all of those who haven't learned that regret doesn't make any logical sense....For the wings that soared without realizing their butterfly effect served a purpose that's too complicated to ever be understood...But we have faith in it...
I live for you.
For the writer who put down the pen...And never wrote again.....For all of them who kept their thoughts as prisoners to the hearts...I live for you... For the women who are raising their children and having to be both heads of the household....When I'm out cold...I live for you.
For that person in your family that you never had a chance to say goodbye too....but you know that when you pray, their memories vibrate inside you...When you need somebody to cry to....I'll live for you....For that old man who waited his whole life to tell a woman that he loved her...And when he finally got to, it was at her tombstone.....Rusty.....I live for you.......
For the ignorant power-hungry people who have yet to realize that money...is just one form of energy....But love....is all forms of energy.......I live for you.. A beautiful mind is an ugly thing to waste.....An ugly mind is a beautiful thing to replace....Let yourself go....Don't tell yourself that you're letting yourself go......Just....let....yourself....go....Like you dont have any control of having control...
Hold on to the hope that music will go back to it's roots, and stop using the mainstream as an excuse. Every time you grab that microphone, you speak for all the silenced voices...The millions in the Armenian Genocide....The Jewish genocide...The African genocide....For all the children in Darfur...I live for you...
And if each one of my poems could turn into a star, I would write until the sky is filled with enough light to guide you towards the sun....I'll shine for you.........For the people who are paralyzed physically....For the people who are paralyzed emotionally......When you stop giving a damn about everything in the world....I'll care for you....For the people who have lost all hope and inspiration....Having a one-way conversation with a God who's never returned their phone calls....I'll pray for you.....Knowing that everything happens for a reason..a reason that takes more than one lifetime to understand....So as I grab your hand....and pull you off the bridge that you've spent your whole life creating....I'll write for you...
And if each breathe I don't take is a breathe that could've been used to create....I'll die for you...And once you learn to appreciate your life and make the best out of what you have....I'll no longer have to live for somebody who's living for themselves...
Copyright "Apollo Poetry"
You can view videos of Apollo's work on MySpace.com
I like being awake
late
into the early hours
Here
I hear
dreams of the world
My ears smile.
Listen,
Marashtsi girls giggling
conversations with whales
birth tells its secret
shhhh…(they don’t know I have come—found a door)
this door is a leaky faucet ..
..
..
drip,
drip,
a few more dreams
drop
forming a puddle
Maybe
tomorrow
it’ll be deep enough for me to dive in and fish out my heart.
The inside of my skull still swims in the memory of smoke
Blue, dense, brown, white and ashen clouds of black smoke
The smell of wood and metal engulfed in flame
The smell of burning engine oil
The algorithmic undulations of the poisonous black ether produced by
burning plastic
The odor of water dousing those flames; the sound of crackling wood
The unmistakable odor of burning human hair
The catastrophic smell of singed human flesh.
Some bullets pass through the body with such great velocity, that the
blood actually boils at the point of contact
A kitchen painstakingly cleaned by strong and proud hands
The hand embroidered doily which graced the breakfast table where a
sugar bowl was forever present next to the bowl of walnuts and raisins
The high chair in which she fed her son a soft boiled egg with butter
and salt each morning
The splatter of blood on the wall
The drips of it upon the ground
The startled expression upon her face
The final odor she knew in this world—that of her own singed flesh,
punctured kidney, and burnt liver
The collapse
to the yellow tile floor
The dissipation of the smoke exhaled by a disastrous revolver.
The yellow, holy smoke of incense burning at her funeral
The inconsolable despair of a motherless two-year-old boy.
10/13/07
5:40PM
LA
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
