Shmavon Azatyan: Dolphins In The Bay

I see it on the TV screen -
a bar graph that goes higher every day.
On the radio, I hear a few hundred thousand people fell.
The beaches and docklands are closed down.
Through the window I watch
skiffs and boats idle at the wharf.
​
I buy grocery and stuff,
stock my cabinet, then wait,
locked-in,
in my apartment.
​
On the phone, a friend warns me she might consume my lungs,
and that I will succumb to her fierce advances,
if I have the conditions.
My relations
report the emergency on the phone:
He is deadly.
​
I eat and sleep, and days go by;
I listen to more talk about the damage, and with each death toll
the infectious agent seems to stick faster to my brain.
Outside my window, the palm tree waltzes to the wind,
unawares of the killer.
​
When the restrictions are lifted,
I venture out for consequences
and find shells –
the old town, the business district, the shopping centers…
and find crustaceans – 
people in masks and gloves and goggles…
​
Despaired and uncertain, I walk back
when I happen on
a snake on the footy ground,
rats and mice hanging out at the bust stop,
ravens and magpies ransacking the bazaar.
​
Each find quakes something loose inside,
until
​
on the bridge, I lean on the railing
wondering
if this creature has come to stay,
when suddenly – Good Lord!
dolphins cruise in the bay.




This poem appeared in CreativeArmenia.

Shmavon Azatyan: BIRD IN A PARCEL

Why do you send me

a “Bird of Happiness?”

a porcelain red creature,

perching on a bough.

I remember

when you were

a taxi ride away,

you never mentioned

happiness. 

We drank wine, 

you gave me beautiful eyes

and told me nice words,

and an opportunity 

to splice my and your 

fingers together.

And in the night, 

when our hearts raced, 

you didn’t even think

that there was happiness,

our bodies 

tightly loving each other,

pivoted 

into completion.

(2005)

Shmavon Azatyan: BOYSEN AND BERRIES

It’s so easy for her:

she looks at me and knows

that my green shirt with a white stripe won’t do -

“It’s a classy night, Flamenco and stuff.”

Together we are a boysenberry, 

engrafted into fruition of love 

and life-building. There is that taste, sour, wild,

and there is that look of purple passion. 

In the Super 8 room she says she wants me 

to develop a puffy chest,

and wear out my belly,

so she can look at me,

so that I look nice to her.

She refuses to go to the New York annual 

fine arts exhibition, because I don’t want to 

wear the blue shirt she has bought from Marshall’s -

“I will mingle with the crowd, 

and you will not belong.”

She dies my hair black to cover the grays, 

then puts cream in it, ruffles it, breaks the parting –

“Sorry, but I’m not going on a date 

with a fifty year old man.”

When I look at myself in the mirror,

I am bearing berries that didn’t grow out of me – 

I feel I am a mirror myself, entirely occupied 

by her words and capitulated by her choices. 

At the party she moves from person to person,

poses, takes pictures, delights at her looks 

and clothes in the photographs; 

later she says to me: “I knew you wouldn’t budge; 

you must show that you have a personality.”

On the street she strikes a conversation 

with a stranger and can go on for hours, 

if she doesn’t notice me.

“Learn to easily attach yourself to people.”

I remark that we are a boysenberry 

and only together we produce sense,

that berries mean nothing, 

and boysen is a problem case.

She crosses over to the other side,

I remain on the sidewalk: 

we are each left to survive on our own.

She walks to the artwork seller and talks to him,

becomes his friend, and he buys her a coffee;

at the end he gives her his phone number.

I stand still among many choices, but I know

they’re not for me, as like this berry they will

annex to me, but never coalesce. 

This poem appeared in Stand Magazine in 2014

Shmavon Azatyan: A DAY ABOUT HER

I don’t know how to do it -

I want to write a poem about her; 

It keeps  

trying to break through.

I can’t let it come out just like that -

you put words together to say what you feel,

and an imperfection leads to 

misunderstanding.   

I can’t resist…

This day is your and my day, 

so I take you by the hand,

and we walk in the park. 

We look for words 

we set tones

we look for tensions

we set clues…

There is a lot ahead –

love script,

silences,

love sms,

glances,

love notes,

romantic lunch,

kiss on the wharf,

rain…

It seems simpler to let us

play it by ear.

Your urgent eyes seek wonder:

it’s still August,

yet the leaves’ edges have turned amber;

the taxi driver makes a mistake,

but we escape an accident.

We both are surprised at how we haven’t seen

the sweet olive along the quay for months.

Holding my hand tight, 

you wait until I kiss you,

then you tell me 

I am the best thing 

that has ever happened to you.

The bus is delayed, 

and we run late for the museum -

we sit in the garden,

where people talk about the rescheduled rain,

the vagaries of late summer

and the treacherous autumn.

You wonder,

I wonder, too –

When will the wonder arrive?

We try –

on the lawn I’m kissing your forehead,

you point to the vessel skyline and spread

your arms, so I get inside your embrace,

I prepare to say something most serious…

But wind gets high,

and we run into a bookshop.

The day rolls on -

faces, croissant, matinee, crossings, 

crowds, underground, kiosks,

coffee, park bench, waterfront, 

lolling skiffs, love stories, clouding,

seafood restaurant, ride in taxi, kiss beneath trees … 

There seems to be no end,

and we seem to have lost the track to the beginning.

But the day closes in,

and I will have to bring my writing

to an end  -

I’m not sure

how I will ever be able to tell her

that I love her.

This poem was published in Lost Tower Publications in 2013

Shmavon Azatyan: WE’RE CLOCKED THE ZERO-TIME LOVE

You and I 

sit across time

still

we know when we start

there’ll be no time.

You and I with gigantic

something between us

that’s gathering

but is never to be touched.

It climbs into every corner

It slips into the creases

It ticks in your and my veins

It rattles in your and my stomachs.

Only the long finger fidgets

and the clock inside us

fully winded

begins to urge.

We’ve learned

it’s the other finger 

that matters

the one that tells us

where we’re at

but isn’t saying 

how we’re going.

Your gaze is urgent

and I finger 

the pivot locking the mechanism.

We stir.

Time is no more.

This poem was published in Firstwriter Magazine in 2012

Shmavon Azatyan: OLD VOICES

As the last fragments of the Second Republic
were torn down and weathered away,
we were searching for a new homeland.
We spoke of great gains,
but gained losses that became
mischievously central
to the life in the Third Republic.


The men of the 90s swept the past away
in a handful of years,
but its foundations lay deep
and immovable as a bunker,
which could never be destroyed
because of its strength that came from
excelling for our state, our school, our group…
The new rhetoric to be the best, first, greatest,
to get the best job, to make as much money
and to achieve as many lovers as possible
collided against the iron walls of
the Soviet Republic and crashed down.


Now the ghosts of the old era wander
across the country, and the voices of a lost,
thriving culture groan regrets for the old
state of affairs that vanished,
disgraced and rotten,
and was forcibly replaced by a fragile network
of colossal individuals
and their rambling ideologies.
Yet the old has been living in our memories,
like an ember that resists dying
by burning away in the power-saving mode.

Shmavon Azatyan: ANI

I found you in the mature season,
conversing about the posture of
October that sets the rhythm
of day and night, chill and warm.

You revealed the colors,
imbibed at your source,
assigning them roles to perform
the marriage of season and calendar.

The foliage of your character
canvassed my furtive visions,
realigning my passions
with the flow of my thoughts.

You arranged the interior of my mind
with wood and flambeaux,
rug and chandeliers,
a fireside, sputtering ancient light.

You are a mark of style!

Copyright Shmavon Azatyan
November 2006

Shmavon Azatyan: HER POEM

In the backyard of her house,
recumbent in the hammock beneath
an apricot tree,
he scribbled vehemently
on a sheet.
Inside, she waited
to read the issue, wishing that
the blossoms hung
for stanzas on his paper.
In an hour, she fetched him
water, catching through the pink
curtains the sign for the break
that he smiled. Later,
his hand moved slowly,
stopping, as he raised his eyes
at the tree, nurtured by her for years.
Tired, he lay on his side and
watched her sitting, legs folded,
on the portico; her sensual profile
towards him she drank tea,
and he wrote on.

His work was published;
standing in the bookstore
he signed his poetry fans’ copies.
In presenting his poem,
he made public the apricot tree
and his long day’s labour “beneath
its empowering growth.”
As he said,
My poem partakes of someone who
wrote in the making of it,
he walked up to her ceremoniously.

Copyright Shmavon Azatyan
May 5-10 2006

Shmavon Azatyan: WE DON’T KNOW IF WE ARE TO PART

You talk of the strange light
on the water and point to a
boat that puts in at the pier.
The sea is warm and lilac colour.
But listen,
the cicadas twang,
and the city
hums in the twilight.
Look,
the silhouettes of kissing trees!
We don’t know if we are to part:
you are moored
to sway your son to sleep;
I’m off to chase
new lights in the sky.
But we are held up:
you say you feel the tide,
I sense palpitations
from waves making it ashore.
Then,
in one wink
we are spellbound
by the advance of sea upon earth.
And we are no more …

Shmavon Azatyan

Copywright is International Library of Poetry. This poem has previously appeared in the "Anthology of Best Poets of 2004", edited by Howard Ely. It appears here by kind permission of the author.

ԱՆԳԻՏԱՆՈՒՄ ԵՆՔ ԹԵ ՊԵՏՔ Է ԲԱԺԱՆՎԵՆՔ
ՇՄԱՎՈՆ ԱԶԱՏՅԱՆ
Անգլերենից թարգմանեց` ԳՐԻՇ ԴԱՎԹԵԱՆ

Խոսում ես մի անսովոր լույսի մասին
Ջրի վրա, և մատնանշում ես
Մի նավակ, որ մտնում է մատույցը։
Ծովը ջերմին է ու լիլակա?ույն։
Բայց լսիր,
Ծղրիդները ճըզճըզում են,
Եվ քաղաքը
Նվում է մթնշաղում։
Նայիր,
Համբուրվող ծառերի ուրվագծե~րը...
Անգիտանում ենք, թե պետք է բաժանվենք.
Դու մխրճված ես
Որդուդ օրորելով քնցնելու.
Ես էլ պիտի գնամ հետապնդելու
Նոր լույսեր երկնքում։
Բայց երկուսս էլ համենում ենք.
Ասում ես` զգում ես ալիքը,
Ես բաբախումներ եմ զգում
Ալիքների, որ ափ են հասնում։
Հետո մի ակնթարթում
Հմայվում ենք
Ծովի առաջացումով երկրի վրա։
Եվ էլ չկանք...

Գլենդել, Կալիֆորնիա, 2007-08-11

Introducing Shmavon Azatyan

Born in 1976 in Yerevan, Armenia. Studies at Yerevan State University from 1993-1998, majoring in English Language and Foreign Literatures. Thereafter begins writing poems influenced by John Updike’s "ecstatic language".

The first poems are either strictly political -- drawing some criticism on the government and its activity in mid 90s -- or love poems.

After his studies, serves in the army starting in June 1998 and is stationed in Stepanakert, Kharabagh, until December 1999.

After the service begins writing fiction and is interested in Armenia's current affairs. Continues studies concentrating on Faulkner and Hemingway and decides to continue his education in the United States. In 2002, is admitted to the University of Louisiana at Lafayette. Receives his MA in English/Creative Writing in 2004, with a thesis entitled “Armenian Ways”, short stories about post-Soviet Armenian society.

In 2005, the Writer’s Union of Armenia publishes a novella from the thesis “Big My Secret” in English and Armenian. Publishes also poems in the International Library of Poets, and, the Southwestern Review from 2004 to 2006.

Shmazon is currently working on his dissertation and comprehensives at ULL and continues to write poems and fiction.

Shmavon Azatyan: CALENDAR OF LIFE

Helping my grandfather in the garden,
I observe him gracefully shoveling
the earth, his biceps swelling and subduing,
the sweat trailing down his face. Above
his shoulders Ararat towers frozen,
wearing a massive winter cap.
Throughout the summer, as the old man
toils in the garden, Ararat warms up and
sweats rivers that gush down its shoulders,
enlivening them with green. Grandfather’s
chalky back turns tanned, his agile arms
gain muscles to force the gardening done.
When Grandfather harvests grape, Ararat
has mastered the snow,
rising blithe and bare-headed.

In winter, I enter Grandfather’s study.
I can see through the window the mountain,
wrapped in mist, choking from the grand
snow pressing on its summits. He stops his
fervid writing, fills two mugs full of wine
and says:
“Work when the sun shines, so you can
enjoy life when it’s at rest.”


Copyright Shmavon Azatyan
This poem has appeared The Southwestern Review, the journal of the English Dept of University of Louisiana at Lafayette. Spring 2006, Volume 31, Page 30. It appears in this site by kind permission of the author.