Լուսնի ծիրին մէջ մտաւ
Դարձաւ ու դարձաւ խելայեղ
Շուրջպար բռնեց - դարպասեց
Սուրաց քառասմբակ - նուաճեց
Եւ իջաւ լուսնի կոյս հողը համբուրեց
Յետոյ յագեցած - քաշողութենէն ազատած
Շոյելու համար մորթը ուրիշ աշխարհներու
Նետուելու համար գիրկը տարբեր անջրպետներու
Անտէր լքեց - անճար թողուց - անդարձ հեռացաւ
Լուսնի ծիրէն ելաւ - փրկուեցաւ
Քու ծիրիդ
Քու ծիրիդ մէջ եթէ մտնէր Լօ
Չէր ազատեր Ափօլլօ
14. 2. 1973
Բոլոր ազգերու երազներն են շատ,
Ոմանք կեանք կ՛առնեն, ոմանք կը մնան,
Իսկ դեռ շատերը կը մնան կիսատ՝
Նոր երազներու ճամբայ կը բանան։
Անքուն հայ ազգի ծլած երազներն
Ալ կասկած չունին թէ գոյն կը հագնին,
Թէ կը տերեւնան իրենց մերկ ճիւղերն,
Թէ պտուղ կու տան որքան ալ յոգնին։
Ապրիլ ամիսը սխալ ընտրեցին
Հայ ժողովուրդի լոյսը մարելու,
Ի զուր փորձեցին, ելքեր փնտռեցին՝
Իրենց երազին կեանք շնորհելու։
Անոնք չիմացան թէ Ապրիլի պէս,
Հայ ազգը անվերջ ապրիլ կը տենչար.
Այդ Ապրիլով իսկ սկիզբ մը որպէս
Անվերջ կը ճզմենք երազները չար։
Ու ահա կ՛ապրինք, կ՛երազենք նորէն,
Թէեւ հայուն անքուն է ներկան.
Բայց թէ միանանք հայկականօրէն,
Կը հզօրանանք. «Հրայրք» է վկան։
Սեպուհ Պաղտոյեան, Հրայրք Շաբաթաթերթ, Վիէննա, Ապրիլ
There must be a million people out there
more than that.
So make it worthwhile.
Use it well.
I had that machine “device”
for the same reason as you.
Same as everybody.
But I’m not in that business anymore
no way.
Yes it’s all there and more, I’m repeating.
It’s just a little more.
It takes a little more than what I had.
And I’m repeating.
I had energy.
Everybody doin’ it with that energy.
David Norian is a writer based in the New York area. He graduated from the University of California, where he studied with Thom Gunn and Gary Soto, and later under Agha Shahid Ali. Of his poems, Gunn said "[Norian] deals with the succinct, the observation that stops early, perhaps even at times with the unsaid. His work is all his own invention.”
Ու պօէտներ որ չեն պղծել
Իրենց շուրթերն անէծքով,
Պիտի գովեն քո նոր կեանքը
Նոր երգերով , նոր խօսքով։
Յ. Թումանեան
(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
The old man told me
he himself had died
a long, long time ago.
He pointed to a distant plain,
a tide of earth that once
bled mountains of their loam.
The harvest there is rich,
he said, it never ends,
the fingers, limbs, and skulls.
In the sun beside his hut,
an ancient cart trembled
beneath a village of bones,
A genocide of sightless eyes
that sang the wind
proud and low and long,
An insane congregation
borne by wooden wheels,
a cemetery without a home.
From out across the plain,
the old man touched
my fleshless, bleached-white arm.
From out across the plain,
I too became
a keeper of the bones.
October 8, 2005
From Songs and Letters, reprinted with the author’s permission.
1
Spirit climbs
where rhymes chime bold.
The bells of diction.
The rills of sound.
The goddess Anahit grew
in pagan beauty bounds.
With a gold bracelet
and an Armenian coin,
I dreamed reams of time
and climbed the Roman fence
like the adventurous vine
to the ancient Antioch yard.
A rooster crowed on an ancient day
near a mountain that sang praise
in the minor key.
It was the Asian symphony
with soldiers rollicking
in their nights of Bacchus.
The walls of empire were strong
but as legions went along they cracked.
Bits of mosaic that had tiled the floors
of the baths became artifacts.
Armenians grew the grapes
as that throne rose,
rams locking horns in habitual battle.
Armenians were lost,
but hung onto some Roman whims
like designs of rams and peacocks
in their embroidery,
like the rooster on the mountain
and the handsome profiles
of Roman men and women.
2
Armenians commanded
kings and property.
There were dynasties,
one after another, that entered
into the total mentality.
Give me a primer or a tale,
that of Tigran ruling for unity of states,
that of Queen Satenig with silk and gold thread.
Royalty in the clothes is also in the head.
It was then dead after the cymbal clash
lost its willing dash.
Impotent candles roamed the palaces.
Manuscripts found their thrones.
Puffs of incense rose.
Give me a primer showing
soldier Vartan freeing the cross
from the Persian deity.
Then there was Byzantine fealty.
Celebrations breed celebrations.
Celebrations seed us.
3
The Euphrates was near with ideas,
its belly having been swollen
with domination for so long it burst.
Centuries were the sanctuary
from which even the Church
took its inspiration in songs of the mass
that oozed a sweet sadness.
The Turkish sword or empire.
The Soviet Union hammer.
Yet landscapes were still
on perpetual loan for art.
Presidents adjusted the manners
of kings and czars.
The soothing hand of banners
was on their brows.
My heritage was born
out of the ice of these rivers
as God washed time with fine soap
and made it leather boots
for stepping in mud
and climbing through snow.
The tryst of the old
rhymes with people who were cold.
The beat of the new
rhymes with what to do.
The immortal grapevine
bears the leaves that wrap our lives,
the taste of tradition
preparing grapes for wine,
the fame of Armenian cognac
and of recovery in time.
From the book History's Twists: The Armenians by Helene Pilibosian, copyright 2007, honorable mention from Writer's Digest Book Awards.
Helene Pilibosian was born in Boston, MA, and lives in Watertown, MA. She attended Harvard University from which she received a degree in the humanities. After working as an editor at The Armenian Mirror-Spectator, she now heads Ohan Press, a private bilingual micropress.
Her poems have appeared in such magazines as The Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review, Louisiana Literature, The Hollins Critic, North American Review, Seattle Review, Ellipsis and Weber: The Contemporary West and in many anthologies. She has published the books Carvings from an Heirloom: Oral History Poems, At Quarter Past Reality: New and Selected Poems and History’s Twists: The Armenians. Her early work has been cited in the Greenwood Encyclopedia of Multiethnic American Literature.
[HELENE PILIBOSIAN's latest book, History's Twists, won honorable mention in the Writer's Digest 16th Annual International Poetry Competition. - LK]
In Honor of the Armenian Poetry Project
& it's Founder Lola Koundakjian
Armenians always hear the voices
Echoing from the past
The long gone past, the recent past
The voices of what once were
And live still in the hearts of readers
Of both west 'irs' or east 'oums'
Uz'old words only heard in church
Or even our new native tongues
We hear the echoes of the past
Reflected in the mirror you hold
Speaking the past into bits and bytes
Echoing across the internet globe
Podcast into the Armenian ears
Shushan in Tehran
In Boston, Melbourne, Paris
Garnig in Gumri
In Vienna, Sao Paolo too
We see the white cap of our mountain
Drink from the untainted springs
Laugh in villages that are... no more
Some times in life you want to give up.
Some times in life you want to run away
And escape the scene.
Some times you are tired of loving an unreachable love.
Some times you want to break free
But you are too weak to flee.
Some times you want to say something
But the words just don't come..
Some times you want to know all the answers
But you never ask the questions.
Some times you look back and regret
Some times just before the end you tend to begin.
And some times, some where you look back
And see there were some times
Where you could have stopped but didn’t.
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.
The political poem
is not a geography lesson,
moan of protest, rant, nor
shout heard only once.
It is an echo, echoing forever
It began with man’s first breath
as he struggled to inhale and
exhale by himself.
The political poem is a fact
of life because man is
a political animal by breeding
by being given the power to think.
The beating heart is
the first poem. Poetry and
politics are the auricle and ventricle
chambers of the heart.
The poem starts and stops there
but must address the head
because it is not an end in itself..
It is more than a song of love.
praise of life, mourning of loss.
It calls for change. It insists
on restorations. It affirms dignity.
Although it comes in disguises
both beautiful or sweaty
it needs no invitation, nor
justification. It starts with
the recognition of injustice.
That is the irritation on which
layer after layer of light must be
coated until the political poem
is a vessel of light, catching light,
shedding light.
All this is to explain why the sun
is so hot in Turkey. It is reflected
back in so many grains of
irritant, the dust of so many unburied
Armenian poets, so many poems.
This dust, these grains which winds
blow, blow into the eyes of all the living.
This poem has previously appeared in RAFT.
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.
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