Live from the Bowery Poetry Club: Tina Demirdjian

Gartal and the Armenian Poetry Project are proud to release this audio clip recorded live at the Bowery Poetry Club in New York City on April 2, 2010. Click to hear Tina Demirdjian’s reading of her poem Compact.

She left her compact

blue and gold

lying upside down

in her drawer

hidden

in its white powder

something she always

wanted to tell me.

But her eyes,

now empty cups of milk

no longer remembered.

Inside was the mirror

full of powder

forty years old

opening for me

like a woman

telling secrets

of her flesh.

In silence

pink white flakes

covered my hands.

I bent down kneeling

to look further

inside her drawer.

Each time I opened

the compact

a sound, click,

of a half cricket

the sound of lips

pressing together.

There were whispers

contained

In small breaths.

I clicked a kiss

in the mirror

of white powder

and became

a white curtain.

I was sheer,

a translucent flag

and saluted her

with all my flesh

and then

with the click

of my lips

closed

her white body.

Snap!

like the clap of hands

like magic

life vanishes

"dust to dust"

opening and closing

happening

almost all at once.

Tina Demirdjian: Worm Biology

In the school science book, two earthworms

nestled together, so their clitella

were touching–closer to one another

than I had been to anyone,

at 16, I was like an inside out shirt,

squirmy in my seat,

my eyes stared at the attachment of two worms

like a human suction cup,

the teacher’s words fell through the cracks

in the floor: reproduction, ovulation, anticipation,

and my head turned to look at my classmate

who listened, too, her pregnant belly

at the edge of the desk:  how she had known

all of this too soon.

Tina Demirdjian: Untitled

I want to wrap
myself in grapeleaves
so you can taste
my grandmother's
cooking from New York
a world not far
from your
backdoor now
you smell me
simmering in my pot
waiting for your hands
to touch my skin
rolled to keep
the flavor
inside your mouth.


Tina Demirdjian
This poem has appeared in ASPORA Volume II, 1995.

Tina Demirdjian: IN BARREN LANDS

They’re
planting
trees
in dusty fields
where their mothers
and fathers
once soiled their feet

two women
wear
flowered
scarves
on their heads

bend
and
dig
with their hands:

fleshy shovels
holding the earth,
tilling the soil,

digging passages
like human veins:
calling their ancestors
beneath
the
ground
to send us prayers,
to chant
the ancient songs.

Copyright Tina Demirdjian

Tina Demirdjian: Compact

She left her compact
blue and gold
lying upside down
in her drawer
hidden
in its white powder
something she always
wanted to tell me.
But her eyes,
now empty cups of milk
no longer remembered.

Inside was the mirror
full of powder
forty years old
opening for me
like a woman
telling secrets
of her flesh.

In silence
pink white flakes
covered my hands.
I bent down kneeling
to look further
inside her drawer.

Each time I opened
the compact
a sound, click,
of a half cricket
the sound of lips
pressing together.
There were whispers
contained
In small breaths.
I clicked a kiss
in the mirror
of white powder
and became
a white curtain.

I was sheer,
a translucent flag
and saluted her
with all my flesh
and then
with the click
of my lips
closed
her white body.
Snap!
like the clap of hands
like magic
life vanishes
"dust to dust"
opening and closing
happening
almost all at once.

Copyright Tina Demirdjian

Tina Demirdjian: Two Dying Bees

I peered at them one by one
their wings
disintegrating
into the afternoon light:
their huge black eyes
staring back at me,
motionless,
and without a sound:
wispy skeletons
that had grown silent
on the leaves
of my red-flowered cactus
and my purple geranium.
How silent we can become.

Copyright Tina Demirdjian

Tina Demirdjian: IN THE KITCHEN

It was always a fiasco
to put away the dishes
to stack the amber glasses
one on top of the other
toss the miss-matched
silverware in the drawer
stolen from the airlines
or the Fountainbleau Hotel
during my parent’s honeymoon.

We always like to steal
a little memory
dad said with a smile
and so we had a collection
of stolen things
in my childhood
the memory of them
coming back to me
at the oddest moments
sticking to me like the humid nights
in New Jersey

the way you stuck to me
that day in the kitchen
the third time we kissed
when your hands
went beneath
my peach sweater
to touch my breasts
I think I’m falling
in love with you, you said
and I kept silent in the kitchen

thinking I heard
the jerking of those amber glasses
being stacked on top of one another
and the clanging of silverware
tossed inside the drawer

like I tossed my peach sweater
in the closet
after we kissed:
you stole a little of me
that afternoon
and inside my sweater
I stole a bit of your smell.


Tina Demirdjian lives in Los Angeles. Her poetry has appeared in Aspora, Ararat Quarterly, the Los Angeles Times, High Performance, Midwest Poetry Review, the Texas Observer, and Birthmark: a Bi-Lingual Anthology of Armenian-American poetry.