Veronica Pamoukaghlian Viera's contribution to our Call for Poems on the topic of epidemics, illness, medicine, death and healing

Veronica Pamoukaghlian Viera of Montivideo, Urugay, has shared her original poem. APP thanks her.


QUARANTINE DÉCIMAS


They call her the bat woman
because she roams the caves
around Yunnan, enslaves
the host of plagues inhuman
predators of lumen
Vampire beast nightflyer
shadowy silent viper
bears a deadly message
perchance a presage
we can´t yet decipher


In the saliva of bats
is the secret of survival
antibodied rival
food of civet cats
home of alar rats
the stalagmite porn
of caverns forlorn
bred a karmic hearse
its unwitting curse
threatens the unborn


Tall wine glasses glitter
empty and detached
All delights untouched
No venomous spitter
Sweet nectars taste bitter
when no glass is raised
Cursed mirror gaze
gone the otherness
This new loneliness
is a selfhood maze


And if we are spared
if we do emerge
intact from the purge
what will we have learned
from this hell we earned
With our havens stormed
will we be transformed
find brothers in fiends?
Useless quarantine
No hell makes hearts warm


Only food and shelter
no cars dresses islands
no breathtaking skylines
Urban helter skelter
No novelty sellers
No selfies at Trevi
No Likes from our bevy
No mirrors or fountains
No rivers or mountains
We didn’t need much
Only human touch

--

APP would like to thank Veronica Pamoukaghlian Vieira for her contribution. Her website is VeronicaPamoukaghlian.com

Reading in Portland Oregon

BEYOND THE G-WORD: ARMENIAN AMERICAN 

WRITERS IN HYBRID 

THURSDAY, MARCH 28, 2019 7:00 – 8:00 PM 

ANOTHER READ THROUGH BOOKSTORE 

3932 N MISSISSIPPI AVE, PORTLAND, OR 

Armenian-American writers have long written about trauma as a means of social justice. Their resistance to oppression, including that of the current political moment, also expresses liberation. Through intersectional lenses of gender, sexual orientation, class, and race, Armenian-American poets/writers read work that addresses immigration, diaspora, exile, and war. This event centers Armenians' liminal position between East and West, and poc and white, challenging the “single story” of the Armenian genocide of 1915. With roots in Lebanon, Armenia, and Syria, these writers share works of hybridity that reflect and celebrate their diverse, multi-faceted lives.

Born in Beirut, Lebanon, Arminé Iknadossian immigrated to the United States in 1974 to escape the civil war. She earned her MFA from Antioch University. Iknadossian is the author of the chapbook United States of Love & Other Poems (2015) and All That Wasted Fruit (Main Street Rag). She teaches and writes in Long Beach, California ✸Nancy Agabian is the author of Princess Freak, a poetry/performance collection, and Me as her again: True Stories of an Armenian Daughter, a memoir. Her novel, The Fear of Large and Small Nations, was a finalist for the PEN/Bellwether Prize for Socially-Engaged Fiction. She teaches writing at NYU ✸Lory Bedikian’s The Book of Lamenting won the Philip Levine Prize for Poetry. She has an MFA from the University of Oregon. Her work was a finalist for the Crab Orchard Series in Poetry and for the AROHO’s Orlando Prize. She received a grant from the Money for Women/Barbara Deming Memorial fund ✸Shahé Mankerian's poetry collection, History of Forgetfulness, has been a finalist for the Bibby First Book Award, the Crab Orchard Series, the Quercus Award, and the White Pine Press Competition. He is the co-director of the L.A. Writing Project and the principal of St. Gregory Hovsepian School ✸Lola Koundakjian has authored two poetry books and read in four international poetry festivals in Quebec, Peru, Colombia and West Bank. She co-curates the Zohrab Center's poetry reading series in midtown Manhattan, and runs the Armenian Poetry Project in multiple languages and audio ✸Verónica Pamoukaghlián is a Uruguayan film producer at her company Nektar Films and a nonfiction editor for Washington´s Sutton Hart Press. Her writing has appeared in THE ARMENIAN POETRY PROJECT,  THE ACENTOS REVIEW, THE SOUTHERN PACIFIC REVIEW, PRISM, NAKED PUNCH, SENTINEL LITERARY QUARTERLY, AND THE ARMENIAN WEEKLY

Veronica Pamoukaghlian: Kessab

Don´t show me
the coffins of children
with that deafening 
orchestral scoring

My sadness
doesn´t need a soundtrack

What do you want from me
masters of montage
and emotional chord
strikes

Don´t let me hear
the Armenian tongue
of my school days
from the mouths of children
displaced
bombed
their lives
forever raped

the familiar words
Vah
Tbrodz
A sound,
deadly,
Are you afraid of the bullets? The filmmaker says
But you still go to school
Nods from the two girls

in my tongue
in my words
that I have
forgotten
though they live inside me

Syria
my grandmother´s cradle
before she sailed ´cross
the Atlantic

My flesh and blood
The people with the names
I do not know

The churches
that turned to rubble heaps
The prayer
we used to sing at school
it makes me cry
though I am not religious
and our god
is not mine

The prayer
Lord in Heaven
protect us
bring your kingdom to us

Our Kingdom lost
and April is coming

It will be
a hundred year soon

A hundred years
and nothing has changed

Someone´s grandmother
in Syria
has been born
and her mother
is smuggling her
right now
to save her life
and cross oceans perhaps

so that I
can have
my blissful life

in a quiet place
somewhere

Syria
Syria
Syria of my heart

hurt over the scar
the pillaging
childslaughtering

the ravage
over the Genocide

ՔԷՍԱՊ

Ինձ ցոյց մի՛ տար
դագաղները մանուկներուն
նուագախմբային այդ
խլացնող ձայնագրութեամբ

Տխրութիւնս
պէտք չունի ձայներիզի

Ի՞նչ կþուզէք ինձմէ
նօթագրութեան վարպետներ
եւ զգայնութեանց լարեր
հարուածողներ

Չե՛մ ուզեր լսել
հայերէն լեզուն՝
դպրոցական օրերուս
մանուկներու բերնէն
տեղահանուած
ռմբակոծուած
անոնց կեանքերը
բռնաբարուած

Ծանօթ բառերը
þվախþ
þվարժարանþ
þձայնþ մը մահացու
«Կը վախնա՞ս գնդակներէն,»
կþըսէ շարժանկարիչը
«սակայն կը շարունակես դպրոց երթալ»
կը հաստատեն երկու աղջիկները

Լեզուիս վրայ
բառերուս մէջ
զորս
մոռցած եմ
թէեւ կþապրին խորքիս մէջ

Սուրիա
մեծ մօրս օրօրոցը
նախ քան Ատլանտեանը
անցնիլը

Միսս եւ արիւնս
անձեր որոնց անունները
ես կþանգիտանամ

Եկեղեցիները
որոնք քարակոյտեր են
աղօթքը
զոր կþերգէինք դպրոցին մէջ
կը լացնէ զիս
թէեւ հաւատացեալ չե՛մ
եւ մեր աստուածը
ի՛մս չէ՛

Աղօ՛թքը
þՏէ՛ր յերկինս
պաշտպանեա՛ մեզþ
բեþր մեզի թագաւորութիւնդ

Մեր կորուսեա՛լ թագաւորութիւնը
եւ ապրիլը կը հասնի

Ու շուտո՛վ
պիտի ըլլայ հարիւ՛ր տարի

Հարիւր տարի՝
եւ ոչի՛նչ է փոխուած

Մէկու մը մեծ մայրը
Սուրիոյ մէջ
ծնած
եւ ի՛ր մայրը
հիմա
կը փախցնէ
կեանքը փրկելու համար
եւ թերեւս ովկեանոսն անցնէ

Որպէսզի ես
ունենամ
հանգիստ իմ կեանքը

Խաղաղ տեղ մը
ո՛րեւէ տեղ

Սուրիա՛
Սուրիա՛
Սուրիաս սրտակէ՛զ

Վիրաւոր՝ սպիներովը
թալանի
մանկասպանութեան

Փլուզումը՝
Ցեղասպանութեան վրայ


........................ Վէրոնիքա Փամուքաղլեան
Թարգմանեց՝ Թաթուլ Սոնենց


featured image: Kessab childhood by Lalai Manjikian

Veronica Pamoukaghlian: To a Knight in rusty armour

I have
good things for you
if you will grab them

but I won´t give
I´m done with giving

You will have to reach out
come down
and snatch me

My stem is frail,
and broke
as you may be
you have the power

this is a flower
only your hand
can rip
out of the ground

like knights
and swords
frozen in stone

only the prize
is sweeter

Veronica Pamoukaghlian

Montevideo, October 16th, 2011

Veronica Pamoukaghlian: InHumanScapes II and III (A muslim woman)

II

A muslim woman
I might have been
treading a Muslim land

a-cry a-suffer bombed
(gauged to holy Silenceness)
adrift in Oceansand

and lie alone
after the bomb
in desert Bagdad streets
wrapped in a robe
of black and blood
with Western liberation
oozing out of my
Womb, persistently

a River of civilization

III

A black robed muslim
I might have been
treading a desert road

carrying a baby close to my breast
clasping with worn hands
an infant wrist
our steps in unison
to pierce the Desert silence

As aimless arrows
so, forth we go
along the path
of thirst

With ears a-numbed
to bluber and need
and the fortitude
of mountains

Metallic vultures hovering
over our heads


Air thick with
petroleum smoke

Sandscape of
devastated hope

Dry breasts
and empty hands

our lengthened shadows
just amiss
of bombs

Dragging my children
to life elusive

with the black veil
and the dry eyes
and the fortitude
of life

Veronica Pamoukaghlian: THE WEDDING

10 seconds in the news

the blood over the icing

this is the End
the Wed of Western violence
and Eastern stubbornness

the babies killed in revelling

40 dead
and human error
six seconds in the news

they gathered for a wedding

under the bombings
a Feast of love and lace

Not the Resistance
Armed

peaceful revellers

a helpless celebration
of life

in the Storm’s Eye

easier an elephant
though you bleed it to death
through the eye of a needle

than to slay life
persistent
with a mere stain
of blood over the icing

with a mere 40
most women and children

5 seconds in the news
the Wedding Wake

Veronica Pamoukaghlian: BAGHDAD ON FIRE

Come down into my shelter crawl
to watch the flare from below

Come in enter my den to
feel the fire from within

I crawl into my blue and then
turns orange in the twilight sky

Skies obscured with burnt black gold
to burn your strength
to hurt the land you hold beloved

Bagdad has turned a silent Babylon
so spend the silence
Await the bombs, the doom

A million dazzled souls
that speak ten thousand tongues

Believe a diamond lake
cast in the desert midst

Believe the freedom
that missiles bring
and bombs

The limping eyes
the hidden lips and veil
The dark sad eyes
the human face
of Fear

The Human Wound
the Falla of the Land

Civilization flown back
to slay his Womb

Past tainted skies
the beauty of the Mosque
By night the voice



The sacred sound
of prayer song
of Ancient Music
and Faith unmoved by time
awaits the tomahawk

and so the voices rise
side by side with the smoke

And grows the human Wound

Against this billion bombs
these laser chords
umbilical
from stolen skies
into our Heart

This is our
chemical Weapon
the intoxicating Rise
of sacred Music

Will penetrate
your fortress B and F
your force of air
Numb you to dozing birds

For this sand was here
before you began
and will remain
long after your end

though I now burn
in sulphurous purple
these bright eyes
that see further
this olive skin

These are the eyes
of the desert

though I now bleed
through dark metallic tunnels
Mine Eyes
are the Eyes of the Desert
to be

and I know patience
the sameness of the sand dune
stories that last a thousand nights
I know
prayers that last a thousand years
and wait still
for a Miracle

And I swallow my own Tyrant


This poem has appeared in the Poets Against War website.

The Beauty of Disaster by VERONICA PAMOUKAGHLIAN

This book is available as download as well as hardcopy. Click here to get the new poetry collection by VERONICA PAMOUKAGHLIAN.

Veronica Pamoukaghlian: The Word

My blood is marked by genocide
on the two sides
of these Atlantic lines

My fate was sealed with the blood stains
of cotton workers from Marash
slaughtered by the ottoman
and the mixed blood
of conquerors
and massacred
of masters and estranged slaves

The rot of colonialism
lurks underneath
our 15 seconds democracy

My eyes were numbed
by what I hadn´t seen
after the dirty war was over
after the bowels of the Earth
had vomited
bones in Uruguay
lifeless infant mummies
in the soft heart
of Africa

after the tide brought in
the loot
of generals,
green men of power and no shame

My past was carved with knives
on children´s bones
in the mountains
of Leninakan
with hanged peasants
on the slopes of Ararat

My human pride was dumped
in Rio de la Plata
one summer night
in a death flight
that time when I
had learnt to sing
before I grasped
the word
The word was born
from the colonial rot
under our soil
and under Africa

The word was black
and cast a deadly storm
before the sun

The word was Genocide


April 2006 Published by ARABESQUES REVIEW (Algiers)

Veronica Pamoukaghlian: INDIAN KINGS

I'd seen them
in the galleys
under the dust
and bleach

cleaners, servants
lesser men
who made my bed
and made me feel ashamed

I saw them dance
on INDIAN night
after a fourteen hour day
under the rugs

I saw them frown and sweat
on elevators
and fear me
because I had more stripes
upon my vest

And just today
a picture
an Indian honeymoon

I recognized the faces
but they´d no uniforms

Princes, Kings
and colourful
jewels, women
the happiness
of being yourself

Kings they had been
in INDIA

KINGS with their turbans
their tunics, silk and threads of gold

with the same faces
of the galley boys
and their dead souls

I never thought
those small dark men
who learnt Yes sir, before they learnt their name
and scrub and dust
and dance like girls
on Indian day

Could have been KINGS
one day in INDIA
not long ago

And of me too,
a Wanderer
I thought perhaps
I´m nothing now
in Spain
or in America

and once perchance
I´ve been
a King
in Uruguay

and I forgot

the regal music
the regal dance
CANDOMBE
my soul
the thing I am


Copyright, Veronica Pamoukaghlian.
All rights reserved by author.