Ռափայէլ Պատկանեան։ Հայերուս Բաղցանքը

Ա՜խ, ինչպէ՜ս կ՝ուզեմ տեսնել մեր հային

Ազատ, ապահով, կրթեալ, ինքնագոհ,

Ամէն հայի տուն՝ դրախտ երկնային ,,,

Լոկ այդ բանն ինձնից չունզենար մէկ զոհ:

Ա՜խ, ինչպէ՜ս կ՝ուզեմ տեսնել Հայաստան

Մի որ ազատուած թշնամու ձեռքէն,

Հայի երկիր, հայի սեփական ,,, 

Լոկ այդ չի բաժաներ ինձ իմ կոպէկէն:

Ա՜խ, ինչպէ՜ս կ՝ուզեմ, որ մեր հայերուս

Արծարծուէր սէրը ուսման, գիտութեան,

Հայի մէջ չի մնար մի հատիկ անուս ,,,

Լոկ հեռի ինձնից թուղթ ստորագրութեան:

Ա՜խ, ինչպէ՜ս կ՝ուզեմ, որ հաձ պատանիք

Դէպ համալսարան խմբով վազէին,

Եւ Զուիցերիա երթար հայ աղջիկ ,,,

Լոկ ինձնից նոքա կոպէկ չուզէին:

Ա՜խ, ինչպէ՜ս կ՝ուզեմ, որ մեր Զէյթունցին

Միթռայլեոզ, շասպոյ, ռմբկէն ունենար,

Ջարդ ու բուրդ անէր Քուրթ ու Չերքեզին ,,,

Լոկ ինձնից զէնքի նա փող չունենար:

Երբ մեր հայրենիք հրաշքով ազատուէր,

Մերոնք էլ ազատ կեանք-օր վարէին,

Ա՜խ, ինչպէ՜ս, ինչպէ՜ս լաւ բան կլիներ,

Երբ Հայք ինձ իրանց իշխան ընտրէին:

Ռափայէլ Պատկանեան (1830-1892Օ

                     Our Desire   

By Raphael Badganian   (1830-1892)

Translated By Kevork Kalayjian

                                   

Oh, how I would love to see Armenians

Free, safe, educated, and self-sufficient

Every Armenian’s home, paradise on earth should be …

But this shouldn’t require a sacrifice from me.  

Oh, how I would loved for Armenia to be

Freed from the hands of the enemy, 

Armenian rulers governing the Armenian country … 

As long as this aim doesn’t cost me a penny.

Oh, how I wish for all Armenian to be

Rekindled with the love of science, and discovery

For once and for all eliminate illiteracy

Onley if, no commitment is required of me.

Oh, how I wish to see, Armenian teens,

Heading to colleges and universities

Women … traveling to Switzerland for higher education;

As long as, no body expects a penny from me.

Oh, how I wished that our brave freedom fighters

Were equipped with all the advanced weaponry,

To defend the homeland against the enemy … but

To buy those arms, they shouldn’t ask for my money!

Finally, when our country is miraculously freed

Our people are independent, and self-sufficient

Oh, how wonderful and benevolent it would prove to be

For all Armenians, as their ruler … to elect me!

Stanley Kunitz: Chariot

For Varujan Boghosian

In this image of my friend’s studio,
where curiosity runs the shop, and you
can almost smell the nostalgic dust
settling on the junk of lost mythologies,
the artist himself stays out of view.
Yet anyone could guess
this is the magician’s place
from his collection of conical hats
and the sprawled puppets on a shelf,
the broken as well as the whole,
that have grown to resemble him,
or the other way round.
Butterflies, gameboards, and bells,
strewn jacks and alphabet blocks,
spindles, old music scores—
the litter spreads from wall to wall.
If you could dig to the bottom,
you might expect to find
a child’s plush heart,
a shing agate eye.
Here everything waits to be renewed.
That horse-age wagon wheel
proped in the corner
against an empty picture-frame,
Even in its state of disrepair,
minus three spokes,
looks poised for flight.
Tomorrow, maybe, at the crack of a whip
a flock of glittering birds will perch
on its rim, a burnished stranger
wearing an enigmatic mask
will mount its hub
and the great battered wheel
will start to spin.

Րաֆֆի Վարդանեան։ Պարտէզը

Լօլային

Հայկ Նահապէտին պարտէզէն դուրս

Լեզուս թաղեցի
Հօրս պարտէզին մէջ,
որպէսզի Ուժ տայ բնութեան,

Որովհետեւ հոգիս
լռութենէն ալ յուսահատ է ։
Անյոյս է
Որպէս սփիւռք
Որպէս ինքնաօտար
Որպէս հոգի ու վկայ եւ
Աքսորի զաւակ։

Պատերազմ և ողբերգութիւն
Կը կոչուին այդ երես լզողները, Ու ծնողքս,
իրենց հաճոյքը կը պահեն
Մեծմօրս գրպանին մեջ։
يعني sabersiz, mon ami

Այս կեանքը բնական չէ
Որովհետեւ ան
Կը ծաղկի
Կմախքի մը կողէն
Այն գերեզմանատան մէջ
Ուր կը Ֆր-ֆրա Հովը - Թուրքիոյ, Հայաստանի ապա, Ռուսաստանի հովը, Ամերիկայի, Չինաստանի, Ուրուկուաի հովը - Նահատակներուն հովը, Զոհերուն, Երգիչին և արհեստաւորին հովը:
Բերնէդ բրցուած լեզուն
ընկղմեցաւ
Մելանին մէջ
ուր կրցաւ
պատմական նիւթեր գրել։

Ծովափին աւազներուն վրայ
Դարերու ընթացքին
Տարիներով
Օրերով
Մրջիւններով,

Türkçe dilinde,

En français

بللغة العربية

Րաֆֆի Վարդանեան

Gregory Djanikian's Podcast in the Kelly Writers House series

http://media.sas.upenn.edu/writershouse/podcasts/Kelly-Writers-House-Podcast_08_Djanikian.mp3

Click on the link to hear this outstanding podcast of Gregory Djanikian reading from his poems about the Armenian Genocide and his family life.

Vacation

Dear Reader:


The Armenian Poetry Project is on a short research break this week. 


The RSS feeds, tweets and iTunes streams will resume mid-month.




All best Lola Koundakjian

Michael Keshigian: HONEYCOMB BLUES

This is how it used to be with him and his lover, she taught him a new song every morning, a different line with her head on the pillow, climbing the stairway of his spine with a weightless melody until it filled his brain and he sang as he rolled over to lock his lips around hers so she might sugar his mouth with more honey, her tongue tipping sweet words backwards in his throat. The day was longing after mornings like that, sunlight a lonely companion, though the song droned like bees in the hive all day in his head. Copyright Michael Keshigian. Reprinted here by kind permission of the author.

Michael Keshigian: Thief

Two days ago

the sun caught me stealing light

to illuminate a poem,

demanded restitution,

then reported me to Mother Nature

who posted my likeness about the land.

Soon, the ocean, forest, birds, flowers, et. al.

filed suit for substantial abuse

and complacent philandering without permission.

I pleaded guilty;

admitted taking breath from wind

for deliverance,

marshmallows from the sky to sweeten song,

and rage from the ocean

to instill a sense of urgency.

Convicted and confined to a windowless room,

no writing, visitation

or glimpses of stolen sights,

I was sentenced to imagine beauty

without embezzlement

and the wholesale exploitation of words.

Copyright Michael Keshigian. Reprinted here by kind permission of the author.

Michael Keshigian: Afternoon Barbecue

The women share a secret, chattering until we enter their circle, giggling when they think we can’t see. We ask them for a hint but they only lower their eyes and smile delicately from the corners of their mouths. It only increases our desire to know. Perhaps it was something they did long ago, consequences notwithstanding, the memory possesses a lingering sweetness. This might explain their camaraderie, the way they rest their chins on the curl of their fists, stare at each other with intense intrigue. Tell us one story or give us a clue. Whisper a sentence or even a word that might carry in the warm summer breeze when you close your eyes to remember. Copyright Michael Keshigian. Reprinted here by kind permission of the author.

Michael Keshigian: MUSIC GRATIFICATION

He wanted to know everything

a musician knew,

how to start with a note

that blossomed into a composition,

jazz or symphonic,

it didn't matter much,

Take Five or Beethoven's Fifth

as long as he could make

some toe-tapping or baton swinging

sense of the melodies

that swirled in his head.

He could write lyrics

all day long on a blank page

but had only the rhythm of words

to dance to,

the timbre and articulations

came from a different place

and were never enhanced

by a slick clarinet gliss

or a violin's frenetic staccato.

He was happy, though,

that he could listen to

the most complex pieces

or simplest tunes

and transform himself

into a feather

that floated upon the resonance,

landing gently at the final cadence,

gratified that he could internalize

the intention of sounds

he couldn't call his own.

Copyright Michael Keshigian. Reprinted here by kind permission of the author.

Michael Keshigian: THE MOON

just hung there

slightly above the horizon

donning a wry smile

against darkened backdrop

its anemic white garb

resembled a freshly cut fingernail

found on the black desktop.

I tossed my cap

towards its lower point,

beyond reach of the trees,

landing it gracefully

like a Frisbee on a finger,

wondering

how did the cow jumped over

this slightly cocked glow

without bumping its head

on the unseen portion?

The iridescent float winked

to share such sport

but startled I turned

to watch the cat

play the fiddle

till the dish came home

with the spoon.

Copyright Michael Keshigian. Reprinted here by kind permission of the author.

Quote for the Month of November

«Ո՛չ դրամին կիրքը ունիմ, ո՛չ փառքին կիրքը, ո՛չ համբաւին կիրքը»։

Ռուբէն Սեւակ 20 տարեկանին Հ. Նազարեանին ուղղած նամակին մէջ

Michael Keshigian: Moonbeam

Every night
a different message.
Tell me tonight
about the translucent bones
of icicles on the gutter.
Their tale is a disclosure
of your stalking.
You enter as a burglar
on the heels of darkness
and leave no fingerprints,
yet cleverly steal away secrets
between the elusive shadows
you create,
some darker than others,
convoluted figures
rummaging in the most remote corners
of the room.
The sleepless await an explanation
but your peering eyes
slip away
when the clouds make you blink.
If you do take something,
no one is the wiser.
The sand in your light
eventually blinds into submission
the most suspicious
who, in the morning, awake inspired
yet unaware of your intrusion,
until the icicles drip
in the rising sunlight.


Copyright Michael Keshigian. Reprinted here by kind permission of the author.

Poet Michael Keshigian

MICHAEL KESHIGIAN is the author of five poetry chapbooks. His sixth collection Jazz Face , was recently released by Big Table Publishing Co.  His poetry has appeared in numerous national and international journals as well as many online publications, including California Quarterly, Barbaric Yawp, Tipton Poetry Journal, Jerry Jazz Musician, Sierra Nevada College Review, and Ibbetson Street Press. He has been a feature writer for The Aurorean, Poetree Magazine, Chantarelle’s Notebook, Bellowing Ark, Pegasus Review, The Illogical Muse, interviewed by Boston Literary Magazine (bostonliterarymagazine.com/Fall2007 Spotlight)) and Reader’s Choice in the Fairfield Review. He is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best Of The Net nominee. (www.michaelkeshigian.com)

Archie Minasian: The Message

Though I go my way calmly,
humble in countenance,
know, my love,
my soul is loud with rebuke,
my mien restrained,
my desire fierce.


Selected poems, Ashod Press, 1986. Copyright by Helen Minasian. 

Archie Minasian: Memories of my Father

the wind spoke to me
I went to the orchard,
leaves came down
of every kind
with busy whisperings
I could not understand.


Selected poems, Ashod Press, 1986. Copyright by Helen Minasian. 

Archie Minasian: The Workers

In my presence
the men work feverishly at their tasks
denying themselves tobacco
and conversation.


In my absence,
like air bags expiring,
they link to comfortable places
and roll cigarettes
and discuss cheap labor.

Selected poems, Ashod Press, 1986. Copyright by Helen Minasian.