Quote of the month

“I feel that poetry is a communication between people on the most intense level, even if it’s only between two people, writer and reader. This relationship may be one of the most intimate we might experience, when one intuitively and deeply speaks to another.”

Gregory Djanikian

Յովհաննէս Ասպետ: ՄԻԳԱՄԱԾ ԵՐԿԻՆՔԻ ՏԱԿ

Ձօնված Ժօաննային

Տակավին քո հոգեղեն տեսիլքը՝ իմ հոգում մնում է անբիծ,

Մինչդեռ անհետացող ամեն մի րոպե մեզ տարանջատում է.
Խանդավառված քո սիրո հիշատակը՝ նորից պաշարում է ինձ,
Ու մի մեղմահոս շշունջ իմ հոգու խորքերից քեզ պահանջում է:

Այս միգամած երկինքի տակ անընդհատ ես քեզ եմ փնտռում,
Այս անսիրտ աշխարհում ինձ համար քո վառող սիրտն է թանկագին.
Մի թողնիր ինձ որ ապրեմ մենակ քո հրաշալի հիշատակում,
Օ՜, վերադարձիդ բեր քո լիառատ խանդաղատանքը՝ սրտագին:

Յովհաննէս Ասպետ

Dedicated to Joanna

U n d e r N e b u l o u s S k y

Your spiritual image remains pure in my heart,
While time goes by to erase the ever resting deed of your hands,
The exhilarated memory of your love surrounds me again,
As a softly flowing whisper claims you within my bosom.

Under this nebulous sky not a single guiding star shines,
In this heartless world your affection is the dearest still,
Don’t let me live alone in your wonderful memory,
Upon your return, bring the living devotion of your heart.

Hovhannes Asbet
Translated by the author

Յակոբ Ճէլալեան: Ի՞ՆՉ ՄՆԱՑ

Արձակուրդի վառ օրերէն ի՞նչ մնաց

Եւ ամառուան արեգակէն ոսկեբաշ՝

Իմ հայեացքիս նման երկինք մ՝ամպամած

Ու ոտքերէդ զոյգ մը մաշիկ հալումաշ: 

Մշտադալար թուող կեանքէն ի՞նչ մնաց՝

Պերճ սխրանքներ կարծես շէնքեր կիսափուլ,

Լայն ուղիներ արահետի վերածուած

Ու հեռաստան մ՝անապատի պէս ամուլ:

Մատղաշ ու քա՜ղցդ սերերէն ի՞նչ մնաց՝

Յիշողութիւն մը որ արդէն կ՝անհետի

Հին տարփանքներ մշուշի պէս մելամաղձ

Եւ իմ Աննա՜ն, քնարահունչ մեղեդի:

Աթէնք.............................

WHAT’S LEFT?

What’s left of the sunlit days of holidays?
Of the golden sun of a summer now complete?
A cloudy sky gloomy as my dejected gaze,
And a pair of worn sandals from your feet.

What’s left of an ever-green seeming days?
Grand ventures now a mere crumbling mess,
Broad avenues now narrowed to mere byways
And a horizon as barren as a wilderness

What’s left of those budding loves and trysts?
A meager memory that dissipates already,
Aging desires, melancholy as descending mists…
And my Anna, my own lyric melody.


……………………….. Hagop Jelalian

Translated by Tatul Sonentz

Gregory Djanikian: Armenian Pastoral (1915)

Memory is useless if none of us

remembers the same things.

-- Bruce Murphy

If Anoush were holding her child
and watching the sheep 
carted off like men to the slaughter

and Armenag in his dark vest and trousers
were hobbling barefoot in the village square
toward the pockmarked wall

and Ashod in his prison cell
were counting the sprigs of parsley
that must be rising in his garden now

if Araxi were razor-thin by the roadside
dreaming of a while mountain 
turning red in the alpenglow

if Antranig refusing to walk
were shod like a horse
and tethered in his own pasture

and Azniv were a wet nurse now
to a battalion of mouths
her infant slit clean in the straw

how long would it have to go on then
beginning with A and spilling over
into all the alphabets

before mother sister father child
could wear the same faces in any language

be cut from the same tongue.

This poem has appeared in So I will till the ground, published by Carnegie Mellon University Press in 2007. It has previously appeared in Poetry Magazine in 2002 and Ararat in 2004. An audio recording of the author reading his piece is available by clicking on the link below.
http://media.sas.upenn.edu/Pennsound/authors/Djanikian/KWH_02-27-07/Djanikian-Greg_09_Armenian-Pastoral-1915_UPenn_2-20-07.mp3

Christine Orchanian Adler: Breaths of Spring

breaths of spring        

from an attic trunk     

old love letters     

This haiku has previously appeared in Penumbra and appears here courtesy of the author.      

Christine Orchanian Adler: Middle Space

Early Sunday I hug my son off

to school; his cool-skinned arm

wrapped around my back, a warm,

whiskered kiss against my cheek.

After he’s left I get the call:

his cousin, a passenger,

car crash last night. At high

speed, tether-free, they rolled,

were thrown. “No survivors,”

my brother breaks down.

Devastation splits me open

like a rock in summer sun.

I imagine his son, the same

young age as mine; man-boy

with parenthetical freckles around

an ever-ready grin.

Evidence of another statistic,

the roadside stone, heavy

and unyielding as grief

is already laden with flowers.

In coming months I will drive

by the site. My heart

will clench as sunlight strikes

the stone without warning, glints

like a flare: there

then gone.

My son drives toward

his dorm, alive, still

in the world

of before, his future

stretched ahead like the bright

clear sky, awash with light. Dry-eyed

before absorbing the weight of my brush

with a mother’s greatest loss

I reach slowly for the phone

to bring him home.

This poem has appeared in Tipton Poetry Journal, Issue #15, and is reproduced by kind permission of the author.

Introducing Christine Orchanian Adler

Christine Orchanian Adler is a writer and editor whose poetry has appeared in Coal: A Poetry Anthology, Penumbra, Tipton Poetry Journal, and online at Bird and Moon, Damselfly Press, The Furnace Review, LiteraryMama and elsewhere, and is forthcoming in Inkwell Journal. She holds a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing from Manhattanville College. Her articles, essays and book reviews have appeared in various publications throughout the Northeastern United States and Canada. She blogs at www.feedalltheanimals.blogspot.com, and lives in New York with her husband and two sons.

Christine Orchanian Adler: Mine

The year my dad’s back

gave out, Doc Hadden read the tests

and sighed, “black lung” while mother

stood apron clad with hanky-pressed mouth,

dry eyed. Some months later came

her call, a blinking light left, found

upon my tired return from

a medical research cram.

I pulled the indexed notes, stacked

so neatly in my bag and sat,

listened to her words and flipped

through detail-crowded cards,

each a meticulous list

of disease and lethal symptoms.

I’d read their names, drop my eyes

test myself: Scrofula: tubercular

infection; impacts throat lymph glands.

At twenty, he’d followed his father

into the seams, ceilings dripping water. He’d lie

in mud, supine, nineteen working inches

lit only by his miner’s lamp.

Yaws: chronic, relapsing infectious

illness; spirochete caused; cannot penetrate

skin. Influenza: virus; changes by mutation.

The day he told me the story of Macbeth,

the mine that blew a dark March day

and took his father’s life, I knew the chain

would break. Pneumoconiosis: also known

as black lung disease; two forms—

simple and progressive massive fibrosis.

Miners who’d once gone below

in dark of early morning trudged

over those same entries bearing

stretchers, mangled corpses of family men.

He’d rushed the vast black cavity of Macbeth

Mine that day, stood among the town waiting.

They’d remain long, dark days, edge

the mine’s mouth while rain poured down,

a town of immobile kin. The mournful

cable whine brought them to the surface

body after body

but the screams of widows rising

at each man’s recognition haunt

my father still. “It’s all we knew.”

He shrugged his burly shoulders, pointed

his eyes downward when I made

medical school my goal

instead of coal. “It’s over,”

her voice fell flatly in the room.

Cards fluttered to the floor

while I sat, eyes down understanding

that the only life I’d saved

by breaking the chain was mine.

This poem has appeared in Coal: A Poetry Anthology, and is reprinted by kind permission of the author.

Արամ Քէթէնճեան: Կեղծիք

Քո դէմքը նուրբ է, շողշողուն, պայծառ.
Ինչ է օգուտը երբ սիրտըդ է քար...

Խօսքըդ հոտաւէտ, արեւաբոյր է.
Ինչ է օգուտը, արմատը ժահր է:

Մեծ է քո խելքը, մտքերով վարար.
Բայց օգուտն ինչ է երբ հոն կայ խաւար...

Ջերմ է ժպիտըդ, ձիւնն անգամ կիզող.
Բայց օգուտն ինչ է, այն կեղծ է, քանդող:

Իրանըդ փափուկ, մետաքս է քնքուշ.
Ինչ է օգուտը, երբ խորքըդ է փուշ:

Դու էակ մըն ես զմայլիչ, սիրուն.
Բայց օգուտն ինչ է... հպարտ ես, փքուն:

Դու հրեշտակի պէս տեսք ունիս դիւթիչ,
Բայց՝ հոգիդ չար է եւ օգուտըն ինչ...


Արամ Քէթէնճեան
2012թ. ( նախապէս անտիպ)