Announcing the winner of the 7th “Arthur Halvajian Memorial” Armenian Poetry Competition - College age category

Congratulations to Elizabeth Minasian who is this year's winner in college age category. 

All this Armenian?

People tell me

What is with you and all this Armenian?

And I tell them, For me,

This Armenian says

Welcome!

Come in have coffee, have tea

Have ​gata ​and have ​chir

This Armenian for me is the music fanatic

you can call Elvina Makarian

an identity-searching art enthusiast dubbed Arshile Gorky

and the knowledge thirsty, language pundit some know as Khachatur Abovyan

This Armenian for me is the hard-working, passionate, hearty, yet underrepresented being

This Armenian for me is the lover of ​hogh yev jur

The admirer of motherland and fatherland

This Armenian for me is community

Intertwined into one, small, dynamic being

This Armenian for me is William Saroyan, who wanted to

Erase his roots but could not

This Armenian for me is Komitas 

who built our national music
through seemingly insignificant human steps

Resulting a universal leap

This Armenian for me is Garegin Nzhdeh,
Davit Bek,
Kevork Chavush
The ordinary soldier
Fighters, Persisters, Protectors

This Armenian for me is the brave 

Journalist, who empowers diverse 

people with a composition notebook and
a plane ticket

This Armenian for me is 

a Modest poet
trying to get a few people to change 

their views, and learn a thing
Or two

Thus, before I leave, I tell them,

The Armenian for me is what it should be for you

Announcing the winner of the 7th “Arthur Halvajian Memorial” Armenian Poetry Competition - Student category

The winner in the Students category (ages 12-17) is Sophie Youssefian for her sonnet, Dreams.

Dreams

Dreams are things that people hold on to,
and with bare hands I carry my dreams with me,
but dreams leave scars, maybe one or two,
good thing they heal when I set them free.
The constellation formed a magical heart,
and the bright sun slowly fades in the west.
Nothing in the world can tear this apart
because this scene is probably the best.
The happy pictures of us were shattered,
and your sweet laugh still lingers in my heart.
But our constellation hadn't mattered
because our hurting dreams tore us apart.
And all stars eventually have to die,
but our sad stars had already gone by.


Congratulations to the winner! Ms Youssefian is a sixth grade student at St. Gregory's A. & M. Hovsepian School, Pasadena, California. Many thanks to Shahé Mankerian, Principal.

Susan Barba to Present New Collection of Poems. Thursday, May 11, in New York City

Poet, translator and editor Susan Barba will present her first collection of poetry entitled Fair Sun at the Zohrab Center on Thursday, May 11 at 7pm in the Guild Hall of the Armenian Diocese.

Eleven years and growing...

Today is the 11th anniversary of the Armenian Poetry Project. We will celebrate it as we often do, quietly, reading poetry and happy to have achieved a few key points. 

We remain the only website providing audio and text RSS feeds of poems written by Armenians, as well as contemporary authors on Armenian subject matters. 

We continue providing all internet surfers free access to the webpage and audio downloads 24/7/365 via RSS, Twitter and iTunes.

We invite you to join our readers in celebrating APP's broad spectrum
 - independent research of the best Armenian poetry we can find  
- gems by authors from the 19th century to the present
- introduction to out of print books, periodicals and digitized archives
- an index by authors and countries
- experimental works by contemporary authors
- introduction of budding authors, including the APP/ASA poetry competition winners, now in its 7th year
- different languages of expression, mostly Armenian, English or French, with translations provided whenever possible

This project is curated and produced by Lola Koundakjian in New York. To contact APP, send an email to: ArmenianPoetryProject[at]gmail[dot]com.

If YOU ENJOY this website, please consider making a donation via Paypal.com by clicking on the button below. Your donations help maintain the audio website, buy books and replace equipment for the recordings as well as research in libraries. 

հայերէն՝ To view the Armenian characters, setup your browser to view UNICODE (UTF-8) as the character's encoding.




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AARON POOCHIGIAN's SONG: GO AND DO IT

Leap Niagara, ask a Mountie
where they keep the joie de vivre,
then cruise down to Orange County,
surf the curl and smoke some reefer.
Ride class fives in the Cascades,
water-ski the Everglades,
. . . .go, go, go
. . . .until you know
precisely where the Good Times flow.

Hitchhike through the heartland, travel
wide, acquire a taste for tillage.
Where the asphalt turns to gravel
settle down in some quaint village—
cloudy, clear or partly sunny,
your new Land of Milk and Honey
. . . .will appear
. . . .much like here
but less suburban, more sincere.

Search through endless desert places
for the perfect little spot.
When at last some plush oasis
tallies with the spa you sought,
think of me and write a letter
gloating over how much better
. . . .life is there—
. . . .I’ll still swear
we could be happy anywhere.

This poem has appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily

Reminder: Our annual poetry writing competition ends soon

As in the past six years, the ASA, Inc. is partnering the Armenian Poetry Project for the writing competition named in honor of the late Arthur Halvajian. The 2017 competition is now open and the deadline for submissions is April 30. The competition winners will be announced by the jury in May 2017.

All individuals of Armenian descent, residing in the United States and Canada are invited to submit their work in English or Armenian for the competition. Entries should be e-mailed by April 30, 2017 to ArmenianPoetryProject@gmail.com with the subject heading “Halvajian ASA/APP Poetry competition”. Only one original unpublished poem per individual may be submitted.

The competition groups submissions into three categories: students (ages 12-17), college age (ages 18-22), and adult (ages 23 and older). A top prize will be awarded for each of the categories in the amounts of US $75 (students), $125 (college age), and $300 (adult).

Each poem submitted for the competition must be accompanied by the author’s full name, age, and home address/telephone number. Students must include school name and sponsoring teacher’s telephone number. You can learn more about the Armenian Poetry Project by visiting http://armenian-poetry.blogspot.com.

Փանոս Ճերանեան։ Քամի

Click to hear the audio segment.

Պատանեկան տարիներուս
Օր մը ինծի սիրոյ մասին շշնջացիր
Եւ շուտափոյթ հեռացար
Ըսէ, հիմա ծիածանի ո՞ր մէկ կողմը
Քեզ փնտրեմ
Այդ երբեմնի շշուկդ ջերմ
Կրկին անգամ
լսելու …


***



Սէր իմ
արեւը մայր կը մտնէ ամէն օր,
Օրը կը մթագնի ամէն օր,
Դուն կը մնաս գիշեր-ցերեկ ամէն օր։





Փանոս Ճերանեան Մոնրէալ
Այս բանաստեղծութիւնը լոյս տեսած է ՄԱՐՄԱՐԱ թերթին 16 Մարտ 2017 թիւին մէջ

Արտասանական Մրցոյթ՝ Թորոնթոյի Հայ Կեդրոնին մէջ ( Armenian Community Centre)

ԹԱՄԱՐ ՏՕՆԱՊԵՏԵԱՆ-ԳՈՒԶՈՒԵԱՆ։ Գիշե՛ր Բարի, Մարիա՛մ…

Ներշնչուած` «Լոսթ պըրտզ» ժապաւէնէն

Արեւը իր հրեղէն շունչը փչեց դէպ՛ երկինք,
Ու կարմիր շղարշը նետեց լեռներու ետին։
Դաշտերուն մէջ, զեփիւռը քնքուշ`
Ցորեանները մեղմ օրօրելով,
Թռչնակի չուերթին հետ օրուան հրաժեշտը տուաւ։

Գիշե՛ր բարի, Մարիա՛մ.
Գոցէ աչքերդ փայլուն. թող մանուկ հոգիդ ճախրէ՜ անկաշկանդ
Դէպի երազդ ծաղկաւէտ, ուր իշխան-իշխանուհի,
Ձեռք ձեռքի տուած` արեւի պայծառ շողերուն ներքեւ,
Թիթեռներուն հետ կ՛երգեն գարունքը մեր աշխարհի։

Քուն եղիր, Մարիա՛մ.
Սիրասուն գլուխդ հանգչեցուր քարեղէն բարձին,
Թող հոգւոյդ մէջ իջնէ շողը աստղերուն
Ու գրկէ տանի քեզ այս քար աշխարհէն,
Դէպի մանկութեան ծոցը լուսեղէն։

Տանի այն դղեակը գունագեղ,
Ուր չկա՜ն չար հողմեր, չկա՜ն ագռաւներ…
Կայ միայն օրհնա՜նք.
Կան աստուածային բոյրը տաք հացին,
Մօր քնքշանքն ու կենսուրախ այտեր ջերմագին։

Տանի հո՜ն` ուր կը լսուին խինդ ու ծիծաղ,
Ուր կապոյտ թռչնակի թաւիշը կը շոյէ դէմքդ գողտրիկ.
Ձեռքդ տուր, Մարիա՛մ,
Ձեռքդ տուր, վազենք դէպի ծիածանը մեր հոգւոյն,
Վազենք դէպի տո՜ւն։

Թորոնթօ

Այս բանաստեղծութիւնը լոյս տեսած է ԱԶԴԱԿ-ի մէջ։ http://www.aztagdaily.com/archives/332580

Alice Christy: Last Cry of the Duduk

In memory of Serpouhi Kenjosian

Once it is right, it writes its own;
when it is red, it is read wrong.
Once it is written, leave it alone;
when it is read, pray, hum along.

When it is red, it is read wrong;
(I chose music with sorrow's tone…)
when it is read, pray, hum along.
(…to it paired movement, stone on stone.)

I chose music with sorrow's tone,
and danced I, for your days bygone.
To it, paired movement–stone on stone–
so dance I, for my tomorrow’s dawn.

And danced I, for your days bygone,
for a duduk’s cry haunts soul with poem…
So dance I, for my tomorrow’s dawn.
Pray, Fate, drink not the ancient’s Jeroboam.

For a duduk’s cry haunts soul with poem.
(Once it is written, leave it alone.)
Pray, Fate, drink not the Ancient’s Jeroboam.
(Once it is right, it writes its own.)

Alice Christy is the poetry pseudonym of writer Bethel Swift whose great-grandmother, Sarah Nahabedian, was a survivor of the Armenian Genocides. Though much of her story remains untold, what is known is that Sarah came to the U.S. shortly after surviving a long desert march in which she lost her mother and young child (her first husband was also killed). Her second husband, Pilos Kenjosian, sent money for her passage because he wanted to rescue a woman from his home country. They married and named their oldest daughter Serpouhi. When she was small, her father would rock her to sleep weeping for his murdered relatives, and crying, "Oh Mayrig, Mayrig...". Because of this, Serpouhi became known as "Mary" instead.

The poet's grandmother, Serpouhi "Mary" Kenjosian

Alice Christy

Celebrating National Poetry Month

Established in 1996 by the Academy of American Poets (NYC), the occasion represents an opportunity for poets and poetry lovers of all persuasions to express their love of verse.

Մատթէոս Զարիֆեան։ՁՄԵՌ ԻՐԻԿՈՒՆ

Դագաղի պէս նեղ օրեր,
Գերեզմանի փայտեայ խաչի պէս տխուր...
Դեռ երա՞զ, սէ՞ր -
Զո՜ւր է, զո՜ւր...
Գերեզմանի փայտեայ խաչի պէս տըխուր... ։

Ահա կ՚անցնին դիակի գոյն երկինքէն՝
Խուճապահար տարմերն անբախտ ագռաւի...
Ջարդէ փախչող մարդերու պէս կը հեծե՜ն.
Երկնքին մէջ ալ կը ջարդե՜ն՝ երեւի...

Ու փոթորկոտ իրիկունով,
Նախիրն ահա՝ լեռներուն մէջ ցանուցիր...
Ո՞վ գրեց, ո՞վ,
Կեանքի օրէնքը կարմիր... ։

*

Այս առտու,
Մարդ մը հուժկու
-Որ ունէր բիրտ ու արիւնոտ աչուըներ-
Մեծ կացինով մը ջարդեց
Լելակի ծառ մը տարէց։

Խորհեցայ թէ, երբ իյնար
Ծառն իր վըտիտ հասակով՝
Այն մարդն անշուշտ պիտի լար.
Ան հեռացաւ սուլելո՜վ...

Ո՞վ գրեց, ո՜վ... ։

*

Ահա կոչնակն Հայ ժամուն.
Հիմա հարկաւ մութ գըռիհններն են լեցուն,
Հայ մայրերով, մամերով,
Որ ժամ կ՚երթան իրկուն-առտու՝
Աւետարանն համբուրելու... ։

Անոնց տըժգոյն բերաններէն,
Հարկաւ, նորէն
Պիտի քակուի աղօթքն երկար՝
Մեռելներուն հոգւոյն համար... ։

Յետոյ անոնք, հարկաւ, նորէ՛ն
Իրենց տժգոյն բերաններով պիտի ներեն՝
Նոյնի՛սկ, նոյնի՛սկ թշնամիի՜ն...

Ու երբ մեկնին
Դողդողուն՝
Պիտի նորէ՛ն ունենան
Յիսուսի Ձեռքը շուշան՝
Ուսերնուն.. ։

*

Իրիկնամուտ, երկինքն ինչպէ՜ս կ բռընկի...
Աստուա՜ծ, Աստուա՜ծ,
Մարդիկ՝ ծունկի՝
Կարծես կ՚այրի՜ն,
Դիւային
Սա ամպերուն մէջ նետուած...

Ու կարծես թէ՝
Հեռուն,
Գլխատուած մարդ մ՚աստղերուն
Դե՜ռ կ՚աղօթէ
Բազկատարած. -
Աստուա՜ծ, Աստուա՜ծ... ։

*

Մա՜հ։
Ո՞վ է հըզօր իրեն պէս։
Մա՜հ, մա՜հ...
Պէտք է դընել, վերջապես,
Մեր հոգիները յըստակ՝
Իր երկարած սուրին տակ...
Ժըպտելո՜վ... ։

Ո՜վ գրեց, ո՜վ...

ՄԵԾ ԿՂԶԻ, ԱՊՐԻԼ 1923

Մատթէոս Զարիֆեան։ ԱՊՐԻԼԻ ՀՈՎԸ

Ապրիլի հովն աղջիկ մ՚է՝
Վարդ-մանիշակ շըրթներով...
Ապրիլի հովը, սակայն,
Երբ ըլլայ մո՜ւթ-մո՜ւթ գիշեր,
Աստուածուհի՜ կը դառնայ՝
Խենթեցընող համբոյրով... ։

1923

Յովհաննէս Ասպետ: ԿՐԱԿ ՈՒ ՄՈԽԻՐ

Այլեւս չեմ մտածում բեղումնավոր,
Քանի դեռ թանձրանում է սրտիս թախիծը.
Վա՜խ, անցել են տարիները ուղղեմոլոր,
Տանելով իրենց հետ իմ լուսե երազը:

Մ՛ի զղջում լռեցրել է իմ հոգին,
Տեսնում եմ որ հույլորեն անհետացել է,
Իր անփոխարինելի սերը՝ անգին,
Նրա երազը՝ ինձանից հեռացել է:

Արծաթափայլ հուշերի՝ ցոլքեր երբեմնի,
Տեղափոխում են իմ միտքը աղետալի,
Երբոր հոգուս կորովը՝ անհույս հատնի,
Փութով տանում են ինձ վայրեր սիրելի:

Երազը՝ մոլեգին այդ լույս օրերի,
Նրանց ջերմ շոյանքը՝ անցել են ինձանից.
Ա՜խ, վաղաժամ մարած մի կրակից,
Մնացել են մոխիրները երեկի:


Յովհաննէս Ասպետ, «Սիրոյ Քնար»
06/1973

Lory Bedikian's upcoming reading at Claremont Libray, Claremont, California

ASA Announces 2017 Arthur Halvajian Memorial Armenian Poetry Competition

The Armenian Students’ Association, Inc. recently announced the start of its seventh annual poetry competition. As in the past six years, the ASA, Inc. is partnering the Armenian Poetry Project for the writing competition named in honor of the late Arthur Halvajian, a trustee who led its Board in sponsoring the first competition. The 2017 competition is now open and the deadline for submissions is April 30. The competition winners will be announced by the jury in May 2017.

“Over the past six years we have received hundreds of entries from across North America and continue to be impressed with the creativity, quality and range of poems. We look forward to reaching out to even more communities in the coming months,” said Alice Movsesian, a member of the ASA, Inc. Board of Trustees as well as its liaison to the competition's organizing committee.

ASA national board secretary M. Manoog Kaprielian sees the poetry competition as a particularly meaningful window of expression for Armenians who endured as Azerbaijan refugees out of and survivors of the ongoing war in Syria, who have settled throughout the United States and Canada. “We will do all that we can to reach out wherever they may be”, stated Kaprielian.

The Armenian Poetry Project lead by poet Lola Koundakjian, is a research and documentation site for 19th to 21st century Armenian poems and related topics. Currently containing over 2,500 poems, it is celebrating its 11th anniversary this year. APP has a worldwide following and releases poems through RSS feeds, Twitter and podcasting.

All individuals of Armenian descent, residing in the United States and Canada are invited to submit their work in English or Armenian for the competition. Entries should be e-mailed by April 30, 2017 to ArmenianPoetryProject@gmail.com with the subject heading “Halvajian ASA/APP Poetry competition”. Only one original unpublished poem per individual may be submitted.

The competition groups submissions into three categories: students (ages 12-17), college age (ages 18-22), and adult (ages 23 and older). A top prize will be awarded for each of the categories in the amounts of US $75 (students), $125 (college age), and $300 (adult).

Each poem submitted for the competition must be accompanied by the author’s full name, age, and home address/telephone number. Students must include school name and sponsoring teacher’s telephone number. You can learn more about the Armenian Poetry Project by visiting http://armenian-poetry.blogspot.com.

The Armenian Students’ Association of America, Inc. encourages educational pursuits by Armenians in America and the raising of their intellectual standards, providing financial assistance in the form of scholarships to deserving Armenian students, developing fellowship among them, cultivating in them the spirit of service in the public interest, and acquainting them and the entire American community with Armenian culture.

Shahe Mankerian: WHERE I WAS BORN

Twenty years later, we went back to Beirut

and stood in front of CMC Hospital
for a photograph. We couldn’t go

inside because during the war,
it burned down, not because of misguided bombs,
but because a doctor set himself on fire

after they wheeled his dead wife
into the Emergency. Years later, hollyhock
bushes and wild fig trees covered the pink

and black walls of the entrance.
Militiamen had posted pictures of martyrs
on the crooked wall that separated

the sidewalk from the front lawn.
The statue of Virgin Mary with broken
hands cried near a dehydrated water fountain.

This poem appeared in Poetry City, USA, Vol. 6. 

Shahe Mankerian: HAPPY BIRTHDAY—ON THE 63RD ANNIVERSARY OF GORKY’S SUICIDE

Today you will have breakfast, two hardboiled eggs 

and squeeze blood oranges. Today you will save

the peeled shells to feed the mad waterfalls in your head.
Today your fingers will feel pain without paint.

You cover the canvas with the Mother’s face.
Today you will remove the clothespins from the clothesline.

You will need the rope and the sunshine of your studio.
You will need a sturdy chair and the ceiling fan.

Today will mark another birthday as you swing lightly in midair,
suspended like the butcher’s meat back in the city of Van.

This poem appeared in Poetry City, USA, Vol. 6. 

Aaron Poochigian: Song: Defiantly of Love

Meet her at Grand Central Station
and walk her down under the bridge
where the wild kids play in the street all day
and your neighbor, a passionate Haitian,
sings ecstatically, ecstatically, ecstatically of love.
Feed her potatoes au gratin,
meatloaf and corn on the cob
when the couple upstairs quarrels and swears,
and all the rats in Manhattan
sing discordantly, discordantly, discordantly of love.
Worship her like a religion,
like Mary the Mother of God,
while he-dogs compete for a she-dog in heat
and a lonesome grizzled pigeon
sings obsessively, obsessively, obsessively of love.
Promise to love her forever
and always, come what may,
while the basso bum with his bottle of rum
and the post-industrial river
sing defiantly, defiantly, defiantly of love.




This poem appeared in Don't Talk to Me about Love

Aaron Poochigian: The Only Way

When Mister Right has strayed so far you hate him,
pluck a winter leek from peat-rich soil
and eat the stalk before you go to bed.

Spit thrice at sunrise, bathe, then scratch, verbatim,
this lethal summons into kitchen foil:
“Vengeance, go find him, bind him guts, heart, head.

Compel the traitor, no will of his own,
into my bedroom to be mine till death.
Should rival hags assail him, make him fail

to function, make him pleasure me alone—
KALOU KAGOEI BAINA-BAINAKETH.”
Roll up the love-charm, pierce it with a nail

and seed it in a field where fireweed
attests to ashes. With the next moonrise
he will arrive, the lover you deserve,

less work than when you knew him, guaranteed
to lock you, goddess, in his zombie eyes,
worship you, service you, and never swerve.






This poem appeared in Don't Talk to Me about Love

Alina Gregorian: FORMIDABLE BEGINNINGS

I want to believe in something unique.

Like fluorescent blue light bulbs?

Like senators projecting themselves in cautious dance.

I’ve got something you may need.

A duty-free container?

Someone to write letters to.

They say, “Kindness exists in portions.”

Like a cake.

Like a football field.

They say, “Happiness exists in corners.”

Like a pile of sweaters.

Larry Levis said something about trees.

That’s why I’ve called you here.

Take a seat.

Open the window.

No, take a seat.

I’ll open the window.

How long have you been a crocodile?

Can you stop green?

Can you begin fern?

I can’t repeat questions.

Questions have expired.

Vanished into tea air.



This poem appeared in issue 5 of Poetry City, USA

Alina Gregorian: MANICURED SKIES?

We move keyboards to different locations.

Because nothing exists without mauve in your voice.
It’s red, dear.

It’s a noun without color, analogies without verbs.
The way you coordinate galaxies using your eyes.

The way you kiss, leaving post-its on my cheek.
What’s the weather like in Hawaii?

Blue skies with grey streaks.
Like being on a farm in a computer.

Like taking lemonade to a string quartet.
You sold your clothes and got in bed.

“We make a dwelling in the evening air.”
Said Wallace Stevens.

We said hello to the illusion of something there.
Like conditioning verbs to say hi to adjectives.

So many people print documents in the night.
So many people buy bagels in Seattle.

You draw guitars on my arm.
Your lamp is like a bell.

You said.
A thought inside a ship.

This poem appeared in issue 5 of Poetry City, USA

Shahé Mankerian: Keepsake

In my office, Father’s framed

black and white photo rests 

next to my green Olivetti. 

When I look elsewhere, 

students under scrutiny stroke 

the dusty typewriter with caution 

because he scowls at them 

with his thick eyebrows. 

The fearless force the faded 

alphabet keys to strike the black 

cylinder without paper. 

Fingers tap dance 

as they throw sideway glances. 

A brown-eyed kindergartner 

in a dirty ponytail bangs 

the space bar until she hears 

the ding of the bell. She fiddles 

with the ribbon and asks, 

“Is it dead?” I know 

she means the typewriter, 

but I keep looking at Father.


This poem was published in These Fragile Lilacs Poetry Journal, Volume II, issue II. 

Shahé Mankerian: Burial

When the shovel fell, the dirt exposed

the white baby shoes. The eroded soil 

failed to bury the stitches on the soles 

and the scratches on the left tongue. 

Father looked away and gazed 

at the curling smoke from his cigarette. 

The shallow grave aggravated the anthill 

near the foot of the mulberry tree. 

The lantern trembled as the wind 

intensified from the belly of Mt. Sannine. 

The last of the dogwood twigs smoldered 

and kept the coffeepot warm. 

Father stomped on the white leather, 

yet the eyelets of the shoestrings stared 

back from the mud like a choking snake.

This poem was published in These Fragile Lilacs Poetry Journal, Volume II, issue II. 

Shahé Mankerian: Brioches in Beirut

The bakery crowd looted the last
of the loaves. A beggar child
driven by hunger ignored

the falling bombs; he sucked 

on rancid raisins stuck 

between his teeth. 

Pregnant Fatimah didn't mind 

the mold on the leftover crumbs; 

she devoured them 

as she crossed the checkpoint 

full of pungent militiamen. 

No one noticed the Druze 

cabdriver on fire. No one 

tasted the difference between glass 

shards and sugar beads 

piercing the bloated belly 

of brioches. A roach crawled 

into the barren oven. The broken 

baker sat on the curb 

and cried because he ran out 

of yeast, butter, and flour.

"Brioches in Beirut" was a runner-up in These Fragile Lilacs Poetry Journal, Volume II, issue II. 

Sotère Torregian: record world

my heart at thy sweet voice
                                –Saint Saëns’ Samson et Delilah


        The girl
                        flushes the gold
seas and her eyes lift
with the temperature
of the day
become two moons…
Her hair is an album
of the despoiled countryside
I wander sounds
of love’s fallen arquebuses
devesting themselves

Camille Sabie (second from left in the picture) was a graduate of East Side High School, pursuing a degree in education at Newark State Normal School when she was photographed training in Weequahic Park for the first Women’s World Games in Paris. At the August 1922 competition Sabie set a world record and won the gold medal in the 100-yard hurdles. She also took the gold medal in the standing long jump and the bronze medal in the running long jump. Women’s track and field events were added to the Olympic Games in 1928.
Sotère Torregian’s multiethnic upbringing in Newark led to experiments with internationalist and surrealist poetry. The piece above comes from his 1970 collection The wounded mattress.

https://newarkpoems.org/category/poets/sotere-torregian/

Ella Chakarian wins Silver Key for her poem

The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards have announced their winners for 2017. Ella Chakarian from Holy Martyrs Armenian School in California was awarded a Silver Key for her poem Laughing at Feminism and another Silver Key for her short story Salt. Congratulations to Ella for these achievements.

The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards are the nation’s longest-running and most prestigious recognition program for creative teens in grades 7–12.

Laughing at Feminism

“Boys, looks like we’ve got a little respecting to do today.”

It was women’s equality day, when those words were said.

“Today?” we asked our history teacher. “Why not everyday?”

“Oh, I was just poking some fun,” replied the man, with a shrug.

Poking some fun.

I guess that’s our permission to laugh now.

Let us laugh, at the little girl down the street, ponytail high, dressed in pink,

Combing the hair of her slender Barbie doll,

Wishing she could someday be so happy, pearly teeth and all,

She’s starved herself, pushed bread away, stared down at scales, measured her waist,

Perfect here and perfect there, it wasn’t all right for her to be anything else,

When it was the only thing she was taught,

How could any of it be her fault?

Let us poke fun at that fully grown girl,

Pinching the remains of her blotchy, pink skin,

Wondering where all her Barbie doll curves went,

If she even had them to begin with.

Let’s sit and laugh as we watch her starve,

Starve not for food, but to feel something warm in her heart,

She’s eaten her pain and done her time,

To the prisoner society has trained her to become.

Let us poke fun at the millions of women just like her,

More so reminded of their “incapabilities” due to their gender,

The women who try and overcome double standards,

The constant reminder that things could be worse-

“At least we are first-world American girls,”

The truth that girls come with restrictions,

Like we are objects, assembled by instructions,

Instructions that read quiet, small, and pretty,

Judgment hurled towards those falling out of all those categories.

Let us poke fun at the victims of rape, survivors of assault,

After they have been stripped of something beyond their skin,

After their hearts have been hollowed from unforgivable sins,

After they are given a bruise that becomes bluer with every attempt to be contained.

Let’s laugh as they are consumed with the ideas,

That their clothes speak louder than their words,

There really is no difference between yes and no.

Let us poke fun at the feminist movement,

At the sacrifices made by intelligent, zealous women,

The very history you are supposed to teach us of,

The future you are supposed to prepare us to love.

Let us poke fun at white women, black women, small women, large women, women across the globe, the women in your very home,

The feminist movement.

Let us watch you, as we rise from slender Barbie dolls and sealed lips,

Blue bruises and sets of instructions,

As you run away, from the fun you’ve created.

ARA ALEXANDRE SHISHMANIAN: cum se striveşte un bob de strugure

ce ciudat se striveşte un bob de strugure
un bob de strugure se striveşte ca un gândac verde –
ca un păianjen cu oglinda lichidă
ca un glonte cu o singură pleoapă jur împrejurul pupilei lui dulci
un bob de strugure se striveşte ca o evadare strălucit eşuată
sau ca un personaj dostoievskian monoschizofren
el se mai striveşte şi ca o mînie filmată
cu toate absenţele explodate de tribul la putere
strivit, un bob de strugure e şi o variantă extraterestră a sângelui
bobul de strugure e un bob special
plin de misterele transparenţei şi de transpiraţia groazei
unde celălalt nu poate fi nimic altceva decît o teroare strivită
nimicul e bobul lucru debordînd de reificare victorioasă
nimeni e bobul deja strivit –
deja măturat şi cu sucul şters cu o cîrpă
nimeni e un alt nume al victimei
nimic, un alt nume al preţului de dispreţ
bobul de strugure se striveşte ca un sîmbure de spaţiu-timp –
ca răstignirea generalizată a spaţiu-timpului
pe erezia razelor de lumină
bobul de strugure trebuie strivit
ca să-nceteze să mai fie reacţionar sau eretic –
trebuie strivit cu un zîmbet senin şi dulce ca mustul
sau bobul de strugure trebuie strivit pur şi simplu
ca să semene cu o pictură expresionist abstracţionistă –
ceva între kandinsky şi jackson pollock
sau poate bobul de strugure trebuie strivit
pentru că e preferabil ca neştiutul să fie –
ca neştiutul să abolească nimic / universul / multiversul
plin de silabe – inutil de precizat
e preferabilă o gaură neagră omniversală
unui cosmos aşteptînd doar cîrpa care o să-l şteargă
aşteptînd clovnul cu nas de nebun care o să-l şteargă –
care o să şteargă toată murdăria asta
zâmbind

 
Translations from the Romanian by Flavia Cosma

 

How You Crush a Grape

How funny it is to crush a grape
A grain of a grape is crushed like a green cockroach—
like a spider with a liquid mirror
like a bullet with a single eyelid around its sweet pupil
a grain of a grape is crushed like an escape brilliantly failed
or like a Dostoyevsky’s mono-schizophrenic character
it’s crushed also as a filmed anger
all its absences exploded by the tribe in power
Crushed, a grain of a grape is an extraterrestrial variation of the blood, too
the grape’s grain is special
full of the mysteries of transparency and of a nightmarish transpiration
where the other cannot be but a crushed terror
nothingness is the grape-thing overflowing with royal victory
nobody is the grape already crushed—
already swiped and its juice mopped with a cloth
nobody is another name for the victim
nothing, another name for the cost of despise
The grape-grain is crushed like a space-time pit—
like the generalized crucifixion of the space-time—
over the heresy of the light’s rays
the grape must be crushed
because it has to stop being reactionary or heretic –
must be crushed with a light smile, sweet as grape-juice
or the grape must be crushed purely and simply
to look like an expressionist-abstractionist painting
something between Kandinsky and Jackson Pollock –
or perhaps the grape must be crushed
because it’s preferably that the unknown be—
that the unknown abolish nothing/ the universe/ the multiverse
full of syllables—inutile to precise
a black hole omni-versal it’s preferable
to a cosmos waiting solely for the cloth to wipe it out
waiting for the clown with a fool’s nose who’ll wipe it out—
who’ll wipe out all this dirt
smiling

About the poet: Ara Alexandre Shishmanian is author of several studies in Vedic literature and Gnosis, written in French and English and published in specialty revues and collective volumes in Belgium, France, Italy, Romania, United States. He also has published fifteen collections of poems in Romanian. His first collection in French, Fenêtre avec esseulement (Window with solitude), translated by Dana Shishmanian, was published in 2014 by Editions Harmattan (Paris). The three poems translated here by Flavia Cosma are excerpts from the Romanian original volume, Nestiute (Unknown), 2012.


About the translator: Flavia Cosma http://www.flaviacosma.com is an award-winning Romanian-born Canadian poet, author and translator residing in Val-David, Quebec, Canada. Flavia has published twenty-eight books of poetry, a novel, a travel memoir and five children’s books. She is the Director of the International Writers’ and Artists’ Residency, Val David, Quebec, Canada, and of The International Biannual Poetry and Arts Festivals of Val-David. http://www.flaviacosma.com/Val_David.html

Literary Quote for the month of January 2017

"Toute la question est d'avoir un lieu 

Où déposer son âme. Un paysage,

Quel qu'il soit, pour alimenter les rêves

Et voyager en fantaisies et en délires (…)

Un lieu qui te loge, qui t'amarre

Où tu puisses vivre, aimer, penser,

Un lieu où tu puisses créer ta liberté d'être".

Agustín Tavitian
Traduit par Azaduhí-Libertad Telecemian

Michael Minassian: THE ARMENIAN VILLAGE - 1915

The soldiers stand

in clumps

smoking cigarettes

and kicking

the dirt

with their boots.

Half the village is empty

although the well

is stuffed

and overflows;

across the center square,

the church spire leaks

thick black smoke

spewing ash that falls

like winter’s leaves.

A century later,

rain weeps through

the deserted streets

and washes the salt

from the tears

of the dead

stirring under the earth.

·      originally published in Third Wednesday magazine, 2016.

Commemorating the Life of Hrant Dink (1954-2007)

Եկէ՛ք նախ իրար հասկնանք...
Եկէ՛ք նախ իրարու ցաւերը յարգենք...
Եկէ՛ք նախ իրար ապրեցնենք:

Come, let us first understand each other...
Come, let us first respect each other’s pain...
Come, let us first let one another live.

From the speech delivered by his widow, Rakel Dink "Come, let us do away with the restlessness of doves in this country".

Literary event in London dedicated to author ZABEL YESSAYAN Saturday, January 21, 2017

5.00 pm THE HERITAGE OF ARMENIAN WOMEN: CHALLENGES AND HOPES FROM MKHITAR GOSH, ZABEL YESSAYAN TO MODERN DAY ARMENIA.
by Anna Arutshyan

6.00 – 7.00 pm Light Supper

7.00 pm TRANSLATING ZABEL YESSAYAN FOR A NEW AUDIENCE
With Judith Saryan and Danila Terpanjian

editors of recent English translations of 3 Yessayan books

 Our Lady of the Victories Roman Catholic Church

235 Kensington High Street

London, England, W8 6SA

ԶԱՊԷԼ ԱՍԱՏՈՒՐ «ՍԻՊԻԼ»: ԾՆՈՒՆԴԻ ԳԻՇԵՐ

Այն աստեղավառ Ծնունդին գիշեր
Ամպերէ ծաղիկ թափեր կը ձիւնէ,
Ինչպէս նշենին հովէն տարուբեր
Արփագոյն՝ լոյսէ աստղեր կը ձիւնէ:
Իմ մանուկ հոգիս, իմ հոգիս դեռ կոյս,
Ոհ, ի՜նչ ջերմեռանդ խանդով ըզմայլուն՝
Կաթոգին խնդրեց քեզմէ, ո՛վ Յիսուս,
Որ աստղ մ'ինձ ղրկես երկինքէդ փայլուն:

Այն խորհրդաւոր Ծնունդին գիշեր,
Ճաճանչի մը մէջ տեսայ ես Աստուած,
Սիրտը արիւնած, ճակատը փուշեր,
Թշուառ մարդկութեան երազին զոհուած,
Ծաղկատի հոգիս, հոգիս խանդավառ
Խնդրեց որ կեանքով օծես, ո՛վ Յիսուս,
Դուն որ մեր անհուն պատրանքը տեսար
Ոսկի սկիհը իմ երազներուս:

Հիմա ծնունդի գիշերն է խաւար
Ու Բեթղեհէմի աստղին տեղ արծաթ՝
Հորիզոնին մէջ կը շարժին երկար
Ծով անյուսութեան կուռ ամպեր երկաթ:
Բայց միշտ ջերմեռանդ՝ այլ հիւծուած հոգիս,
Կու գայ պաղատիլ քեզի, ո՛վ Յիսուս,
Զի շիջան աստղեր, երազներ կեանքիս,
Դուն ցօղէ ինծի նոր հաւատք, նոր յոյս:

ԻԳՆԱ ՍԱՐԸԱՍԼԱՆ: ԱՅՍ ԳԻՇԵՐ ԼԱՄՊԱՏԱ

Լօրային

Հայր – մայր ունեցանք
Ու հայրերու – մայրերու քաղցրութեամբ
Կաղանդներ ունեցանք
Անոնք ֆոքսթրոթ պարեցին
Մենք դիտեցինք
Կէտիկփաշացի Հայկոն – ականջը խօսի –
Կաղանդ Պապա եղաւ
Տուն տուն պտտեցաւ – խաղալիքներ բաժնեց
Մենք աչքերուն նայեցանք – վախցանք

Տարիներ անցան
Հայր – մայր եղանք
Հայրերու – մայրերու քաղցրութեամբ
Կաղանդներ չունեցանք
Միշտ ուրիշներու կաղանդներ պատրաստեցինք
Ուրիշներու Յարութեան համար Գողգոթաներ ապրեցանք
Պայքարեցանք ուրիշներու յաղթանակին համար
Տքնեցանք ուրիշներու երջանկութեան համար
Ուրիշներու ցնծութեան սիրոյն
կարօտներով – առանձնութիւններով տառապեցանք
Վարդեր քաղեցինք ուրիշներու համար
Մեր ձեռքերը արիւնեցան փուշերով
Մեր սիրտերը յուշերով

Բայց
Բայց այս գիշեր խոստում
Խոստում քեզի Լօրա
Այս գիշեր քեզի հետ
Քեզի եւ բոլոր մարդկութեան հետ
Ձեռք ձեռքի սիրտ սրտի
Լամպատա պիտի պարեմ


28.12.1989

Նորա Պարութճեան։ՄԷԿ ՄԱԶԷ ԿԱԽՈՒԱԾ

Լաթակալով մը բռնեց ականջէս,
մազէ բարակ պարանէ կախեց.
խարազանը ձեռք առաւ,
ճօճեց, զարկաւ
գետնին փոշին գրգռեց
ու սկսաւ բացատրել
թէ ծանրութիւն ես գրեթէ չունէի.
ահա՜ւասիկ,
կ’օրօրուէի ամէն խօսքէ,
շարժումէ,
ձայնի ամէն կշռոյթէ։

Այս՝ սկսաւ խաղի պէս,
խաղն սկսաւ երախայի
միամիտ մէկ ցանկութեամբ.
երբ սկսաւ,
խնդալէն կը մարէինք։
Այդ օրերուն
մեր առօրեայ հոգերը՝
կախուած մազէ պարանէ,
հովերու բերնին
մազէ խաղալիք էին։

Մոռցանք տարիք,
մոռցանք գործ,
պարտք-ական-հաշիւ,
կարծեցինք ըլլալ
երջանիկ գիժեր
ու գիժ ձեւացանք։

Յետոյ՝ արեւը մեր գլխուն զարկաւ,
արիւնը եռաց,
լեզուն ահեղ անիւի նման
դառնալ սկսաւ
ու խարազանը՝ դահիճի ձեռքին
հին գործիք դարձաւ։

Բարակ պարանէն կախուած մարմինս
թփրտաց ուժգին.
խաղը վերջ գտաւ.
կախեալ վիճակս
տառապանք դարձաւ.
ի զուր փորձեցի
փրթիլ ու իյնալ,
քիթ բերան սիրտ միտք արիւնել՝
բայց գետինս դառնալ։

Գետին ա՜լ չկար։
Խենթութեան խաղին
դարձայ խրտուիլակ՝
մէկ մազէ կախուած։