Cafe Night: Poetry in Los Angeles

Live from the Bowery Poetry Club: Armine Iknadossian

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 Armine Iknadossian’s introduction and reading of her poem Mourning Paper.

Mourning Paper

After a night of weeping
I misread simple words,
mistake dust for lust, overlook
the bloated belly of the letter d.
This morning, every stroke of the alphabet 
cringes or folds, hides itself
behind its bitter alter ego.
Today, profession is possession 
as two s's merge, one selfishly 
consuming the other. Restful inevitably turns resentful.
And love is lose,
a consonant for a consonant, 
an eye for an eye.Satin turns into stain, a dyslexic
anagram, a failed romance. 
I want to say more than anything
that kiss does not hiss,
that k's outstretched hand is not rejected.

ՀՈՎՀԱՆՆԵՍ ԳՐԻԳՈՐՅԱՆ: [Զորս քայլ վեր…]

Զորս քայլ վեր… սահման է։
Զորս քայլ վեր… սահման։
Աստված իմ,
այսքան էլ փոքրիկ
Հայաստան,
նորածնի բարուր է իսկական…
նորածնի բարուրը գրկել եմ,
Աստված իմ, մոլորվել, կանգնել եմ.
ասա ինձ, ի՞նչ անեմ, ու՞ր գնամ -
Զորս քայլ վեր՝ ավեր է ու մահ է,
Զորս քայլ վար՝ ավար ու թալան…




Հովհաննես Գրիգորյան (1945- )


XX Դարի Հայ Պոէզիա, կացմեց Զավն Ավետիսյանը, ՀԳՄ Հրատ. (2005)

Michael E Stone: BLACK BEAUTY

The obsidian I brought back,

Looks black, opaque.

But held to the light,

has clear, translucent stripes.

Smoky hard fragility,

Fused in Vulcanʹs fire,

Black‐veined, textured

with lucid patches.

All through some hills

are veins of black glass,

Its blackness is beauty.

On a mount facing Araʹs,

I found a stone knife,

chipped from obsidian rock

of old.

I am black and beautiful,

She sings in the Song,

and through her blackness

the Groom becomes lucent.

Upcoming Book Event in Montreal, Que, Canada

Keith Garebian's new book is now available

Keith Garebian is a widely published, award-winning freelance literary and theatre critic, biographer, and poet. Among his many awards are the Canadian Authors Association (Niagara Branch) Poetry Award (2009), the Mississauga Arts Award (2000 and 2008), a Dan Sullivan Memorial Poetry Award (2006), and the Lakeshore Arts & Scarborough Arts Council Award for Poetry (2003). This is his fourth book of poetry.

ISBN: 978-1-897181-32-4

If we put our ears to the ground, we will hear “death by wholesale subtraction,” we will hear the story of shoes lost and the sounds of shoes boiling. We will hear the powerful passionate voice of Keith Garebian who will not be silenced and whose tongue “licks the caves where the dead lie in hibernation.”

—Joy Kogawa

In Children of Ararat, Keith Garebian, relentlessly and with an optic heart, pursues the suffering of the victims, exposes historical hypocrisies, and pleads with the world to acknowledge the truth about that dark chapter in the lives of his people. The Armenian genocide has certainly stung Garebian into poetry. These poems are a splendid memorial which will continue to haunt the reader long after he has put them aside.

—Henry Beissel

Rage, for it to work on the page, requires a control so stern it seems like ease of phrase; historical pain made personal cannot be made convincing without such control and craft as is found in these poems by Keith Garebian.

—Barry Callaghan

If you want to feel how deeply a genocidal history can impact the imagination, read these brave, passionate, relentless and incandescent poems by Keith Garebian.

—Peter Balakian

Children of Ararat addresses the legacy of the Armenian genocide. A son shaped by his father’s experience serves as witness to the aftershocks of brutality. This poet is unafraid to face the horror that is too often the result of politics and too much the truth of history.

—Jury, Dektet 2010

Յակոբ Պալեան։ ԲԱՆԱՍՏԵՂԾԵԼՈՒ ՓՈՐՁՈՒԹԻՒՆ

Սէր եւ մղձաւանջ անյայտի

անթափանց հորիզոն հոգիի

կը քօղարկուին անպատասխան

հարցականներ վաղուան անհեթեթ

անծանօթի սարսափ կը մաղեն

Փակ հորիզոնէն առանձնութեան

կը լսուի շշունչ կանչը անմեկնելիի

անակնկալ հրաւէրը մեծ մեկնումի

կը ծնի ցանկութիւնը որպէս զմուռս

բանաստեղծելու խաղ բառերով

հանելուկի ճշմարտութիւն նուաճելու

Արկածախնդրութիւն աստուածանալու

խորհուրդը բանալու գերանցելու

Ահի ու սարսափի համանուագ

կեանքի իմաստին ունկնդիր

Կեանք ծննդեան եւ մահուան միջեւ

կատակ անհեթեթ սիրոյ փառքի

ըղձանքի արբշրանքի եւ մղձաւանջի...

Բառեր հիւսելով անծանօթը կ՛իւրացնեմ

Բան կը ստեղծէ լոյսս դեռ առկայծող

Մեղքի մէջ խրած զգացումներ սիրոյ

մեղքեր գերութեան ու ակնթարթի

բառերու շղարշով գեղօր կը դառնան

Բոյլը կիրքերու մրջիւնի տոտիկներով

մաշկիս վրայ եւ տակ պար կը բռնեն

բառ կը դառնան Բան-ա-ստեղծուող

կը կախուին անճառագայթ յուշի պատէն

հտպիտի պէս լեզու կը հանեն

Շէքսփիրի յիշատակը յաճախող...

Պատմե՞լ կեանքս, կեանքդ, կեանքը

Պատմութիւն ըսուած տխմարի մը կողմէ

որ ոչինչ կը նշանակէ

Ոչինչը կախուած պատէն

աչք կը քթթէ լեզու կը հանէ

Դուրսը անձրեւը ժայռ կը լուայ...

28 Մարտ 2006

Raffi Wartanian: Fireplace Talk

A smile can only stretch so far

Before the cheeks tire

And recall time

Submitted to circumstance

Hovering

Over my shoulder

Whispering in my ear

Petting my heart

With razor hands

Cajoling me that peace is but foolhardy

Misunderstanding rampant

Separated by unity (unified by separation)

Unified by separation (separated by unity)

Caught in comparative understandings

Ingrained

To allow oceans to flow

Into seas,

To flow into hearts,

Judging

Needing
Feeding greed

To be a former fantasy

Of a past self

Because there must be some sort of continuity

If one is to make sense of this existential narrative

That’s more fractured than glued together

More bewildering than comprehensible

So much so that we can sit cross-legged by a fire and pretend the warmth is real.

Bring the piano tuner.

Whispers have deafened my ears.

Flames have drowned my eyes.

Waves have shriveled my nose.

Blizzards have ignited my mouth.

By Raffi Wartanian

Amherst, New Hampshire, 12/2009

ՅարՎարդ։ Խարդախութիւն

At the Bowery Poetry Club

Originally uploaded by nkaramya

At the Bowery Poetry Club

Originally uploaded by nkaramya

Mark Gavoor: No Fooling

Tired

Or at least I was

Two Starbucks later

Awake and alert to

All my flaws and

Undone to-do list

Growing like some kind

Metaphorsisized cancer

Maybe I was better off tired

Could have just taken a nap

Escaping the natural way

Fuck even this

Poem is for shit

And yet…

I am really in a better mood

Than you might think

Gotta find my glass

And half fill it

April 1, 2010

Shahé Mankerian: Sneeze

After the stewardess handed me

a tiny bag of party mix, 

I remembered your last comment.

You said, "I can't find the cashews

in our relationship." 

I didn't understand then what you meant. 

But today,

sitting between a fresh-eyed boy,

staring at the skyline ofManhattan,

3,000 ft. above, 

and the old King of Mattress sleepy to my left,

who fools people with his weekly

liquidation sales, 

I understand. 

the cashew--

the solitary crescent moon in each bag,

the ultimate surprise,

the crunch, the salt, et cetera-- 

is the most cliche diamond in disguise;

it's the leap year, the penny

between the sidewalk and your car, 

and I forget to reach for it. 

"We're no longer in Pittsburgh,"

the pilot reminded us hours ago.

I look at the boy to my right

and the man to my left. 

I'm stuck in between. 

My eyes are teary, but I'm not sleepy yet.

The cashew is at the bottom of the bag.

If I sneeze,

I might miss it again.

ՀՈՎՀԱՆՆԵՍ ԳՐԻԳՈՐՅԱՆ: Օգոստոս

Ծնվել եմ առավոտյան շուտ,
Գյումրվա մի աղքատիկ առավոտ:
Ինձ հետ ծնված քույրս մահացել է մի քանի ժամ հետո,
երբ օգոստոսի արևը վաղուց արդեն դուրս էր եկել
և անտարբեր նայում էր մեր մոլորված ընտանիքին,
որը մեկ խնդում և մեկ լալիս էր սրտակեղեք:
Հիմա մեր տանը ոչ ոք չի հիշում նրան,
Քրոջս, որին ի՜նչ էին տեսել, ընդամենը մի քանի ժամ՝
Ետպատերազմյան մի կիսաքաղց առավոտ...
...Միայն ես չեմ կարողանում նրան մոռանալ, և երբեմն
Վաղ առավոտյան արթնանում եմ սրտիս ցավից,
և թաց աչքերով մթության մեջ պառկած
օր առ օր վերհիշում եմ այն ինն ամիսները,
որ միասին ապրել ենք
մեր կյանքի լավագույն շրջանում...




XX Դարի Հայ Պոէզիա, կացմեց Զավն Ավետիսյանը, ՀԳՄ Հրատ. (2005)

Quote for the month of March

"I used to be the fastest telegram messenger boy in all Fresno. My nickname was "Speed." Finally, I said, "Take back your nickname. This pace is killing me." Anyway, I still write fast -- it's my impatient Armenian nature. I'm keen to find out how my plots end, and if I write faster I'll find out sooner."


William Saroyan
(1908-1981)

Վարդան Հակոբյան։ Երգը

Ծիծեռնակի բույնի նման
Սրտի դողով,
Հոգու շողով
Ու հողով է հյուսվում երգը,
Բայց նրա մեջ
Ծվարում է… տիեզերքը։




XX Դարի Հայ Պոէզիա, կացմեց Զավն Ավետիսյանը, ՀԳՄ Հրատ. (2005)

Amir Parsa: [Attempt at the Reconstruction] Fragment I

Attempt at the Reconstruction

of a Portrait of Khanoom P.,

Fragment I

(Kantô II.2.2.)

I.

(Draft I, Take 1.

(The attempt at the reconstitution of a portrait of Khanoom P. is rooted in a sincere—and obsessive—desire to know… and understand the piano teacher practicing in the city of Tehran in the years 1974-1979. It is an attempt at the piecing together of perceptions and images, of desires and memories, of sounds, of fragments, of impressions, of sensations. At the grasping of the fullness of a personhood. Or…

(Draft I, Take 2.

(The attempt at the construction of a portrait of Ms. P. is founded upon pillars of solitary contemplation and of silent peering, of sudden rushes and flows of images called, perhaps mistakenly, memories. Founded upon deliberate design of methods for the acquisition of information, also: conversations, enactments, dialogues and polylogues, research: all contribute to the redrawing of the contours of her life. One that, I have come to understand, merits special study and analysis. These various elements molded together will inevitably provide insight into her life path, into the many decisions and acts that led to the events that shall not yet be revealed.

Khanoom P. always looked at you and said: Een tchemhayé ahoo-ro ki dadé bé tow!

This is all she ever said?

Not all, but what I remember.

What else, what else do you remember.

Not much really, just that she would always comment on those big eyes of yours. She really liked you, a lot, that’s what I remember.

And I: this anecdote is all that I actually hold on to, and, in fact, may have concocted as a ‘memory’ based on my mother’s countless re-telling: how Ms. Patmagrian always gently and with much passion asked: who gave you those big deer-like eyes…

(Draft II.

The attempt at the writing of the portrait of Khanoom Patmagrian is inscribed within the overall attempt at writing the revolution. Which? The only one (I often joke). I was among those displaced during the Iranian revolution. Among the only children of it—. Its wildness and unrealness. Its madness and delirium. Child of ruptures and metamorphoses. Child of osmoses and landings in unknown lands and fabulously whacky territories. And O so much more so much more O O.

The attempt at the construction of a portrait of Ms. P. is thus another among the endless attempts at implanting solid cores, re-rootings, re-routings. Complementary, in this case. Thus, the image of Ms. P., the piano teacher, known only through the one dimension that defined her for me. She becomes a prism: through which certain events can be perceived. A construct, around which the chaotic goings-on can be anchored, analyzed, written. Thus—

The attempt at the reconstruction of the fullness of K. Patmagryan becomes an attempt at the reconstitution of the image of all those who have had only a small presence in our lives. How each of us only a flash of a presence for the other. How each of us merely a… To re-integrate into the fabric of one’s life, the forgotten. How to reclaim their importance. To perceive them in all their glorious multidimensionality. Their complexity and their layers. Not just the piano teacher anymore. Not the piano teacher at all, perhaps.

For those who see in the presentation of the notes, the drafts, the re-drafts, the chronicle of the telling, a theory of writing in motion, I say: not quite, but almost. Conjecture: the attempt at the reconstitution of a… portrait (is it? –) of Khanoom P. is nothing more than another excuse in theorizing the writing of portraits. Ms. P. has no special place in my heart. She is merely a signpost. An iteration of a way in which the analysis of the transformation of memory over time can take place. Maybe not even that: not even on memory. Nothing about how each time the scene is thrust upon one’s mind, one’s being, it is seen and lived differently, and thus how there is no memory as such, and certainly no special care for Ms. P. Nothing really to do with Khanoom Patmagrian. It is launched after the consideration of the Armenian presences in my life, heightened by the uncanny assistance at the piano player’s session at an ungodly hour in an underground (literally) bar in New York City. Circumstances. Chance. 

(Draft III, Take 1

The room (I): I can only remember the rug—and a thin woman. Skeletal hands. Distinguished, quiet. Classy. Formal yet friendly. Fingers on keyboards. The piano in the room. Something of a parquet floor, I reckon. The way the thin frame walked across the room. Almost hearing the sounds again now. Almost.

(Draft III, Take 2.

There is the piano player at the bar. Frail, thin. Beard. Piercing eyes. Dark hair. Not why he set out to be a piano player, surely. But maybe yes. Who knows. Hey hey piano player man. The desire to shout out. Go up there. Hey hey, piano player man! Go up there and tell him! Tell him you appreciate his style! Tell him how he’s making you think of K. Pat! Go!

The portrait concluded (its first phase, one could imagine), will the new images again be enlivened. Will I cease to have flashes thrust upon me. Will I continue to write her name, continue to change the mode of referring to her, change the spelling of her name even (why is it ‘i’ and not ‘y’ and vice versa anyway, I wonder). Will I continue to refer to her. Think of her. Dare I say: remember her.

I must re-write Take 2: or, how the attempt at the reconstitution of the portrait of K. Pat. is an infinite, eternal, attempt at the writing of.

(Exercise in mnemonic and monolingual futility? Incomprehension and identity? It seems to me that the notion of exile and the—

(Unfinished sentences… Unclosed parentheses… (Right on. Stop them! Stop the stringing along of words and blank spaces!) Not just the attempt at the construction of the portrait of Ms. P., but the chronicling of, the narrative of, the impossibility of completeness of any portrait. Of the writing of any—

(Draft IV, Take 1.

The room (II): is where I took piano lessons. Without really wanting to, without even being particularly good at it (although, not so bad either). Just went through the motions. Then—

A man, bent over as the door opens. Takes a step and enters. A woman, working, gets up from her seat and goes out: on the wharf, a group of people awaits, every day, for the body to wash ashore. They do not know that the reports of her death are faulty. That, in fact, she stands there, among them, not of them, untelling.

(Has she passed away. Is she… Her sister: “Ms. P. was a refugee. She was holding down the fort. She was great at acting. She was…”

Her cousin: “Patmagrian was not really a musician. She only taught for a while to eek out a living while she waited for her father, who had been imprisoned. She had never shown much talent. She never really studied. She…”

I continuously fashion new tales around her. Rather: begin the process of creating stories, yet dutifully stop. Interviews and conversations—and then tales. The instinct to fictionalize is halted though, through some dubious self-imposed ethical imperative. The banal articulation of the attempt at drawing an accurate portrait, perhaps not of her, but of the memory of her personhood in relation to myself, is felt more urgently than any extravagant tale-weaving—of the highest merit even.

(Draft IV, take 2.

The room (III), The rug (I)

I’m sure there was a rug on the floor.

A Persian rug?

That’s all we ever had there.

What about the colors, the design. Do you remember it?

The rug (II)

No, I don’t remember any of it. I swear.

Just that there was a rug?

Yeah, just that.

How can you be sure then. I mean, how do you remember that? How can you be sure there was a rug?

The rug (III)

The texture. The feel of the home. It’s cozy. Small, cozy. There was a rug, I’m sure.

Not too big though, no?

Not too big.

(Draft IV, take 3.

Transformed…

Thus, the reconstitution must take the most enigmatic of forms. And it must transparently trace the stages of its own becoming: the modalities fashioning its creation. The whispers and the notes. The hues. The voices. The interruptions. The tones.

In the movies, the adult version of a young child hovers above the scene. Follows the action unseen. Silent gaze. The piano teacher instructs the child to replay a portion of the score. Instruction on the placement of his hands. The flow. Instructions on. The adult hovering smiles at the nervousness of his young self. Knowing his lack of enthusiasm. How he carried on though. How he forged forth, unwilling to disappoint. Haalaa een yekí: the instructions again. Did you practice it? The question. The young version anxiously answers that he has. The adult overlooking the scene at the doorway cannot hold back anymore and takes a step forward and intervenes—aloud, but softly. He says: he practiced it only once, twice, maybe. He doesn’t like to play piano. He likes you though, and he doesn’t want to disappoint you. I think… I think he doesn’t want you to think that his not liking the piano is in any way a reflection on you.

In the movies, the thin and classy Khanoom Patmagryan turns around and smiles at the man speaking softly to her with the young boy seated next to her on the piano chair. She says: who are you?

(The attempt at the reconstitution

of an image of Ms. P. is a nothing more

than a despaired attempt at

creating a portrait of the self.

A fragmented portrait.

The eternally fragmented unfolding portrait of the self.)

(Postface: from the autobiography of Ms. Patmagrian

I was born in Tehran. My father worked in factories most of his life. He worked hard and tried to make sure we received a great education. My mother stayed at home. In school, I was shy and withdrawn. I read a lot. I played by myself. My musical talents showed early on. Detected and cultivated by a teacher. She urged my father and my mother to allow me to pursue music. They were eager, anxious. They wanted me to succeed. They were not sure I should. I continued. When I was twenty-two, I was engaged to a young man. I was not in love with him, still only focused on my music. He was older than I was, but he was wise and generous. He told me once he knew I did not love him. Imagine, at the time. No one ever talked about love. And… No man would ever… In fact, I should correct myself… He said: I know you do not want “to be with me”. I did not know what to tell him, but he was right: I did not want to be with him. To the great consternation of my parents, he called off the wedding. Then,

Լօլա Գունտաքճեան։ Գալով անցեալին

Click here for the audio segment of Speaking of the past read by the author.

Կը քալեմ յիշատակներուս հետ

Քայլ առ քայլ փողոց առ փողոց

Կանանչ լոյս յառա՛ջ

Կարմիր լոյս կա՛նք։

Ա՛ջ, ձա՛խ, ա՛ջ, ձա՛խ

Շնչելով, աշխոյժ ապա՛ հոգնած։

Անցեալը պղտոր է.

Որու՞ մասին էր վերջին մտածումս.

Կլիման կարծես օգնեց։

Անձրեւ, անձրեւօտ է այսօր,

Կ՛անձրեւէր այդ օրը, միթէ՞։

Այո՛ անձրեւանոց մը կար ձեռքիդ

Ես անորագ հագած էի եւ

Կզակս թաց էր – կը յիշեմ։

Կանանչ լոյս յառա՛ջ

Կարմիր լոյս կա՛նք

Եւ արդէն դիմաց անցայ հանդիպման։

Անձրեւանոցդ մեծ էր եւ երկուքիս պաշտման …

բայց շուտով տեղատարափը դադրեցաւ։

Երեսիդ ժպիտ մը կար։

Ա՛ջ, ձա՛խ, ա՛ջ, ձա՛խ

Ձեռք ձեռքի.

Դուն անձրեւանոցդ բռնած ու ես անորաքով.

Մի քանի փողոց եւս

Մի քանի վայրկեան եւս։

Կանանչ լոյս յառա՛ջ

Կարմիր լոյս կա՛նք։

3 Դեկտեմբեր 2009

Speaking of the Past

I walk in the company of my memories

Step by step,

Street by street.

Green light, go!
Red light, stop!

Right, left, right, left.

Breathing deeply, and then tired.

The past is getting dimmer.

Who was I thinking about a few minutes ago?

The weather seems to help me remember.

Rain, it’s raining, today.

Was it raining on that day?

Yes, there was an umbrella with you

And I was wearing an anorak

And my chin was wet – I remember.

Green light, go!

Red light, stop!

And I cross the street for the meeting.

The umbrella was large and protected us both,

And soon the rain stopped. There was a smile on your face.

Right, left.

Right, left.

Hand in hand.

You’re with your umbrella and I am wearing my anorak

A few more streets

A little while yet.

Green light, go!
Red light, stop!

December 3, 2009

Translated by the author