Thursday, April 01, 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.

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

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)

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

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)

Monday, March 29, 2010

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,




Sunday, March 28, 2010

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

Saturday, March 27, 2010

Sylva Dakessian: [Untitled]

breasts like green pears
hard against your tongue
wind rustling the leaves


This poem has appeared in Birthmark: A bilingual anthology of Armenian-American poetry, 1999.

Friday, March 26, 2010

Nancy Agabian: The Modern Goddess Myth about Microwaves


Turn on the microwave move the dials it
heats it heats it makes it hot but nobody
knows how she turned on the microwave
whenever she was depressed, even if there
was nothing inside she turned it on and
watched the carousel turning
around and around and around.
Pretty soon a frozen pizza appeared. She
turned it off (beep beep) and released
the vault handle and lifted the pizza
out.  It was heavy and cold hard; she couldn't
eat it but flung it out the window
instead.  It hit her husband as he was
coming home from work, the alcoholic
husband who beat her then apologized.
It hit him on the head and he was dead.
He died right there; she took his pulse.
He wasn't pulsing; she cried hot tears
(microwave-able).  She had the funeral
a few days later and started going to
therapy and turned her life around.  She
got happy and when the microwave broke
she sold it at her neighbor's yard sale.
Her name was Loretta, the Goddess Loretta
and the Microwave: it is a myth, remember
it and refer to it in academic papers
5000 years from now.


Thursday, March 25, 2010

Shahé Mankerian: We Broke Rulers to Avenge Our Bleeding Knuckles

They shove us in line
to investigate. My blue uniform
feels tight, stiff. It’s only Monday

morning; I wonder
if they’ll catch us by Friday
afternoon. I can’t wiggle

my toes in my uncle’s hand-
me-down shoes; he sells
vinyl records near the bridge.

I hum “Dancing Queen”
to distract myself from
the probing eye of the principal.

Mother made me
eat two boiled eggs
this morning; I taste leftovers

tucked between the gaps of
my teeth. I close my eyes
to review the stupid poem

I memorized the night before.
They could never read
my heart—we broke

rulers as altar boys when
we played hooky from church.
We removed the window

screen that separated the alley
from the classroom. On Sundays
we were kings, but today

we’re questioned,
threatened. They pull
my sideburns, but I don’t care.

I would die first. They can
give me one thousand poems
to memorize, one million standards

to write over and over: “I will not
break rulers. I will
not break rulers.

I will not break
rulers.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Alan Semerdjian: GRANDCHILDREN OF GENOCIDE


We think of bombfields and big when we think of genocide.
We think of mass cleansing.  We think in holes.  We think
the whole page.  We think what’s under it, what they’ve been
covering up.  We think there might have been people
in those whole pages.


We think of chambers when we think of genocide.  We think
of people crying.  We think of people climbing.  We think of
people climbing and crying, crying and climbing.  We think of both
people climbing and people crying.  We think in chambers. 
We think in those horrible chambers when we think of genocide.
Those horrible 20th century chambers.

When we think of genocide, we don’t think of mountains and deserts.
We don’t think of bazaars.  When we do think of them,
we don’t think of young democratic people and pomegranates. 
We don’t think of young democratic people with pomegranates
at bazaars when we think of genocide.  We don’t think of them
next to our grandfathers.  We don’t think of next to them.


Then there are young democratic people who don’t eat pomegranates
and don’t think of genocide.  We don’t think of them either.
 

We don’t think of them when we think of genocide, but we do think
of moustaches.  We don’t think of long and lovely moustaches,
but we think of moustaches when we think of genocide. 

We don’t think of grandfathers plural or generations of grandfathers
before that when we think of genocide.  But we do think of mothers.
And mothers before that.  But we do think of mothers,
but we don’t think of women.  We don’t think of women dancing. 
We don’t hear the music when we think of genocide. 
These things we think about and not hear when we think about genocide.

And we don’t think of civil war as genocide.  We hear about it.
We don’t call in enough with such information. 
We think about reconciliation, but we don’t
think about reconciliation when we think about genocide. 
We don’t study the memorials, we don’t explain the play in papers,
we don’t shake hands and make up.  When we think of genocide,
we do other things with our hands.


Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Tina Demirdjian: Worm Biology

In the school science book, two earthworms
nestled together, so their clitella

were touching–closer to one another
than I had been to anyone,

at 16, I was like an inside out shirt,
squirmy in my seat,

my eyes stared at the attachment of two worms
like a human suction cup,

the teacher’s words fell through the cracks
in the floor: reproduction, ovulation, anticipation,

and my head turned to look at my classmate
who listened, too, her pregnant belly

at the edge of the desk:  how she had known
all of this too soon.



Monday, March 22, 2010

Armine Iknadossian: California Love Poem

10/6/09 9:05 PM



The sun has an orgasm across the valley
as Pasadena opens up in front of me,
the Suicide Bridge pushing an arm out
of green sleeves, orange blossoms  keening
after a mid-spring heatwave,
the Rose Bowl yawning in a ravine.

It is not enough to love the one you love,
to drive towards the ocean just to fall
into bed with them, then return home
alone, drowsy from no sleep and sex in a strange bed,
the 101 stretching herself East towards
black rocks and tarantulas of Nevada.

Down towards the unilateral mirage of water,
the Salton Sea groans in her deadwood  hammock.
On a map, California looks like she’s hugging the continent
and Nevada is leaning in for a deep kiss.
She is tentative, he is a sharp-tongued,
diamond-studded menace, kissing her
and at the same time, pushing her into the ocean.


Sunday, March 21, 2010

Ara Babaian: [Faces appear at night like prayers]

Click to hear the audio clip of Faces appear at night like prayers read by Lola Koundakjian.


Faces appear at night like prayers,
with hymns etched upon their foreheads,
and as rivers did, as land did,
this century is drowning them,
folding them into history's unread pages.
April is full of the sounds of spring
and the voice of duduks on the sand.
I can't bury the quieted past,
so every year I write in spring,
when blood bleeds from flowers.


This poem has appeared in Birthmark: A bilingual anthology of Armenian-American poetry, 1999.





la nuit des visages viennent
aux apparences de prières
avec des hymnes à leur front

et comme, les rivières, avant,
comme la terre,
notre siècle
les noie, les insère aux pages
d'histoire qu'on ne lit jamais

Avril résonne de printemps
du son des flutes sur la grève

je ne peux pas enterrer
le passé qu'on a fait taire

alors j’écris chaque printemps
lorsque les fleurs
perdent leur sang

Ara Babaian
traduit par Sylvie M. Miller

World Poetry Day - March 21, 2010

It is World Poetry Day - what will YOU be reading today?

Saturday, March 20, 2010

Alene Terzian: Spoils of War

I.

In Beirut, a store owner makes
jewelry from shrapnel: 
corrugated metal bangles,
a hollow point bullet ring,
a welded pendant cross.
She says, material’s cheap,
mark up’s high—rich people
buy them for Christmas.
She has collected enough
metal to fill her garage,
has learned the difference
between grenade and bomb,
shell and casing.
The ones with serial numbers
cost double; real history,
she says, is a proof of purchase—
to get close enough without dying.

II.  

My father hides a square
of shrapnel behind trousers
in the closet, considers
the day he found it next to
his dead dog in the street.
When he thinks no one’s
looking, he polishes it,
smells the iron ore,
buffs its corners
of impact. It shines
in his palm. He thinks
it’s what killed the dog
that unlucky summer,            
keeps it as a souvenir
to remember the days
when the streets
were lined with skins.



Friday, March 19, 2010

Sylva Dakessian: Samovar

I want to tell you about all the tea
I have been drinking lately—it is good
with cream and honey. You will say
I am spoiled, yet
you know nothing of water, of tea leaves,
of cows or bees. They come to me
with their lives and I put them together.
It is against loneliness
and it warms my belly.

This poem has appeared in Birthmark: A bilingual anthology of Armenian-American poetry, 1999.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

ԳԷՈՐԳ ԷՄԻՆ: ՍԻԱՄԱՆԹՈՅԻ ԱՂՕԹՔԸ

«Ո՞վ յղացաւ այս միտքը դիւական՝ 
Մասիսը ճերմակ, 
Մասիսը անբիծ 
Այս լայն աշխարհում դնել այն տեղո՛ւմ, 
Ուր դար ու դարեր 
Պիտի արիւնեն լանջե՛րը նրա 
Եւ գագա՜թն անգամ.  

Ո՞վ միտք յղացաւ 
Դժոխք արարել 
Եղեալ ու չեղեալ դրախտի տեղում՝ 
Արարատ լեռան հովանու ներքոյ,- 
Երկրի փոխարէն 
Մեզ տալով մի հի՜ն, ոտնակո՜խ ճամբայ, 
Հողի տեղ՝ չոր քա՛ր, 
Ջրի տեղ՝ արի՜ւն…  

Ո՞վ միտք յղացաւ 
Դեռ մեր պատմութեան վաղ արշալոյսին 
Այս արարչագործ, 
Հին ժողովըրդի 
Գլուխը դնել մի հարեւանի՝ 
(Բիրտ Պարսկաստանի) 
Արնոտ սրի տակ, 
Միւսի աջով՝ 
(Բիւզանդիոյ խաչով) 
Պահանջելով, որ նա…ծախի՜ հոգին, 
Եթէ ուզում է մարմինը փրկե՛լ…  
Եւ եթէ դարերն 
Անզօ՜ր են եղել նրան ազատել, 
Եւ եթէ գալիք 
Դարերն անզօ՜ր են ազատել նրան, 
Եւ հրա՜շքն է լոկ 
Հնա՛րն անհնար, 
Տէ՜ր, տո՛ւր ինձ Մովսէս մարգարէի պէս 
Հանե՛լ ու տանե՛լ ցեղն իմ հալածուած 
Այս Հայաստանի՜ց,-


Poetry reading in Toronto, ONT, Canada


Tuesday, March 16, 2010

ԱՐՈՒՍՅԱԿ ՕՀԱՆՅԱՆ: ՁԵՌՔԵՐԻՍ ԵՐԳԸ


 Ձեռքերս այսօր երգել ուզեցին
Եկեղեցու սուրբ լռության ներքո,
Ձեռքերս այսօր աղերս պարզեցին`
Կրկին խնդրելով ներել մի մարդու,
Որը հենց ինքս եմ...Ու պիտի ասեմ`
Իմ անմեղությամբ ե՛ս եմ մեղավոր,
Տե՛ր, անմեղիս երգը քի՛չ էլ լսիր,
Որ մնաս էլի իմ` պատժվածիս
Ամենակարող ու լուռ դատավոր:

2.04.04

Monday, March 15, 2010

Mark Gavoor: Haiku [4]


I came slipperless
To your house and entered
Bare in foot and soul