Sunday, June 13, 2010

Live from the Bowery Poetry Club: Amir Parsa

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 Lola Koundakjian’s reading of his poem Attempt at the reconstitution of a portrait of Ms. P. IV






Attempt at the reconstitution of a portrait of Ms. P. IV

1.

What was her first name?
Her name… I don’t know her first name…We just called her by her last name. Khanoom…
Patmagharian?
Patmagryan.
Pat-magrian. Not Patmagharian?
Well, no… When we didn’t know her we would call her Badmagharian. Bahd… magharian. Like bahd, the wind…
Why Bahd? Why Bahdmagharian…
It’s Pah. Pah…
Yes, I got it… But how did it happen that…
That’s what they told us. They told us her name was Bahdmagharian.


Who told you?
I told her one day, I’m sorry, I think we don’t really know your name because we say it this way. We say it this way...
You said what, exactly?
I said, we say Khanoom Bahdmagharian…
She said “Na, man Patmagryan hastam.”
Hastam… Like that?
Yeah. I’m Patmagryan…


2.

(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.

3.
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.
Why did you want me to learn piano. Learn an instrument?
We thought it was a nice instrument. Something to play.
We thought, when you get older, when you’re bored, you could do something… This was our goal… Learn something… Have some sargarmi… Not get bored… Learn something… and so we picked this…
How old was I?
In school… What, six, seven…
How many years did I go?
Two, three years…

4.
– Funny thing is, she didn’t teach you songs… She didn’t reach you tavvalod tavvalod, she would really teach you the foundations, the science of… And we didn’t really understand then you know, we would say, she’s not teaching you anything!
– So you wanted her to teach me songs, and she only taught…
– I told her once… I said, he doesn’t know how to play any songs! And she said wait for a while, he needs to first learn the basics… The notes and…
– …
– Yeah we would say, why doesn’t she teach them songs. He doesn’t know how to play tavvalod or anything. Notes and… Not just notes but not songs either…
– You thought if somebody’s going to a teacher they’re just gonna teach the songs?
– Yeah they’re telling them go learn tavvalodet mobarak and you play it and we’d all sing happy birthday to you!
– You didn’t know that she needed to teach the foundations?
– We did we did… But we also wanted you to learn songs… I mean, how long do the foundations take…
– And what would she say when you told her?
– She’d say no, yeah, I could teach him that but that doesn’t mean anything… Halla tavvalodet mobarak bezaneh, she’d say, so what
– And the things you’d play, it was a nice sound, pretty sound, but it was you know, music stuff and not songs that we knew…
– Two three years I went, twice a week?
– Yeah, twice a week…

5.
 (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: “Patmagryan 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.

6.
I was born in Tehran. My mother was made an orphan in 1915. She was saved by Arab nomads and a pasha who took a great liking to this wondrous and red-haired child. She was only four, and she lived with the nomads, in a tent. They would dress her up, put her hair in golden tresses. And they tattooed her face. An Armenian girl adopted by the Pasha. She does not even know her name at this point. All she knows is the sign of the cross. An Armenian couple appeared and knew that this must be an Armenian child. They take her to Alepp, in what is today modern Syria. One day, after years of her living with this couple, a woman appears and recognized her because of her red hair. She tells her her name. Your mother was my best friend, she says. You were born in Tokat. This is where she finds out about her real identity. She marries my father and they move to Iran. When she wanted to get married, they had to remove her tatoos. The tatoos that had been given her by the Arabs. The tattoos that had made her part of the tribe. She takes the name of my father. Patmagryan. I was born in Tehran, a child of the city, a child of the genocide. Like you, O child of the revolution.

(This is not my story. This is not an accurate fragment of my autobiography. The story you tell is that of one Eugenie Kuskerian. She is the one who was made an orphan. She is the one who was adopted by Arab nomads. She is the one who was taken in by an Armenian couple. She is the one who was subsequently taken in by the friend of her mother’s. She is the one who was taken to Alepp. She was the one born in Tokat. She is the grandmother of Lola Koudakjian. I am not the child of Eugénie Kuskérian. I was born in Tehran to a woman who was born in New Julfa, among the descendents that Shah Abbas moved to the city. My father escaped the fangs of attacks in Turkey and moved to Iran. He became politically active and later settled in Tehran with my mother. I am not the child Eugénie Kekserian. I am a child of the city. Like you. One voice among the many. One voice that will help you with my story. Voice of the lost ones and voice of the forgotten. Voice of redemptions and voice of rebirths. Another, among the voices of the portrait. I, even I, only another, among the voices for the attempt at reconstructing the portrait of Khanoom Patmagryan, I— )

7.

She says she doesn’t remember a thing. Not a photo on the mantel, of a child, a mother, family, nothing. Nothing about the apartment too. The color of the walls, the furniture. Okay, the color of the walls yes: beige. Beige, why beige? Because all the Iranians had beige as the color of their walls. 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.
Now that I think about it, maybe she lived with her mother, she says. I ask her why she thinks Ms. P. lived with her mother. I’m not sure, maybe the fact that she lived alone.


8.
I can’t imagine somehow that she had a father who ran a factory and who was rich and…
Good student you think?
No, not really, an artist, not necessarily a good student.
And you think she wanted to be a great pianist or just she played and wanted to make a decent living or…
No… Just played and had students and taught at the academy… Of course anyone could at some point have wanted it but these becoming big things, you need luck and circumstances and paarti too… or maybe even she was in some conservatory… and I don’t know…
You think she wanted to have kids?
Yes… Yes… Because you know, at that time, there wasn’t really anyone who didn’t want to have kids… Really, I’m serious… It wasn’t like now… Boro baba kids are too much, they cost so many thousands a year or whatever… People had kids and they loved kids… And people who didn’t have kids they’d be very sad… Other people would feel very bad for them…
So you think ghosé mikhord? Did you sadness in her eyes?
No, no… And who know, maybe she even had kids… I couldn’t know…
You think she was born  in Tehran
Yeah, I do…
Bu the way, where am I born. I mean, actually born. Where was I born?
You too. You were born in Tehran. In Tehran.

9.
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.)


10.
On a rainy evening on the sidewalk of a city of fog and light, I heard one night—or should I say, one morn—a funky sound coming from the near. I entered at 3 a.m. a lonely bar in the underground—literally—of a walk-up along a cobble-stone street. I am drunk I am drunk!, I started to sing, but nary a word came from my lips. I sat among the few patrons, in the darkness and solitude. There, a piano player, frail and thin, his eyes unmoving, his hands gliding, lost in his world, a piano player with a big beard. Ahoy ahoy!, I wanted to sing, I too in a daze of drunkenness sitting alone with the other patrons of the night. I peered at the piano player in all his might, and although no words came to me, I saw her face, the face of my piano teacher, of the city of birth… and goodbyes. A name again, Patmagharian, and its echos, conversations imagined, scenes enlivened. Cities and streets. K-Pat, Khanoom P., Ms. Patmagharian. The room, the rug, there, the piano. Whether she has kids or not, how big the apartment is, where she was born. To none I had the answer, not even with all the voices swirling still.. Oh yes, I have concocted a merry song, with reveries and imagined tales—and still, a feeble attempt at the reconstruction of a portrait of Ms. P. it had turned into. I knew, after endless memories and queries with cities of sand and dust, there was only one thing, I really knew: that her name: was Patmagryan—and not, Patmagharian. Khanoom Patmagryan, the piano teacher, in Tehran. The attempt at the reconstruction of the portrait was for naught… I am drunk I am drunk!, I ached to sing, with this portrait also, I am drunk! And the illumination: the attempt t the portrait was now done, and full. In fact, it was, the portrait. And, as the piano player carried on, I, alone with the voices round the life of Ms. Patmagryan, with a smile stood from the table, drunk on wine and with visions to come, with the name of the one piano teacher on my mind, Khanoom Patmagryan, until soon, I shouted to the company, in the wee hours of the morn, and into the rain I went—and out.

Saturday, June 12, 2010

Amir Parsa: [Attempt at the Reconstruction] Fragment III

1.

When you took me there, you sat outside?
No, I sat right next to you.
Paloom? Right there where I was learning piano?
Yes.
Har da’fe?
Yes, she wouldn’t tell me not to.

2.

First when I took you we went to the center. The school.
Then, she said let’s go home, and so I took you to her home… Took you to her home.
Then, it was just you.

3.

So she taught at the school?
Yeah.
So we met her there?
Yeah, we met her there.
She was a teacher there and had students there too.
Where was her home?
Her home was in Karim Khan-e zand.

Was it big?
No it was an apartment.
How many bedrooms did it have?
I don’t know.
You don’t know how many rooms it had?
No, she was a woman living alone. Living alone. No husband. No kids. She never was married.
Not that we know. She was Armenian.
Yes I know.
So she’d never…
You never really talked about much? Because when you go to someone’s home…
She never offered tea or coffee or?
Not really.
You don’t remember anything from the home?
No, very simple. Small room. No big decorations. No fancy furniture.
You don’t remember a photo, or something special?
Not really.
Hitchi?!
Not really…
Hitchi hitchi?
Where she was born, how she grew up… Anything…
She was born in Tehran, that I know…

Last Draft (2)

1.

Oh so she was born in Tehran. So when you say Armenian, what does that mean?
She was an Iranian Armenian.
Let me tell you this… At the time, for Iranians, anyone who was a Christian, they called them Armenian.

2.

They’ve learned now, but then… Even I still make a mistake, I see someone and I say een Armanié…
So you know your aunt Susie for example, we would say she’s massihi, but we would say she’s Armenian.
Susie from Texas with the Texas twang?
Yeah, we’d say she was Armani.
Yeah, and some people would say come on now, you should know this… but in Iran, they do that. Still now, they’d call someone who’s massihi Armani
Would she talk a lot?
No, she would not say anything. She was a teacher, a serious teacher. She wouldn’t sit and chat around. She wasn’t a friend. Maybe nowadays they come and chat, but she was a serious teacher.

3.

She says she doesn’t remember a thing. Not a photo on the mantel, of a child, a mother, family, nothing. Nothing about the apartment too. The color of the walls, the furniture. Okay, the color of the walls yes: beige. Beige, why beige? Because all the Iranians had beige as the color of their walls.
Now that I think about it, maybe she lived with her mother, she says. I ask her why she thinks Ms. P. lived with her mother. I’m not sure, maybe the fact that she lived alone. I ask again about the home, hoping it induces some type of memory. What about the furniture, I ask her. Very normal. Yeah, very normal… And if this were the room, this is where the piano is. What is really chic? It was really nice, yes, she says, nice piano…

And the whole thing was that she would say, when she saw me, een tchemaye ahoo ro ki bé tow dadé?
Ki dadé be tow…
She had an accent? Why did she have an accent if she was Iranian?
No you know, a way of… because Massihia…
You mean Armaniah?
Yeah, right… Since you know, they lived together… The mother wasn’t born there… the father wasn’t…
So she had a way of talking?
Yeah a way of talking…
Ki da-dé bé tow…
It’s the only thing…
Ki da-dé bé tow…



Find out where she is find out if she’s alive if she’s alive maybe I’ll – no don’t what for I’m not sure don’t maybe that much more – I’ll ask that school maybe at the school they’ll know maybe – I might go and see really and ask and – maybe they’ll know maybe if she’s alive they’ll know and you know she was a teacher so they’ll know – where did she how did she – Khanoom P – what else what else, nothing else Khanoom P nothing else nothing –

Next time I go I’ll try next time I’ll try to ask if she – they’ll know the school they’ll know they must I know they’ll know they must really – I’ll ask they’ll know if she’s alive – for sure they’ll know someone who’ll know they –

Ask if she’s alive she lived right there Karim Khan-e Zand I’ll go ask around – no don’t what for let me – what for – ask if not there then the school they must know somehow no they must – their teachers sometimes they stay in touch with their teachers for sure somehow – not sure you should not sure what it – I will.

I will. Next time I go, I will ask. I’ll try to find her. See if she’s still alive. And I’ll say, Khanoom Patmagryan, someone is looking for you.

Last Draft (3)

I’m not.
I’m not looking for her.

Friday, June 11, 2010

Amir Parsa: [Attempt at the Reconstruction] Fragment II

I was born in Tehran. My mother was made an orphan in 1915. She was saved by Arab nomads and a pasha who took a great liking to this wondrous and red-haired child. She was only four, and she lived with the nomads, in a tent. They would dress her up, put her hair in golden tresses. And they tattooed her face. An Armenian girl adopted by the Pasha. She does not even know her name at this point. All she knows is the sign of the cross. An Armenian couple appeared and knew that this must be an Armenian child. They take her to Alepp, in what is today modern Syria. One day, after years of her living with this couple, a woman appears and recognized her because of her red hair. She tells her her name. Your mother was my best friend, she says. You were born in Tokat. This is where she finds out about her real identity. She marries my father and they move to Iran. When she wanted to get married, they had to remove her tatoos. The tatoos that had been given her by the Arabs. The tattoos that had made her part of the tribe. She takes the name of my father. Patmagryan. I was born in Tehran, a child of the city, a child of the genocide. Like you, O child of the revolution.


Interruption, here. A voice. Protesting. Protesting, in her native language. Truth of that. A voice interrupting and intervening and protesting. I am not. This is not. This, is not…
(This is not my story. This is not an accurate fragment of my autobiography. The story you tell is that of one Eugénie Kushkérian. She is the one who was made an orphan. She is the one who was adopted by Arab nomads. She is the one who was taken in by an Armenian couple. She is the one who was subsequently taken in by the friend of her mother’s. She is the one who was taken to Aleppo. She was the one born in Tokat. She is the grandmother of Lola Koundakjian. I am not the child of Eugénie Kushkérian. I was born in Tehran to a woman who was born in New Julfa, among the descendents that Shah Abbas moved to the city. My father escaped the fangs of attacks in Turkey and moved to Iran. He became politically active and later settled in Tehran with my mother. I am not the child Eugénie Kushkérian. I am a child of the city. Like you. One voice among the many. One voice that will help you with my story. Voice of the lost ones and voice of the forgotten. Voice of redemptions and voice of rebirths. Another, among the voices of the portrait. I, even I, only another, among the voices for the attempt at reconstructing the portrait of Khanoom Patmagryan, I— )

Thursday, June 10, 2010

Ռուբէն Սեւակ։ Ինչո՞ւ


Ինչու՞, ինչու՞ զիս սիրեցիր,
Փոքրի՛կ աղջիկ, քեզի մե՜ղք էր.
Փոքրիկ ծոցիդ թիթե՜ռ պետք էր,
Դուն ծե՜ր արծիվ մը բանտեցիր...

Կապոյտ աչուիդ երբ որ բացիր,
կապու՜յտ աղջիկ՝ պլպուլն երգ է՜ր.
Քե՛զ ալ սիրո մրմունջ պէտք էր,
Դուն գուժկան մռու՛նչս ընտրեցիր...

Ես կ՝երթամ մի՜շտ, անծայրածի՜ր
Դամբաններ են ոտքիս հետքե՜ր.
Քեզ սիրոյ մեղմ սիւ՜ք մը պէտք էր,
Դուն փոթորկի՜ն կուրծքդ բացիր...

Կ՛այրի՜ն աչերըդ սեւածիր,
Պիտի մեռնի՜ս, այդպես մ՝ե՛րգեր.
Քեզի փոքրիկ սէր մը պէտք էր,
Դուն Սէր-Աստուածը սիրեցիր...

Wednesday, June 09, 2010

Յովհաննէս Թումանեան։ Քառեակներ

Երազումս մի մաքի
Մօտըս եկաւ հարցմունքի.
-Աստուած պահի քո որդին,
Ոն՞ց էր համը իմ ձագի…

Ի՜նչ իմանաս Ստեղծողի գաղտնիքները անմեկին.-
Ընկե՛ր տուաւ, իրար կապեց էս աշխարհքում ամէնքին,
Բանաստեղծին թողեց մենակ, մեն ու մենակ իրեն պէս,
Որ իրեն պէս մտիկ անի ամէն մէկին ու կեանքին:

QUATRAINS

In my dreams a ewe
Came near me and asked:
"May God keep you son --
How did my kid taste?"


How can we know the Creator's unknowable mysteries?
He bound together, gave a companion to everyone in the world:
Only he left the poet alone, alone like Himself and apart,
So that he may attend, like Him, to one and to all and to life.

Armenian poetry, old and new : a bilingual anthology / compiled and translated with an introd. by Aram Tolegian.
Detroit : Wayne State University Press , 1979.

Tuesday, June 08, 2010

Ռափայէլ Պատկանեան։ ՎԱՐԴԱՆԻ ԵՐԳԸ

Հիմի է՞լ լըռենքեղբարքհիմի է՞լ,
Երբ մեր թշնամին իր սուրն է դրել,
Իր օրհասական սուրը մեր կրծքին,
Ականջ չի դընում մեր լաց ու կոծին.
Ասացէ՛քեղբարք հայերի՞նչ անենք, —
Հիմի է՞լ լռենք:

Հիմի է՞լ լըռենք երբ մեր թշնամին,
Դաւովհրապուրանքով տիրեց մեր երկրին,
Ջնջեց աշխարհքից Հայկայ անունը,
Հիմքից կործանեց Թորգոմայ տունը,
Խլեց մեզանից թագ, ե՛ւ խօսքե՛ւ զէնք, —
Հիմի է՞լ լռենք:

Հիմի է՞լ լռենքերբ մեր թշնամին
Խլեց մեր սուրը — պաշտպան մեր անձին,
Մշակի ձեռքիցն էլ խոփը խլեց,
Այդ սուր ու խոփից մեր շղթան կռեց,
Վա՛յ մեզշղթայով կապած գերի ենք, —
Հիմի է՞լ լռենք:

Հիմի է՞լ ըռենքերբ մեր թըշնամին`
Սոսկալի զէնքը բռնած մեր գլխին,
Կուլ տալ է տալիս արտասուք առատ,
Աղեխարշ բողոք վարուց ապիրատ.
Մեր գլուխ լալու Եփրատ ու՞ր պտռենք, —
Հիմի է՞լ լռենք:

Հիմի է՞լ լռենքերբ մեր թշնամին
Լիրբ գոռոզութեամբ լցրած իր հոգին,
Արդարութեան ձայնն հանած իր սրտից
Արտաքսում է մեզ մեր բնիկ երկրից,
Պանդու՛խտ հալածեա՛լեղբարքո՞ւր դիմենք, —
Հիմի է՞լ լռենք:
Հիմի է՞լ լըռենքերբ մեր թըշնամին,
Անհոգ մեր բերած ծանր զոհերին,
Յուր լիրբ նըզոված ձեռքը կարկառեց,
Ազգության վերջին կապը պատառեց.
Հայի կորուստը մոտ էի՞նչ անենք, —
Հիմի է՞լ լըռենք:
Հիմի է՞լ լըռենքերբ մեր թըշնամին,
Արհամարհելով մեր փառքն ազգային,
Մեր եկեղեցուն ձեռնամերձ եղավ,
Գառնազգեստ գայլին մեզ գըլուխ դըրավ,
Սուրբ խորան չունինքարդ ու՞ր աղոթենք, —
Հիմի է՞լ լըռենք:
Հիմի է՞լ լըռենքմարդիկ ի՞նչ կասեն,
Երբ մեր տեղ քարինքապառաժք խոսեն.
Չե՞ն ասիլոր հայք արժանի էին
Այդ ըստրկական անարգ վիճակին.
Մեր սուրբ քաջ նախնյաց գործերը գիտենք, —
Մինչև ե՞րբ լըռենք:
Թո՛ղ լռե մունջըանդամալույծը,
Կամորոց քաղցր է թշնամու լուծը.
Բայց մենքոր ունինք հոգի ու սիրտ քաջ,
Ե՛կ անվախ ելնենք թըշնամու առաջ,
Գոնե մեր փառքը մահով ետ խըլենք —
Ու այնպես լըռենք:


SHALL we be silent, brothers?
Shall we be silent still?
Our foe has set against our breasts
His sword, that thirsts to kill;
His ears are deaf to cries and groans.
O brothers, make avow !
What shall we do ? What is our part ?
Shall we keep silence now ?
Our foe has seized our fatherland
By guile and treachery ;
Has blotted out the name of Haig,
And ruined utterly
The house of Thorkom, to the ground ;
Has reft from us, to boot,
Our crown, our arms, our right of speech —
And shall we still be mute ?
Our foe has seized our guardian swords,
Our ploughs that tilled the plain,
And from the ploughshare and the sword
Has welded us a chain.
Alas for us ! for we are slaves,
And fettered hand and foot
With bonds and manacles of iron —
And shall we still be mute?
Our foeman, holding o’er our heads
His weapon fierce and strong,
Makes us devour our bitter tears,
Our protests against wrong.
So many woes are heaped on us,
To weep our sorrows’ sum
We need the broad Euphrates’ flood -
And shall we still be dumb?
Our foe, with overweening pride,
Treads justice under foot,
And drives us from our native soil —
And shall we still be mute ?
Like strangers in our fatherland,
Pursued o’er plain and hill,
O brothers, where shall we appeal?
Shall we be silent still?
Not yet content with all the ills
That he has made us bear,
His insolent and cursed hand
He stretches forth, to tear
The last bond of our nation’s life —
And, if he have his will,
Complete destruction waits for us ;
Shall we be silent still?
Scorning the glory of our land,
Our foe, with malice deep,
Invades our church, and makes the wolf
The shepherd of the sheep.
We have no sacred altars now;
In valley or on hill
No place of prayer is left to us;
Shall we be silent still?
If we keep silence, even now,
When stones have found a voice,
Will not men say that slavery
Is our desert and choice ?
The sons of brave and holy sires,
Sprung from a sacred root,
We know the deeds our fathers did —
How long shall we be mute ?
Mute be the dumb, the paralyzed,
Those that hold slavery dear !
But we, brave hearts, let us march forth
To battle, without fear;
And, if the worst befall us,
Facing the foe like men,
Win back in death our glory,
And sleep in silence then !

[Translation from Armeniahouse.org]

Monday, June 07, 2010

Րաֆֆի։ Ձա՛յն տուր, Ո՛վ Ծովակ…

Ձա՛յն տուր, ով ծովակ, ինչո՞ւ լռում ես.
Ողբակից լինել չկամի՞ս դժբախտիս։
Շարժեցէ՛ք, զեփիւռք, ալիքը վէտ-վէտ.
Խառնէք արտասուքս այս ջրերիս հետ։

Հայաստանի մէջ անցքերին վկայ,
Սկզբից մինչ այժմ, խնդրեմ, ինձ ասա՛.
Մի՞թէ միշտ այսպէս կը մնայ Հայաստան՝
Փշալից անապատ, երբեմն բուրաստան։

Մի՞թէ միշտ այդպէս ազգը խղճալի,
Կը լինի ծառայ օտար իշխանի,
Մի՞թէ Աստուծոյ աթոռի մօտին
Անարժան է հայն եւ հայի որդին։

Արդեօք գալո՞ւ է մի օր, ժամանակ,
Տեսնել Մասիսի գլխին մի դրօշակ,
Եւ ամէն կողմից պանդուխտ հայազգիք
Դիմել դէպ իւրեանց սիրուն հայրենիք։

Դժուար այդ. միայն, տեսուչըդ վերին,
Կենդանացրո՛ւ հայութեան հոգին,
Ծագի՛ր նոցա դու քո լոյս գիտութեան,
Որով իբր էակ նոքա բանական,
Կը ճանչեն մարդուս կեանքի խորհուրդը,
Կը լինին գործովք տիրոջ փառաբան։

Sunday, June 06, 2010

Live from the Bowery Poetry Club: Lola Koundakjian

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 Lola Koundakjian’s reading of her poem, Les poètes.




Les poètes sont des
Marchands de mots.

Magiciens nocturnes,
ils sont parmis nous
Fantômes transparents

Traversant nos veines
Nos poumons
Nos coeurs
Laissant des traces de beautés
D’esperance,
Prenant nos sanglots, et nos soucis
Vers un autre monde où ils s’abrittent quans nous courrons derriere le train-train du quotidien.

Et quand nous dormons, ils retournent poser des rêves et des baisers dans nos coeurs et sur nos lèvres.




Saturday, June 05, 2010

Shaunt Basmajian: On Filling out another Job Application

only my address has changed
my phone number
still seems to stay the same
and the list of
appointments references and positions
goes on forever


i walk
up and down
the city street
and wait
my turn in line
in a corporate office building
for a job
i know i won't get


i fill out a questionnaire
and then head over
to a union hall
where i'm forced to do
the same
greeted by a computer
and a digit as my name
amongst 300 other applicants
for a job
that will eventually terminate


after the interview
i take a break
and drink a cup of
cold coffee
in a shopping mall
recently subsidized
by the government
before i head back home
where i share a meaningless
conversat[i]on
with a friend
about politics
the prime minister's
recent trip abroad
and of course
the so called
"sagging" economy
while waiting fiendishly
for a call
i know i won't get




Other Channels, an Anthology of new Canadian poetry, edited by Shaunt Basmajian and Jones

Friday, June 04, 2010

ԸՆԹԵՐՑՄԱՆ ՀԱՆԴԻՊՈՒՄ

ԲԱԳԻՆ ԳՐԱԿԱՆ ՀԱՆԴԷՍԸ ԿԸ ԿԱԶՄԱԿԵՐՊԷ

ԸՆԹԵՐՑՄԱՆ ՀԱՆԴԻՊՈՒՄ՝


 


«Ծաղկաքաղ Արեւմտահայ Գրականութեան» (խմբագիր՝ Պօղոս Սնապեան) եւ «Ծաղկաքաղ Սփիւռքահայ Գրականութեան» (խմբագիր՝ Յարութիւն Քիւրքճեան) զոյգ հատորներէ, լոյս տեսած՝ վերջերս, Համազգայինի «Վահէ Սէթեան» տպարանէն:







Տեղի կ'ունենայ Չորեքշաբթի 9 Յունիս 2010, երեկոյեան ժամը 7ին, ԲԱԳԻՆի խմբագրատան մէջ, Պ. Համուտ, «Շաղզոյեան» Կեդրոն, Բ. Յարկ:







ՀՐԱՒԷՐ

Shaunt Basmajian: After Weeks and Weeks in the Intensive Care Unit

bfp(h)aGe.
Toronto: Sober Minute Press, February 1989

Thursday, June 03, 2010

Raffi Wartanian: Between You And Me



Between Time and Space
Between You and Me
            There is something
                        That cannot be explored
                        With words
                        Or silences perceived as meaningful
                        Or eyeballs looking deeply into eyeballs
                        Or hugs
                        Or smirks to diffuse a tension born of
                                    Misunderstandings,
                                                Neglect,
                                                            Fear,
                        Or target variables
                                    Identified
                                                As Determinants of Destiny.
            There is something
                        That transcends Time and Space
                        You and Me
                        Planet Earth
                        Milky Way
                        That-planet-whose-name-I-dare-not-mention.
            There is something
                        That weeps and laughs
                        And holds on with
                        Steel strands of hair
                        Against some odds
                                    Perhaps all.
            There is something
                        That shrinks 4 hours
                                    Into 4 seconds
                        And burgeons the central nervous system
                        To stand up against
                                    Chattering teeth –
                                                Goosebumps –
                                                            Thoughts of warmth –
                                                                        Logs popping.
                        That sets appetite
                        Into a four-bar phrase
                        That crescendos
                        With two dotted repeat symbols
                        That crescendos
                        With two dotted repeat symbols
                        Then, again,
                        Satisfaction just a distant wave
                        Appearing and fading
                        In a horizon
                        Where gushing oil
                        Smears a coarse fluid of non-being
                        Against the purplebluegreenyelloworange sky
                                    Veiled with altocumuli
                                                So fresh it looks like it’s been airbrushed
                                                By some masterful, cosmic artist
                                    Who we must believe
                        Possesses some sort of answer
            Some sort of word
To express
That which is
Between Time and Space
Between You and Me.

By Raffi Wartanian
May 2010, New Jersey Turnpike

Wednesday, June 02, 2010

Shaunt Basmajian: Deeper into the Mind




bfp(h)aGe.

Toronto: Sober Minute Press, February 1989

Tuesday, June 01, 2010

BOOK DRIVE AND FUND RAISER

Dear Friends of the Armenian Poetry Project:

Next July, I will be participating as a poet in the International Poetry Festival of Medellin, Colombia.

See:
http://www.festivaldepoesiademedellin.org/pub.php/en/Festival/XX_Festival/Programa/index.htm

In its 20 years, I will be only the second Armenian to read there. In an effort to introduce our culture and to thank the organizers, I am planning a book drive.

I am asking for donations of new books in English, Spanish and Armenian covering the topics of Armenian literature.

You may contact me at armenianpoetryproject@gmail.com for a mailing address. If you'd like to make a gift in kind, in the form of cash to go towards the purchase of books, there is a PayPal account which I will send to you.

Any duplicate books will be donated to local Armenian libraries.

Many thanks for your support,


Lola Koundakjian, New York

PS All books must be received by July 1st, 2010

Centennial of Ashod Krashi

... Ես այսօր մեռայ հին անտառում,
Շուքերի ներքոյ կաղնենու հին,
Ինձ վրայ լացին բարակ առուն
Եւ բարակ խոտը ցօղն աչերին:
Ծառերը իրենց կանաչ ուսին
Աճիւնս առան, գետափ տարան,
Թաղեցին ինչպէս գունատ լուսին
Եւ հող ցանեցին հողիս վրայ:
Եկան հաւքերը արշալոյսին,
Երգեցին մի երգ այնպէ՜ս նրբին,
Բացուեց դռնակը իմ շիրիմի,
Եւ ես յարութիւն առայ կրկին:


Աշոտ Գրաշի (1910-1973)