Friday, December 17, 2010

Ռափայէլ Պատկանեան։ Հայերուս Բաղցանքը

Ա՜խ, ինչպէ՜ս կ՝ուզեմ տեսնել մեր հային
Ազատ, ապահով, կրթեալ, ինքնագոհ,
Ամէն հայի տուն՝ դրախտ երկնային ,,,
Լոկ այդ բանն ինձնից չունզենար մէկ զոհ:

Ա՜խ, ինչպէ՜ս կ՝ուզեմ տեսնել Հայաստան
Մի որ ազատուած թշնամու ձեռքէն,
Հայի երկիր, հայի սեփական ,,, 
Լոկ այդ չի բաժաներ ինձ իմ կոպէկէն:

Ա՜խ, ինչպէ՜ս կ՝ուզեմ, որ մեր հայերուս
Արծարծուէր սէրը ուսման, գիտութեան,
Հայի մէջ չի մնար մի հատիկ անուս ,,,
Լոկ հեռի ինձնից թուղթ ստորագրութեան:

Ա՜խ, ինչպէ՜ս կ՝ուզեմ, որ հաձ պատանիք
Դէպ համալսարան խմբով վազէին,
Եւ Զուիցերիա երթար հայ աղջիկ ,,,
Լոկ ինձնից նոքա կոպէկ չուզէին:

Ա՜խ, ինչպէ՜ս կ՝ուզեմ, որ մեր Զէյթունցին
Միթռայլեոզ, շասպոյ, ռմբկէն ունենար,
Ջարդ ու բուրդ անէր Քուրթ ու Չերքեզին ,,,
Լոկ ինձնից զէնքի նա փող չունենար:

Երբ մեր հայրենիք հրաշքով ազատուէր,
Մերոնք էլ ազատ կեանք-օր վարէին,
Ա՜խ, ինչպէ՜ս, ինչպէ՜ս լաւ բան կլիներ,
Երբ Հայք ինձ իրանց իշխան ընտրէին:

Ռափայէլ Պատկանեան (1830-1892Օ



                     Our Desire   
By Raphael Badganian   (1830-1892)
Translated By Kevork Kalayjian
                                   

Oh, how I would love to see Armenians
Free, safe, educated, and self-sufficient
Every Armenian’s home, paradise on earth should be …
But this shouldn’t require a sacrifice from me.  

Oh, how I would loved for Armenia to be
Freed from the hands of the enemy, 
Armenian rulers governing the Armenian country … 
As long as this aim doesn’t cost me a penny.

Oh, how I wish for all Armenian to be
Rekindled with the love of science, and discovery
For once and for all eliminate illiteracy
Onley if, no commitment is required of me.

Oh, how I wish to see, Armenian teens,
Heading to colleges and universities
Women … traveling to Switzerland for higher education;
As long as, no body expects a penny from me.

Oh, how I wished that our brave freedom fighters
Were equipped with all the advanced weaponry,
To defend the homeland against the enemy … but
To buy those arms, they shouldn’t ask for my money!

Finally, when our country is miraculously freed
Our people are independent, and self-sufficient
Oh, how wonderful and benevolent it would prove to be
For all Armenians, as their ruler … to elect me!

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Stanley Kunitz: Chariot

For Varujan Boghosian
In this image of my friend’s studio,
where curiosity runs the shop, and you
can almost smell the nostalgic dust
settling on the junk of lost mythologies,
the artist himself stays out of view.
Yet anyone could guess
this is the magician’s place
from his collection of conical hats
and the sprawled puppets on a shelf,
the broken as well as the whole,
that have grown to resemble him,
or the other way round.
Butterflies, gameboards, and bells,
strewn jacks and alphabet blocks,
spindles, old music scores—
the litter spreads from wall to wall.
If you could dig to the bottom,
you might expect to find
a child’s plush heart,
a shing agate eye.
Here everything waits to be renewed.
That horse-age wagon wheel
proped in the corner
against an empty picture-frame,
Even in its state of disrepair,
minus three spokes,
looks poised for flight.
Tomorrow, maybe, at the crack of a whip
a flock of glittering birds will perch
on its rim, a burnished stranger
wearing an enigmatic mask
will mount its hub
and the great battered wheel
will start to spin.

Saturday, December 11, 2010

Րաֆֆի Վարդանեան։ Պարտէզը



Լօլային

Հայկ Նահապէտին պարտէզէն դուրս
Լեզուս թաղեցի
Հօրս պարտէզին մէջ,
որպէսզի
Ուժ տայ բնութեան,
Որովհետեւ հոգիս
լռութենէն ալ յուսահատ է ։
Անյոյս է
Որպէս սփիւռք
Որպէս ինքնաօտար
Որպէս հոգի ու վկայ եւ
Աքսորի զաւակ։
Պատերազմ և ողբերգութիւն
Կը կոչուին այդ երես լզողները, Ու ծնողքս,
իրենց
հաճոյքը կը պահեն
Մեծմօրս գրպանին մեջ։
يعني sabersiz, mon ami

Այս կեանքը բնական չէ
Որովհետեւ ան
Կը ծաղկի
Կմախքի մը կողէն
Այն գերեզմանատան մէջ
Ուր կը Ֆր-ֆրա Հովը - Թուրքիոյ, Հայաստանի ապա, Ռուսաստանի հովը, Ամերիկայի, Չինաստանի, Ուրուկուաի հովը - Նահատակներուն հովը, Զոհերուն, Երգիչին և արհեստաւորին հովը:
Բերնէդ բրցուած լեզուն
ընկղմեցաւ
Մելանին մէջ
ուր կրցաւ
պատմական նիւթեր գրել։

Ծովափին աւազներուն վրայ
Դարերու ընթացքին
Տարիներով
Օրերով
Մրջիւններով,


Türkçe dilinde,
En français
بللغة العربية





Րաֆֆի Վարդանեան


Thursday, December 09, 2010

Gregory Djanikian's Podcast in the Kelly Writers House series

http://media.sas.upenn.edu/writershouse/podcasts/Kelly-Writers-House-Podcast_08_Djanikian.mp3

Click on the link to hear this outstanding podcast of Gregory Djanikian reading from his poems about the Armenian Genocide and his family life.

Monday, December 06, 2010

Vacation

Dear Reader:


The Armenian Poetry Project is on a short research break this week. 


The RSS feeds, tweets and iTunes streams will resume mid-month.




All best Lola Koundakjian

Sunday, December 05, 2010

Michael Keshigian: HONEYCOMB BLUES


This is how it used to be
with him and his lover,
she taught him
a new song
every morning,
a different line
with her head
on the pillow,
climbing the stairway
of his spine
with a weightless melody
until it filled his brain
and he sang
as he rolled over
to lock his lips
around hers
so she might sugar his mouth
with more honey,
her tongue tipping sweet words
backwards in his throat.
The day was longing
after mornings like that,
sunlight a lonely companion,
though the song droned
like bees in the hive
all day in his head.



Copyright Michael Keshigian. Reprinted here by kind permission of the author.

Saturday, December 04, 2010

Michael Keshigian: Thief

Two days ago

the sun caught me stealing light
to illuminate a poem,

demanded restitution,
then reported me to Mother Nature
who posted my likeness about the land.

Soon, the ocean, forest, birds, flowers, et. al.
filed suit for substantial abuse
and complacent philandering without permission.

I pleaded guilty;
admitted taking breath from wind
for deliverance,

marshmallows from the sky to sweeten song,
and rage from the ocean
to instill a sense of urgency.

Convicted and confined to a windowless room,
no writing, visitation
or glimpses of stolen sights,

I was sentenced to imagine beauty
without embezzlement
and the wholesale exploitation of words.


Copyright Michael Keshigian. Reprinted here by kind permission of the author.

Friday, December 03, 2010

Michael Keshigian: Afternoon Barbecue



The women share a secret,
chattering
until we enter their circle,
giggling
when they think we can’t see.
We ask them for a hint
but they only lower their eyes
and smile delicately
from the corners of their mouths.
It only increases our desire
to know.
Perhaps it was something
they did long ago,
consequences notwithstanding,
the memory possesses
a lingering sweetness.
This might explain their camaraderie,
the way they rest their chins
on the curl of their fists,
stare at each other
with intense intrigue.
Tell us one story
or give us a clue.
Whisper a sentence
or even a word
that might carry
in the warm summer breeze
when you close your eyes
to remember.


Copyright Michael Keshigian. Reprinted here by kind permission of the author.

Thursday, December 02, 2010

Michael Keshigian: MUSIC GRATIFICATION


He wanted to know everything
a musician knew,
how to start with a note
that blossomed into a composition,
jazz or symphonic,
it didn't matter much,
Take Five or Beethoven's Fifth
as long as he could make
some toe-tapping or baton swinging
sense of the melodies
that swirled in his head.
He could write lyrics
all day long on a blank page
but had only the rhythm of words
to dance to,
the timbre and articulations
came from a different place
and were never enhanced
by a slick clarinet gliss
or a violin's frenetic staccato.
He was happy, though,
that he could listen to
the most complex pieces
or simplest tunes
and transform himself
into a feather
that floated upon the resonance,
landing gently at the final cadence,
gratified that he could internalize
the intention of sounds
he couldn't call his own.


Copyright Michael Keshigian. Reprinted here by kind permission of the author.

Wednesday, December 01, 2010

Michael Keshigian: THE MOON

just hung there
slightly above the horizon
donning a wry smile
against darkened backdrop

its anemic white garb
resembled a freshly cut fingernail
found on the black desktop.
I tossed my cap

towards its lower point,
beyond reach of the trees,
landing it gracefully
like a Frisbee on a finger,

wondering
how did the cow jumped over
this slightly cocked glow
without bumping its head

on the unseen portion?
The iridescent float winked
to share such sport
but startled I turned

to watch the cat
play the fiddle
till the dish came home
with the spoon.


Copyright Michael Keshigian. Reprinted here by kind permission of the author.

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Quote for the Month of November

«Ո՛չ դրամին կիրքը ունիմ, ո՛չ փառքին կիրքը, ո՛չ համբաւին կիրքը»։

Ռուբէն Սեւակ 20 տարեկանին Հ. Նազարեանին ուղղած նամակին մէջ

Monday, November 29, 2010

Michael Keshigian: Moonbeam

Every night
a different message.
Tell me tonight
about the translucent bones
of icicles on the gutter.
Their tale is a disclosure
of your stalking.
You enter as a burglar
on the heels of darkness
and leave no fingerprints,
yet cleverly steal away secrets
between the elusive shadows
you create,
some darker than others,
convoluted figures
rummaging in the most remote corners
of the room.
The sleepless await an explanation
but your peering eyes
slip away
when the clouds make you blink.
If you do take something,
no one is the wiser.
The sand in your light
eventually blinds into submission
the most suspicious
who, in the morning, awake inspired
yet unaware of your intrusion,
until the icicles drip
in the rising sunlight.



Copyright Michael Keshigian. Reprinted here by kind permission of the author.

Poet Michael Keshigian

MICHAEL KESHIGIAN is the author of five poetry chapbooks. His sixth collection Jazz Face , was recently released by Big Table Publishing Co.  His poetry has appeared in numerous national and international journals as well as many online publications, including California Quarterly, Barbaric Yawp, Tipton Poetry Journal, Jerry Jazz Musician, Sierra Nevada College Review, and Ibbetson Street Press. He has been a feature writer for The Aurorean, Poetree Magazine, Chantarelle’s Notebook, Bellowing Ark, Pegasus Review, The Illogical Muse, interviewed by Boston Literary Magazine (bostonliterarymagazine.com/Fall2007 Spotlight)) and Reader’s Choice in the Fairfield Review. He is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best Of The Net nominee. (www.michaelkeshigian.com)

Saturday, November 27, 2010

Archie Minasian: The Message

Though I go my way calmly,
humble in countenance,
know, my love,
my soul is loud with rebuke,
my mien restrained,
my desire fierce.


Selected poems, Ashod Press, 1986. Copyright by Helen Minasian. 

Friday, November 26, 2010

Archie Minasian: Memories of my Father

the wind spoke to me
I went to the orchard,
leaves came down
of every kind
with busy whisperings
I could not understand.


Selected poems, Ashod Press, 1986. Copyright by Helen Minasian. 

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Archie Minasian: The Workers

In my presence
the men work feverishly at their tasks
denying themselves tobacco
and conversation.


In my absence,
like air bags expiring,
they link to comfortable places
and roll cigarettes
and discuss cheap labor.

Selected poems, Ashod Press, 1986. Copyright by Helen Minasian. 

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Archie Minasian: The Holy War

We go to the meadow,
a small army,
We are going to gather mushrooms,
and fire wood.
We carry spade and axe
and gunny sacks.


Nothing will stop us.




Selected poems, Ashod Press, 1986. Copyright by Helen Minasian. 

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Archie Minasian: Parlor Talk

The guests sat on the new sofa,
they talked of old things
we sat on old chairs
and talked of new things.


They talked of new things and grew old,
We talked of old things and dashed out.






Selected poems, Ashod Press, 1986. Copyright by Helen Minasian. 

Monday, November 22, 2010

Archie Minasian - A Tribute

Archie (Khatchik) Minasian passed away 25 years ago on Thanksgiving. His concise, beautiful poems have long been favorites of mine and readers of APP. This week, we will honor Archie's memory with a few more selections of his work.


Lola Koundakjian
Editor and Producer 
Armenian Poetry Project

Thursday, November 18, 2010

Լեւոն Շանթ: ԱԼԻՔԸ

Տե'ս, ալիքը մերթ կուռի
կնոջ լանջի պես դողդոջ.
ժանյակով մը փրփուրի
նուրբ սքողված է ամբողջ.
մերթ ալ ողորկ կը գոգնա
ծոցին պես զույգ սրտինքի,
ուր կույս սիրտ մը կը խոկա
աղվոր բաները կյանքի:




ԼԵՒՈՆ ՇԱՆԹ, Երկեր, Սովետական  Գրող 1989