Shant Dickran: Summer

School is

                        out

             no more

h

o

m

e

w

o

r

k

            or tests

            just playing

                        ANYTHING

I want

            S

               U

                  M

                     M

                        E

                          R       is here--

And I'm excited!          

Shant Dickran has received honorable mention in this year's poetry competition, in the student category. He is 11 years old and in 6th grade at St. Gregory Hovsepian School, Pasadena, CA

Julien Ghouliance: Words

As I sat, you whispered,

"I hope you feel better."

What did you say?

Your words were suffocating.

I wasn't looking for comfort,

but your words were as loud

as a concert and as calming

as a fallen rainbow.

Julien Ghouliance has received honorable mention in this year's poetry competition, in the student category. He is 12 years old and in 7th grade at St. Gregory Hovsepian School, Pasadena, CA

Rachel Megan Maclean: On the Mount

someday we will climb Mount Ararat and the
remains of Noah's skiff will splinter into our
thumbs and the pads of our fingertips, our
knees will be rubbed red raw by her crags, but
after a week we will sit on her summit Masis and with
throbbing hands and patellae, we will weep over the
clip-winged sparrows and the village of Van where our family
once fashioned jewelry on an estate that lives in
the dreams that were only our grandmother's
faintest and fondest of memories

Mama was only thirteen when the slaughter
began, she sat on the granite wall with a beautiful
box, but her family couldn't bring everything, they had to
leave things behind for the terror to take: the goats
and the uncles and the bodies not yet things they could
call corpses riddled with hatred, stuffed with hearts still
clenched in their fists in their fear in their crumpling
rib cages, still wronged, everything was wrong...

Armenian children are not apples in their mother's
eyes-- we are yellow-orange apricots dried by the
sun and cradled in the palms of those who cradled
us in their tender, weeping wombs; I am my
mother's apricot, and my wrinkles crinkle beneath my
skin because the children of a genocide are from
their first scream, old, and Mom, you and I are remnants
of a place and time raped but we have never allowed
ourselves to die because between the eyes, the muzzle
of a gun is just a molehill and

when we climb Ararat, sweet mother of our grandmothers, we
will watch time tunnel back to Siran and Keghanoush
drawing water and grinning in the sun, and sitting on her
peak Masis, we will weep over the sparrows and the village and
the apricots wrinkled in the dirt, lost from their mother's
palms and spotted from the moisture of our tears:
              someday we won't be the only ones who remember.



Rachel Megan Maclean, the winner for the student category is from Northside High School, Roanoke, VA.
She is 17 years old and studies with Mrs. Sally McFall

Honourable mentions to:
Julien Ghouliance 7th grade
Shant Dikran, and Hovig Manoyan, both 6th grade.
St. Gregory Hovsepian School, Pasadena, CA

AGUSTÍN TAVITIAN: La Palabra Invicta

Todo es cuestión de tener un lugar
donde depositar el alma. Un paisaje,
el que sea, para alimentar los sueños
y viajar con fantasías y delirios.
Un lugar. Aunque el frío te penetre
y la tristeza y el miedo te dobleguen.
Un lugar pobre o derruido, alejado, aislado, abandonado.
Un lugar que te aloje, que te ampare.
Donde vivas, pienses, ames.
El lugar donde creas tu libertad de ser.



Tout est question d'avoir à soi
Un endroit où mettre l'âme
Un paysage, un endroit qui donnerait à vivre aux rêves
Et permettrait de voyager dans le fantasme et le délire
Un lieu. Même si le froid
Te pénètre,
Que tu sois
Gelé de peur et de tristesse
Un lieu pauvre ou démoli,
Distant, isolé, perdu,
Un lieu qui t’accueille toi,
Qui te protège,
Un endroit où tu vis, tu penses et aimes
Cet endroit où tu composes ta liberté d’exister

Agustin Tavitian

adaptation du texte espagnol par Sylvie M. Miller

Christopher Janigian: Bastille Day

Trees bend here. 

Then venom spills into 

thick canals— 

they harbor 

lifeless barges. Men blow 

ghosts, burn lung—hands run 

through hair. The throat 

grows a rose—blooming blood 

by the villa. Words 

vein, roll from 

someone’s tongue. Bent 

god: flash by 

with your bullet vest. 

Do not watch this 

terrible sky— 

lightning cracks it 

with yellow saw-teeth. It is not 

for you. The dark-

skinned man stands, rises 

to popular flux: locked 

hands, perfect soldiers. Eye 

contact costs a fortune. Black-

eyed god: watch the high 

wheel of bone. 

O, stone and river. This place 

swells with soldiers. Again 

shadows swarm the streets: police 

in bombshell suits spit 

at helmeted heads, 

lazy tongues. We pass one 

mouth I will match: 

the dead sphinx. I will stare 

into the numb umbrella of a hood.

Christopher Janigian is a senior at Brown University concentrating in Literary Arts and English Literature. 

This poem has previously appeared in Issue VII, Fall 2012 of The Round, a Brown University literary publication.  

William Saroyan: To the River Euphrates

 

Euphrates, which is mine, doth flow or not,

There where its mountains feed its rush and roar.

And through those hills and plains by most forgot,

And by these eyes not seen, for evermore

Euphrates swells and rolls majestically,

Or is now dry, and arid myth, a tale.

If this is so, the truth, so let it be.

In me Euphrates is; nor can it fail

To ride its bed and cool its burning earth

With drink, and mine as well. Of wing no flight

May end in graceless crash. No spirit’s mirth

May burn and die by heaven’s harshest light.

Euphrates flows, however it may be

That but in dreams these eyes its grace may see.

San Francisco, California

January 21, 1933

William Saroyan: To the Voice of Shah-Mouradian

I. EPISTLE

To the man this humble word:

Great soul, I your voice have heard.

If in fact I stand alone,

My clamor will the wrong atone.

Before your own my voice is small:

You sing, while my poor words must fall

Like so much sodden clay or mud

Into the rush of thought’s swift flood.

Yours is the flowing of the ancient soul.

While mine is but the lisping of the mind.

Yet if music the deaf cannot make whole,

The print shall give hearing to those not blind.

II. WHILE HE SINGS “MAYR ARAKSIE”

No art is lost and yours shall never be,

For when you sing, you sing at least for me.

And when at last my mortal day is done

Remember, friend, that I shall leave a son,

Tutored to seek the glory of his race

(Wherever he may go, to what strange place)

In your clear voice, which is the very pith

Of our old legend and our deathless myth.

And if the mother of his son shall be

A daughter of our ancient family,

I think she’ll teach him in his early years

That when you sing, though he be moved to tears,

He will yet know how once in strength we stood,

And stand forever in her motherhood.

San Francisco, California

January 14, 1933

Ռուբէն Խաժակ։Քանի որ կամ

Քանի որ կամ՝

Պիտի պոռա՛մ,

Պիտի գոչե՛մ ու կանչե՛մ:

Քանի որ կամ՝

Պիտի գրեմ,

Միշտ յիշեմ ու պատմեմ:

Քանի որ կամ՝

Պիտի ըսեմ,

Մինչեւ մահ պիտ' բողոքեմ:

Պիտի պոռա՛մ,

Քանի որ կամ,

Քանի որ կան,

Քանզի կ’ուրանան...

- Ռ. Խաժակ

Թորոնթօ, 2010

Լոյս տեսած է Թորոնթօ-ի «Արծիւ» պարբերաթերթին մէջ։

While I still am --

I shall scream,

I shall yell and declaim.

While I still am --

I shall blame,

Recall and reclaim.

While I still am --

I shall tell all,

Protest till the final fall.

I shall scream,

While I still am,

Against all

Those in vile denial...

.................. Rupen Khajag

Translated by Tatul Sonentz

Michael E. Stone: BLACK MOUNTAINS

Here we go round the mulberry bush
So quoth T.S. Eliot
but it's a tree, not a bush,
grand, spreading, broad-leafed.

At the bottom of the garden
the neighbours' mulberry tree
could be climbed from our side
and we did. It had

broad silk-worm leaves,
thick trunk and branches
and small purple berries
that stained us
black as the mountains
of Karabakh.*


*Named “black mountains” for the abundant mulberry trees.

Գիրք մը Հեղինակ մը՝ Վահէ-Վահեան ու «Յուշարձան Վահրամիս»

Պէյրութ 1977

Վահէ-Վահեան 1908-1998


Vahé-Vahian (Born Sarkis Abdalian)


ա

Սիրտս՝ հրաբո՜ւխ, աչքերս՝ ակո՜ւնք լաւայի…
-- Մի՜ մօտենաք, բարեկամնե՜ր, չվառի՜ք։

Որ չդառնամ ամպ ու անձրեւ, ով մարդի՜կ,
Ձեր նայուածքո՛վն անգամ ինծի չդպչի՛ք։

Արեգակն էր՝ մութիս վերեւ իմ ծագած,
Ինչպէ՛ս այսքան վաղ ու վռազ իջաւ ցած։

Հոգիս՝ բուրվառ, իմ յիշատակն -- ազնիւ խունկ --
Կ՛ըլլայ իմ մէջ կապուտակ ծուխ ու բուրմունք։

Ե՞րբ պիտի, ե՛րբ բացուի ճամբան, որ անկանգ
Հասնիմ իրեն, եւ անբաժան միանա՜նք…

(Գրուած՝ Լոնտոն-Ապու Տապի սաւառնակին մէջ։)

1 Ապրիլ 1976

My heart; a volcano, my eyes; fountains of lava...
Do not approach me, friends, lest you burn.

That I may not turn to clouds and rain, O you people,
Do not touch me, not even with your glances.

He was my son, dawning upon my darkness,
How he went down so early and so soon.

My soul; a censer, his memory – noble incense –
Turns in me blue fumes and perfume.

When shall, when will, the path be clear,
That with no more interruptions,

I may reach him, never to part again, in eternal union.

Translated by Hovhanness I. Pilikian

I may reach him, never to part again, in eternal union,part again, in eternal union,

Թալին Եօզգալայճը։ Անվերնագիր սկզբունք

Կաթիլ մը սառ եմ ես, ամենամեծ ժայռը ճաթեցնող,

Ափ մը հող եմ ես, արմատներով հզօրացող

Խենթ հով մըն եմ ես, օրէնք ու սահման չճանչցող

Լուսաւոր մտածում եմ ես, կոշկոռ կապած ուղեղները մաշեցնող

Կտոր մը հաց եմ ես, թափուած քրտինքով սրբացող

Անվերնագիր սկզբունքն եմ, ստրկութեան բոլոր լուծերը քանդող։

UNTITLED PRINCIPLE

I am a drop of ice, causing huge rocks to burst,

I am a handful of earth, strengthening from its roots,

I am a crazy wind, not knowing laws or bounds,

I am a brilliant thought, gnawing some callous minds,

I am a piece of bread, blessed by sweat of hard work,

I am the untitled principle, breaking all slavery yokes.

Talin Özkalaycı

Translated by Dora Sakayan

Nazim Hikmet: A Spring Piece Left In The Middle

Taut, thick fingers punch
the teeth of my typewriter.
Three words are down on paper
in capitals:
SPRING
SPRING
SPRING...
And me -- poet, proofreader,
the man who's forced to read
two thousand bad lines
every day
for two liras--
why,
since spring
has come, am I
still sitting here
like a ragged
black chair?
My head puts on its cap by itself,
I fly out of the printer's,
I'm on the street.
The lead dirt of the composing room
on my face,
seventy-five cents in my pocket.
SPRING IN THE AIR...
In the barbershops
they're powdering
the sallow cheeks
of the pariah of Publishers Row.
And in the store windows
three-color bookcovers
flash like sunstruck mirrors.
But me,
I don't have even a book of ABC's
that lives on this street
and carries my name on its door!
But what the hell...
I don't look back,
the lead dirt of the composing room
on my face,
seventy-five cents in my pocket,
SPRING IN THE AIR...

*

The piece got left in the middle.
It rained and swamped the lines.
But oh! what I would have written...
The starving writer sitting on his three-thousand-page
three-volume manuscript
wouldn't stare at the window of the kebab joint
but with his shining eyes would take
the Armenian bookseller's dark plump daughter by storm...
The sea would start smelling sweet.
Spring would rear up
like a sweating red mare
and, leaping onto its bare back,
I'd ride it
into the water.
Then
my typewriter would follow me
every step of the way.
I'd say:
"Oh, don't do it!
Leave me alone for an hour..."
then
my head-my hair failing out--
would shout into the distance:
"I AM IN LOVE..."

*

I'm twenty-seven,
she's seventeen.
"Blind Cupid,
lame Cupid,
both blind and lame Cupid
said, Love this girl,"
I was going to write;
I couldn't say it
but still can!
But if
it rained,
if the lines I wrote got swamped,
if I have twenty-five cents left in my pocket,
what the hell...
Hey, spring is here spring is here spring
spring is here!
My blood is budding inside me!

20 and 21 April 1929
_____________________

Գարնանային Ընդմիջում

Հաստ, պրկուած մատներ կը հարուածեն
գրամեքենայիս ատամները։
Երեք բառեր թուղթի վրայ են արդէն,
գլխագի՛ր.-
ԳԱՐՈՒՆ
ԳԱՐՈՒՆ
ԳԱՐՈՒՆ...
եւ ես – քերթող, սրբագրիչ,
անձ մը՝ որ ստիպուած է կարդալ
երկու հազար անպէտք տողեր
ամէն օր
երկու լիրայի համար --
ինչու՞,
գարնան գալուստէն ի վեր
ես հոս դեռ
կը մնամ նստած՝՝
նման խարխլած
սեւ աթոռի մը։
Գլուխս ինքնին գտակը կը դնէ,
կը սլանամ դուրս տպարանէն,
փողոցն եմ արդէն։
Գրաշարատան կապարի փոշին
դէմքիս,
գրպանս՝ եօթանասոնըհինգ փարա։
ԳԱՐՆԱՆ ԲՈՅՐ ԿՈՒԳԱՅ...
Սափրիչները
բրնձափոշի կը սփռեն
Հրատարակչական Տուներու Պողոտային
թափթփուքներուն տժգոյն այտերուն։
Եւ խանութներու ցուցափեղկերէն
գիրքերու բազմերանգ կողքեր կը ցոլան
արեւահար հայելիներու նման։
Բայց ես,
չունիմ նոյն իսկ ԱԲԳ-ի գրքոյկ մը
որպէս բնակիչ այս փողոցին՝
որ իմ անունս ցուցադրէ դրան ճակտին։
Բայց, կրողը տանի...
Ետ չեմ նայիր,
գրաշարատան կապարի փոշին
դէմքիս,
գրպանս՝ եօթանասոնըհինգ փարա։
ԳԱՐՆԱՆ ԲՈՅՐ ԿՈՒԳԱՅ...
*
Կտորը կիսատ մնաց։
Անձրեւահար ողողուեցան տողերը։
Բայց, ա՜խ, ինչե՜ր կարող էի գրել...
Սովահար գրողը, նստած իր երեք հազար էջ,
Երեք հատոր ձեռագրին վրայ
աչքերը պիտի չյառէր խորովածի խանութին
պատուհանին
այլ իր կայծկլտուն աչքերով պիտի դիւթեր
հայ գրատան տիրոջ գիրուկ դուստրը...
Ծովը անուշ պիտի բուրեր։
Գարունը պիտի կանգներ
քրտնած կարմիր մատակի մը նման
եւ, ոստումով մը անոր մերկ մէջքին վրայ
պիտի հեծնէի ու տանէի զայն
դէպի ջուրերը։
Յետոյ,
գրամեքենաս պիտի հետեւեր
ամէն մէկ քայլիս։
Պիտի ըսէի։
«Դադար տու՛ր։
Ժամ մը առանձին ձգէ՛ զիս . . .»
Յետոյ,
գլուխս-վարսերս անոպայ --
պիտի ճչային աշխարհին..-
«ՍԻՐԱՀԱՐՈՒԱԾ ԵՄ...»
*
Քսանըեօթը տարեկան եմ,
աղջիկը տասնըեօթ։
«Կոյ՛ր Երոս,
անճարա՛կ Երոս,
կոյր ե՛ւ անճարակ Երոս--
ըսաւ, Սիրէ՛ այս աղջիկը,»
պիտի գրէի՝
չկարողացայ ըսել
բայց կարող եմ տակաւին։
Իսկ եթէ անձրեւեց,
եթէ գրած տողերս թռչուեցան,
եթէ գրպանս քսանըհինգ փարա է մնացած,
խերն անիծած . . .
Հէյ՛, գարուն է, գարուն է, գարու՛ն,
գարու՛ն է հասեր։
Արիւնս կը ծլի մարմնէս ներս։

……………………Նազիմ Հիքմէթ
20 եւ 21 ապրիլ 1929
Թարգմանեց  Թաթուլ Սոնենց

Ibbetson Street #32

In this issue we are glad to be featuring the work of Diana Der-Hovanessian, longtime president of the New England Poetry Club. Not only has Diana directed the Poetry Club for decades, arranging countless readings of world-renowned as well as local poets, she has also won numerous awards for her poetry and poetry collections. Diana has written extensively about the Armenian Holocaust and has been a strong voice in making sure this Holocaust will not fall into the dustbin of history. 

To purchase this issue, please click here: http://www.ibbetsonpress.com/

Philip Levine: The New World

A man roams the streets with a basket
of freestone peaches hollering, "Peaches,
peaches, yellow freestone peaches for sale."
My grandfather in his prime could outshout
the Tigers of Wrath or the factory whistles
along the river. Hamtramck hungered
for yellow freestone peaches, downriver
wakened from a dream of work, Zug Island danced
into the bright day glad to be alive.
Full-figured women in their negligees
streamed into the streets from the dark doorways
to demand in Polish or Armenian
the ripened offerings of this new world.
Josef Prisckulnick out of Dubrovitsa
to Detroit by way of Ellis Island
raised himself regally to his full height
of five feet two and transacted until
the fruit was gone into those eager hands.
Thus would there be a letter sent across
an ocean and a continent, and thus
would Sadie waken to the news of wealth
without limit in the bright and distant land,
and thus bags were packed and she set sail
for America. Some of this is true.
The women were gaunt. All day the kids dug
in the back lots searching for anything.
The place was Russia with another name.
Joe was five feet two. Dubrovitsa burned
to gray ashes the west wind carried off,
then Rovno went, then the Dnieper turned to dust.
We sat around the table telling lies
while the late light filled an empty glass.
Bread, onions, the smell of burning butter,
small white potatoes we shared with no one
because the hour was wrong, the guest was late,
and this was Michigan in 1928.