The Anthology of Armenian Poets. Volume I

The Anthology of Armenian Poets | Volume I

Updated February 26, 2014

The Anthology of

Armenian Poets THIRD EDITION Edited by Samvel Mkrtchyan

Volume I

STILL BALLASTING THE BOOK--WITH PLEASURE It’s impossible for me to contact ALL the poets for my anthology--I’ll try to contact them when the book is put into final form. I’m working on it, and nothing can stop me to prepare a REASONABLE book of Armenian poetry. If you are really “enraged”, please let me know, and I will exclude your poems from the anthology.

My emails are jassamvel@yahoo.com, samvel.mkrtchyan@live.com.

You can follow me at www.samvelmkrtchyan.am.

I do thank all those truly original poets in Armenia and Diaspora, who have encouraged me--with advice or by submitting their poems.

-Samvel Mkrtchyan December 22, 2013.

P.S. for some copyright-addicts: James Joyce’s “Ulysses” (the 1922 text) is in public domain since January 2012. My translation was published in 2012.

S&H PROJECT 2014

The Anthology of Armenian Poets, Volume I. Third Edition, formerly titled “Selected Armenian Poets,” 2014, revised and enlarged.

Originally published in 1993 by SamSon Publishers. Second revised edition published in 2012.

This anthology © by Samvel Mkrtchyan 1993, 2012, 2013, 2014.

S&H Project supervised by Hasmik Danielyan.

Design: Samvel Mkrtchyan.

Sources and Acknowledgements

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Sources of poems reprinted in this selection (Volumes I and II) (by permission, when copyrighted): The Heritage of Armenian Literature. Volumes II and III, Edited by Agop J. Hacikyan (Coordinating Editor), Gabriel Basmajian, Edward S. Franchuk, Nourhan Ouzounian. Wayne State University Press, Detroit 2000-2005.* © by Agop J. Hacikyan, Gabriel Basmajian, Edward S. Franchuk, Nourhan Ouzounian.

Armenian Poems. Rendered into English by Alice Stone Blackwell, Boston 1917.

Anthology of Armenian Poetry. Translated by Diana Der Hovanessian, edited by Diana Der Hovanessian and Marzbed Margossian. Columbia University Press 1978. © by Diana Der Hovanessian.

Modern Eastern Armenian Poets Selected and Translated by Samvel Mkrtchyan. Nairi Publishers, Yerevan 2004. © by Samvel Mkrtchyan.

Contemporary Armenian Poetry. Compiled by Levon Ananyan, Edited

by Diana Der Hovanessian, Writers’ Union of Armenia, Yerevan 2006. © by WUA. Armenian Poetry Old and New. Compiled and Translated by Aram Tolegian, Detroit 1979. © by Aram Tolegian.

Armenian-American Poets. A Bilingual Anthology. Compiled and Translated by Garig Basmadjian. Detroit 1976. © by AGBU Alex Manoogian Cultural Fund.

Soviet Armenian Poetry. Translated by Mischa Kudian, Mashtots Press, London 1974. © by Mischa Kudian.

The Other Voice. Armenian Women’s Poetry Through the Ages. Translated by Diana Der Hovanessian, Edited by Maro Dalley. AIWA Press, Watertown 2005. © by Diana Der Hovanessian.

The editor also acknowledges permission to reproduce copyright poems for the following authors:

For Arshile Gorky: Arshile Gorky, Sing when you receive this letter.

Winter 1994 issue of Ararat Quarterly.

For William Saroyan: My Name Is Saroyan, A Collection Edited with a Commentary by James H. Tashjian, Harcourt Brace Jovanovich 1983. © 1983 by HBJ. For Archie Minasian: Selected Poems, Ashod Press, 1986. © by Helen Minasian.

For Leonardo Alishan: Leonardo Alishan, Dancing Barefoot on Broken Glass. Ashod Press, New York 1991. © 1991 by Leonardo Alishan.

For Diana Der Hovanessian’s Playing with words and Teaching you Armenian: How to Choose Your Past, Ararat Press, 1978. ©Diana Der Hovanessian.

For Shoushig Dasnabedian: Selected Poems by Shoushig Dasnabedian, Translated by Samvel Mkrtchyan, Edited by Antoine Kehyaian, NorDar, Yerevan 1999. © 1999 by Shoushig Dasnabedian.

For Aram Saroyan: Complete Minimal Poems Edited by Aram Saroyan and James Hoff. Ugly Duckling Press (2007).

For Vahé Armen: Vahé Armen. Scream and Other Poems. Translated by Samvel Mkrtchyan. Van Aryan, Yerevan 2000. © 2000 by Vahé Armen.

For William Michaelian: William Michaelian, Another Song I Know.

Short Poems. Cosmopsis Books, San Francisco 2007. © 2007 by William Michaelian. And: The Painting of You. Author’s Press Se-

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Sources and Acknowledgements

ries, Vol. I, Salem, Oregon 2009. © 2009 by William Michaelian.

For Lorne Shirinian’s Armenian Poets: Earthquake: Poems by Lorne Shirinian.Mellen Poetry Series, Volume 16, NY 1991. © Lorne Shirinian.

For Paul Aloojian, James Baloian, Brenda Najimian Magarity: Armenian Town. Foreword by Dickran Kouymjian, © 2001 by the William Saroyan Society.

For Violet Grigoryan, and Karen Karslyan: Deviation. Anthology of Contemporary Armenian Literature. Inknagir, Yerevan 2008. © 2008, Inqnagir Literary Club.

For Ara Mgrdichian: Random Agenda. A Literary Journal, Edited by Anahid Aramouni Keshishian. Volume I, Los Angeles 2005. © 2005

by Arena Productions.

For Sylva Dakessian: Birthmark: A Bilingual Anthology of ArmenianAmerican Poetry, 1999.

For Tina Demirdjian: Birthmark: A Bilingual Anthology of ArmenianAmerican Poetry, 1999.

For Alan Semerdjian: araratmagazine.org/2011/11. © Alan Semerdjian.

For Yeva Adalyan: Yeva Adalyan, Honey A La Carte. Arax Press, Los Angeles 2003. © 2003 by Yeva Adalyan. * “et al” in Translated by Agop J. Hacikyan et al in this book refers to Gabriel Basmajian, Edward S. Franchuk and Nourhan Ouzounian.

Editor’s Notes

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Editor’s Notes to the 1993 and 2012 editions “When the violin repeats what the piano has just played, it cannot make the same sounds and it can only approximate the same chords. It can, however, make recognizably the same 'music,' the same air. But it can do so only when it is as faithful to the self-logic of the violin as it is to the self-logic of the piano.

Language too is an instrument, and each language has its own logic. I believe that the process of rendering from language to language is better conceived as a ‘transposition’ than as a translation, for 'translation' implies a series of word-for-word equivalents that do not exist across language boundaries any more than piano sounds' exist in the violin [...] What must be saved, even at the expense of making four strings do for eighty-eight keys, is the total feeling of the complex, its gestalt.”

The passage is from John Ciardi's preface to his “transposition” of The Inferno. The “total feeling of the complex” he writes about becomes even more complicated when one compiles an anthology of different translations since every translator has his or her own special form of procedure. Some prefer a simple prose translation, or paraphrasing; others render, “move over” poetry into another language. It is said, too, that a metrical translation is recreation. Terms, I believe, do not matter.

What matters is the quality, the approximation of the logic of the translation to that of the original. By logic – or self-logic – I mean not only the apprehensible attribute, but also the invisible qualities Vahé Oshagan once referred to: “the culture in which it (the poem) is embedded, and the secret rhythm, the respiration, the surge below the surface.”

After all, if we conform to Shelley’s description of poetry as “something not subject to the active powers of the mind,” I believe the recreation of a poem may be considered as an intuitive process. This selection offers a variety of translations and methods, that, I do hope, does not demolish the framework.

In any survey of Armenian poetry it has been mentioned for better or for worse, that Armenia was the first state to adopt Christianity. As a matter of fact, Armenian poetry is Christian, though it trades back to pre-Christian era, some fragments of which have survived. Medieval Armenian verse is genuinely religious. Grigor Narekatsi stands out in particular with The Book of Lamentations. Then came poets who wrote about romantic love, and somewhat monotonous poetry became at once witty and earnest, ironic and visionary.

In the 18th century, which coincides with the Renaissance of Armenian literature after a relative fall, the politically separated nation developed two literary dialects, Western and Eastern. The Armenian Romanticism was immediately followed by a political oppression and tight censorship imposed by the Turkish and the Russian governments.

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Editor’s Notes

During the Turkish massacres beginning from 1896 the Armenian poets were surprisingly productive. The 20th century Armenian poetry has developed in two branches, one in the Diaspora, the other in Armenia. Included in this volume are also poets of Armenian origin having written or writing in English.

The book representing Armenian poets during the past 1500 years aims at exhibiting Armenian poetry to the English-speaking world – a somewhat venturous undertaking in the case of a small nation speaking and writing in an idiosyncratic language. There are several useful anthologies, published in the United States, representing Armenian poetry in English, but they also comprise much secondary material. Of course an anthologist is indebted to his or her forerunners, and it is demanded of him or her to expurgate, append and make it diverse enough to encompass each poet’s individuality. For me, the contribution of comparatively recent diasporan Armenians writng in English and somewhat resisting assimilation through poetry has been very valuable.

In transliterating the Armenian names into English Eastern Armenian is used, without diacritics, for all the poets, except those who lived or live outside Armenia and used or use the Western Armenian transliteration (Varoujan is an exception: j is pronounced as s in “pleasure”). Since the names in poems may vary in spelling (as Petrus Dourian-Bedros Tourian, or Baloian-Baloyan) the particular spelling of each individual poet has been preserved. Therefore, the reader may also find cases of both British and American English spelling.

If the chief end of poetry, as John Dryden said, is to delight, I would like to think this selection will not disappoint. With no biographical notes, still the chief end of this third edition is to introduce Armenian poetry.

And, hopefully, to delight.

A Note to the 2013 edition This is a substantially improved and enlarged edition of a book that originally appeared 20 years ago, in 1993, with only 68 poets selected – a rough draft of what would emerge in 2012 as a major book. Yet, as soon as the latter went to press with the translations and original works of 139 authors, new poets and poems “emerged”, making the third edition almost indispensable. I could say this edition of 2013 appeals to me, should the feeling of incompleteness haunting any anthologist cease to agitate. But then again, what is complete?

S. M. Yerevan, 2013

The Poets SAHAK PARTEV MESROP MASHTOTS MOVSES KHORENATSI HOVHAN MANDAKOUNI DAVTAK KERTOGH SAHAKDOUKHT SYUNETSI GRIGOR NAREKATSI VARDAN ANETSI GRIGOR MAGISTROS PAHLAVUNI ARISTAKES LASTIVERTTSI HOVHANNES SARKAVAG IMASTASER VARDAN HAIKAZN NERSES SHNORHALI GRIGOR MARASHETSI GRIGOR TGHA HOVHANNES YERZENKATSI PLOUZ KOSTANDIN YERZENKATSI FRIK MKRTICH NAGHASH HOVHANNES TLKOURANTSI GRIGORIS AGHTAMARTSI NAHAPET KOUCHAK NERSES MOKATSI NAGHASH HOVNATAN PAGHDASSAR DPIR SAYAT-NOVA HOVHANNES KARNETSI MESROP TAGHIADIAN GHEVOND ALISHAN MCKRTICH PESHIKTASHLIAN MIKAEL NALBANDIAN RAPHAEL PATKANIAN RAFFI GAREGIN SRVANTSTIAN SMBAT SHAHAZIZ JIVANI PETROS DOURIAN YEGHIA DEMIRJIBASHIAN ZABEL ASSATOUR HOVHANNES HOVHANNESSIAN AVETIS AHARONIAN KOMITAS HOVHANNES TOUMANIAN ALEXANDER TSATOURIAN ARSHAK CHOPANIAN INTRA AVETIK ISAHAKIAN SHUSHANIK KURGHINIAN SIAMANTO VAHAN TEKEYAN DANIEL VAROUJAN KOSTAN ZARIAN RUBEN SEVAK VAHAN TERYAN MISAK METSARENTS LEON SRABIAN HERALD MATTHEOS ZARIFIAN

The Poets

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The Poets

HAMASTEGH HMAYAK SHEMS YEGISHÉ CHARENTS BUZAND TOPALIAN GOURGEN MAHARI ARSHILE GORKY NIGOGHOS SARAFIAN WILLIAM SAROYAN MOUSHEGH ISHKHAN HOVHANNES SHIRAZ HAMO SAHIAN MARO MARGARYAN ZORAYR MIRZAYAN SILVA KAPUTIKYAN GEVORG EMIN SHEN MAH HRACHYA HOVHANNISYAN LEO HAMALIAN VAHAGN DAVTYAN VAHÉ OSHAGAN PARUIR SEVAK ZAHRAD ZAREH KHRAKHUNI METAKSÉ DIANA DER HOVANESSIAN SOUREN MURADYAN DAVID KHERDIAN HAIG KHATCHADOURIAN HELENE PILIBOSIAN ZOULAL KAZANDJIAN LUDWIG DURYAN VIVIAN KURKJIAN ARA BALIOZIAN YURI SAHAKYAN HAGOP MISSAK MERJIAN VARDAN VANATOUR HAROLD BOND SLAVIK CHILOYAN RAZMIK DAVOYAN JAMES BALOIAN HENRIK EDOYAN AREVSHAT AVAGYAN RALPH SETIAN VARLEN ALEXANYAN JAMES MAGORIAN ARMEN MARTIROSYAN ARAM SAROYAN LORNE SHIRINIAN DAVIT HOVHANNES ALICIA GHIRAGOSSIAN ROMIK SARDARYAN HOVHANNES GRIGORYAN

The Anthology of

Armenian Poets Volume I

Edited by Samvel Mkrtchyan

The Anthology of Armenian Poets | Volume I

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SAHAK PARTEV -Samvel Mkrtchyan

348-439

WHEN JESUS ENTERED

When Jesus entered The city of Jerusalem, Old men came to meet him With olive branches.

Glorifying the Son of God. From the Mount of olives Children were waving their cloaks, Then they delivered Branches of the tree To the Son of God. the Holy King.

The children of the Jews Blessed him with olive branches and leaves.

Rejoice, O city of Jerusalem, Exalt to the skies, O Zion, Mother of Churches.

TODAY, COMING TO BETHANY Today, coming to Bethany By your powerful order You have called Lazarus’ name, And death shuddered, The Hell was conquered.

Impurity dispersed: O viable Christ.

Make us live.

Today, coming to Bethany.

Of your eminent And holy resurrection You have spread the news.

Most truly called On the fourth day after the burial: O viable Christ.

Make us live.

Today, coming to Bethany.

The children of the Jews Were shouting in delight: “Mary’s brother Has risen from the dead

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By Mary’s Holy Son.” O viable Christ Make us live.

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MESROP MASHTOTS c. 362-440

I AM ENDANGERED BY MY MULTITUDINOUS SINS I am endangered by my multitudinous sins; Help me, God of peacefulness.

I am surging In the wind of my disobedience; Help me. King of peacefulness.

I am billowing in the sea of my sins; Save me, good Captain.

-Samvel Mkrtchyan

MY SINS ARE SO NUMEROUS My sins are so numerous.

As many as the sands of sea.

Since you are the one to forgive, Have mercy on me, O Lord.

Open, O Lord, the door of forbearance, I beseech you, mourning.

Since you are the one to forgive, Have mercy on me, O Lord.

Cover me with forgiveness.

You, full of mercy and love.

Since you are the one to forgive, Have mercy on me, O Lord.

-Samvel Mkrtchyan

I PREVENTED THE MORNINGS I prevented the mornings That you might see me.

My King and my God. And each morning You can hear my voice, O Lord, My King and my God. It’s me beseeching you. Lord, Look at my prayers.

My King and my God.

-Samvel Mkrtchyan

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HELP US IN NEED

Help us in need, oh Lord, as You helped Jonah in his hardships.

Cleanse us of sin, oh Lord, as You cleansed the publican.

Preserve us from treacherous lips, and help us live as our fathers would have us live.

-Diana Der Hovanessian

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MOVSES KHORENATSI 410-483

-Samvel Mkrtchyan

PILLAR OF LIGHT Pillar of light, and canopy, Holy Virgin, Who spread on us the heavenly dew, We praise you, Mother and Virgin.

Unwithering raspberry and earthly saint, Holy Virgin, Since we received the fruit of life through you, We praise you, Mother and Virgin.

Remitter of curses and forgiver of sins, Holy Virgin, Who held In her lap the holiest of creatures, We praise you, Mother and Virgin.

REJOICE, MARY Rejoice, Mary, Mother of Jesus, You who bore in your womb The God of our fathers.

Rejoice, Mary, taintless virgin.

You who bore your son Inexplicably, The God of our fathers.

Rejoice, Mary, Mother of Jesus, For you engendered the light of our Iives, Jesus God of our fathers.

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HOVHAN MANDAKOUNI 5th Century

HOLY TRANSLATORS’ CANON Exalt today, all you nations and races, For we celebrate the Holy Translators Who shone with the heavenly light.

They rejoiced to the glory of the Son of God, Powerful and stalwart they fought their war And conquered the unlawful prince.

The bodiless embodied, With angelic virtue and glory They ornamented the Holy Church And became preachers of the Son of God. They mastered the mind divine Founding the vivid script on the earth To shepherd new Israel’s flock; Blessed be our God with a mellifluous song.

They called Darkness the worldly abundance, Setting hopes upon the Immortal Bridegroom.

They proved to be worthy of the speechless thoughts; Blessed be our God with a mellifluous song.

They founded St. Grigor’s seat With the power of God’s wisdom, Translating the hieroglyphs; Blessed be our God with a mellifluous song.

-Samvel Mkrtchyan

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DAVTAK KERTOGH 7th Century

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF THE GREAT PRINCE JEVANSHER [Ayb] Inventive spirit of the word of God, compose with wisdom this melancholy song, that with mournful voice we may for ever lament our bitter loss.

[Ben] Great ruin overtook our eastern land and the noises of destruction echoed through the earth; may all nations and peoples hear my words and all creatures born on earth lament with me.

[Gim] The living rock and strong has overturned, the wall of strength is dashed down, the tower of reason overthrown, the bulwark of posterity split and fallen asunder.

[Da] Our peace has turned to bitterness and the gates of the marauders shall pour them forth upon us, for his wonderful reign has been destroyed and the light of his miraculous rule has died.

[Yeeh] The curses with which the prophet Isaiah threatened us long ago have come and fallen upon us, for on the day of the Feast of the Lord’s Cross we were reduced to sorrow and bitter weeping.

[Za] They dug a pit of utter perdition to trap the good shepherd; the spirit of error breathed within them and they concealed the snare of death.

[E’] He sat like a lion in his lair, and silent his enemies trembled before him; the lords of noble families and all the princes obeyed him in fear and love.

[Et] His fame spread over the whole earth and his glory extended to the ends of the world; the whole universe lauded and acclaimed the power of his intellect and the wisdom of his judgement.

[To] The king of the Greeks and the prince of the south eagerly sought to behold our lord;

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receiving him with respectful salutations and crowning him in glory, they greatly honored him.

[Zhe’] The hour of our misfortunes suddenly came upon us and chastised our impenitent corruption; we angered the Creator by our deeds, and he plunged the supreme power of the land into perdition.

[Ini] His protectors abandoned him and help from above departed from him; for the Lord withdrew on the evil day and left him to be trampled underfoot by wicked men.

[Liun] The diabolical enemy bent his bow and wetted his cunning dissimulation of love as though it were a sword; wounding him grievously, he brought destruction upon him by night, as formerly it came upon the terrible Maob.

[Khe’] On a deceitful pretext he parted from him, and then, with merciless blows, he wounded the noble man; (thou wert proud above the nations of the world and wounded deeply those who roused thee, but now the sun hath taken another path, and sons of thy slaves have rushed brazenly upon thee).

[Tza] The child of evil who sinned against him, the son of lawlessness who ill-used him– may he walk the earth weighed down with maledictions, may he roam and wander in uncertainty like Cain!

[Ken] May twigs entangle him as he flees, birds of the skies crowd in flight above him, crows of the valleys fly at him and wild beasts lie in wait for him!

[Ho] May the fire of Herod be send against him, worms and rats breed on him, grievous burns inflame him and devour the body of this regicide!

[Dza] May the hand which was raised to kill his master and the feet which trampled on his splendid countenance be shriveled by a virulent leprosy, and may ringworms break out upon him in cankerous sores.

[Ghat] May he hide and rest in the shade of briers, may broods of serpents offend him,

The Anthology of Armenian Poets | Volume I

may the venim of aspics spread through his body and burst him with excessive swellings.

[Che’] He was the torch of true peace for us; the valiant Jevanshir was our pilot, the tamer of the fury of the waves who quelled all risings of those who sought to enslave us.

[Men] Strung with pearls were words of his mouth, and his life shone with virtue.

[Hi] He would rise from his slumbers like a lion-cub, And going forth at dawn Would carry away and distribute the choice morsels of sheep.

[Nu] He would sleep in the body while with waking soul he drove the chariot of Mars among the stars, bravely bearing off the flower of wisdom.

[Sha] The graces of devotion flow abundantly in drops from the side of Jesus; his bosom, broad as the ocean, breathes through his sweet and pleasing nostrils the perfume of immortality, symbol of the Holy Spirit.

[Vo] My elegy is not upon immortal nymphs or ostrich flocks, but is a bitter lament for a multitude of sons, for you bereft ones left behind, for a deserted town.

[Cha] May not the bitter days of painful death be counted among the years of time; may he who so ill-used thee wither in adversity.

[Pe’] For us thy shining sun was light that never failed; alas!

That night and gloomy darkness and a lightless body cut off thy countenance from us and cast a shadow, never to be dispersed, over us thy people.

[Je’] I burn with anger, I am consumed with grief, When I behold thy exalted throne bereft of thee.

[Ra] Thy feet walked in the path of consolation, wherefore my eyes, painful and sore, stream like fountains of tears.

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[Se’] the ones thou lovedst burn with love of thee and recall the never-to-be-forgotten love; O that we were sweet-scented incense And might perfume thy tomb!

[Ve’] Our crown has vanished, our throne has gone, and our glory and splendor are buried with thee.

[Tiun] The shores of Lake Tiberias and the mountains Lebanon prospered through thee; at the sight of serpents of the north wind they called for thee, and when thou didst not appear, Huns with their axes felled the pomegranate trees.

[Re’] Hosts of kings are clothed in mourning for thee; the veils of brides are covered thick with dust.

[Tso] They grieve and grieve and bitterly weep.

[Hiun] They lament and sit alone, Like birds whose chicks have died.

[Piur] They hasten to cast away their robes, despising glory; through thee we learned again the vanity of fame and how none may remain on earth.

[Ke’] It would be sweet to speak of other things, for sad it is to lament, but sweetest of all would be to die with thee!

-Charles Dowsett

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SAHAKDOUKHT SIUNETSI 8th Century

SAINT MARY Saint Mary, incorruptible altar, giver of life, mother of life-giving words, blessed are you among women, joyful virgin mother of God. Spiritual orchard, bright flower, you conceived from God, as from rains flowing through the soul, the word, and with the shield of your body made it apparent to men.

Heavenly fountain and earthly distributor of life, who from the rays of divine light restored light to us and redeemed our forefathers from the fall, blessed are you among women, Joyful and virgin mother of God. Appearing to angels in majesty you are our heaven on earth.

In your bosom you carried the ruler of heaven’s armies.

Blessed are you among women, Joyful and virgin mother of God. Known gate of heaven, stairway of God, mediator of peace, you alleviated the labor pains of the first mother Eve, overcame death; Blessed are you among women, Joyful virgin mother of God. Death was overcome: the nest of life was opened by you, and also the road to seraphic protection. You stripped the fire from the sword of wrath; Blessed are you among women, joyful and virgin mother of God. Our happiness began with the greeting: The Lord is with you With the faithful multitudes that praise you, you stand blessed among women,

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Joyful virgin mother of God.

Unassumed habitat of the word that conceived the fire of divinity and was not consumed, you are blessed like the burning bush and stand blessed among women, joyful and virgin mother of God. Known but mysterious redemption you rose up to spread the beauty of spiritual wings over the world.

High as the soul, you raised this earth with you to the level of angels.

Blessed are you among women, joyful and virgin mother of God. To the highest King of Eternity, too, let us give glory, to Him who was made flesh from the sacred virgin to save earthen creatures from sin.

Blessed are you among women, joyful mother of God.

-Diana Der Hovanessian

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GRIGOR NAREKATSI -Mischa Kudian

951-1003

THE BOOK OF LAMENTATIONS Elegy 1 Words unto God from the Depths of My Heart 1 The plaintive cry of sobbing sighs from my heart I proffer unto thee, who seest all secrets; And placing the fruit of the ardent desires From my troubled mind, Upon the fire of grief that consumeth my soul, With my will as incense burner, I forward it to thee, O compassionate Lord!

Gaze upon this, main offering, As upon a sacrifice rich with smoke; And savor the aroma of its fumes.

Receive this array of inadequate words, With pleasure and not with anger.

Let this voluntary gift, Emerging from the depths of the emotions, In the mystery-laden chamber of my soul, Reach thee with speed, Through the power of the sacrificial offering Of the far that fatteneth me.

Let not my pleading thus by supplication Seem odious unto thee, almighty God, As did the uplifted hands of the impious Jacob, About which Isaiah protesteth; Or as the injustice of Babylon, To which the seventy-second Psalm alludeth; But let it be willingly acceptable unto thee, Like the sweet-scented incense Which pervaded the tent of Shiloh, That David had pitched anew, To rest within it the ark, Returned from captivity: The very image of my soul, Lost and regained.

2 But the terrifying voice of thy judgment of retribution, Powerfully reverberating in the Valley of Revenge, Resuscitateth wars of numerous forms against me;

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And I feel within me, even now, Opposing commotions of turbulent hosts: A multitude of counsels, both evil and good, Which, as swords and armor, clash together, And lead me to captivity, and to death, In accordance with the incident of old, Before thy grace reached unto me; To which alludeth Paul, The elect one from the group of disciples, When, by setting forth the law of Moses, He demonstrateth victory in the redemption of Christ.

For if, as the Scriptures say, The Lord’s Day is nigh at hand, In the narrow valley of Jehoshaphat And by the brook of Kidron, Those small arenas assigned for the judgment, Which, with the transitoriness of this life, Reveal unto me the eternity of the next, Therefore, much more speedily Will the incarnate kingdom of God come unto me, And finding me guilty of my numerous sins, Even more multiplied, Each one a truthful accuser against me, God will punish me with greater severity Then when he raised his hand To strike the Edomites, the Philistines, And other barbaric races; For the sentences passed upon them Were meted out with years, Whereas mine shall be boundless and infinite.

Fear, and the pit, and the inevitable snare, According to the prophet and the teller of parables, Noisily pound upon my door, And even now describe mine eternal shame.

Only thou canst bring about A miraculous cure, O Lord, To make life possible Amidst the perplexing bewilderments That endanger the soul, O thou atoner of all sins, Who with limitless grandeur Art praised with indefinite glory For ever and ever.

Elegy 2 Words unto God from the Depths of My Heart 1 And now, O my sinful soul,

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Since with thy bodily lips Thou callest upon the supreme Gog, He who is only drawn to deeds, He whom verses cannot corrupt; Since thou hast always turned thy heart towards Egypt, What suitable and what comparable example to thee Shall I bring forth here?

I am of the culpable of Sodom destroyed; I am the silenced denouncer of Nineveh I am a more timid barbarian than the queen of the south More lowly then Canaan; More obstinate than Amalek; I am the unhealed city of idols; The remaining vestige of backsliding Israel of old; The preserved memory of treacherous Judah; I am more reproachable than Tyre; More banished than Zidon; More depraved than Galilee; More unpardonable than faithless Capernaum; Condemned like Charazin; Slandered with Bethsaida; I am Ephraim’s hair turned gray in immodesty; I am a gentle dove, But always through folly and not through humbleness; I am a villainous serpent, born of lions’ whelps; The egg of a cockatrice, filled with wickedness; The im,age of the final blows of Jerusalem, According to the words of our Lord, And as predicted by the prophets; I am the forsaken tabernacle on the verge of collapse; The broken lock on a door; The forlorn fitting inheritance; The forgotten house built by God, As foretold by Moses, David, and Jeremiah.

I am a rational dwelling, but infected with leprosy, Tortured by the reproach of penitence, Invigorated by the Holy Law, Anointed with a clay of caressing meekness.

Helpless in mine efforts to rise, I was destroyed by my maker’s hand; And, upon the order of the Almighty, I was justly cast out into an unholy place, Inexorable banished far, far away.

I am the useless coin buried beneath the soil, By the loser of the entrusted talent, As told in the Gospel.

2 But thou, O God, the God of the spirits of all flesh,

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As professed by him whom thou hast graced Thou who art slow to anger, and plenteous in mercy, According to the words of Jonah, Grant me the strength, That with the holy will of thy pleasure, I may complete this prayer-book of lamentations Which I have begum.

And whilst now, tearfully I sow my words As I tread upon the road to the dwellings When the time for the harvesting cometh, Grant that I may return with the joy of full atonement And the blessed fruit of the goodly sheaves.

O most compassionate one, do not give me, As thou didst give unto Israel, A heart like a miscarrying womb And eyes like dry breasts Hearken unto the prayers of mine intellect, O mighty and merciful God, Before even thou hearkenst unto heaven; Before the heaven hearkeneth unto the earth; The earth unto the wheat, and the wine, and the oil; And may the supplication of the heavenly ones unto thee Effect their influence my soul, More then upon the corrupt elements.

Thou who ary the creator, and I, the clay, Hesitant upon the threshold of these my mournful prayers, Reveal thy sweet will unto me, That I may be fortified even here upon earth, That when the heavens are rent open before me, I may not be found unsuited to enjoy the light And be consumed like candlewax, and be totally annulled.

Thou who art the stronghold in my distress, According to the cry of the supplicant; Thou who art the strength in my lassitude; The life, when depleted I like, through my conscience And not through the ardour of a desire to seek thee; Receive the consignment of my prayers, And grant me the compassion of thy grece.

Accept this small offering from a weakling, And endow me with a great gift from thy might.

Strengthen the words of my repentance By sending thy spirit unto us from above, Through the divine oracles herein quoted.

Grant, O Benefactor, That the parable of Isaiah be revealed in the light of truth, By endowing me, who am worthy of death, In place of the ignoble brass of my voice, The gold of thy grace; In place of the unadorning black of mine iron,

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The embellishing hue of copper, Being the symbol of virtue from incandescent Lebanon.

Why dost thou harden the heart of my pitiful being, That I may not fear thee, O ineffable and redoubtable one?

Let me not be unfruitful in this minor toil, Like the vain labour of the sower of a barren land.

Let me not conceive and not give birth; Lament and not weep; Meditate and not sigh; Grow cloudy and not rain; Run and reach.

Let me not cry out and thou not hear; Implore and remain unheeded; Groan and be unpitied; Beseech and receive no aid Sacrifice and not emit smoke.

Let me not see thee and emerge vacant.

Hear me, thou the only mighty one, Even before I call unto thee Do not render the remaining punishment of torments According to the number of days Which I, an evil-doer, have sinned.

Give me life, O compassionate Lord; Hearken unto me, O merciful God; Favor me with kindness, thou who forgives; Spare me, thou forbearing one; Defend me, O protector; Be charitable unto me, almighty God; Save me, thou omnipotent one; Revive me, O thou who restorest; Raise me again, O formidable one; Illuminate, heal, atone me, O heavenly, vise, unfathomable God; Bestow me thy gifts, O generous one, Adorn me with thy graces, thou without envy; Be reconciled with me, thou without blemish; Accept me, O unvengeful God; Abolish my sins, blessed Lord!

When on mine unhappy final day, I fasten mine eyes upon the twofold peril, Let me perceive thy salvation, O thou hope and guardian!

And if then I turn my gaze upwards attentively Onto the terrifying all-enveloping path, Let thine angel of peace meet me with tenderness.

And on the day when I expire my final breath, Let me see, O Lord, A soul of purity upon the wings of light,

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A soul of the happy in heaven, And let it reach me with the offer thy love.

Of the righteous from the dead, Send me a compassionate one, And grant me, who am an evil-doer, A surprise of kindness on my day of despair.

Far be it for thee, O blessed one, Who art the salvation of all, To sent a cruel beast as a travelling companion Unto me, thy sick sheep.

Bestow upon me, who have died in sin, An uncorrupt life And redemption from my ruinous debts.

3 Wilt thou forget to be charitable, thou who art hope?

Wilt thou neglect thy compassion, thou who art solicitous?

Wilt thou change thy philanthropy, thou unalterable?

Cease to vivify, eternal one?

Wilt thou abandon mercy, thou happy fruit?

Wilt thou mar the gracious flower of thy charm; Dishonor the stately substance of thy wealth; Diminish the glory of thy hair of magnificence?

Wilt thou not preserve The Worthy ornament of splendour in thy crown?

If blessedness belong unto the merciful, And thou, who art a kingdom filled with desires, Wilt thou not grant me complete redemption?

Wilt thou not offer me a remedy for my wounds; An ointment for mine injuries; A cure for my debility?

Wilt thou not bring light in the darkness Unto me, whose hopes rest in thy might, Thou who endowest life unto the universe, Thou who possesses the essential, the true, And the perpetual glory, as witnessed by all, Thou who art hallowed and glorified in the three eternities, Nay, even beyond the limits of all conceivable eternities?

Amen.

Elegy 3 Words unto God from the Depths of My Heart 1 My Lord, O Lord God, Thou, the donator of gifts; Thou, the very essence of virtue; Thou, the equal ruler of everyone; The sole creator of all from naught;

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Thou, who ary glorified, impenetrable, formidable, Redoubtable, terrifying, powerful, vehement, Insufferable, inaccessible; Thou, inconceivable, incomprehensible, ineffable, Invisible, inscrutable, impalpable, unfathomable; Thou, without beginning, without time; Thou, unclouded wisdom, unerring vision, true existence; Thou, lofty yet humble and exalted being; Thou, unshadowed dawn, dazzling beam, avowed light; Thou, undoubted confidence, unwavering repose, Immutable seal, boundless view, attested name, The taste of charm, the cup of enchantment; Thou, who art the bread that fortifieth the soul; The love of alien darkness; O indubitable promise, Enviable veil, inviolable garment, covetable mantle, Ornament of glory; Thou who art helpful in thy greatness; Thou, lauded refuge, interminable grace, inexhaustible treasure; Unpolluted rain; dew sprinkled at break of day; Ubiquitous remedy; gratuitous cure; redoubled health; Thou, supreme encouragement; infallible call; Universal good tidings; O king who honorest the slaves; O protector who lovest the poor; O ever-wealthy benefactor; Thou, unrestrained recourse; irrevocable command; Unrestricted hope; long perception; Thou, impenitent donation; All-dispensing, equitable right hand; impartial eye; Thou, voice of consolation; message of appeasement; News of mirth; Thou, living name; provident finger; confident issue; O thou, behavior free from treachery; Thou, life-giving will; open advice; honor without jealousy; Immense expedience; restricting condition; Undiscoverable trace; invisible path; Immeasurable image; infinite quantity; unmatched model; Unparalleled pity; bounteous compassion; solemn humility; O thou, redeeming kiss!

And yet titled even more worthy then these Are there to offer thy divinity.

O hallowed, praised, blessed one, Thou who art preached, evangelized, proclaimed, Announced, narrated, besought with unending desire; All that thou pourest forth unto us from thy charm Shall be brought unto light in the discourses to follow, Whereby, O blessed Lord, thou wilt rejoice for my salvation, As if filled with the pleasing sense of satiation.

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It is not because of my futile song That thou shalt be glorified, But, because of my modest supplication, Let thy great salvation come unto me.

2 And in the deep knowledge of the sufferings of all, Through descriptive biddings, This new book of lamentations is sung Unto the rational ones of all ages And of all races upon this earth Revealing, in their very images, The passions that befall men; It is sung unto all the multiple Christians Scattered about the entire universe; Unto those in the first cycle of life; Those at the age of puberty; Those at the close of day, weak in their old age; Unto the guily and the just; Unto the conceitedly haughty ones, And the self-judged faulty ones; Unto the good and the criminal; The humiliated and the valiant The slaves and the subordinates; The noble and the supernatural; The mediocre and the princely; The peasants and the aristocrats; Unto the males and the females; Unto those who command and those who obey; The eminent and the lowly; The sublime and the menial; The lordly and the commoner; The horsemen and the footmen; The citizens and the rustics; The arrogant kings bridled by the redoubtable one; Unto the recluse conversing with those on high; The sages, chaste and devotes to God; Unto the pious and chosen priests; Unto the bishops endowed with virtue; Unto the patriarchs dispensing sacred guidance.

For some of these, I have provided earnest requests, And for others, good advice, Through the prayers in this book, Undertaken with the strength of thy spirit, To compose diverse entreaties, That the supplication from them all Hereby lie before thy great compassion forevermore.

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3 And those who read this with a pure heart, Heal thou their souls and cleanse their guilt; Release them of their debts And free the bonds of their sins.

Let there be a gushing of tears From those who acquaint themselves with this book; And, thereby, grant thou their desire for repentance.

With them, also unto me, O Lord, Bestow thou contrition of the will; As unto them, through my voice, Pleasing inspirations.

And through these verses, for my sake, Let them offer their invocations; And through these words, in my stead, Let their groans like incense rise.

And let the grace of thy light live Within those who relish these lamentations.

If it should happen that, when I am gone, Pious ones offer themselves to thee through this book, Receive me also with them, Who live because of thee, O compassionate one!

If some sacred sickness Cause the eyes to shed tears through these lines, Let those tears rain upon me also, O protector!

If those who share the sentiments of life herein Be deemed worthy of salvation through thy will, Consider me worthy of it also, hallowed one!

If divinely pleasing laments, caused by these words, Emerge from the inner depths of some soul, With him, let me also benefit, O thou Most High!

If some pure hand, in incense veiled, be raised unto thee, Let in union with my voice go forth also The prayers offered by all supplicants.

If diverse entreaties be conceived, as in me, Let them be granted again unto me also, From thee, through these verses.

If this, my verbal offering, be estimable unto thee, And if it bring pleasure unto thee, Let also that of others before me be sacrified unto thee.

If some irksome sorrow render one spiritless, Let him revive with the support of these laments, Placing his hope in thee.

If the rampart of faith collapse with sins, Let it be rebuilt with these blocks of stone, Hewn with thy guardian hand.

If the thread of hope be severed with the sword of guilt, Let it be bound again with the will of thine omnipotence, Into a firm bond.

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If some mortal danger of personal grief beleaguer one, Let him find salvation with this, in the hope of life, By praying unto thee, O redeemer!

If with the torment of doubt some heart be rent, Let it be healed with these lines, Through thy loving kindness.

If some being, lost with inexpiable debts, Be engulfed in the depths of an abyss, Let him be hooked up unto light with this, under thy protection.

If some being, numbed by the deceit of dark deeds, be harmed, Let him be strengthened again through thee, And under thy shelter, O thou unique refuge!

If the armour of faith abandon some soul, Let thy hand receive him again by means of this, Confining him anew to constancy.

If some being wander into loneliness Away from the vigilance of the guardians, Let him await thy return through this, O renovator!

If the trembling of diabolic fever trouble some being, Let him recover through this symbol, Confessing and prostrating before the mystery of thy cross.

If the devastating storm of iniquity suddenly strike The bodily structure of man in the sea of this world, Let it calm again by the steerage of these sails Belonging unto thee.

4 And let this book of lamentations begun in thy name, O Most Lofty One, Be a remedy to heal the ailments Of the soul and the body of thy creatures.

Complete thou what I have commenced; And let thy Spirit be mingled within it.

Breathe thou thy great strength unto these verses, Which thou hast bestowed upon me; For thou grandest strength unto the disheartened, And receives glory from all.

Elegy 4 Words unto God from the Depths of My Heart 1 And because I have begun to speak unto thee, Who holdest in thine hand The vital breath of my numerously sinful soul, Verily I tremble and quake, Greatly tormented with perpetual fear; For terrifying and intolerable and beyond the bounds of words Is the memory of thine impartial and inevitable tribunal,

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Where I, the condemned, shall be rebuked, O creator of heaven and earth; Moreover that there is no remedy even For the many-perilled severity of mine incurable wounds From the bites and stings of the deadly fangs of the mouths Of those who hunt my soul down to perdition.

Especially that, according to the teller of parables, There is no rejoinder on the day of battle; And no justification with words; No protection with cloaks; And no disguise with masks; No approach with flatteries; And never any deception with pretences; No lies with fabricated words; No escape with fleet; No turning of backs; No application of faces unto the ground; No fastening of mouths unto the soil; No hiding in the depths of the earth.

For naked unto thee are the covered, And Manifest the invisible; My righteousness is abated and totally vanished; My sins are discovered and ever augmented; My crimes are permanent, and I am lost; My weight of justice is wanting, And of injustice, grown heavy forthwith; The fruit of my good deeds hath melted away, And my faults have turned into stone; The deposit is lost; And even now my sentence is sealed; The death-warrant hath been inscribed And the testament of good tidings destroyed.

The benefactor is saddened, And the intriguer delighted; The troop of angels mourn, And the devil danceth in ecstasy; The celestial army lamenteth, And the infernal one rejoiceth; The assassin’s storehouse is filled, And the guardian’s treasure is plundered; The enemy’s flank is standing, And the maker’s favor is betrayed; The creator’s gift is forgotten, And the destroyer’s snares are preserved; The Savior’s kindnesses are mocked, And Belial is filled with joy; The fountain of life is arrested, And the tyrant’s venom hath reached my pestilent person.

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2 And now, verily, would it not have been desirable, As foretold of old in the Scriptures, Never to be conceived in the womb; Not to be moulded in the belly; Not to progress towards birth; Not to attain unto the light of life; Not to be numbered amongst men; Not to thrive and grow in size; Not to be adorned in the image of beauty; Not to be endowed with reason; Rather than to be seized thus By the most terrible and horrifying debts, That even the hardness of stones cannot bear, Let alone the fluidity of the body?

3 And now, most compassionate one, Have mercy, I beseech thee, have mercy upon me, Thou who with thine own words prescribedst unto us, Saying, give ye that gift unto God In the name of your salvation, and ye holy; For I will have mercy, and not sacrifice.

And thus, be exalted anew with this remembrance, O venerated Lord, Who possesses everything, And from whom cometh everything, And into whom be rendered glory from all.

Amen.

Elegy 18 Words Unto God from the Depths of My Heart 1 Now, I who am born of sin, Who am the son of deadly childbirth, Verily, all in a single day must I pay The penalty of countless myriads of talents.

And I do not seek thy forgiveness Through the smallness of the human mind, But, from the inexhaustible plenitude, O Savior, Jesus Christ, Do I implore for thy philanthropy: For there was a time when I did not exist, And thou createdst me; I did not beseech thee for a wish, And thou fulfilledst it; I had not come into the light, And thou didst see me; I had not yet appeared,

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And thou tookest pity upon me; I had not invokes thee.

And thou tookest care of me; I did not raise my hand, And thou lookedst at me; I had not entreated thee, And thou wast merciful to me I had not uttered a sound, And thou heardst me; I had not groaned, And thou lentest an ear; With prescient eyes thou sawest The crimes of my guilty self, And yet thou fashionedst me.

And now, I who have been created by thee, And I who have been saved by thee, And have been tended with such care, Let me not wholly perish by the blow of sin That is but the slanderer’s invention; Let not the fog of my stubbornness Triumph over the light of thy forgiveness; Nor the hardness of my heart, Over thy forbearing goodness; Nor my mortal carnal-being; Over thy most perfect plenitude; Nor my material weakness, Over thine unconquerable grandeur.

2 Here now, the shriveled arm of my soul!

I stretch forth in thy name, O Almighty: Restore it to its health of former days, When, in the garden of tenderness, I was wont to gather the fruit of life.

Fettered, tormented as with the withered woman, My miserable soul cannot be redressed: Bowed down with the burden of sins, The secure bonds of Satan, it stareth at the ground, That I may not receive thy celestial greeting.

Bend thou down towards me, only merciful one, That thou mayest raise my humble being, A fatten rational-tree that I am.

And mayest flourish my dried-up self, Into a gracious piety, in accordance with The divine words of the saintly prophet.

Like unto the man born blind, deprived of light, I am devoid of the sense of sight, Whereby to look at thy face, O creator, And pray, O mighty most merciful one,

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That thou who the sole protector, Mayest turn the solicitous glance Of thine ineffable love towards me, Who am thy breathing and talking vessel.

And from naught, create light within me.

Like unto the woman, who, for twelve years, Had suffered severely from a sickness, I am inundated with rivers of the blood of my sins; Enveloped in thine inaccessible light, gaze from the heights, Where no hem of garment of hand-made cloth existeth, But, the spreading everywhere of the might of thy miracles.

It is not to anoint with ointment That I approach the sole of thy life-giving feet, I who am culpable, as with the woman sinner, Not to offer tears from mine eyes together with my hair, But to offer mine immaculate faith, with arms raised, In true confession, with the salutation of my soul With my lips closed, I kiss the ground, Mingling my sighs with my streaming tears, I implore thee to heal my soul, The being of my soul is ruined by sin, wrecked by weakness, And the feet that support the structure of my body, That ambulate unsteadily, limping along, And which evil hath impeded, Hindering the way to the tree of life-giving fruit, Protect yet anew, O thou the only one able to rescue.

The organ of glorification in my body that thou createdst Plugged fast the slanderer’s breath, rendering him dumb.

With the great compassion of thy sensitive soul, And thou didst heal the man in the Gospel, Grant unto me the wondrous benevolence of thy living word, That I way enjoy an unfaltering-speech.

I have fallen from my wrong-doings Upon the couch of sickness, the bed of sins, As a living corpse, talking, though dead.

Take pity upon my misery and plaintive groans, O munificent Son of God, With the dew of thy blessed eyes restore me to life, As thou didst thine inanimate friend from the dead.

Verily, embittered in the dungeon of sins am I perplexed: Extend thy hand and draw me up unto thy radiant light, O thou sun without shadow, O thou the Son of the Most High!

With the window of Nain, dolefully wailing for her only son, Beating her breast, her fingers trembling, Tears streaming down her face afflicted with grief, I implore thee also with my final lamentation: Give me, who am in despair, encouragement With thy words of consolation and compassion, Saying unto me also, O kind, laudable creator of the word:

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Weep not, O most sorrowful slave!

Whereby, as with the revival of the young man Which comforted the mother’s grief, Will I likewise receive from thee My most culpable soul renewed once more.

With the possessed, rendered exceeding fierce, Tormented by devils and stoning one another.

Oppressed and pitiful creatures, With their hair horribly disheveled, With their savage faces, and their raving: Unto them wast thou compassionate, O Savior of all, Like unto them, will I have recourse unto thee.

Repel from my tabernacle that is thine And reject the legions of corrupt evil-doers, That thy good Spirit may come and rest therein; Fill my body with a pure breath and clothe my limbs, Render me vise who am most miserably insane, With the enslaved, banished soul living in hell, Am I also imprisoned and remain in peril: Radiate the beam of compassion from thy glory, O thou the light of mine anguish.

Set me free from the bonds of the destroyer, rescue me!

Insidiously strayed into invisible paths, Affectest by dropsy through mine abominable sins, My soul is in a state of tormented anxiety: The swellings concealed from view, Caused by the malefactor’s poison, Heal thou mercifully, O Son God, With the power that only thou possesses!

The multiple forms of various types of fatal diseases, With their particular products perdition And their offshoots of malignant roots, That have settled in the field of mine iniquitous body, Extirpate them with thine omnipotent hand, Thou who ever ploughed and tillest the lands of soul, That thy word of life may become fruitful.

3 And because the wound of my sins Hath surpassed the similarity of these examples And, like unto consuming cancer, Hath spread the disease unto all my limbs, There is no ointment that can be applied Unto the immeasurable sores, as with Israel: From the sole of the foot even unto the head There is no soundness in it, And naught but a lack of cure.

But thou, O merciful benefactor, Blessed and forbearing, immortal king,

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Hearken unto the pitiful supplications From my heart which is in peril, That I invoke unto thee, O Lord, in my distress!

Elegy 80 Words unto God from the Depths of My Heart 1 And now, upon so much despondency, And such terrible faint-heartedness, Upon the fearful vehemence of divine wrath, With a grievous soul in total torment, I beseech thee, O holy Mother of God! Thou art an angel from humans, A cherub of bodily form, A celestial as the air, Pure as the light, Immaculate as the image of Venus aloft, Exceeding the untrod abode of the Holiest, Thou, the blissful promised place, The living Eden, The tree of immortal life Contained by the flaming sword, Thou, fortified and protected by the Father Most High, Prepared and purified by the Spirit settled upon thee, Embellished and turned into a tabernacle By the habitation of the Son: The only-begotten of the Father and thy firstborn, Thy son by birth and thy Lord by creation.

With thine unsullied and unstained purity thou art good, With thine immaculate holiness, a guardian advocate.

Receive this prayer of supplication that I avow unto thee And present, proffer it, mingled with my former words Of invocation eulogizing thy greatness.

Weave, unite my bitter laments of a sinner With thy felicitous and incense-laden entreaties, O thou, plant of the life of the blessed fruit: That ever aided and favored by thee, Sheltered and illumined by thy holy maternity, I may live for Christ, thy Son and Lord.

2 Assist me with the wings of thy prayers, O thou, confessed Mother of the living, That when I depart from the valley of this world, I may without torment tread towards Thy prepared mansions of life, That the end may be alleviated for me, Who am heavily laden with iniquities.

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Make thou my day of anguish into a feast of joy, Thou who art the healer of the pangs of Eve. Intercede, implore, entreat, For as I believe in thine ineffable purity, So also do I, in the acceptance of thy peril, Thou who art lauded amongst women.

Go down upon thy knees for my conciliation, O thou, the Mother of God! Be solicitous unto me who am miserable, O tabernacle of the Most High!

Extend a hand unto me who have fallen, O celestial temple!

Glorify thy Son in thee, That he may divinely perform unto me A miracle of atonement and compassion, O handmaid and Mother of God, That thine honor be augmented through me, And my redemption be manifested through thee!

3 If thou findest me, O Mother of God; If thou pitiest me, O thou saint; If thou retrievest me who am lost, O immaculate one; If thou carest for me who am scared, O blessed one; If thou mediatest for me who am desperate, Ever holy Virgin; If thou into the family takest me who am rejected, O thou, honored by God; If thou showest compassion unto me, If thou comfortest me who am agitated, O thou repose; If thou changest me from my troubled emotions, O thou pacifier; If thou findest expedients for me who have erred, O thou praised one; If thou enterest the arena on my behalf, O thou repeller of death; If thou sweetenest my bitterness, O thou benignity; If thou destroyest the distance of my separation, O thou reconciliation; If thou removest mine uncleanliness, O thou who tramplest upon corruption; If thou savest me who am surrendered to death, I thou severest the sound of my sobbing,

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O thou joyfulness; If thou invigoratest me who am crushed, O thou remedy of life; If thou castest a glance upon me who am ruined, O thou full of the Holy Spirit; If thou meetest me with compassion, O thou consecrated legacy: Thou art blessed but by immaculate lips, With fortunate tongues: Now a single drop of thy milk of virginity, Raining upon me, giveth me life and strength, O thou Mother of the Most High Lord, Jesus, Creator of heaven and all the earth, To whom thou gavest birth ineffably In his whole body and entire divinity, He who is glorified with the Father and the Holy Ghost, In essence and inscrutability, united with our nature, He who is all, and in all, He who is one of the Trinity, Glory unto him For ever and ever.

Amen.

ODE TO THE RESURRECTION Let us glorify and praise the wonder of the Resurrection of Christ.

The chariot is sent from the mountain Massis and in it are benches.

And in it also a golden throne.

And on the throne, vermilion brocade.

And on the brocade the son of the king.

And on his right, seraphim with six wings.

And on the left, cherubim with wide eyes.

And in front, perfect children holding the cross of the Lord.

And also in their hands, psalms and lyres.

And they are singing praises: Glory to the all-conquering, resurrection Christ.

The small chariot comes.

It comes to a stop.

And it does not move now.

The wheels of the chariot do not turn.

On the chariot we see one hundred stalks of iris, six rows of honey lotus and one small bouquet of violets.

From the right slopes of the mountain the small chariot halts.

It does not move.

The wheels do not turn.

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Shafts of the chariot are silver, the yoke is gold and the reins are silk.

The straps are studded with pearls and the small chariot does not move.

The peasant driver is young and skillful.

He is lithe and strong of arm.

He is blond and wide shouldered.

His voice is forceful.

He is shouting at the oxen And calling from the small chair.

If the oxen are amber and white, they are decked with flowers.

Their feet are swift.

Their horns are like crosses decked with pearls.

And the small chariot starts to move.

The wheels turn, the shaft pulls the heart of the chariot.

And the boy urges the oxen onward.

The chariot is the second low of Moses in Sinai And the hundred stalks of iris are the elders and prophets.

The six rows of honey lotus are the six days of work of God. And the one bouquet of violets is the unified trinity.

And the blond boy is John the Baptist.

And the four benches of the chariot, The gospels of Christ.

The chariot advances, coming rumbling, roaring, from the right slopes of Massis.

And the clattering creaking chariot enters Jerusalem and the sons of the new Zion sing, sing Glory to the resurrection of Christ.

A BIRTHDAY MELODY Her eyes gaze Over the sparkling morning sea Like two bright orbed suns, While the dew settles from the dawn.

Her pomegranate-hued cheeks are like flowers, And elegant is the laurel plant Through whose stem Blooming love whispers to the flower’s heart.

Her smooth arms arched over her head, she sings Sweetly, pleasingly, harmoniously; Ever weaving melody into melody,

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She moves calmly, with a splendid gait.

Her mouth, fashioned as two leaves, spills roses from its lips, Her tongue is tuneful as a harp; Her braided beautiful hair, adorned with rosemary, Takes on the dark hue of life-giving wine.

Her lovely hair, her lovely thrice-plaited hair, Ever tenderly frames her face.

Her bright bosom is strewn with red roses, Her wrists garlanded with sprays of purple violets.

With a holy fire, the censer gives up its perfume, Its chains echoing melodious sounds.

She is dressed in a shimmering cloak– Lovely, blue, gem laced, and golden– In a tunic brilliant with gold.

Her belt of shining silver, edged with gilt, Sapphire encrusted, was worked into arabesques; When she moves, her motions are bright; Light sparkles around her feet.

To that King, to that newborn Savior, To Him who adorned thee, glory forever, Amen.

TRANSFIGURATION The misted rose has drawn a veil Against the bold rays of the sun.

Above, on the sun’s rays, The sea-born flower spreads.

From the vast ocean Shines the flower’s bright color, And in the branches shimmer The fruits of the splendid flower, The golden ripe fruit Protected by the leafy denseness, The harp-shaped leaf Sung by David the Wondrous.

In the bouquet of many-hued roses Blooms a rainbow of vivid buds, And in the cypress and poplar trees Life-flushed branches move free, And among the cypress shoots The rose blossoms out and tints the lily.

The lily shimmers against the sun, The northern breeze Fans the gemlike lily, The sweet air from the southern hills Gently dews the lily, The lily is laden with dew,

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With soft and beaming rays.

All the flowers glow with dew, As the dew from the clouds, the clouds from the sun.g Drifts of clustered stars Circle, as balls around the moon, Ball upon ball, cross-shaped clusters of balls Shape of compass fashioned in the heavens.

Glory to Father and Son forever, To the Holy Spirit, now and through all time.

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VARDAN ANETSI c. 10th Century

[From] EULOGY ON THE DIVINE CHARIOT Prologue To you, Divine Chariot, And the four-faced yoke-fellows, To those thrown alive to the flames And to the crowns of your creation, To your ceaselessly spinning never burnt yet burning wheels, And to your threshing floor, To your life-wheat, to the entire first fruits of the harvest, To your eternal dawning out of darkness I bow down, That your life-giving raindrops might descend on me, Spawning in me the seed of sense: Blessings forever on your undying greenery.

Receptacle of unfathomable and invisible Existence And mirrors reflecting rays from sundry sources, Rivers ever rushing with majestic miraculous noise, Which rages round the heavenly host like the spacious sea And makes the Incomprehensible appear within the comprehensible, Bearing the glory of the Almighty: I now beseech you, four-faced beings, That you might manifest yourself to me too in some splendid act, Making me perpetually perfect like the first-created one.

Racing rapidly to and fro in the depths and in the heights, His Divine cords spawning speech And webs of golden visions, He hold all-entwined In His Eternal Hand all beings; He Who walks upon the waters Brings out of the barren and boundless sea Bounteous bodies and breaths, And from amongst them He selects some To share in your blessed brotherhood; And that which was insubstantial takes on bodily substance, And in human from He perfect praise.

And now, I beseech you, four-faced beings, By the power of the holy figure you bear up, Preserve in my soul the image of the Lord forever.

The fence around the orchard Which contains the golden-foliaged tree And its likewise golden fruit Is entered by a narrow pathway

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And secured by seraphic sentries, That only the guiltless might go in, To be fed at the font of your fourfold mysteries And blossom, forth on the burgeoning branch: Heirs of the Father Almighty And co-inheritors with Christ.

And now with lively and logical limbs, I beseech you, four-faced beings, I beseech you, four-faced beings, To accept me into your godly garden, And graft me with my like That I might be fruitful and flourish For ever and ever more.

-Agop J. Hacikyan et al

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GRIGOR MASISTROS PAHLAVUNI 990-1058

FROM THOUSAND-LINE POEM TO MANUCHE They prostrated themselves, then went to sit in the temple, They praised, they blessed, and fearlessly they preached.

They were lost in contemplation, as they waited for the Coming.

Sad and doubtful, they consulted with each other and they asked: “Why has He been tardy to keep His righteous word?”

And suddenly there was a trembling, And at once a frightful clamor filled the house.

It opened wide the roof of the temple where they were And the life-giving and all-powerful Holy Spirit descended; He Who encompasses all space and bears the highest name; The Source of the Creator of all beings; He Who with the Father and the Son is adorned by the angels, The there Holy Persons Who constitute one Godhead, One eternal reign, honor, and glory.

He descended in the comely from of the dove Which, a twig in beak, once returned to the Ark: An olive leaf in her beak, symbol of the Holy Chrism; As a sign that Noah should open the Ark’s window.

Upon His arrival, they were filled with fire, And each began to speak in other tongues For devout men of every nation were there This happened seven weeks after Holy Easter.

At the third hour of the Pentecost day.

Filled with the Holy Spirit, they began to preach.

Baptizing with water and spirit, washing away the stain of Adam’s sin.

Fearless they preached before wicked crowd; And began to baptize, giving us hope of resurrection.

They went forth and sowed, spreading the living word; Light filled the world and darkness was dispersed.

They laid the foundation of the Church and built up Holy Zion, Mother of all who have been born again.

In heathen lands they destroyed the pagan temples And tore down all the idols of Artamet, As well as those of Aramazd, Aphrodite, and Heracles, Hermes, Apollo, Kronos – he who swallowed his son, And Amon the Egyptian and Demeter the Athenian, Ares the cannibal, and Homer’s Achilles, Hephaestus the inventor of fire in his forge, The many wicked servants of the idolatry And the progenitors of Semele and the lightning.

Others followed Zoroaster, and worshiped fire at their altars;

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Still others, including some Chaldeans, the stars, And others still were enthralled by the black brotherhood of birds; There were also those who worshiped mice and placed them on their altars; Some adored the oak and bowed down to the aspen; Others offered gifts to plain trees and gloomy darkness.

All these they did away with as they brought the dawn of light; The true word that they taught booth flourished and expanded.

-Agop J. Hacikyan et al

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ARISRISTAKES LASTIVERTTSI 11th Century

[from] HISTORY REGARDING THE SUFFERINGS OCCASIONED BY FOREIGN PEOPLED LIVING AROUND US Days of torments come to us, Unbelievable troubles found us, Because the measure of our sins, having filled up, Overflowed, And our cry rose before God. Everyone sullied his own road, And the country was filled with impiety.

Justice declined and licentiousness increased.

The people and the priests broke their word to God. For this reason foreign peoples Alienated us from our habitation And turned our glory to ruin.

No breath remained within us, And we became lost through our despair.

Death grew strong and swallowed us.

Nor did the cemeteries say, “Enough!”

Everyone attacked us, And in our dying days there was no time To be healed from the agonies we had already borne.

Thus did generation succeed generation, And the animating breath of life was reduced.

Those who were settled in the land Migrated a second time, in their exile, And were banished by rebellious exiles.

Those who were torn from their loves ones, If not slain by the sword, Were dispersed like erratic stars.

In our day, wars sprang up on all sides: The sword in the East, slaughter in the West, Fire in the North, and death in the South.

The country’s joy vanished.

The sounds of the lyre were silenced, The beating of the drum was silenced, And cries of woe arose…

-Robert Bedrosian

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HOVHANNES SARKAVAG IMASTASER c. 1047-1129

DISCOURSE ON WISDOM COMPOSED AS A DIVERSION A) To the chick which was chirping mellifluously near his prayer cell which is called a Blackbird.

Alert, sprightly bird, watching and exclaiming, Forest-loving hermit and hand-tame lover of kisses, Calling and twittering, lover of worship with warbling voice, Come close to me now for a eulogy, to magnify the Creator’s glory.

May the Great be preached by the small and His excellent art made know.

In species you are a winged bird to us, sprung from the waters with those of your genus.

But in appearance you are classified among the paltry and insignificant Among those same you are sluggish and in beauty inelegant, In stature most contemptible, in final place among the denizens of the air.

Moreover, you are called indignant and improvident along the rest, Negligent and inactive, as we have been taught by Christ.

But in your person you are well-trained, your personality intact in all respects.

Wise and prudent, just and brave-hearted, While in art you are a musician with every device, yet without a teacher.

Self-sufficient and self-taught, living in the rough outside cities.

Not close, yet close, delighting those who love to hear, Mellifluous harmonizer as I consider you according, Imperious and wheedling, inculcating paraenesis, Threatening and mild of speech, caressing, beckoning and turning away, Shrieking and wailing, right rollicking and convivial.

So also the night is as day to you and darkness as the light, Lover of vigils perpetually at worship, like the incorporeal ones, Enthusiastic in exertion and relaxing by toil, Filled with the meagrest necessities like a body that fasts.

Sustained by music, as possessed by that capacity, Concerned only with songs in company with supernal creation.

You are an unwritten law for hermits and censure of the Lazy.

Not in one respect, but in all, as we saw in your preludes.

O tireless singer and dancer of many tunes, Insignificant, yet imposing, lacking honour, yet glorified, In you there lies a wonderful mystery for those the Lord selected from the world.

But you did not assume that power by which tongues talk with ease.

You did not enter the upper room with those invited o the good news.

So how is it you speak to those of foreign tongue and intimates?

Come teach me, a half-baked sophist, so that I may learn,

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Do not make the excuse of irrationality, you recite in articulate speech.

Teach me with disconnected speech and accept me as pupil.

Then I can repay you for learning wisdom By delivering you a panegyric which I will leave after me inviolate, Well-composed to endure without obliteration for time to come, Stimulating and elegant, from which those attaining wisdom may gain some profit.

B) The chick responds: See I heard and comprehended what you thought and spoke.

Now you big us relate how it is you have wisdom in you, In such a manner that speech emerges in order Without disruption or stumbling though what I omit is immense.

I did not sin, I did not die, I did not lose what I had obtained.

I preserved my heritage and did not experience an indemnity.

I did not build a tower, to multiply my sins, Nor will I receive punishment like you rational creatures.

The one lip and language was divided in pluriform ways, Evil wills dispelled the unity by that means, For many share a unity, similarly reprehensible, To reciprocate in the unnatural, so that sins accrue.

Whereas I stayed in the natural sphere, whose bounty is revelation Which they lost through one, they will gain through its opposites.

So also the other aspects of the economy by which we survived death Renewed us with the means to oppose errors.

C) The master justifies the chick’s objection and takes up the cause of accusation.

The mellifluous bird said this was the source of the Many-toned melodies, when we asked it.

Though there is unity among the many, still there is alienation of the one.

The abandonment of the natural out of error towards things more elevated.

Similarly, the punishments are from nature, as we know.

I learned through persistence, after many years.

For I kept vigil all day and throughout the night.

Out of yearning for wisdom and love of understanding.

This it said and established it as the seal of its case.

It admonished us directly and soared in the air.

It perched on the eminence of a branch, voicing its ancestral call.

It wearied me with its clamor and I gained no profit from contemplation.

I was exasperated and elates, besieged between both, I summoned it by name and spoke in judgement.

I Interrogated and examined, but was trounced in its victory.

I addressed the sinless one which was more skilled than me in speech.

With opposed voice it strove to beat me stealthily in contention.

I say, “Why do you annoy me, who ponder philosophy?”

You overpower my mind’s concentration with your perpetual chirping.

By confusing my thoughts you render my pursuit unprofitable.

You feel my ears with disturbance and my mind with vain distraction.

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Therefore, my heart is wrested from me, not remaining with me, It rushed out as it through orifices, encountering no impediment at all.

I hasten to find you forget what I have found.

I am deprived of beneficial discourses to gain you who are unprofitable.

I come and sit in the desert here to benefit in quietude, I will speak up and understand and not suffer in vain, Nor strive unprofitably with empty wisdom, Eliciting the manifold harm which occurs among mankind.

You annoy me tirelessly as if you have born some grievance for me.

You prosecute, you exclaim as is customary for the oppressed.

You accuse me terribly before the judge as tribunal.

Or is that you consider me an enemy fighting with you as a foreigner?

I complain about the one I love, for I suffer here what I told you.

I am also exercised about this, that I accuse you with a writ Spending all my time copying by hand a complaint against you, Forgetting the important things by which both soul and body have life.

Obstructing those near them from attaining the means of becoming wise, Union with the great and illustrious, as well as the celestial hosts.

Now I never recognized myself as being directed to what I told you, But I complain all the more for the enmity to come to light, As those judged at a tribunal are wont to do, So that their words gain effect and can win the case.

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D) Concerning the fur coat which was spoilt by ink.

No, I will not be silent on bringing out this incident which occurred just now The protoplast’s robe which was bestowed on him after the transgression That proof of mortality and harbinger of his condition, You have made this all-enfolding coat worthless to me, For by occupying my self with your words it has been daubed frightfully with ink.

But tell me knowledgeably what I ask you in counsel.

For it is appropriate for the accused to calumniate the prosecutor, If you are of the same genus as the nightingale, swallow or cicada Why do you not have a perch in the desert like them?

They too are musicians, but desired the desert.

They adorn the open spaces with harmonious melodies.

Few have had an opportunity to hear those sweet-toned concerts.

They were praised and caressed by those who heard their sweet syllables.

Amphion, the man of Thebes and Arion of Mitemne Orpheus of Thrace, these were much-lauded musicians.

But they are inferior against those whose gifts are natural.

For the skill they employ in this art they do not obtain from nature.

You too are one of those whose story you have heard, Sharing their profession and fame, as your results hear witness.

But you lack one thing; you did not fancy living with them And did not fashion roosts for yourself where they dwell.

Instead you come sit next to me as if my colleague in art.

You sing and dance to an instrument of many tones-

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The metre of Homeric lays which are familiar to many, As well as virtuosic verses in the style of learned poets, Or even surpassing them, as it seems to me who know about such things For training and education do not come close to nature.

E) The fowl replies to the Vardapet in accusation.

It turned and replied to all that I had said, It retorted in rhapsody more quickly than what it had heard.

It informed me with assurance in powerful declamation The Meaning me with assurance in powerful declamation The meaning behind the mystery of our symbiosis.

It said, you are not justified in your words of slander against us.

You complained unreasonably about things I am not guilty of.

Just listen in turn to what I have to say in my judgement.

This world to which you were exiled belongs to both me and you, Yet is your domestic property inasmuch as it was your dwelling.

It was entrusted to us by the Creator as a place of learning and growth, Accommodated to our needs according to our composition.

You forfeited your own as a penalty for transgression against the Creator, You lusted after divinity and lost what you had.

Ascending to heaven, you slithered near hell.

Endeavouring to enrich yourselves, you became indigent and poor, Reaching up to the sublime, you perished in the nether regions.

Pressing forward to great glory, you fell beck here with us, You forgot what the Creator said and acquiesced to the slandered.

Though under the law, you acted lawlessly and were condemned under a curse.

Not remaining there in sinlessness, you became wardens of countless evils.

Losing justice, you discovered a plethora of sins.

You, masters, became slaves to passions through flavoring the murderer.

We, your servants, revolted fro, you as you from the Lord, Thorns and thistles confronted you, because you did not love gentleness.

The death sentence was your recompense for not relishing a life of integrity.

Enmity against the Beloved arose in you who revolted against the Father of love. Returning to earth was your lot in that you destroyed the image, Your foot was culled from the ground as for us earth-dwellers, Our frugal animal fare became yours who did not appreciate what befitted you, Symbiosis with us for you who did not elect to stay with God, Inequality with servants for you who celebrated inequality.

But we innocent parties were hurt because of your presumption.

We came into existence for your glory and were corrupted on your account.

Not only by death, but also severe buffeting.

While you received the Lord’s will, we did not receive knowledge.

While you who have free will, we follow nature, While who have mind and reason, we are chained by irrationality.

So then you encompassed perdition both for yourselves and us together, Since you must also give an account to the Creator for our penalties.

Moreover, most grievous calamities hem us in on the earth

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Parching heat, winter blizzards and lack if necessities, Pains and infirmities and the onset of premature death Which have increased because of sin to afflict the disobedient.

We are more bothered by these, not having roofs and cities, Neither stores stocked with abundance of what is needful, Nor medicines and doctors by which to arrest the suffering of pain, Nor succulent dainties to relieve and comfort us.

And on top of everything, we feed on ourselves as on a grain.

We are even consumed by each other, as you know and see.

Nor it for all the sins we have enumerated above You were deprived of life and of a dwelling place of your own, Why do you blame us who never deprived anyone of any space?

We did not transgress the boundary the Creator assigned us.

The deprivation is ours and resulted from you and yet you accuse us.

Judge justly as the Creator commanded.

F) Exposition of the arguments on both sides and acknowledgement of Vardapet’s defeat.

Truly it spoke this in conformity with events, Presenting the elements of its case with wisdom By which we sophists and supposed poets are trounced, Admonished in silence, dispensing with long speeches.

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VARDAN HAIKAZN 11th to 12th Centuries

FUNERAL ELEGY ON THE PASSING AWAY OF THE BLESSED CATHOLCOS OF ARMENIANS GRIGOR VKAYASER As I gather my thoughts together And begin to meditate, I suddenly call to mind the past And the greatest calamity I know of to befall my people.

I am utterly confounded And unable even to begin to describe it; I am incapable of putting it into words.

Again I am forced to remain silent- I am not up to itBut it gives me no rest and I can put it off no longer: Whatever I can, though partial and incomplete, I am willing to set down for everybody, And I suggest that the poets Join with me and repeat my song.

I invite me lamentations to from a procession, I pass on the words of the prophets And assemble the bearers of sad tidings, Call the women mourners, And declare a time of mourning for all Armenians; I invoke the memory of my spiritual lord, Add my tears to those of the church, And convey the destitution of the church.

And now, with deep humility, I freely admit That I am desolated at the death of my master And mourn for the shepherd and the flack, But al I can offer is a few poor words.

These words, however, are not enough, Nor is the strength of my knowledge sufficient To praise this most praiseworthy man Or produce an elegy on his sepulcher.

That would require Movses KhorenatsiThe ageless father of all poets, The dwellings- house of unfathomable wisdom, Just as Heaven is the dwelling-place of angelsOr any one of his rare companions, Who were endowed with the power of words And whose names caused alarm and panic Among the Greek orators.

I cannot write lucidly of one Who was with me only yesterday.

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It would take Gagik Bagratuni Or Atrnerseh Bagrevantsi, Who was knows for his eloquence And had Homer’s skill in meter, To praise the blessed body That rests in this sepulcher, Or it would take his namesake, The excellent philosopher Narekatsi: Indeed, I turn to that ingenious man And call on him to help me, So that I can set down our grief And record it for posterity.

-Agop J. Hacikyan et al

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NERSES SHNORHALI 1102-1173

[FROM] JESUS, THE SON Book One Jesus, the only-begotten Son of the Father, And the splendour of His countenance Thou, ineffable offspring of the Archetype, Inseparable from thy Beggeter; Thou, by whom all beings are created: The conceivable, that can be seen; The disembodied, and the embodied; The irrational, as with the rational; The living things, that grow; And the lifeless, that do not move: All these offer thanksgiving Unto thy loving Father and unto thee; And unto thy coexistent Spirit Are proffered exaltations on high From the elect ones most pure That are admitted unto thine abode, Receive me also with them, O Lord, I who have disobeyed the commandment; I who am like unto the prodigal son, And the waster of my Father’s goods; Who ignored the honor that came from thee, And become the equal unto the brainless one That put the whole heard of swine To graze in the very field of demons; I who am famished, not of hunger for bread, But to hear thy word, O Lord, Being ardent with the desire for carobs, In the bitterness from the delight of sins.

Like unto the first Adam, Who for his sins is called the Old Through whom we all have to die, And have lost that which is desirable; Alas, I have sinned like unto him And transgressed like undo mother Eve, And I have even exceeded them both In the trespassing of the Holy Law. For they had but one commandment Concerning a single bitter fruit;

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Whereas I have been preached many About numerous ones that lead to death: These I have been ordered to avoid, That I may not meet my death, Whereas I remain bound to them By bonds of sin, as it hath been told.

I opened mine ears unto the deceiver And listened unto the evil serpent; I gave my reply with my tongue Senselessly unto the cunning one; I fixed mine eyes upon the desirable, That the word of command hath forbidden; My feet followed in haste the course That led me close unto the tree of death; My hand had stretched unto the branch To pluck the deadly fruit for myself: And my mouth savoured its taste of honey, But in my belly it turned into bitter bile; From it there gushed the venom of dragons And the fetid odour that brings death; It flooded my heart with filth And my kidneys with feverish disease.

The garment of a lover of holiness That I had worn at the font, I cast off through the evil one’s deception And clothed myself with a coat of skins.

Instead of the delights of life in paradise In the manner of the sensible ones, I cultivated in mine own soul Thorns and thistles of the plant of sin.

Instead of the region of a toil-free life That through hope is said to be of leisure, I eat my daily bread by the sweat of my face, And shall return unto dust whence I came.

And now I supplicate like unto him: I have sinned against thee, Father in heaven; I am unworthy to be called thy son, Accept me as the lowliest of thine hirelings.

Render me worthy of the purest, Of thy kind Father’s holy salutation.

Under the shelter of the wedding-place Make me welcome once more; And with my former raiment, Of which the thieves had stripped me, Clothe me anew yet again, Like unto a bride’s elegant finery; The royal signet-ring As a symbol of authority

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Let me wear upon my right hand, That I may not go astray once more.

And as a protection against the serpent, Favor me with shoes for my feet, That it may not strike in the dark But its head may be crushed.

Through the killing of the fatted calf, That is the sacrifice upon the cross And blood shed with the spear from thy side, Whence gushed the stream of life for us, Let me commune with thee once more Like unto the parable of the prodigal son, That I may eat the vivifying bead And drink from thy celestial cup.

I went astray into the wilderness And wandered in the boundless region, Like unto the parable of the sheep, One out of a hundred in number; The wicked enemy tore at it And covered it with incurable wounds; There is, therefore, no remedy for them, Other then thee to heal them.

I entreat in tears unto thee, I raise my voice onto my Savior: O celestial, good Shepherd, Come unto the aid of the little flock.

Seek, O Lord, the fallen piece of silver, And thine image, that was lost, That I buried in the vice of sins And the evil-smelling filth.

Wash me, O Lord, cleanse my soul Into the purity of white snow; Complete the ten pieces in number, As thou didst for the forty saints.

Raise unto thy shoulder that bore the cross And elevate my fallen soul; Let the celestial host rejoice Over the soul of a single sinner.

Together with the sacrifice of Abel Offered unto thee in sweet fragrance, Receive me also, O Lord, likewise, That I may not be scorned with Cain, Even though I did not as it befitted Present unto thee any burnt offering; For I select my share first And then thine, in sacrifice.

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I became like unto the felon, Unto his brother’s treacherous slayer, By slaying myself voluntarily And betraying mine own self: Not a brother’s outward body, But mine own inner soul; Therefore I roam about trembling, With my mind and my thought’s wavering.

As a consolation to the bereaved Thou didst give Seth instead of Abel, To become the descendant of the first-created And the patriarch of that righteous race.

Dispel, O Lord, from me also The melancholy bereavement of sons, Which are the lot of wisdom, Children born for action; And regenerate in me once more The incorruptible seed of reason, The spiritual creation of light, Angelic and celestial.

Let me not be like unto the son of Seth To desire the daughters of Cain, But unto the patriarch Enos, Who was the first to hope; And unto the irreproachable Enoch, He that was translated unto heaven, Who inherited the paternal inheritance, For observing the commandment: But what shall I benefit from these, Whom I do not resemble?

For I do not follow in their paths, And do not ascend in spirit unto heaven: But exist fallen into profound vices, In the pit of mire, humid and dank, Thereby the terrifying abysses Have imprisoned me within them.

Like unto the people of olden times, Who lived in the days of Noah, Who ate and drank, Who coupled like animals, Until there came the flood of waters And destroyed them all: Saving only him who had remained Chaste for five hundred years.

But thou who didst save in the ark Noah and seven other souls, Together with every kind of quadruped

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And birds that fly in the air, Save me also from the flood, The waves of evil that agitate the world, Within thine ark, the holy tabernacle, Sheltering me fast in its shade.

Dispel from the ark of my soul The nocturnal colour of the crow, That is the likeness of the secret arrow Which flies through the darkness.

And open thou in the heart of obscurity A window for me unto the great light, Whence the darkness born of sin Be cleared away without trace.

Let in through the open skylight The golden-coloured holy dove, Which is the pure and Holy Spirit, That it may bring me the olive-branch.

And it is not only through bodily sickness That I drowned my soul in the sea, But through spiritual and mental torments I have become a vessel of evil.

Inasmuch as I was like unto those That built the tower In the great plain of Calneh In the land of Babel, In order that, if the waters of the flood Came about anew, they would be saved, Or else they may reach unto heaven, As they thought in their arrogance.

Whereas a violent gale blew, The terrifying clamour of the soul, And demolished the mountain of the arrogant And the one language It confounded into seventy, That they may not unite for evil, But may scatter abroad to do good.

Likewise I also erected A wall of the tower of sin, In my arrogance I built with stones This presumptuous edifice: Its skilful architect Was the infernal Lucifer And the workers of that evil prince Were the bands of the legion of demons; They will also collapse and be destroyed With the machines that they have made; But I shall escape from their snares As the Hebrews did of yore.

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As a model for thyself thou didst choose Melchizedek the Canaanite, Without a father, mother, or other kindred: He who was the priest of God, The collector of tithes, as with Levites Yet from the loins of Abraham, And he was king of Salem, Like unto thee, celestial Lord; Receive me also with his supplication Unto thy Jerusalem on high, To reign there together with thee, Like unto thy sons of Zion.

Thou didst call with thy mighty voice Unto the patriarch of all nations, The very first Abraham, To emigrate unto a foreign land.

Thou didst appear unto him at Mamre, Whilst he sat under the oak tree Thou wast nourished as though in body, Whilst thy nature was incorporeal; And thou didst promise him the son Through whom the sons of men are blessed, Foretelling thereby thine own coming, Thou who didst become incarnate from his sons, Deliver me from my tormentors, From the evils of the deceiver, From the varied ills of the oppressor, And the prison of the transgressor.

I who in body am a foreigner In this alien terrestrial life, Translate me unto thy Fatherland, Like unto the sons of Abraham.

Show thy face, O Lord, unto me Who am sitting beneath the shade, That upon rising up to meet thee I may bow myself toward the ground.

Deign thou to enter mine abode, And with thee, thy Father and the Holy Spirit: And partake of fare I have That is meager in my poverty, and scant.

Mine infertile, barren soul, Unfruitful of spiritual good deeds, Fructify them like unto Sarah With the happy tidings of the patriarch Abraham, in whom thou art well pleased, Thou didst save his brother’s son, And didst bring Lot out of Sodom; Deliver me, O Lord, like unto him Through his entreaties, from the bonds of sin,

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From the wicked thoughts of Sodom, And from acts of immodesty: That I may not be consumed by fire Born of brimstone, like unto stone, Like unto the woman who turned toward evil.

But command thou the holy angel To carry me away with them, To raise me unto the celestial mount And place me with the band that dwell there.

Creator of the hearts, O Lord, thou alone Who dost see all deeds and thoughts, Didst put to the test thy beloved, To sacrifice his son unto thee; Thou didst bid him go to a high mountain At Golgotha, in accordance with thy word, Taking the wood for the burnt offering Of his only son, so pure in mind.

There he laid him upon the alter, Like unto thee, O Lord, upon the cross, He stretched forth his hand, took the knife, And brought it high unto his throat, When a voice called out from above: Lay not thine hand upon that lad, But behold upon thy right A ram caught in a thicket, Which, in the stead of thy servant Isaac, He who is endowed with reason, Offer thou as a sacrificial offering The beast created with no reasoning power.

Do not test me, O Lord, like unto him: I who am not yet tested by favors, I who am tested by evil instead, And am impatient when tested.

For I am neither silver nor gold, When tested by fire in a crucible; But am the tin alloyed with lead, That both perish when thus assayed.

And I am not a rock beside the sea That stands unshaken against the waves; Nor am I the deep roots of trees That are not torn out by gales.

But I am like unto a wrecked ship, Tossed about upon the high seas; But I am like unto a wrecked ship, Tossed about upon the high seas; Or the withered grass lashed away By the strong autumnal winds.

Now do not lead me into temptation,

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Thou who dost not tempt the earth-born; For though thou art not tempted with evil, We ourselves are tempted, as it is told.

But hasten thou to deliver me From the temptations of the tyrant, Like unto the father of the faithful From the snares of the tempter.

That I may sacrifice joyfully My body, my soul, and my mind, As a living victim unto thee, Immortal One, pleasing, holy, and divine.

The younger son, born Of Isaac and Rebecca, Thou didst name thy beloved And didst change Jacob unto Israel.

Thou didst show the future unto him With a ladder set up from earth to heaven, Above which the Lord stood watching And the angels ascended and descended on it.

He poured oil upon the top of the stone And called it the house of God, In the likeness of the great mystery That holy men have revealed; And he wrestled throughout the night, As it is written in the Holy Scriptures, Resisting until the break of day, Though he was overcome in body.

Now, I am the junior in good deeds, But fully-grown in evil ones: Like unto Esau, who was born the first, But in soul, he was the last.

I sold such priceless treasures That I may gratify my belly.

And voluntarily erased myself From the first-born inscribed in heaven.

Implore thee, O Lord on high, O thou Prince of the celestial choir, May the gates of heaven open unto me also, As they did at that time unto Israel.

O raise up me fallen soul Through the ladder formed of light, Brought as an example of how men May return from earth unto heaven.

With the fragrant oil to anoint the soul, That I lost when deceived by the evil one, Anoint my head once more With thy protective right hand.

I cannot resist against thy strength

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In wrestling like unto Jacob: For even with my weak self I fell into the hands of the evil one.

Extend thy celestial right hand: Come unto mine aid in my combat And demolish mine enemy, That he may never rise to his feet again.

Sons were born unto the patriarch To become the twelve tribal chiefs; And eleven of them did betray Joseph, Delivering him unto the Ismaelites, They sold their own brother For thirty pieces of silver, Like unto thy very disciple, That was stealthy, treacherous Judas.

Thou was sold, O Lord, like unto him As a slave in the house of Potiphar, And didst save from the Egyptian woman The pure soul of the chaste youth; Thou didst enter the Pharaoh’s prison, Didst produce dreams in the night, And didst have Joseph released thereby And made ruler over the land.

Likewise, my mother’s sons did conspire Stealthily against me with treachery: Through my multiple vices on sin, They sold me at a very low price.

Although I complied with the evil one’s will By not opposing against him, He did imprison me, nevertheless, In a dark dungeon with no escape.

But thou, who in spite of everything, Didst rescue Joseph from the hopeless place, Deliver me also, O Lord, like unto him, From the various vices of evil: Do not deliver me unto the lewd harlot, Unto the lecherous Egyptian woman; That which creepeth like unto a serpent And roareth like unto a lion.

But elevate me above them And make me ruler of the land of Egypt, That I may vanquish the evil prince, That is the invisible tyrant.

And when they come to die of starvation, Turn me into the house of the bread of life; That I may distribute it and satiate Those that yearn for the immortal word.

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Let me call to mind the blessed Job, He who is worthy of remembrance: Even though he is of the sons of Esau, Yet he is superior to those of Jacob; He who is greatly praised by thee And testified to be a good man: That perfect in every way.

When the evil enemy did slander him And sought to have him tried by calamity, Thou didst give unto him the power, That thy servant may be revealed.

First, his rich possessions, his cattle, And his other animals, were all destroyed; Then, his ten children were killed As they sad tidings reached unto him He did not utter a word of complaint, But instead blessed the from his soul: He said, the Lord gave rich possessions, And the Lord hath taken away at will; He came out naked from the womb, And shall enter naked unto the tomb.

Again did the evil one resort Unto his varied machinations, Pleading from thee to let him torture Job’s body with unbearable sufferings.

He obtained what he had requested, But did not attain what he desired; Instead, his devouring fang was crushed As against iron or copper.

For he afflicted him with a terrible disease And covered his body with worms; Job sat putrefied among the ashes And scraped his boils with a potsherd.

His friends who went unto him, Vexed the blessed man with words; Moreover, did his foolish wife, Like into Eve, seek to tempt him.

Yet all these trials did not shake The adamantine rock of his faith And make him utter words of blasphemy Against thee, O Lord, who art so benign.

Instead, he rendered thanks unto thee, And opposed all their utterances, Until the combat reached its end And the struggle was fulfilled.

Thou didst appear through the clouds, O Lord, And didst speak unto thy beloved one; Thou gavest a crown unto the victor

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And health unto him who was sorely ill.

Thou didst grant unto him anew Animals of the dumb variety, And awarded unto the same solitary one Beings that are endowed with reason.

And this hidden mystery profound Is thereby revealed in advance: That those who die do not perish But shall rise again on the final day.

Now through the supplication of the martyr, Through this patient ascetic, Let me invoke unto thee and implore, Whilst shedding sorrowful tears: And if mine enemy should seek To test me by means of combat, Do not deliver me into the brigand’s hands, Do not abandon me unto his will.

For I am weak and my body is infirm, My spirit is ready, but it will not move: My soul is dark and my mind obscure; Voluntarily I lie in the deep dungeon.

But thou, in place of mine irresolute soul, Dost combat against mine adversary, For thou hast spoken encouraging words, Let my fervent desire alone to be good Be received by thee instead of Job’s efforts; And the crown of victory Grant thou unto me in the future.

-Mischa Kudian

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GRIGOR MARASHETSI Twelfth Century

[from] THE INVASION OF THE CITY OF MARASH Reflections on the Elegy of a Sinful Person, Confessed before God For what, in fact is man? Nothing.

What is man? A worm.

What is man? Shadows.

What is man? Ashes and dust.

What is man? An unreal dream.

Lo! He has left; lo! He is gone; He has disappeared; he has found peace.

Death comes to those who have faltered And to those who shall; Even the huge and invincible lion, Omnipotent, renowned, and most horrifying, Has who was famous and visible Has become invisible; He who was born is now As of he had not been born; He who was firmest of all Has now become nothing; He who enclosed others Has now been enclosed; He who bound others Has now been bound.

He now goes where the bearers take him.

At the moment of death All thoughts disappear And the divine chastisers Take the soul and ascend.

-Agop J. Hacikyan et al

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GRIGOR TGHA c.1133-1193

[FROM] ELEGY ON THE FALL OF JERUSALEM You no longer receive, O Jerusalem, The honors due to you, O Jerusalem, Nor clothing, O Jerusalem, Nor adornments, O Jerusalem, Which are magnificent, O Jerusalem, You have become an adultress, O Jerusalem, An object of opprobrium, O Jerusalem.

You have been drenched in blood, O Jerusalem, As if in a sea, O Jerusalem; The fledgling doves in your breast, O Jerusalem, Have been covered with it, O Jerusalem, Felled by the blade of the sword, O Jerusalem, Bathed in blood, O Jerusalem, The waves of which, O Jerusalem, Have drowned them, O Jerusalem; They have been engulfed, O Jerusalem, In these stains, O Jerusalem.

The voice of the turtle, O Jerusalem, Was heard within your walls, O Jerusalem.

What has become of you, O Jerusalem, And of your daughters, O Jerusalem?

Where is your Temple, O Jerusalem, Now without splendor, O Jerusalem?

Your magnificently constructed temple, O Jerusalem, Which had no equal, O Jerusalem?

What is the present condition, O Jerusalem, Of the holy city of Zion, O Jerusalem, From which flowed, O Jerusalem, The river of life, O Jerusalem?

You no longer exist, O Jerusalem; And tomb, O Jerusalem, Of him who hopes for happiness, O Jerusalem, And laid in ruins, O Jerusalem.

You have been forgotten, O Jerusalem, In your exile, O Jerusalem; You have become a widow, O Jerusalem, Wrapped up in mourning, O Jerusalem.

Where shall we look for you, O Jerusalem, And where shall we find you, O Jerusalem, Who wore the candelabrum, O Jerusalem, With seven branches, O Jerusalem, You were unable, O Jerusalem,

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To hide in a corner, O Jerusalem, Or to conceal yourself, O Jerusalem, Under your litter, O Jerusalem, Nevertheless you were going, O Jerusalem, To be hidden then, O Jerusalem, Under the shelter, O Jerusalem, Of the holy rock, O Jerusalem; But you will see the visit, O Jerusalem, From foreign lands, O Jerusalem, Of young maidens, O Jerusalem, The attendants of the bride, O Jerusalem.

You are like perfume diffused in the air, O Jerusalem, Whose odor is sweet, O Jerusalem; Saffron and myrrh, O Jerusalem, Fragrant cane, O Jerusalem, Cinnamon, O Jerusalem, A mass of myrrh, O Jerusalem, The golden censer, O Jerusalem, Which receives the four kinds of incense, O Jerusalem, The vessel filled, O Jerusalem, With the bread of heaven, O Jerusalem.

You are like unto the rose, O Jerusalem, And like unto the lily, O Jerusalem; In your footprints, O Jerusalem, I run, my heart consumed with love, O Jerusalem, Burning with desire, O Jerusalem; Will I be led, O Jerusalem, By my steps, O Jerusalem?

You become resplendent, O Jerusalem, Because your light shone forth, O Jerusalem, While darkness, O Jerusalem, Covered the earth, O Jerusalem, And thick fog, O Jerusalem; But in you the Lord, O Jerusalem, Revealed Himself in glory, O Jerusalem.

Lift up, O Jerusalem, Your eyes to Heaven, O Jerusalem; Behold now assembled, O Jerusalem, Your young people, O Jerusalem, Your sons, O Jerusalem, And your daughters, O Jerusalem; They hasten, O Jerusalem, Toward your light, O Jerusalem.

To your great kings, O Jerusalem, And make their way, O Jerusalem; In the flashing of your light, O Jerusalem, The multitude, O Jerusalem, If the pagans, O Jerusalem, Will appear, O Jerusalem,

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And you will rejoice over them, O Jerusalem.

You will forget, O Jerusalem, Your widow’s weeds, O Jerusalem; For you will be granted, O Jerusalem, In ample compensation, O Jerusalem, Rule of the sea, O Jerusalem And of the earth, O Jerusalem And dominion, O Jerusalem, Over the nations and the races of man, O Jerusalem.

To you will repair, O Jerusalem, Camels in droves, O Jerusalem, And they will replenish, O Jerusalem, Your fields, O Jerusalem.

The Midianites, O Jerusalem, And they that dwell in Ephah, O Jerusalem, Will come from Sheba, O Jerusalem, Bringing to you, O Jerusalem, The purest gold, O Jerusalem, Hyacinths, O Jerusalem, And jewels, O Jerusalem, Of great value, O Jerusalem, And as a word of welcome, O Jerusalem, They will hear the good news, O Jerusalem.

The sheep, O Jerusalem, Of Cedar, O Jerusalem, Will join together, O Jerusalem, In running after you, O Jerusalem, With the goats, O Jerusalem, Of Nabaoth, O Jerusalem, In order to offer themselves, O Jerusalem With the goats, O Jerusalem, Of Nabaoth, O Jerusalem, In order to offer themselves, O Jerusalem, To you in sacrifice, O Jerusalem, On the altar, O Jerusalem, Of expiation and purification, O Jerusalem.

The Galileans, O Jerusalem, Plunged into the light, O Jerusalem, Will rise up into the light, O Jerusalem, Which radiates from you, O Jerusalem.

The Tyreans, O Jerusalem, The inhabitants of Trachonitis, O Jerusalem, The Tyreans, O Jerusalem, The inhabitants of Trachonitis, O Jerusalem, And those who dwell in Phoenicia, O Jerusalem, All those from foreign lands, O Jerusalem, Will come and prostrate themselves, O Jerusalem, Before you in humility, O Jerusalem.

More glorious than ever, O Jerusalem,

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You will rejoice, O Jerusalem, As you did in the past, O Jerusalem, And even more, O Jerusalem; Whoever reflects on you, O Jerusalem, Will be filled with admiration, O Jerusalem, At the newfound splendor, O Jerusalem, Of the house of the Lord, O Jerusalem; And at the sight, O Jerusalem, Of the thousands, O Jerusalem, As thick as clouds, O Jerusalem, Who fly toward you, O Jerusalem, And how, like chicks, O Jerusalem, They move as a single mass, O Jerusalem.

Seagoing ships, O Jerusalem, Will berth on your shored, O Jerusalem, Bringing you gifts, O Jerusalem: Great quantities of treasure, O Jerusalem, From the isles, O Jerusalem, For your holy temple, O Jerusalem Laden camels, O Jerusalem, And asses, O Jerusalem, Will bring you riches, O Jerusalem, From the Indies, O Jerusalem, And woods, O Jerusalem, Of great price, O Jerusalem, Laurel and plane, O Jerusalem, Spruce and cypress, O Jerusalem, That you might reconstruct, O Jerusalem, Once more the buildings, O Jerusalem, That have been destroyed, O Jerusalem, And laid flat, O Jerusalem.

Happy are they, O Jerusalem, Who will behold this renovation, O Jerusalem Happy these days, O Jerusalem, And these times, O Jerusalem, Which will see the accomplishment, O Jerusalem, Of that which was foretold, O Jerusalem.

But meanwhile, for now, O Jerusalem, My situation is unchanged, O Jerusalem, And I feel my painful heart, O Jerusalem, Is torn in two, O Jerusalem.

My head, covered with dust, O Jerusalem, Is buried in its mounded heaps, O Jerusalem; I beat my breast, O Jerusalem, My cheeks flow with tears, O Jerusalem.

I expect no consolation, O Jerusalem, For the time being, O Jerusalem, No relief, O Jerusalem, Can be found in all my words, O Jerusalem,

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Until I behold you, O Jerusalem, Robed again in your glory, O Jerusalem, And become radiant, O Jerusalem.

Once more, O Jerusalem, You have been reduced to slavery, O Jerusalem, You, the great queen, O Jerusalem.

May the rain, O Jerusalem, Never fall on you, O Jerusalem; May the mountains and the hills, O Jerusalem, Be laid low, O Jerusalem, And the valleys of Gabaon, O Jerusalem, Be filled in, O Jerusalem, May the valley, O Jerusalem, Of Cedron by raised, O Jerusalem, Until the time, O Jerusalem, That a savior comes to you, O Jerusalem, To bring back, O Jerusalem, Your captives, O Jerusalem, And to avenge you, O Jerusalem, On your persecutors, O Jerusalem!

-Agop J. Hacikyan et al

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HOVHANNES YERZENKATSI PLOUZ -Diana Der Hovanessian

1230-1293

TASTELESS SALT IS USELESS SALT Tasteless salt is useless salt.

It is neither fertilizer nor cement.

And the man who builds with tasteless words Is like a bee with a sting only, who flits from portal to portal wanting everyone’s job without knowing he is mortal.

IN ONE PLACE Welcome and blessings on your coming.

In this world of wounded hearts your words are balm and cheer How often In days to come will we sigh for this day that we are in one place.

BLESSED IS HE WHO REPENTS Blessed is he who repents his sins and reforms his ways.

Blessed are his tears that whiten his soul like soap.

Otherwise lie will be like waiting for the wedding day that arrives without a bride.

I DESERVED THAT BIT Loving the snake’s child was my first mistake.

My second was following it to its pit.

The mother came out. And of course she bit.

Who can expect love from a snake.

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KOSTANDIN YERZENKATSI 1250-1320

LOVE SONG So beautiful, tender, so gentle.

So stunning a maiden came my way.

That save for these eyes of mine No living soul has seen her like.

By day I hold to her love inside me.

And go to see her often; Since the day she drained my soul from me My reddened eyes drip tears upon her face.

When her soft fragrance filled the air Straightaway I felt my senses vanish; From the time that I first glimpsed her.

My heart has been on fire.

O she has a face, round as the moon.

Her curly hair floats around her head.

O her beauty leaves many a man enchanted: It seems as if brilliant light now falls on me.

In my heart flames an undying love That nothing here can ever quench.

She has become the temple in my soul— And a strong light now shines from my eyes.

Set behind her lips are rows Of gems and precious stones; Fragrant, clothed in purple, her figure Is a garden of sweet-scented flowers.

All that she wears becomes her.

When she rises, walks lightly away.

The world melts from all her brilliance, And the hearts of many men lie crumbled.

I long for her love As the thirsting land longs for dew.

Or for the sweet cool spring breeze When the hot southern wind blows.

The moment she passes from my view.

My reason for living is gone: I am walled in by tears and sighs.

My heart aches and my spirit is faint.

When I see her, raven-haired, dancing demurely.

The very image of the moon Itself, I fall before her with my saz.

And freely become her servant.

And only then shall I know bliss.

When I can drain the brimming cup

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Filled with the pomegranate’s bright wine— Whose color is most like her face.

All the things you say when meeting friends, O tall, shapely Kostandin, Things that pass, fleeting, errant thoughts— Why do you think them worth praise?

There are brothers, ever loving brothers.

Who want great songs of the soil composed; But behold. In a quavering voice I am endlessly singing lovesongs.

Turn away from false, vain things, They serve no use or profit.

Judge with reason and wisdom.

For there will be yet another affair.

-Aram Tolegian

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FRIK

13th and 14th Centuries COMPLAINT O just and righteous God, You who have mercy on us all, I have a bone to pick with You If You will only listen to Your servant’s plaint.

It is really quite astonishing To observe what takes place on earth.

So many wonders in many forms We see in this world.

Wasn’t there only one Adam in heaven.

And only one Eve from his side.

And only a single language for all Before the fruit from the tree was eaten?

Now this particular thing is amazing.

And, even more, bewildering: From only one Adam and only one Eve So many nations came forth.

One man lives for ten years.

Another a hundred or more.

Another doesn’t even reach ten years But dies in two months or three.

One is descended from a wealthy lord.

Another, on his father’s side, a bum; One owns a thousand mules and horses, Another owns neither goat nor kid.

One wears glossy purled cloth, Another lacks even a shirt; One grows rich by foul dealings.

Another falls although his cause is just.

One is a Judas Iscariot— A murderer and cruel in his heart.

His place is the home of the devil, A house for Satan’s band.

I, a poor mortal, beg your pardon.

O great, all-transcendent Lord.

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Your Judgments are Just and righteous.

Your decrees given with an even hand.

Lord, the world is full of Your will.

Things are much as I have said: Blessings from all of us on You, On Lord Jesus. Your almighty son.

-Aram Tolegian

AGAINST FATE Hey, Fate! When you fail a man, you spend all your time digging a well to trap him.

Then you untie the well’s wheel rope so that it can roll.

And you keep the poor mortal struggling up, only to fall back.

You show him a bushel of means and say “This is it. Worry about it, and dream.”

Meanwhile you spin the wheel of fortune and fill the house of the wicked with jewels, while you force the just and scrupulous to sweep up the pieces.

And the man who should not even tend pigs rides a horse as a cavalier.

And without a shovel, you scoop ruin onto the house of the honorable and the just.

Fate, if I speak evil of you, you’ll claim the man is jealous and confused But why do you look crossly at the learned and make the ignorant the landlord?

Hey, why toss the bread of the wise so far down the valley?

And why should I believe in your justice When you don’t serve it to anyone important?

Not that you keep either oath or bargain, treacherous one.

Whomever you love today and who is raised to golden throne, tomorrow may be sitting in ashes.

How can such a fraudulent judge make a just decision?

Fate, friend of the deceitful and devious, you are harsh to the honest.

What more can I say except that someday I expect you to mix up sky and earth and sea.

-Diana Der Hovanessian

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MKRTICH NAGHASH 1394-1470

ON WORLD’S VANITY The world is a dream and a lie, My brothers, it’s as clear as the day.

For where are the Princes and Kings.

The Sultans and Khans, where are they?

They erected these fortresses, towns.

Exerted themselves to repent.

They carried the scar to their graves Or into a dungeon they went.

Naghash, don’t you sin, don’t you err, Don’t you judge like a senseless beast.

Don’t you think the world is forever, Nor life is a movable feast; Pretty toon to you they shall come To tell you with them you must go.

Your soul they shall pierce and your body Into a dungeon they’ll throw.

This world has no loyalty either.

It has given you nothing but sorrow; Today you may laugh for a while But bitter and sad is tomorrow.

Oh don’t you believe in this world.

It is telling you lies day and night; Whatever it promises now It is constantly breaking the plight.

It promises recourse to so many But they can hardly endure.

To many it promises riches, But makes them just wretched and poor; It promises happiness saying Everything always is well.

Instead it leads you nowhere To give you the darkness of Hell.

All the days will elapse in an hour, You open your eyes to your death; The Sun does not always shine down, You are cheerless, distressed, short of breath.

Alas, even little children, Who we think are untainted and right.

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Turn Into dust, time flying Like a dream of a shadowy night.

You fell in love with it, slave!

But it treated you like a stranger; Don’t you love this uncertain world, do realize that love’s danger.

Don’t you long to possess all the goods; What is man’s vanity for?

Now you have your garments and food: Why strive to have anything more?

Oh wretched Naghash, do try to be mild and good-hearted again.

Do listen to your own counsel Since everything else is in vain.

You thought you were a nice swimmer But that was the River of Sin; You labour so hard for the world But there is just nothing you win!

-Samvel Mkrtchyan

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HOVHANNES TLKOURANTSI 1450-1525

ON DEATH O evil man, with passions fraught, How long wilt thou strive after sin Enough the ill that thou hast wrought: Repent,--a holier life begin.

From Adam's time until this day, No soul hath had immortal breath; Thou heed’st not what the Scriptures say-The sinner's punishment is death.

He that had palaces of gold, And brilliant cities, fortress-bound, Hath left behind his wealth untold, And lies beneath the sodden ground.

Who loved to quaff the spicy wine, And spent his life in ribaldry, I saw him like a swollen swine,-A loathsome corpse, unsavoury.

The man that rode an arch-necked steed And flashed his sword around to slay, I saw him penitent indeed:-Between two wooden planks he lay.

And evil wenches, women fair, Who dress in robes of gaudy dye, Who love to curl and braid their hair-Their brightness with the sun might vie: They swing about, and turn, and sway, And are beloved of every man; But hateful when Death comes are they, To all who would their features scan.

Christ sits upon the throne of Light, Rewarding those who loved His Word, Crowning the just with glory bright And penitents His voice that heard.

Ah, Hovhannes Tulkourantzi, Listen with open heart and ear;

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Seek out some way diligently To win the crown of glory there.

-Alice Stone Blackwell

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GRIGORIS AGHTAMARTSI 1485-1544

ODE TO SPRING It is Spring again, the roses prevail.

Hear the turtle-dove and the nightingale Singing so sweetly in a blossoming bush.

The sprouts all around beginning to push.

Tipsy am I, drunk with love. it seems, Tipsy am I at noon with the beams.

Tipsy am I at night with my dreams.

In the dead of night you look like the moon.

Resembling the sun in the afternoon; You are a precious jewel and a pearl.

A purple flower and a violet girl.

Tipsy am I, drunk with love, it seems.

Tipsy am I at noon with the beams.

Tipsy am I at night with my dreams.

A hornbeam blossom, honey-mouthed pigeon.

An outlandish town and a faraway region, The mellowest fruit of the market place.

Nothing compares to your lovely face.

Tipsy am I, drunk with love, it seems.

Tipsy am I at noon with the beams.

Tipsy am I at night with my dreams.

A sanctuary with the smell of balm.

Almonds and sugar, incense in my palm.

A full-flavoured apple reddish in hue.

Fragrant florescence and a sunny dew.

Tipsy am I, drunk with love, it seems.

Tipsy am I at noon with the beams.

Tipsy am I at night with my dreams.

A radiant jewel that cannot be sold, A diamond-laced tray of genuine gold.

Sweet smelling parsley, a blooming alley.

Myrtle and balsam, lilly of the valley.

Tipsy am I, drunk with love, it seems, Tipsy am I at noon with the beams, Tipsy am I at night with my dreams.

A glimmering flower and radiant eyes, The only bright tuberose of the Paradise,

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Shimmering Saturn and the morning star, Light-giving Venus, so brilliant you are.

Tipsy am I, drunk with love, it seems, Tipsy am I at noon with the beams, Tipsy am I at night with my dreams.

A radiant globe of heavenly birth, You quench like the rain the thirst of the earth.

An evergreen tree with a savoury fruit, A bough in full blossom, a melodious flute.

Tipsy am I, drunk with love, it seems, Tipsy am I at noon with the beams, Tipsy am I at night with my dreams.

Incense and myrrh, the very electable, Sweeter than halva and very delectable; May you never know of sadness and loss, Blessed be your life by the Holy Cross.

Tipsy am I, drunk with love, it seems, Tipsy am I at noon with the beams, Tipsy am I at night with my dreams.

-Samvel Mkrtchyan

MY BODY FIGHTS MY SOUL My body fights my soul, Torments her all day long; So she asked the judge To right what was wrong.

When God made us, she said, He did make you my shelter, That we might live in peace Instead of trivial welter.

But the judge was so unfair, And so he was to blame; He has no fear of God And is quite lost to shame.

My widowed soul stands helpless As did the Son of God; She is the slave of what Must lie in the sod.

I suffer from my sins, My soul weeps in her shield; They quarrel with each other And neither one will yield.

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Wandering like a vagrant In vain I strive to find A place where I could stay For a little peace of mind.

Do find a way, Grigoris, To clean up all your sins.

Why do you sleep away Your life that never wins?

Death’s near, do find a healer, How can you fall from grace?

The Angel of death will come To tell you to leave the place.

-Gayané Dallakyan

SONG TO WEEPING, AND TO THE OWNER OF NEW-BUILT HOUSE AND GARDEN Every morning at daybreak Gabriel tells my soul.

“Come, get away from my garden.”

—This, my freshly sown garden.

I bore rocks from the mountains.

And brought thistles from the valley.

Built a wall round my garden.

—I’m told, “Come, get away from my garden.”

How shall I leave my garden?

There are so many thorns on the walls.

I carried water from the mountains, In my garden I let In a spring; I had yet to drink from the spring.

—I’m told, ’Come, get away from my garden."

I planted vines in the garden And I watered them deep; I have yet to taste of their fruit.— I’m told, “Come, get away from my garden.”

In my garden I built a threshing floor.

I laid in a jar for the wine; I have yet to drink from the wine.

—I’m told. “Come, get away from my garden.

Out of my new-built house!”

I built a house in my garden, And covered the rooms with gilt: I have yet to enjoy my house.

—I’m told, “Come, get away from my house.”

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I planted roses in my garden.

Fragrant white and red roses; I have yet to smell my roses.

—I’m told, “Come, get away from my garden.”

I planted flowers in my garden.

My flowers grow green and golden; I have yet to smell my flowers.

—I’m told, “Come, get away from my garden.”

Gabriel came to take my soul.

Frightened, I could not speak; Tears welled and dimmed my eyes (O the short-lived term of my sun) —I’m told, “Come, get away from my garden.”

They stripped my body from my soul.

They cast me out of my garden— It is death to be gone from my garden.

To be gone from my new-built house.

The vines are green in my garden.

They have put forth many tendrils.

And the grapes are of many hues.

My garden is filled with trees and shrubs.

—I’m told, “Come, get away from my garde.”’

The nightingale calls from my garden.

From dawn to sunrise it calls.

And every morning at daybreak The dew settles down on my garden.

-Aram Tolegian

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NAHAPET KOUCHAK -Samvel Mkrtchyan

16th Century

1 O I would fain be the blessĂŠd one who took his loved one and escaped; They crossed the bridge; the waters rose and razed the bridge as people gaped.

And then the winter's snow and frost erased their tracks all through the night; He took her to a garden and kissed her in the morning light.

2 The world was green when you were mine, the leaves with morning dew embossed; The snow set in when you were gone and covered everything with frost; If you relent and make me thus admire you in awe, O I will be the brightest sun against the nature's law: I would fain shine on you again, and all the snows would thaw.

3 Where have you been? Whence have you come, O you, most brilliant flower?

You settled in my heart and soul to hold me in your power.

You settled in my heart and soul, yet, lost in their darkest ward, You struck me on the head and then down my eyes you poured.

4 There are just two things in this world that deserve lament and crying: The first one is when you're in love, the second one is when you're dying.

Why mourn the dead man in his grave

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whose wound you'd plainly see?

Just look at me and say if I'm alive or dead - O wretched me!

5 Your eyes are borrowed from the sea, your brows are clouds morose.

You took your goodly countenance from petals of the rose.

To light a candle at your feet suggests a feeble head; The light your bosom radiates must resurrect the dead.

6 Do not believe, O brothers, those who say a partridge can't be tamed: I saw one - O I wish the bird was mine! I wish she stayed!

Her eyebrows are with charcoal drawn, full of suger is her mouth; If she embraced a corpse, he'd rise in her arms beyond any doubt.

7 O Moon, you're singing your own praises: "To the whole planet I bestow my light."

The earthly moon lies in my arms now, cheek to cheek with me all night.

If you do not believe her servant, I'll lift a bit my cassock's rim, Yet I'm afraid you'll fall in love and your light will grow so dim!

8 What can I do? What can I be?

I'm enchanted with each beauty; Telling them my love and feelings seems to have become my duty.

I'll take my love to God and ask Him (to hinder trouble and damnation): "Why should You blame me now and then for loving Your creation?"

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The Moon rose up behind the mountain by the brightest star escorted.

I held my loved one near and kissed her cheeks, with sugared breathing courted.

And from above the Creator said: "Take care you never lose affection: For I haven't meant to model these two as one perfection."

10 I'm deprived of your love like a suckling snatched from his mother's breastShe is dead, and the orphan is left all by himself and depressed.

Bring some water to my thirsting heartfor your love caused this terrible fever; O speak words of hope and revive me as my only reliever!

11 I came from wingĂŠd creatures who would never peck grain from the ground; Soared high to shun the love that dwelled upon the earth with snares abound.

The snare was set up in the seaHow could I know? The living things Were trapped by feet, whereas I was ensnared by feet and wings!

12 Go! let me have a peace of mind, you but fatigued my heart; You punctured me inside and out and tore my soul apart.

Go! If you turned into a stream, the only one we knew, I’d rather thirst for years than drink a single drop of you!

13 A long time ago when I was a boy they called me "The Golden One"; When I grew up I fell in love and

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my burnished complexion was gone.

Young boys, beware! No stone can stand 'gainst love's destructive wheel; 'Gainst love you need a heart of granite with gates of iron and steel!

15 I am the eye, you are the light, my dear: without light the eyes can’t see.

You are the sea, I am the fish, my dear: the fish will die without the sea; Throw them in another river, and they’ll regain their breath; But when I am deprived of you, it’s certainly my death.

24 L ike incense I have turned so pallid, like saffron I am sear; Is it your love that made me so; is it my death is near?

O you must cure me, for they say you have the remedy: I’ll die and then a word will spread that you have murdered me.

25 How you boasted promising, "Your slave my bosom is!"

But later you did change your mind to steal away the bliss.

O woe is me! Another man, alas, is doing his best To kiss the places I have kissed, his head upon your breast.

26 You have black eyes and shaded brows, a wide forehead and a ruby face; Your white—O those musk-melon breasts, in their state of grace, To Death, alas, must be surrendered, submitted to his arms; If worms must feed on them, O why keep me off your charms?

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How many times should I restate, “Sew a garment for my love: Make the cover from the Sun, the lining from the Moon above; Use a dark cloud for the wadding, draw your threads out of the sea.

Make buttons from the lambent stars, and buttonholes out of me.”

30 O love! I wandered ’round the worldthere’s no place I haven’t beenTo find a virgin hitherto so chaste and so clean.

Oh my! I fell in love with one who was loved, and then forsaken; What’s the use of all my sufferings when by others you’ve been taken!

48 The kiss you gave me from your mouth you gave me willingly; You'll never find a sweeter fruit on any land, in any sea. ’Twas like the fruit that Adam ate and was from Eden banished; Just like I’m destitute of you, and from your bosom ravished.

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NERSES MOKATSI 16th and 17th Centuries

ARGUMENT BETWEEN THE SKY AND EARTH The sky and the earth are brothers, I wonder which is stronger.

Shall I measure the height of the sky.

Shall I count the fruits of the earth?

The sky said to the earth: “I have something more than you— These brightly shimmering stars All issue from me.”

The earth said to the sky: “God’s grace to me is greater— Six thousand colorful flowers All issue from me.”

The sky said to the earth: “I have something more than you— If I should cut short the dew, How could your flowers bloom?"

The earth said to the sky: “God’s grace to me is greater— Though you capture the dew from the sea, I am the source of the sea; If I should dry up the sea, Where will you get the dew?”

The sky said to the earth: “I have something more than you— If on a cloudless day I set the sun To burn, your flowers will all be seared.”

The earth said to the sky: “God’s grace to me is greater— I’ll draw up water from the depths So the flowers may bloom again.”

The sky said to the earth: “I have something more than you— Should I bring down hail and lightning, All your flowers will wash away."

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The earth said to the sky: “God’s grace to me is greater— I have so many hills and dales.

That all your hail will gather there."

The sky said to the earth: “I have something more than you— Wherever there’s a good stalwart man He lies with others in your charnel house.”

The earth said to the sky: “God’s grace to me is greater— God takes back the souls He gives.

What is so mournful in that?”

Should I not take in the bodies.

Their smell would spread over the world; Angels would fly from the smell.

And earth and sky get mixed together.”

The sky said to the earth: “I have something more than you— Nine groups of angels live with me.

And all have their birthplace in me.”

The earth said to the sky: “God’s grace to me is greater— The holy disciples, the prophets, All have their birthplace in me.”

The sky said to the earth: “I have something more than you— The seven levels of heaven are mine.

Where the sun and moon live— The Creator, the Almighty God, Sits enthroned with me.”

The earth said to the sky: “God’s grace to me is greater— Your seven levels of heaven.

All of them will topple down; The sun and the moon and the stars Will also follow the dark.

And God, your Creator, Will descend from His throne And make His Last Judgment.”

Here the sky came lower, Laid its head on the earth—

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You, too, O children, rejoice And bow your heads on the earth.

What is there above the sky That also bows down to earth?

Today we will walk upon it, Tomorrow we will enter it.�

-Aram Tolegian

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NAGHASH HOVNATAN 1661-1722

YOUR FACE IS LIKE THE MOON Your face is like the moon, as bright as cold.

And I still languish for a single kiss; Your hair is curled like those threads of gold I still languish for and miss.

Your brows they are two arches of sweet fire.

Your eyes they must be burning with desire.

Alas, that kerchief does not let admire; O how I long to see them.

Your breasts are newly ripe and full of flavour.

Don’t fast too much, do keep their gorgeous savour.

You’re doomed to Hell unless I curry favour; O how I long to touch them.

Your waist is slender, they will ravish it, I fear some beastly brute will relish it, Your lavish girdles so embellish it; O how I long to hold you.

Your mouth is wine, sweet almond is your tongue, Enjoying things alone while you are young.

Naghash is parched, so emptied and so wrung; O how I long to drink.

-Samvel Mkrtchyan

COME, LET’S GO INTO THE GARDEN Come, let’s go into the garden and sit among the roses.

O dear, O dear, my love of you has made me truly mad.

Don’t display your ripe breasts to anyone but me— O dear, O dear, my love of you has made me truly mad.

Your skin is bright as stars, your face is a rounded moon.

Your black hair falls softly down your neck and shoulders; I’ll die from worry over you — how that will suit your pride! dear, dear, my love of you has made me truly mad.

Your voice is sweet as a nightingale’s, your teeth are rows of pearls.

Your breast’s a meadow, lush garden, round fruit, bright apples; Into the sea of your sins I fell: most of my soul is drowned. dear, dear, my love of you has made me truly mad.

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Your gleaming brows curve finely as a sword.

Your defiant eyes make my heart tremble when I catch them; And he will be blissful who lives in your heart. dear, dear, my love of you has made me truly mad.

For God’s sake, go and see if my love is home; Let me go, let me plead, she may pity me and open the door.

Should she speak to me but once, I know her quivering heart will start to cool. dear, dear, my love of you has made me truly mad.

Since morning, the dew shines red on these red roses; See the many kinds of roses my love has picked for me?

The fire of my love for her has seared my heart. dear, dear, my love of you has made me truly mad.

Dressed in bright colors and adorned with gold, you are splendid as a peacock; Seeking for a single kiss, I run around bewildered.

Is it Naghash you would kill? What have I ever done to you? dear, dear, my love of you has made me truly mad.

-AramTolegian

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PAGHDASSAR DPIR -Samvel Mkrtchyan

1683-1768

O! WILL RISE AND GO O I will rise and go, my love, to some distant land, alas!

Wandering in the mountains, sweet, my heart with tears to lave; One hour without you, my love, is a thousand, alas!

My sweet, do not forget me, that is all I crave: Light of my eyes, joy of my heart, do not forsake your slave.

Your slave I truly am, my love, of my own free will, alas!

I have become a vagrant, sweet, straying day and night.

Your beggar I have been, my love, and am yours still, alas!

My sweet, do not forget me, that is all I crave: Light of my eyes, joy of my heart, do not forsake your slave.

You are a fragrant rose, my love, unwithered, red, alas!

I am a wretched poet, sweet, lamenting for your love.

And if you are away, my love, I lose my head, alas!

My sweet, do not forget me, that is all I crave: Light of my eyes, joy of my heart, do not forsake your slave.

To stars you’re giving light, my love; the very sun you are, alas!

An abject dust am I, my sweet, beneath your fiery light.

I wander in your light, my love, but you are far, alas!

My sweet, do not forget me, that is all I crave: Light of my eyes, joy of my heart, do not forsake your slave.

SONG OF JOY Spring has come, it’s everywhere; Come, my pretty one, rejoice.

Why lament now full of care– Come, my pretty one, rejoice.

See how colours are a-brightening All the blossoms like a lightning.

All the gardens are a-lightening: Come, my pretty one, rejoice.

Brooks are running in sweet madness.

Whirling, purling in their gladness.

Mountains have abandoned sadness: Come, my pretty one, rejoice.

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See the nightingale is singing To a rose and gladly winging.

Come, the song of love is ringing; Come, my pretty one, rejoice.

SONG From your royal sleep, wake.

Wake, my gracious one, wake.

The sun has come and reaches out, Wake, my gracious one, wake.

Lovely picture, oval vision, Perfect as the full moon— No one can be found who equals you.

Wake, my gracious one, wake.

The very sight of you possesses me, Bewitches me, makes me your slave; And lest you burn beneath the sun.

Wake, my gracious one, wake.

Heartbroken, how long must I cry, O rose, O unfading red rose?

Only see how pitiful I am.

Wake, my gracious one, wake.

Hot and evil winds swept down, To burn your tender leaves.

But the dark night has passed now— Wake, my gracious one, wake.

My noble love is peerless.

Her ring the most precious Jewel; In this year 1708, Wake, my gracious one, wake.

-Aram Tolegian

MONEY Where did you come from, Oppressor?

Nothing else like you has come along.

Without the touch of your hand No one becomes happy or strong.

Kings and caesars lust for the strength you wield.

Without you they remain powerless as cattle in the field.

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You deal in evil but men crave to stay your middlemen, unwittingly do good, while you steal their souls from them.

Willingly, lovingly, men bind themselves with your chains.

No matter how much rope you toss they agree to be enmeshed with more.

Should someone undo your cords, you lead him into war, you wound himself and other men with your gift, the sword.

-Diana Der Hovanessian

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SAYAT-NOVA 1722-1795

LOVE SONG I sigh not, while thou art my soul ! Fair one, thou art to me A golden cup, with water filled of immortality.

I sit me down, that over me may fall thy shadow, sweet; Thou art a gold-embroidered tent to shield me from the heat.

First hear my fault, and, if thou wilt, then slay this erring man; Thou hast all power; to me thou art the Sultan and the Khan.

Thy waist is like a cypress-tree, sugar thy tongue, in sooth; Thy lip is candy, and thy skin like Frankish satin smooth.

Thy teeth are pearls and diamonds, the gates of dulcet tones; Thine eyes are gold-enamelled cups adorned with precious stones; Thou art a rare and priceless gem, most wonderful to see; A ruby rich of Mt. Bedakhsh, my love, thou art to me.

How can I bear this misery, unless my heart were stone ?

My tears are blood because of thee, my reason is o’erthrown.

A young vine in the garden fresh thou art to me, my fair, Enshrined in greenness, and set round with roses everywhere.

I, like the love-lorn nightingale, would hover over thee.

A landscape of delight and love, my queen, thou art to me!

Lo, I am drunken with thy love ! I wake, but my heart sleeps.

The world is sated with the world; my heart its hunger keeps.

What shall I praise thee by, when naught is left on earth, save thee ?

Thou art a deer, a Pegasus sprung from the fiery sea !

Speak but one word, to say thou art Saïat Nova’s* love, And then what matters aught to me, in earth or heaven above ?

Thy rays have filled the world; thou art a shield that fronts the sun.

Thou dost exhale the perfume sweet of clove and cinnamon, Of violet, rose, and marjoram ; to me, with love grown pale, Thou art a red flower of the field, a lily of the vale!

-Alice Stone Blackwell

TO YOUR PURE FORM, DRAWN BY A MASTER’S HAND To your pure form, drawn by a master’s hand, bright new tints you bring.

That beauty-spot conceals its full beauty. A snare the locks that round it cling!

Like the crimson Rose you blossom, like the Nightingale you sing.

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Your teeth shine like tiny pearls, set in a coral ring.

Your countenance shines like the crescent Moon, which nightly more radiant grows.

Your hair is like a moving stream, which ripples as it lows.

He who sees you loses his way, and knows not where he goes.

When you step forth, as by a spell Are stricken Court and King!

Men flock to see your beauty, village upon village, town upon town.

For the dying you are the cooling draught that brings their fever down.

How Joyfully they tinkle, the gold coins on their silken gown!

What use my fiddle, when your harmonies are an air on a silver string?

Your scent is of basil. Between your breasts roses and lilies show.

Your lover needs no garden: you are all the flowers that grow.

Through your hair, as In a sail, playful breezes blow.

The world is an ocean, upon whose bosom like a ship you rock and swing.

The whole world lauds your beauty, but one-tenth of it it cannot tell.

You water-lily of the lake, you wind-kissed violet in the dell.

How can I resist you? Sayat-Nova drowns helpless in the swell.

One glimpse of you, and the beholder becomes a mad and senseless thing!

-Charles Dowsett

I HAVE SEEN THEE, MISTRESS MINE! That thou weepest, do not say.

I have seen thee, mistress mine!

Like the Rose thou bloom’st full gay, But with a thorn.

Yea, with a thorn!

I have seen thee, mistress mine!

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What torment is, that I’ve learned.

With many a sigh for thee I yearned.

Hopeless tears are all I earned.

As I mourn As I mourn.

I have seen thee, mistress mine!

Art thou in gold and crimson drest, Rubles and diamonds on thy breast.

That beholder knows no rest That e’er was born.

That e’er was born.

I have seen thee, mistress mine!

When I, poor minstrel, sing thy praise.

Thine eye to another strays.

Thou turn’st a deaf ear to my lays So love-lorn, So love-lorn.

I have seen thee, mistress mine!

Sayat-Nova, why dost thou stare?

In a vessel of gold, her eyes are fair.

May foes’ tongues wither In despair With briars torn.

With briars torn.

I have seen thee, mistress mine!

-Charles Dowsett

I HAVE A BOON TO CRAVE I have a boon to crave. O say not no, light of my eyes!

A thousand hopes In my poor heart grow, light of my eyes.

Have I offended you?

Say it is hot so, light of my eyes!

The unfeeling crowds Surge to and fro. light of my eyes.

But I am starved of you, my love.

I weep, I rave, I burn.

Is it forbidden a man to love?

May I not also yearn?

No man can stand this torment, With nothing in return.

My heart is roasted.

Its embers glow, light of my eyes.

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You have turned my friends to foes.

Shall my foes become my friends?

God is my witness, I have sinned.

How shall I make amends?

I do not notice the passing day, Where it begins and where it ends.

Your love is an ocean, I am a bark in tow, light of my eyes.

I want to shout out loud.

That your name alone be praised.

Ten years I strut around in silks, Like one to the peerage raised.

But seven years, saz in hand, I crawl to you, half-crazed.

I love no other Here below, light of my eyes.

A thousand daggers from my heart No sighs and cries shall bring.

You are my sovereign and my judge, I call no other King.

For Sayat-Nova, cruel one.

Death shall have no sting.

If loose your locks About him flow, light of my eyes.

-Charles Dowsett

IF HE WHOM YOU CALL LOW-BORN If he whom you call low-born At your feet a ruby flings.

What profits that?

If he whose face turns black Of scarlet sings, What profits that?

If he who dies for love A love-song brings, What profits that?

It costs much sliver coin To earn a scholar’s gown.

A drab cloth case may conceal A rich bejewelled crown.

Dressed in silk brocade A clown remains a clown.

To a negress’s cheek A beauty-spot clings.

What profits that?

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A good man is known By his god-fearing deed.

The philosopher savors not the world Through many books he read.

It calls for bravery and skill To saddle the hero’s steed.

This world will pass.

Amassing gold and rings.

What profits that?

Mother and child are parted.

The orphan sits waiting there.

Satan lays his many traps Adam’s sons to snare.

Many fall. Those who remain Are eaten with despair.

In an empty born The thresher’s flail swings.

What profits that?

The celestial wheel of Fate We have in confusion cast.

Dress in rags, and no one asks “Who is that who passed?”

Weep, Sayat-Nova. Your beloved Belongs to a different caste.

There is no cure!

Consult crystal balls and things?

What profits that?

-Charles Dowsett

THE WORLD IS A CAGE The world is a cage. The vaulted bays make me sick.

Touch the bars, they burn. The weals they raise make me sick.

Tomorrow will be worse. Unending days make me sick.

A man can’t be himself. Vapid lays make me sick.

Blind Fate has no favorites, as she hunts around.

If you want to survive, keep your feet on the ground.

If this world is to vanish, as philosophers propound, This nightingale goes with it. The maze makes me sick.

What man can be sure he’ll live till tonight?

Of course, if God’s with you, you’ll be all right.

My truths are all countered by slander and spite.

A minstrel can’t make a living. “Noble” ways make me sick.

Cavort as we may, this world will go.

A curse on fidelity! No one wants to know.

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My patience is exhausted. Who is not my foe?

My friends all hate me. Public gaze makes me sick.

My troubles flood in, like the ocean deep.

The Rose grows new thorns. I, the Nightingale, weep.

No fresh fame will greet me when I rise from my sleep.

You’re rejected, Sayat-Nova. Blame and praise make me sick.

-Charles Dowsett

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HOVHANNES KARNETSI -Arminé Keuchguerian

c. 1750-1820

HYMN TO LOVE (TEN)

My ardent love for you has burned me out, my lovely treasure, My longing after you has worn me out, my jewel without measure, To behold your noble manners and bright looks is pleasure.

That is why I feel conquered by your love, my dear, And, rising from my lips, this song of praise you hear.

I could never see enough of your noble face, my dame, The longer my passions were stirred up, the more I burned in love’s flame, As deep within my heart I cherish your charming name.

That is why I feel conquered by your love, my dear, And, rising from my lips, this song of praise you hear.

You have my yearning, my desire, my admiration; Like the bright and shining sun, you bring illumination, Like a priceless string of pearls, a sparkling constellation.

That is why I feel conquered by your love, my dear, And, rising from my lips, this song of praise you hear.

You have become a source of joy for me, my lovely rose; Like that of the love-sick nightingale, my singing swells and grows; The sweet fragrance of your fair and rosy nature fills my nose.

That is why I feel conquered by your love, my dear, And, rising from my lips, this song of praise you hear.

Your voice, so like the nightingale’s, falls sweetly on the air; To hear the music of your precious words is my only care; Words drop from your lips like honey and fill me with joy, my fair.

That is why I feel conquered by your love, my dear, And, rising from my lips, this song of praise you hear.

I am attached to you by love, like the nightingale to the rose; Your love revives my heart, and as the river of time flows, Day by day increasing, into a mountain my old love grows.

That is why I feel conquered by your love, my dear, And, rising from my lips, this song of praise you hear.

HYMN TO LOVE (FIFTEEN) My most precious and desirable sweetheart, The love I cherish for you has made me miserable: Your rejection of me fills me with deepest grief.

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That is why I sing this song of lamentation.

Pondering my passion for you fills me with constant torment, The agitation that love causes me sets my poor self on fire, More and more I long to see your dear and noble face.

That is why I sing this song of lamentation.

I resemble the unfortunate nightingale Consumed with love for the pretty flower, But my suffering is even deeper than the grief of that bird.

That is why I sing this song of lamentation.

I am given up to solitude in my sad, unhappy dwelling, With no companion, like a mournful turtle-dove, Or like an owl that watches over ruins.

That is why I sing this song of lamentation.

This life we lead in the glare of the sun, Is more painful to me than to anyone else, For I am deprived of my sweetheart’s noble face.

That is why I sing this song of lamentation.

I am thirsty, my entire being longs for your love Like the unicorn that approaches the water spring, For my heart is tumultuous, burning with your love.

That is why I sing this song of lamentation.

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MESROP TAGHIADIAN 1803-1859

LAZY PUPIL O, Athena, gruff-looking, Why treat me so severely?

Me, having no wish and will To acquire wisdom and understanding.

The hell with your Alphabet, Which takes my soul almost away.

O, how I would like to be The dumb ox drawing the plough, Instead of seeing, to my grief, That inflexible countenance of yours, And corrupt my blooming youth With your frantic discoveries.

Your teachings and your principles— Why should we need them today?

When gold and silver may alone Make humans Worthy Gentlemen.

O, when those good times shall come When we’ll not have A and Z? So that we might enjoy well The dance and play, with no shame.

Arsham, a fool greater than me, Is not an honored prince glorified?

Then why should I study That knowledge of yours, useless, futile?

-Arminé Keuchguerian

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GHEVOND ALISHAN 1820-1901

-Alice Stone Blackwell

THE VIRGIN’S TEARS Forth welling from the breast of sapphire lakes, Oh, tell my jocund heart why from their shore Of emerald do those pairs of wandering pearls Like rain upon the rosy plains downpour?

Less pure, less tender, are the twilight dews.

At eve descending on the crimson rose And on the lily’s petals, fine and frail.

Than those twin drops In which thy sorrow flows.

Speak, why do founts of shining tears descend, Mary, from thy love-dropping virgin eyes To thy cheek’s edge, and there hang tremulous As the stars twinkle In the evening skies?

As the heart-piercing pupil of the eye, So sensitive each tear-drop seems to be; Like the unwinking pupil of the eye, Charming my soul, the bright drops look at me.

The heart throbs hard, the gazer holds his breath.— Ah, now I know the truth! Oh, woe is me!

For me those tears have risen to thine eyes, To heal my spirit’s wounds eternally.

But still of my unconsecrated heart Distrustful, they half-fallen linger there.

And do not dare to drop and moisten me.

No, Mary! No, O Virgin Mother fair!

I am a land uncultured, rough and wild; But, underneath those tender tears of thine.

Let rose and saffron bloom there!With thy love Water and cheer this sorrowing heart of mine!

EASTER SONG Father of light, we praise thee!

Thy Son is risen again.

Spirit of love, we praise thee!

He shares thy glorious reign.

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Good tidings. Virgin Princess!

Thy Son is risen this morn.

Good tidings to all mortals.

The born and the unborn!

Good news to you, bright Heavens!

For Christ, who dwelt in you.

Is risen; good tidings, lowly Earth!

Thy Saviour lives anew.

Good news to you, all worlds and orbs That circle overhead!

Good news! Your great Establisher Is risen from the dead!

Good news, ye light and darkness!

A new sun rises high.

Good news to you, all creatures!

Christ lives; you shall not die.

Good news to you, ye dead folk!

For you shall be set free.

Good tidings to all beings That are, or are to be!

THE EXILES Alas, ye poor Armenians!

In undeserved distress Ye wander forth to slavery In want and wretchedness.

A myriad woes ye suffered, Nor left your own dear home; But now ye leave your fathers’ graves.

In distant lands to roam.

These waters sweet, these smiling fields, Where cities fair are set.

To strangers ye abandon them.

But how can ye forget?

Nay, while you live, remember; Be to your country true: Your children and descendants, Bid them remember too.

The holy name of Ararat

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And many a sacred fane.

Till the last judgment wakes the world, Shall in their hearts remain.

Alas for thee, my country!

Alas for thee, or us!

I would that death had sealed mine eyes Ere I beheld thee thus!

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MCKRTICH PESHIKTASHLIAN 1829-1868

-Alice Stone Blackwell

WE ARE BROTHERS From glorious Nature’s myriad tongues Though songs be breathed by lips of love.

And though the maiden’s fingers fair Across the thrilling harp-strings rove.

Of all earth’s sounds, there is no other So lovely as the name of brother.

Clasp hands, for we are brothers dear.

Of old by tempest rent apart; The dark designs of cruel Fate Shall fall When heart is Joined to heart.

What sound, beneath the stars aflame.

So lovely as a brother’s name?

And when our ancient Mother-Land Beholds her children side by side.

The dews of Joyful tears shall heal Her heart’s sad wounds, so deep and wide.

What sound, beneath the stars aflame.

So lovely as a brother’s name?

We wept together in the past; Let us unite in harmony And blend again our tears, our joys; So shall our efforts fruitful be.

What sound, beneath the stars aflame.

So lovely as a brother’s name?

Together let us work and strive, Together sow, with toll and pain.

The seed that shall, with harvest blest, Make bright Armenia’s fields again.

What sound, beneath the stars aflame, So lovely as a brother’s name?

DEATH OF A YOUTH OF ZEITOUN Whom dost thou seek, sweet mother?

Come, tremble not, draw near!

Gaze on thy son’s blood-streaming wounds

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Without a sigh or tear.

Let Turkish mothers rend their hair; Do thou glad news to Zeitoun bear!

As, by my cradle, thou didst soothe With tender hand and smile My childish form to sleep, and sing With angel voice the while.

Lay me to rest, without a care.

And joyful news to Zeitoun bear!

Red floods are welling from my wounds.

But, mother, look around; See how the fierce blood-thirsty Turks By thousands strew the ground!

Our swords devoured them, scattered there; Then joyful news to Zeitoun bear!

They smote us like a dragon, With sudden roaring deep; But Zeitoun shook her rocky head, And rolled them down the steep.

Red was the stain our rocks did wear; Then joyful news to Zeitoun bear!

Our fathers’ ghosts applauded; Our old fire is not dead!

The old of fire is not dead!

Mount Ararat the Joy did share; Mother, glad news to Zeitoun bear!

Take my last kiss, my mother.

And bear it to my love; A kiss, too, for my native soil.

That now my tomb most prove.

Plant thou a cross above me there.

And joyful news to Zeitoun bear!

SPRING How cold and sweet, O breeze of morn.

Thou stirrest in the air, Caressing soft the dewy flowers.

The young girl’s clustering hair!

But not my country’s breeze thou art.

Blow past! thou canst not touch my heart.

How sweetly and how soulfully

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Thou singest from the grove, O bird, while men admire thy voice In tender hours of love!

But not my country’s bird thou art.

Sing elsewhere! Deaf to thee my heart.

With what a gentle murmur, O brook, thy current flows.

Reflecting in its mirror clear The maiden and the rose!

But not my native stream thou art.

Flow past! thou canst not charm my heart.

Though over ruins linger Armenia’s bird and breeze, And though Armenia’s turbid stream Creeps ’mid the cypress-trees.

They voice thy sighs, and from my heart, My country, they shall not depart!

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MIKAEL NALBANDIAN -Alice Stone Blackwell

1830-1866 LIBERTY

When God, who is forever free, Breathed life Into my earthly frame,— From that first day, by His free will When I a living soul became, A babe upon my mother’s breast, Ere power of speech was given to me.

Even then ! stretched my feeble arms Forth to embrace thee, Liberty!

Wrapped round with many swaddling bands, All night I did not cease to weep, And in the cradle, restless still, My cries disturbed my mother’s sleep.

“O mother!” in my heart I prayed, ’Unbind my arms and leave me freer And even from that hour I vowed To love thee ever, Liberty!

When first my faltering tongue was freed, And when my parents’ hearts were stirred With thrilling joy, to hear their son Pronounce his first clear-spoken word, ’Papa. Mamma,’ as children use, Were not the names first said by me; The first word on my childish lips Was thy great name, O Liberty!

“Liberty!” answered from on high The sovereign voice of Destiny: “Wilt thou enroll thyself henceforth A soldier true of Liberty?

The oath is thorny all the way.

And many trials wait for thee; Too strait and narrow is this world For him who loveth Liberty.”

“Freedom!” I answered, “On my head Let fire descend and thunder burst; Let foes against my life conspire.

Let all who hate thee do their worst; I will be true to thee till death; Yea, even upon the gallows tree

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The last breath of a death of shame Shall shout the name, O Liberty!”

DAYS OF CHILDHOOD Days of my childhood, like a dream Ye fleeted, to return no more.

Ah. happy days and free from care.

Ye brought but joy in passing o’er!

Then Science came, and on the world Ye gaze with grave, observant looks; All things were analyzed and weighed, And all my time was given to books.

When to full consciousness I woke, My country’s woes weighed down my heart.

Apollo gave me then his lyre To bid my gloomy cares depart.

Alas! that lyre beneath my touch Sent forth a grave and tearful voice, Sad as my soul; no single chord Would breathe a note that said “Rejoice!”

Ah, then at last I felt, I knew, There never could be joy for me, While speechless, sad, in alien hands.

My country languished to be free.

Apollo, take thy lyre again.

And let its voice, amid the groves, Sound for some man who may in peace Devote his life to her he loves!

To the arena I will go But not with lyre and flowery phrase; I will protest and cry aloud, And strive with darkness all my days.

What boots today a mournful lyre?

Today we need the sword of strife.

Upon the foeman sword and fire,— Be that the watchword of my life!

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RAPHAEL PATKANIAN -Alice Stone Blackwell

1830-1892

CRADLE SONG Nightingale, oh, leave our garden, Where soft dews the blossoms steep; With thy litanies melodious Come and sing my son to sleep!

Nay, he sleeps not for thy chanting, And his weeping hath not ceased.

Come not, nightingale! My darling Does not wish to be a priest.

O thou thievish, clever jackdaw, That in coin findest thy joy.

With thy tales of gold and profit Come and soothe my walling boy!

Nay, thy chatter does not lull him, And his crying is not stayed.

Come not, jackdaw! for my darling Will not choose the merchant’s trade.

Wild dove, leave the fields and pastures Where thou grievest all day long; Come and bring my boy sweet slumber With thy melancholy song!

Still he weeps. Nay, come not hither, Plaintive songster, for I see That he loves not lamentations, And no mourner will he be.

Leave thy chase, brave-hearted falcon!

Haply he thy song would hear.

And the boy lay hushed, and slumbered, With the war-notes in his ear.

THE ARMENIAN GIRL Have you seen the bright moon rising In the heavens? Have you seen Ruddy apricots that shimmer Through the garden’s foliage green?

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Have you seen the red rose glowing Where green leaves about her meet, And around her, in a bevy, Lilies, pinks, and iris sweet?

Lo, beside Armenia’s maiden, Dark and dim the bright moon is; Apricots and pinks and iris Are not worth a single kiss.

Roses on her cheeks are blooming, On her brow a lily fair, And of Innocence the symbol Is the smile her sweet lips wear.

From her friend she takes the zither With a blush the heart that wins; Touching it with dainty fingers, The lekzinca she begins.

Like a tree her form is slender, Swaying with a dreamy grace; Now she files with rapid footsteps, Now returns with gliding pace.

All the young men’s hearts are melted When the maiden they behold.

And the old men curse their fortune That so early they grew old.

TO MY NIGHTINGALE Why didst thou cease, O nightingale, thy sweet melodious song.

That to my sad and burning eyes bade floods of teardrops throng?

Dost thou remember, when in spring the dawn was breaking clear.

How often to my heart thou hast recalled my country dear?

Sweet was that memory, as a dream that for a moment’s space Brings joy into a mourner’s heart, and brightens his sad face.

The weary world forgotten, to thy voice I bent my ear; And I was far away, and saw once more my country dear.

I know thou too art longing for that vernal land the while,— That paradise, afar from with Fate has for us no smile.

Oh, who will give me a bird’s wings, that I may sweep and soar.

And cleave the clouds, and hie me to Armenic once more?

A golden girdle for thy waist my fingers deft have made.

And from it I have hung a sword,— my own hands ground the blade.

Within our courtyard stands a steed that, champing, waits for thee.

Awake, and take thy sword! How long wilt thou a slumberer be?

Thy nation is In misery; in fetters, lo! they weep;

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Thy brethren are in slavery, my brave one; wilt thou sleep?

No,soon my son will waken, will mount his champing steed.

Will wipe away Armenia’s tears, and stanch the hearts that bleed; Will bid his nation’s mourning cease, and those that weep shall smile.

Ah. my Armenian brethren, wait but a little while!

Lo, my Aghassi has awaked! He girt himself with speed.

And from his sword-belt hung the sword, and mounted on his steed.

If I could breathe her hold and revivifying air, I know I should be cured at last of all thir weight of care.

But when spring passed away it brought thy music to a close.

And took from us thy chanted hymn, with the petals of the rose.

I’ll open thy cage door; thou’rt free! Now to Armenia fly!

Dost thou desire the rose, ’tis there; there is a cloudless sky; There are cool breezes, o’er the fields that softly, sweetly blow; A sun that shines in splendor, and brooks that murmuring flow.

I too, like thee, am longing for a sunny atmosphere; The mist and cloud and heavy air have tired my spirit here.

The North wind blows the dust to heaven, the crows with harsh notes sail; This is the Northern air, and this the Northern nightingale!

O foolish, poor Armenians, what seek ye in the North?

I hate its empty pleasures and its lie of little worth.

Give me my country’s balmy air, her cloudless sky o’erhead; Give me my country’s pastures green, my country’s roses red!

SHALL WE BE SILENT? 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 plougshare and the sword Has welded us a chain.

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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 foemen, holding o’er our heads His weapon fierce and strong, Make us devour our bitter tears, Our protests against wrong.

So many woes are heaped on us, To weep our sorrows’ sun We need the broad Euphrates’ flood— And shall we still be dumb?

Our foe, with overweening pride, Treads justice under foot, And dives us from our native soilAnd 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, it 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?

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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!

THE NEW GENERATION

When the mother, with sore travail, To the world a man-child gives, Let a sharp sword from his father Be the first gift he receives.

As he grows, instead of playthings, Toys for childish sport and game, Let his father give him, rather, A good gun, of deadly aim.

When his time is come for schooling, Let him to the sword give heed; Teach him first to wield his weapon; After, let him learn to read.

Skill of reading, craft of writing.

Is a useful thing and good; But at the examinations Ask him first, “Canst thou shed blood?”

-Hope ye in no other manner Poor Armenia to save.

I’ll the beggar’s part beseemeth Independent men and brave.

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RAFFI

1835-1888 THE LAKE OF VAN Deep silence everywhere — a hush profound!

One night imagine nature to be dead.

Sitting here mournfully, a pilgrim lone, O brilliant moon, I see thee overhead.

Since the beginning of the world and time, Moon, thou hast run thy course. Oh, hast thou seen The poor Armenians, once so fortunate.

And dost thou now behold their sufferings keen?

I wonder if thou too, like me, O moon.

Seeing Armenia ’neath barbarian feet.

Dost shed salt tears of grief and bitterness.

And In thy heart do piercing arrows meet?

Thy heart is like a rock, thy conscience dead.

How many massacres have met thine eye, How many a carnage! yet thou bulldest now Again a bright arch o’er Armenia’s sky.

Wherefore this silence? Speak to me, O lake!

Wilt thou not weep with me, whose heart is rent?

O breezes, stir the waves to billows high, And with these waters let my tears be blent!

From the beginning all things thou hast seen That in Armenia happened. Tell us, pray.

Whether Armenia, once a garden fair.

Shall always be a thorny desert gray?

Oh, can it be, our nation, full of woe.

Shall ’neath a foreign prince’s sway lie prone?

Oh, can it be, the Armenians and their sons Are found unworthy before God’s high throne?

Will a day come when from Mt. Ararat A banner shall be seen, by breezes fanned.

And when Armenian pilgrims everywhere Shall start for their beloved fatherland? ’Tis hard. O Heavenly Ruler! but inspire Their souls, and let Thy light of knowledge flame O’er them, to show them what is human life—

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They by their works shall glorify thy name!

Upon the lake there shone a sudden light; A graceful maid rose from the waters there; Alighted lantern in one hand she bore, In one a shining lyre of Ivory fair.

Was she some nymph, some peerless angel? Nay, A matchless fair Armenian Muse was she.

Muse, read the fate of the Armenians!

The present and the future tell to me!

That sweet celestial spirit spoke: “Good news I bring to thee, young pilgrim! Dry thine eyes.

New, happy days shall come; when reigns God’s will Freely, the Golden Age again shall rise.

“Armenia’s Muses will awake again, And her Parnassus blossom gloriously; The car of Phoebus, shedding light aboard.

Shall ride round Armenia’s gloomy sky.

“We too, like thee, passed many mournful days, When a dark night, that seemed it ne’er would cease, Enwrapped Armenia; and we too, dear youth.

Have now received the olive branch of peace.

“Wipe thy lyre’s rusted strings with joy today, Go to Armenia with an ardent song!

Awake the zeal of the Armenians, Their zeal benumbed In lethargy so long.

“The time has come, the time so long desired: Fulfilled it now the old prophetic word; The day will dawn; behold the morning star, A sign made visible — thus saith the Lord!”

Then darkness fell, the figure disappeared; But long was heard the voice of sweetness rare, Mixed with the murmur of the lapping waves, And aromatic fragrance filled the air.

O happy news! O tidings glad and sweet!

What joy for Muse, for sad and sorrowing men!

Tell us, reveal if it be possible For a dead corpse to wake and live again!

-Alice Stone Blackwell

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GAREGIN SRVANTSTIAN 1840-1892

LAMENT OVER THE HEROES FALLEN IN THE BATTLE OF AVARAIR If Goghtan's bards no longer crown Armenia's heroes with their lays, Let deathless souls from Heaven come down, Our valiant ones to praise!

Ye shining angel hosts, descend: On Ararat's white summit pause; Let God Himself the heavens rend, To come and judge our cause.

Fly, clouds, from Shavarshan away, Pour not on it your gentle rain:-’Tis drenched with streams of blood to-day Shed by our brave ones slain.

Henceforth the rose and asphodel No more shall on our plains appear; But in the land where Vartan fell Shall Faith her blossoms rear.

Fit monument to Vartan's name, Mount Ararat soars to the sky.

And Cross-crowned convents tell his fame, And churches vast and high.

Thy record too shall ever stand, O Eghishé, for where they fell, Thou forthwith camest, pen in hand, Their faith and death to tell.

Bright sun, pierce with thy rays the gloom, Where Khaghdik's crags thy light repel, There lies our brave Hmayag's tomb,-There, where he martyred fell.

And, moon, thy sleepless vigil keep O’er our Armenian martyrs' bones; With the soft dews of Maytime steep Their nameless funeral stones.

Armenia's Stork, our summer guest, And all ye hawks and eagles, come, Watch o’er this land--’tis our bequest--

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We leave to you our home.

About the ashes hover still, Your nests among the ruins make; And, swallows, come and go until Spring for Armenia break!

-Alice Stone Blackwell

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SMBAT SHAHAZIZ 1840-1907

THE DREAM Soft and low a voice breathed o’er me, Near me did my mother seem; Flashed a ray of joy before me, But, alas, it was a dream!

There the murmuring streamlet flowing Scattered radiant pearls around, Pure and clear, like crystal glowing-But it was a dream, unsound.

And my mother's mournful singing Took me back to childhood's day, To my mind her kisses bringing-’Twas a dream and passed away!

To her heart she pressed me yearning, Wiped her eyes which wet did seem; And her tears fell on me burning-Why should it have been a dream?

-Alice Stone Blackwell

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JIVANI

1846 – 1909 -Alice Stone Blackwell

A GOOD COMRADE

A good comrade, beautiful and virtuous, Lights man’s face up, like a bright sun-ray.

When a man has with him a true comrade, Dark night passes like a sunny day.

Sacrifice is nothing; a kind comrade Is the spirit’s lamp of light and fire.

A good friend, a true, God-fearing comrade, Leads man ever upward, high and higher.

When our enemies attack us fiercely, A brave comrade is a sword in fight.

Who has a true friend, minstrel Jivan, Never shall one hair of his turn white.

THE YOUTH AND THE STREAMLET Down from yon distant mountain The streamlet finds its way, And through the quiet village, It flows in eddying play.

A dark youth left his doorway, And sought the water-side, And, laving there his hands and brow, “O streamlet sweet! ” he cried, “Say, from what mountain com’st thou?”

“From yonder mountain cold Where snow on snow lies sleeping, The new snow on the old.”

“Unto what river, tell me, Fair streamlet, dost thou flow?”

“I flow unto that river Where clustering violets grow.”

“Sweet streamlet to what vineyard, Say, dost thou take thy way?”

“The vineyard where the vine-dresser Is at his work to-day.”

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“What plant there wilt thou water ?”

“The plant upon whose roots The lambs feed, where the wind-flower blooms, And orchards bear sweet fruits.”

“What garden wilt thou visit, O water cool and fleet ? ” “The garden where the nightingale Sings tenderly and sweet.”

“Into what fountain flow’st thou? ” “The fountain to whose brink Thy love comes down at morn and eve, And bends her face to drink.”

“There shall I meet the maiden Who is to be thy bride, And kiss her chin, and with her love My soul be satisfied.”

UNHAPPY DAYS The mournful and unhappy days, like winter, come and go.

We should not be discouraged, they will end, they come and go.

Our bitter griefs and sorrows do not tarry with us long; Like customers arrayed in line, they come, and then they go.

Over the heads of nations persecutions, troubles, woes, Pass, like the caravan along the road; they come and go.

The world is like a garden, and men are like the flowers; How many roses, violets and balsams come and go!

Let not the strong then boast themselves, nor let the weak be sad, For divers persons of all kinds pass on, they come and go.

Fearless and unafraid the sun sends forth his beaming light; The dark clouds, toward the house of prayer float past they come and go.

Earth to her well-taught son belongs, with motherly caress, But the unlettered races like nomads come and go.

Djivan, a guest-room is the world, the nations are the guests; Such is the law of nature; they pass—they come and go.

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PETROS DOURIAN 1851-1872

-Alice Stone Blackwell

LITTLE LAKE Why dost thou lie in hushed surprise, Thou little lonely mere?

Did some fair woman wistfully Gaze in thy mirror clear?

Or are thy waters calm and still Admiring the blue sky, Where shining cloudlets, like thy foam.

Are drifting softly by?

Sad little lake, let us be friends!

I too am desolate; I too would fain, beneath the sky.

In silence meditate.

As many thoughts are in my mind As wavelets o’er thee roam; As many wounds are in my heart As thou hast flakes of foam.

But if heaven’s constellations all Should drop into thy breast, Thou still wouldst not be like my soul — A flame-sea without rest.

There, when the air and thou are calm, The clouds let fall no showers; The stars that rise there do not set, And fadeless are the flowers.

Thou art my queen, O little lake!

For e’en when ripples thrill Thy surface, in thy quivering depths Thou hold’st me, trembling, still.

Full many have rejected me: “What has he but his lyre?

He trembles, and his face is pale; His life must soon expire!”

None said, “Poor child, why pines he thus?

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If he beloved should be, Haply he might not die, but live,— Live, and grow fair to see.”

None sought the boy’s sad heart to read, Nor in its depths to look.

They would have found it was a fire, And not a printed book!

Nay, ashes now! a memory!

Grow stormy, little mere, For a despairing man has gazed Into thy waters clear!

TO LOVE A galaxy of glances bright, A sweet bouquet of smiles, A crucible of melting words Bewitched me with their wiles!

I wished to live retired, to love The flowers and bosky glades, The blue sky’s lights, the dew of morn, The evening’s mists and shades; To scan my destiny’s dark page, In thought my hours employ, And dwell in meditation deep And visionary joy.

Then near me stirred a breath that seemed A waft of Eden’s air.

The rustle of a maiden’s robe, A tress of shining hair.

I sought to make a comrade dear Of the transparent brook, It holds no trace of memory; When in its depths I look.

I find there floating, clear and pale, My face! Its waters hold No other secret in their breast Than wavelets manifold.

I heard a heart’s ethereal throb; It whispered tenderly: “Dost thou desire a heart?’ it said.

“Beloved, come to me!”

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I wished to love the zephyr soft That breathes o’er fields of bloom; It woundeth none,— a gentle soul Whose secret is perfume.

So sweet it is, is has the power To nurse a myriad dreams; To mournful spirits, like the scent Of paradise it seems.

Then from a sheaf of glowing flames To me a whisper stole: It murmured low, “Dost thou desire To worship a pure soul?”

I wished to make the lyre alone My heart’s companion still, To know it has a loving friend, And guide its chords at will.

But she drew near me, and I heard A whisper soft and low: “Thy lyre is a cold heart,” she said, “Thy love is only woe.”

My spirit recognized her then; She beauty was, and fire.

Pure as the stream, kind as the breeze.

And faithful as the lyre.

My soul, that from the path had erred, Spread wide its wings to soar, And bade the life of solitude Farewell forevermore.

A galaxy of glances bright, A sweet bouquet of smiles.

A crucible of melting words Bewitched me with their wiles!

TO MAY O virgin, mother of the sweet spring flowers!

O lovely May. In shining blossoms clad!

Why bring you not blossoms of my soul Among your many-colored flowers glad?

Ah me! Another angel may there be, The May of the soul’s flowers? Some happy day

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Then may that angel come, and on my head Shine with soft light — an infinite pale May! I HAVE LOVED THEE It was the hour of dew and light; In heaven a conflagration cold Of roses burned. Instead of clouds; There was a rain of pearls and gold.

Then deep within a flowering grove I saw thee, love, reclined at ease, And thou wast languishing and pale, And sighing like a summer breeze.

Plucking a blossom’s leaves apart With fingers fair as lilies are; Thine eyes, the temples of love’s fire, Were fixed upon the heavens afar.

I marvelled that thy fingers soft, Wherein the haughty rose was pressed, Had power to pluck her leaves away And scatter them upon thy breast.

A strange new heaven shone within Thine eyes, so dark and languishing; A heaven where, instead of stars, Arrows of fire were glittering.

Ah, thou hast made of me a slave To one bright glance, one word of thine!

The rays thy soul sheds, cruel maid, Become as fetters laid on mine.

Oh, leave my heart, from me depart!

I for my queen desire not thee; Thy breast is like the rose’s leaf, Thy heart as granite hard to me.

Thou knowest naught, thou fragrant one, Save wounds in tender hearts to make, Happy when thine adorer’s breast Bleeds in profusion for thy sake.

When, lonely in a grove’s deep shade, I weep, and all my sad heart grieves, Lo, thou art there! Thou findest me.

Thou speakest to me through the leaves.

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When in the swift and shining stream I seek oblivion of thy face, Thou findest me, and from the waves Thou smilest up with witching grace.

When to the rocks and mountains steep To break my heart and lyre I flee, Thou murmurest even in the wind That thou hadst never love for me.

I will embrace the frozen earth, And hide from thee in dreamless sleep, The dark grave is a virgin too; Is any other heart so deep?

SHE Were not the rose’s hue like that which glows On her soft cheek, who would esteem the rose?

Were not the tints of heaven like those that lie In her blue eyes, whose gaze would seek the sky?

Were not the maiden innocent and fair, How would men learn to turn to God in prayer?

WHAT ARE YOU, LOVE? What are you, love? A flame from heaven?

A radiant smile are you?

The heaven has not your eyes' bright gleams, The heaven has not their blue.

The rose has not your snowy breast; In the moon's face we seek In vain the rosy flush that dyes Your soft and blushing cheek.

By night you smile upon the stars, And on the amorous moon, By day upon the waves, the flowers Why not on one alone?

But, though I pray to you with tears, With tears and bitter sighs, You will not deign me yet one glance Cast by your shining eyes.

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O love, are you a mortal maid, Or angel formed of light?

The spring rose and the radiant moon Envy your beauty bright; And when your sweet and thrilling voice Is heard upon the air, In cypress depths the nightingale Is silent in despair.

Would I, a zephyr, might caress Your bright brow's dreams in sleep, Breathe gently on your lips, and dry Your tears, if you should weep!

Or would that in your garden fair A weeping rose I grew; And when you came resplendent there At morning with the dew, I'd give fresh colour to your cheek That makes the rose look pale, Shed on your breast my dew, and there My latest breath exhale.

MY DEATH When Death's pale angel stands before my face, With smile unfathomable, stern and chill, And when my sorrows with my soul exhale, Know yet, my friends, that I am living still.

When at my head a waxen taper slim With its cold rays the silent room shall fill, A taper with a face that speaks of death, Yet know, my friends, that I am living still.

When, with my forehead glittering with tears, They in a shroud enfold me, cold and chill As any stone, and lay me on a bier, Yet know, my friends, that I am living still.

When the sad bells shall toll - that bell, the laugh Of cruel Death, which wakes an icy thrill And when my bier is slowly borne along, Yet know, my friends, that I am living still.

When the death-chanting priests, dark browed, austere, With incense and with prayers the air shall fill,

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Rising together as they pass along, Yet know, my friends, that I am living still.

When they have set my tomb in order fair, And when, with bitter sobs and wailing shrill, My dear ones from the grave at length depart, Yet know, my friends, that I shall be living still.

But when my grave forgotten shall remain In some dim nook, neglected and passed by, When from the world my memory fades away, That is the time when I indeed shall die!

COMPLAINTS Farewell to thee, O God, to thee, O sun, Ye twain that shine above my soul on high!

My spirit from the earth must pass away; I go to add a star to yonder sky.

What are the stars but curses of sad souls,— Souls guiltless, but ill-fated, that take flight To burn the brow of heaven? They only serve To make more strong the fiery armor bright Of God, the source of lightnings! But, ah me!

What words are these I speak? With thunder smite, O God, and shatter the presumptuous thoughts That fill me,— giant thoughts and infinite, Thoughts of an atom in thy universe, Whose spirit dares defy its mortal bars, And seeks to dive into the depth of heaven, And climb the endless stairway of the stars!

Hail to thee. God, thou Lord of trembling man, Of waves and flowers, of music and of light!

Thou who hast taken from my brow the rose, And from my soul the power of soaring flight; Thou who hast spread a cloud before mine eyes.

And given these deathly flutterings to my heart.

And bidd’st me smile upon thee on the brink Of then dark tomb, to which I must depart!

Doubtless thou hast for me a future lie Of boundless light, of fragrance, prayer, and praise; But, if my last breath here below must end Speechless and mute, breathed out in mist and haze— Ah, then, instead of any heavenly life To greet me when my earthly span is o’er, May I become a pallid lightning flash, Cling to thy name, and thunder evermore!

Let me become a curse and pierce thy side!

Yea, let me call thee “God the pitiless!”

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Ah me, I tremble! I am pale as death; My heart foams like a hell of bitterness!

I am a sligh that moans among the sad, Dark cypresses,— a withered leaf the strife Of autumn winds must quickly bear away.

Ah, give me but one spark, one spark of life!

What! after this brief, transitory dream Must I embrace for aye the grave’s cold gloom?

O God, how dark a destiny is mine!

Was it writ out with lees from the black tomb?

Oh, grant my soul one particle of fire!

I would still love, would live, and ever live!

Start, drop into my soul! A single spark Of life to your ill-fated lover give!

Spring offers not one rose to my pale brow, The sunbeams lend me not one smile of light.

Night is my bier, the stars my torches are, The moon weeps even in the depths of night Some men there are with none to weep for them; Therefore God made the moon. In shadows dim Of coming death, man has but two desires,— First, life; then some one who shall mourn for him.

In vain for me the stars have written “Love," The bulbul taught it me with silver tongue; In vain the zephyrs breathed it, and in vain My image in the clear stream showed me young.

In vain the groves kept silence round about.

The secret leaves forbore to breathe or stir Lest they should break my reveries divine; Ever they suffered me to dream of her.

In vain the flowers, dawn of the spring, breathed forth Incense to my heart’s altar, from the sod.

Alas, they all have mocked me! All the world Is nothing but the mockery of God! REPENTANCE Yesterday, when in slumber light and chill, Drenched in cold sweats, upon my couch I lay While on my panting cheeks two roses burned And on my brow sat mortal pallor gray,— Then on my soul, athirst for love, there fell My mother’s sobs, who wept beside my bed, When I unclosed my dim and weary eyes, I saw her tears of pity o’er me shed.

I felt upon my face my mother’s kiss, A sacred last remembrance, on death’s shore; All her great sorrow in that kiss was breathed— And it was I who caused her anguish sore!

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Ah, then a tempest rose and shook my soul, A storm of bitter grief, that blasts and sears; Then I poured forth that torrent dark. My God, Forgive me! I had seen my mother’s tears.

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YEGHIA DEMIRJIBASHIAN 1851-1908 ALONE Years behind me torment me with bitter memories of happiness.

Years ahead petrify me with horrible premonitions of madness.

Past years took everything with them, everything.

Years ahead shall bring nothing for me – They shall bring new doubts to my mind, new letdowns to my heart, and new mists to my soul.

They arrive as swift bearers of ill tidings and depart ever so slowly, for they always depart with a heavy load, those new years – now old.

Beddings are folded one by one, one by one dishes removed and voices silenced one by one.

Only one cot now in my house and a single dish on my table and not even one single echo of a voice.

I eat my food and my food devours me.

I roam around my rooms – ghosts roam around the corners of my cranium and on the walls white as shrouds roam, clinging to each other, the specters of my loved ones.

The cruel old good years reveal to my eyes radiant scenes of bliss,

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while the years ahead parade pitch-black shivers in my soul‌ -Tatul Sonentz

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ZABEL ASSATOUR 1863-1934

THE INCENSE Before the altar burns the fragrant incense; Softly the silver censer sways and bows; The columned smoke goes up, the cross encircling, And with a mist anoints the saints’ white brows.

Infinite sighs of prayer and of entreaty Under the vaults die slowly and are stilled; Slowly the weeping flames of dim, faint tapers Sigh, one by one, their eyes with pity filled.

Lo, a white veil, hard by the sacred column, Trembles with sobs that shake a hidden frame; In a white shadow wrapped, a heart is burning Silently, like the incense, in a flame.

Out of the censer’s heart the incense passes, Winding it rises toward the ether’s height.

Matter it was; the fire its life hath swallowed; Now ’tis but fragrance filled with colored light.

So, too, the grieving woman’s heart that burns there Will not be freed from fetters and from fires Until it melts, dissolves, etherealizes, Wholly consumed by flames of pure desires.

-Alice Stone Blackwell

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HOVHANNES HOVHANNESSIAN 1864-1929 SPRING None await thy smiling rays; Whither comest thou, O Spring None are left to sing thy praiseVain thy coming now, O Spring!

All the world is wrapped in gloom, Earth in blood is weltering: This year brought us blackest doomWhither comest thou, O Spring?

No rose for the nightingale, No flower within park or dale, Every face with anguish paleWhither comest thou, O Spring?

-Alice Stone Blackwell

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AVETIS AHARONIAN 1866-1948

THE LULLABY OF NAZI Oh, sleep, my little one; oh, sleep once more!

Thou need’st not weep, for I have wept full sore.

The blind wild geese flew, screaming mournfully, Across our heavens black, o’er vale and hill, Blinded they were among our mountains high!

Thou need’st not weep, for I have wept my fill.

The gale is moaning in the forests dark; ’Tis the lament of homeless corpses chill.

Ah, many and many a corpse unburied lies!

Thou need’st not weep, for I have wept my fill, Laden with tears, the caravan passed by, Knelt in the forest black, and stays there still.

It was our land’s calamities and woes!

Thou need’st not weep, for I have wept my fill.

Beads have I strung and on thy cradle bound, To guard thee from the foeman’s evil eye.

Oh, sleep and grow, my little one, make haste!

Thou need’st not weep; my tears were seldom dry.

My milk has frozen on thy pallid lips; ’Tis bitter, and thou dost not want it more; With it is mixed the poison of my grief.

Thou need’st not weep, for I have wept full sore.

Oh, with my milk drink in my black grief too!

Let it black vengeance in thy soul instill!

Shoot up, my darling, grow to stature tall!

Thou need’st not weep, for I have wept my fill.

-Alice Stone Blackwell

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HOVHANNES TOUMANIAN -Alice Stone Blackwell

1869-1923

BEFORE A PAINTING BY AYVASOVSKY Rising from ocean, billows uncontrolled, With heavy flux and reflux, beating high, Towered up like mountains, roaring terribly; The wild storm blew with wind gusts manifold— A mad, tempestuous race Through endless space.

“Halt” cried the aged wizard, brush in hand.

To the excited elements; and lo!

Obedient to the voice of genius, now The dark waves, in the tempest’s fury grand, Upon the canvas, see!

Stand still eternally!

WHEN SOME DAY Sweet comrade, when you come some day To gaze upon my tomb, And scattered all around it see Bright flowers in freshest bloom, Think not that those are common flowers Which at your feet are born.

Or that the spring has brought them there My new home to adorn.

They are my songs unsung, which used Within my heart to hide; They are the words of love t left Unuttered when I died.

They are my ardent kisses, dear, Sent from that world unknown, The path to which before you lies Blocked by the tomb alone!

IN THE COTTAGE The little children wept and wailed; Heart-rending were the tears they shed.

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“Mamma, mamma, we want our food!

Get up, mamma, and give us bread!”

With bitter sorrow in her heart Groaned the sick mother from her bed: “We have no bread, my little ones; Papa has gone to get you bread.”

“No, you are cheating, bad mamma!

You are deceiving us! You said That when the sunlight struck the banks Papa would come and bring us bread.

“The sun has come, the sun has gone; Still are we hungry, still unfed.

Mamma, mamma, we want our food!

Get up, mamma, and give us bread!”

“No bread your father yet has found; Without it he dares not come back.

Walt but a little while, my dears!

Now I will follow in his track.

“In heaven there is a great Papa; Abundant store of bread has he.

He loves you much, so very much, He will not let you hungry be.

“There will I go and say to him That you are faint with hunger sore.

Plenty of bread I’ll ask for you, That you may eat, and weep no more.”

So spake the mother, and she clasped The starving children to her breast.

On her pale lips the last kiss froze That to their faces thin she pressed.

The mother’s arms unclosed no more— She shut her eyes and went away Bread to her little ones to send— And lifeless in their sight she lay.

The little children wept and wailed; Heart-rending were the tears they shed.

“Mamma, mamma, we want our food; Get up, mamma, and give us bread!”

THE CRANE

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The Crane has lost his way across the heaven, From yonder stormy cloud I hear him cry, A traveller o’er an unknown pathway driven, In a cold world unheeded he doth fly.

Ah, whither leads this pathway long and dark, My God, where ends it, thus with fears obsessed?

When shall night end this day's last glimmering spark?

Where shall my weary feet to-night find rest?

Farewell, belovèd bird, where’er thou roam Spring shall return and bring thee back once more, With thy sweet mate and young ones, to thy home-Thy last year's nest upon the sycamore.

But I am exiled from my ruined nest, And roam with faltering steps from hill to hill, Like to the fowls of heaven in my unrest Envying the boulders motionless and still.

Each boulder unassailed stands in its place, But I from mine must wander tempest tossed-And every bird its homeward way can trace, But I must roam in darkness, lone and lost.

Ah, whither leads this pathway long and dark, My God, where ends it, thus with fears obsessed?

When shall night end this day's last glimmering spark?

Where shall my weary feet to-night find rest?

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KOMITAS 1869-1935 I AM I am your love, I am the heat of your love, Yet lonely...

I am your woman, You, you are my soul That I depend on...

Your voice sounded as sudden thunder of love My soul breathed as an elating lightning of spring...

I breathed your breath deep down my chest And by your fire I became the poet of the flames...

WISH Let my trembling voice Be nested in the sanctuary of your heart.

O my wing, Let me part in a gasp And fly away...

THE PATH The narrow path crawling, Shivering underneath the feet, At the end of which The Tree of Life has grown, shimmering...

What a big heart it has This road to Eternity This path for people, plants and beasts alike, This path of winged birds...

Breathe, o breeze, Little stutterer, Entwining and swirling The love of life And the harvest of the heart, From the sea waves, From the cloud pleats, From the molten blaze Of crimson flowers,

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Let her light a golden light under my bosom, And you, blow into the flame, o gentle wind, So that my hope Swells eternally Over my chest...

CYPRESSES AND CEDARS

Over the ascending road Somber cypresses, engulfed in the mist, Fierily tending towards heavens With their sharp edged and green hope, With their conical branches, As if being a mirthful lot...

Cedars with immaculate leaves Widows fecund with hope, Staring their needles towards the eye, Reminiscing of sunny days When they sprouted out of the stones To peak into the bosom of the clouds...

AUTUMN NIGHT Snowhite moon On the shoulder of the mount, Sprinkling yellow and red, From one wave to the other playing And in the bosom of the sea, Firing up a scarlet ribbon.

Trees, winds, From everywhere, Singing as birds, Furrowing far a field Flocking blissfully And flying in the air...

THE PAVEMENT AND THE PATH I wandered from one pavement to the other I wore out my life and toil on the cobblestonesIn the heart of the stones- piles of gold and silver, mountain high, Around them- an abundance of trees and flowers.

The leant pavement knew nothingOn it petrified the path of a foolish life...

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SWEET SPRING Sweet spring, Flower and bud, The merry stream, Sparkling babble, Green bloom, Delightful dew, Refreshing brook Where did you leave all these...

-from www.komitas.am Translator not mentioned

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ALEXANDER TSATOURIAN 1870-1917

THE ARMENIAN POET'S PRAYER O God, ’tis not for laurel wreaths I pray, For pompous funeral or jubilee; Nor yet for fame beyond my life's decay-All these my country will accord to me.

One favour, Lord of Heaven, I implore-One that my land to me will never give: Grant me a crust of bread, or else such store Of grace that I on air may learn to live!

-Alice Stone Blackwell

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ARSHAK CHOPANIAN 1872-1954

-Alice Stone Blackwell

THE BOND

All things are bound together by a tie Finer and subtler than a ray of light; Color and sound and fleeting fragrances.

The maiden’s smile, the star-beam sparkling bright, Are knit together by a secret bond Finer and subtler than a ray of light.

Sometimes an urn of memories is unsealed Just by a simple tune, or sad or gay; Part of the past with every quivering note From its dark sleep awakens to the day.

And we live o’er again a long-past life, Just through a simple tune, or sad or gay.

Some flowers bring men and women back to mind; A well-known face smiles on us In their hue; Their bright cups, moved by the capricious wind, Will make us dream of eyes, black eyes or blue; We In their fragrance feel a breath beloved; Flowers bring back men and women whom we knew.

The summer sea recalls fond, happy hours; We In the sunset see our dead once more; In starlight, holy loves upon us smile; With our own griefs the stormy thunders roar; The zephyr breathes to us a name adored; We In the sunset see the dead once more.

All things are bound in closest unison, Throughout the world, by many a mystic thread.

The flower and love, the breeze and reverie, Nature and man, and things alive and dead, Are all akin, and bound in harmony Throughout the world, by many a mystic thread.

THE WIND The Wind’s the aged traveler Who sings old songs he knows, As all alone, without a guide, He through the forest goes.

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His voice caresses like a kiss When over flowers he strays; The Wind’s the ancient traveler Who murmurs old-time lays.

But like a cataract he roars Far out upon the sea, And rushing through the winter nights He curses savagely.

TO THE MOON Why am I not the thin white cloud That, floating soft and slow, Veils the pure splendor of your face ’Neath its transparent snow?

Or one of those unnumbered stars— Bees that in heaven’s height Flit round you, seeking honey there, O shining Rose of light?

Why am I not the dark-browed mount Where you a moment stay, Ere spreading your broad, viewless wings To soar through heaven away?

Why am I not the forest deep, Where, dropping through the air.

Mid foliage dark slip in and hang Threads of your golden hair?

Alas, why am I not at least That cold tomb of the dead, On which your rays so tenderly Their tears’ bright sadness shed?

HAPPINESS Weary of vainly seeking Happiness In city alleys full of sound and strife, I hastened from the noisy human press,— The labyrinth of this dark, grovelling life.

I said, "The mountain knows its place of rest," And clambered up above the level plain; But the bald Titan answered me distressed:— “Dullness alone doth Time for me ordain.”

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I left the mountain and approached the winds— Those infinite, proud spirits, ever free; “We are the sighs of griefs that to your minds Must still remain unknown,” they answered me.

And then above the winds and clouds I rose, Soared to the skies, and asked the stars of Heaven.

“We are the tears that flow from countless woes,” The answer by those eyes of darkness given.

Above the stars, in the lone fields of space, I saw God musing, sorrowful and mild.

“Father," I cried, "where is Joy's dwelling-place?”

He said, "I also do not know, my child."

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INTRA

1875-1921

-Diana Der Hovanessian

THE OWL Row after row of black cypress trees fasten the night into place, losing an infinity of stars hiding behind the moon’s face.

Immobile below that superworld, planted in their own past, the tree multiply harmony in the shadows they cast.

In this grove, thought can stay unpronounced. Passion can fade, fixing me into reality until suddenly an owl cries cutting the dark with yellow eyes (Papa!) the way sharp memory cuts me.

HOME, AFTER LONG ABSENCE In my room, near the cypress grove, the dark is crowded up, pushed into the light, while shadows creep up on my walls and untranslatable murmurs rise, I see another, earlier place where the father of a lost boy calls, and where the boy chooses to hide to worship his enthusiasms alone.

Home. And once more I wear the evergreen shadows that are infused with incense like an exultation shared.

The heart of giants still holds a secret animus whose truth I do not grasp, although I am its heir.

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AVETIK ISAHAKYAN -Aram Tolegian

1875-1957

FROM RAVENNA Across the hoary crest of Ararat, Centuries have rolled, like a minute.

And passed on.

The lightning sword of countless storms Have been shattered on its rock And passed on.

The eyes of generations, in death-throes, Have looked on its gleaming peak And passed on.

Now, for a time, it is your turn— You, too, must look at its proud brow And pass on.

OVER THE STREAM Over the stream The willow is bent, It stares in silence On the running water.

In this dream world All things are forever Coming and going away, Fading away, traceless.

And with its head bowed The willow weeps— The laughing water keeps Coming and going away.

First Sura

ABU LALA MAHARI

And the caravan of Abu Lala through the sleeping night moved calmly along; Stepped softly on through the hush of night, like a gentle stream’s soft, murmuring song.

With measured footsteps they followed the road, that winding and twisting

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before them lay; The music that streamed from their swaying bells flowed over the desert and far away.

Baghdad lay lost in voluptuous dreams of Houris and Paradise, passing fair; The nightingale warbled of love and pain in rose-gardens scented with perfumes rare.

The fountains tossed high their waves in the air with diamond laughter they filled the night; Perfumes and kisses were wafred around in the Caliph’s palace ablaze with light.

While above caravans of gem-like stars were wandering along uncharted careers, And the heavens were filled with their majesty, with the glorious music of the spheres.

Soft tales were told of Arabian Nights by breezes heavy with gilly-flower scent, The poplars and palm-trees that lined the road to the sighs of the night-wind swayed and bent.

Swinging and ringing the camels went on, they never looked to the left nor the right, And joyful visions filled Abu Lala as he watched the road get lost in the night.

“Move on, move on, beloved caravan, move forward until I have ended my days”.

Twas thus he mused, the Poet sublime, Abu Mahari, the Maker of Lays.

“Go forth to the lonely places of earth, the emerald fields, unsullied and bare; Fly on the burning heart of the sun, in that mighty heart consume me up there.

No gratitude to my mother I feel, to my father’s grave no duty is owed.

Nothing but bitterness fills my soul for the life which they gave, the love they bestowed.

I loved all mankind; to comrades and friends I was ever faithful, loving and true.

I saw men’s hearts and I loathed what I saw; my love to a torturing viper grew.

I hate and despise what I loved before - in the soul of man such things I have seen; The spirit of man, so lofty and grand, is filled with evil, and passions obscene.

But most of all I loathe and detest, the halo they don so shining and bright, That sanctifies all the evil they work, and crowns their foul deeds with a pious light.

O language of man, whose accents divine conceal his infernal spirit from view,Soft accents, in fragrant gossamer veiled- didst ever thou speak one word that was true?

I will pitch my tent amidst writhing snakes- yes, on the poisonous basilisk’s den-

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A thousand times safer I’ll be with them than in cities with false and smiling men.

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Or with a companion upon whose breast my weary head I trustingly laidA heart that I loved, which with lying smiles my love and my infinite trust repaid.

For ever-as long as on Sinai’s flanks the fiery sun beats mercilesslyAs long as the heaving waves of the sand break into spray like the foam of the seaI will not return to the haunts of men, nor will I salute them or with them eat; The beasts of the wild my comrades shall be, with them I will gladly sit down to meat.

Let ferocious beasts dismember my limbs, and the sun pour down his fiery raysOnward, still onward, my sweet caravan- move onward until the end of my days!”

Abu Mahari threw a parting glance at sleeping Baghdad that behind him lay.

But his fingers sought the camel’s soft neck as with frowns and anger he turned away.

He caressed and fondled the gentle beast, and he kissed its innocent limpid eyes, While on his own lashes there trembled and shone two burning tears he could not disguise.

To the gentle rhythm of measured tread they went through the landscape, peaceful and lone, So onward towards the distance they passed, to the virgin distance of realms unknown.

THE SUN WENT DOWN The sun went down behind the hill, No light was on the lea, The fowls and birds slept calm and still, But sleep came not to me.

The moon peeped in beneath the eaves, The Balance rose on high, The fresh night-wind that stirred the leaves Spoke to the starry sky.

Ah, gentle winds and stars of light, Where is my love to-night?

Ye painted eyes of heaven so bright,-Saw you my love to-night?

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Day dawned,--unbolted was our door:-The snowflakes whirled like foam, ’Tis cloud and storm, the wild winds roar Why comes my love not home?

BLACK EYES

Do not trust black eyes, but fear them:-Gloom they are, and endless night; Woes and perils lurking near them Love not thou their gleaming bright!

In my heart a sea of blood wells, Called up by their cruel might, No calm ever in that flood dwells Love not thou their gleaming bright!

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-Shushan Avagyan

SHUSHANIK KURGHINIAN DO NOT LOVE ME GENTLY

Do not love me gently as if I were a blooming flower in spring, or, blinded by your virility, burning with desire.

Do not deceive me with illusions, my soul won’t thrive on dreams; open before me the chasm of life, show its crimes and wounds to me.

Let me taste the poison of anguish, courageously, with you; Let me relish freedom, and speak my mind, striving for the light of deliverance.

Close to each person’s sorrow I want to bear the same great cross carried by the rebel folks toward the universal goal!

From trials let my heart wear down and throb from never-ceasing hardship, let wrinkles line my youthful brow, traces of this barbaric life.

And when proudly, dressed in rags, I arrive full of longing to visit you, kneel before me, cling to my bosom, plead for my womanly love...

A glowing love that did not hinder my right to be human, mother and wife, that always offered solace to my mate when he was lonesome, in despair.

Do not love me as if I were a flower!

I want to live a worthy lifeas an atom in a mass of troubles, as a child of the street mobs!

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I WANTED TO SING

I wanted to sing: they told me I could not, I wove my own songs: quiet, you are a girl!

But when in this troubled world an elegy I became, I spoke to the hearts of many.

The more I sang: the sooner she’ll get tired, they said.

The louder I sang: the faster her voice will fail.

But I kept singing endlessly, that’s when they started to cajole.

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SIAMANTO 1878-1915 THIRST My soul is listening to the death of the twilight, Kneeling on the faraway soil of suffering, my soul is drinking the wounds of twilight and of the ground; and within Itself it feels the raining down of tears, And all the stars of slaughtered lives, so like to eyes grown dim, in the pools of my heart this evening are dying of despair and of waiting.

And the ghosts of all the dead tonight will wait for the dawn with mine eyes and my soul.

Perhaps, to satisfy their thirst for life, a drop of light will fall upon them from on high.

-Alice Stone Blackwell

PRAYER TO ANAHID ON THE FEAST OF NAVASART Goddess. I purge my conscience of all slothful religions.

And I walk proudly in sacred slippers toward you.

Open the marble gates of your temple. Let me bruise my forehead on the door.

Open the altar and give back to me the hot strength of my Artaxian forefathers.

Hear me, golden mother, fertile sister of virtue, donor of abundance, patroness of Armenians.

Hear me on this morning of the feast of Navasart when your people rejoice.

Allow me to kneel and pray before your idol.

Listen, miraculous rose, goddess of golden feet, white bride of nocturnal light, lover of the sun, nakedness with a body of light, sail of Aramazt, let the sun burn on your altar again.

I believe in you, as I stand on the hills of Pakrevant.

I, the centuries old worshipper of God, come armed with a spear.

I am your son, here my lyre of Haig, a lyre born from the soil of Koght.

I come in the robes of a pilgrim, bearing green balsam branches and gold rosewater in a silver pitcher to anoint your breasts.

And here with the rosewater are tears mourning your destruction.

Deer follow my shadow as I come to you.

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Let the pagan life flow again from the hills.

Let tall sons of the sun wear brocade and arch their bows, planting their spears, fastening their swords into necks of the bulls on the threshold of your altars.

Let a white flock of doves fly from the shoulders of fertile young Armenian brides toward your statue once more.

Let the fountains of Vartavar come to life and flow and let sixteen-year-old girls rise to dance offering their magical bodies to you, goddess of chastity.

Take your revenge now, after twenty centuries, oh my goddess Anahid, now as I throw into my cross. And I celebrate you, oh golden mother, by burning the polluted bone from the rib of the Illuminator.

I beg of you, oh powerful, unequalled beauty, give your body to the sun and be fertilized, give birth to a formidable god for the Armenians.

For us, from your diamond-hard uterus bear an invincible god!

-Diana Der Hovanessian

THE DANCE Her blue eyes, drowned in tears, the German witness to the horrors tried to describe the ashfields where Armenian life had died; for supporting, like two buttresses your discovery, one with his cross, one with his sword.

Pace by pace, they walked with you, to open the door of literature, to let in the dawn of Ararat, Ah, with what fevers of the blood, were you carried, from what chill, from what hellish twisting, from what hesitation, from what hypothesis, what undulation of the brain, what transfiguration of balance, with which molecule of the spirit, which ray of the eyes, with how many drops of sweat, and inspiration, how many panting breaths, flying dreams, through how many vortices of prayer

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in those forty days and nights in that solitude, quiet as death, were you lifted toward your vision?

And from which germinating seed which unsprouted flower, from what air, what voiceless accent, what colorless word, which rootless stripling did you create the harmonious alphabet?

Thus, from the golden threshold of the Fourth Century until now, the Armenian spirit fuses with Armenian blood.

Oh, riddle without solution, oh lightning bolt of fiery nerves, oh pulse and impulse of blood, spotless multiplication of dreams.

Amazing and lyric chimera!

You are a rainbow of divine love, the bearer of the fire of reconciliation, the carrier of the hesitant, ruler of the irresolute.

You are a fantastic dome of perfect design.

You, a passionate monk, man of God, brother of the mind, sister of the harp, allow me to drink from your cup.

Today, nourished by your holiness I, a tardy harpist, undeserving but grateful, bring you the soul of your people as a mirror.

The fire in my eye is from the fiery eye of your people. My words are harvested from their hearts.

Whatever you read on my forehead and in my smile, I have written with their hope.

Therefore, allow me to climb your gold ladder step by step, crown, as your son, the son of your thought to sing this song.

-DianaDer Hovanessian

A HANDFUL OF ASH (a) Alas, you were a great and beautiful mansion, And from the white summit of your roof, Filled with star-flooded night hopes, I listened to the Euphrates, racing below. (b) I learned with tears, with tears I learned of the ruins,

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Of your broad walls battered down, stone by stone, Onto your fragile border of flowers in the garden...

On a terror-filled day, a day of slaughter, of blood.

(c) And charred is the blue room Inside whose walls, on whose rugs My childhood delighted, And where my life grew, where my soul grew. (d) That gold-framed mirror is shattered, too.

In whose silver depth my dreams, My hopes, my loves and my burning will Stood reflected for years, and my musings. (e) And in the garden the spring song is dead.

The mulberry and the willow there, They have been blasted, too, And the brook that flowed between the trees— Has it gone dry? Tell me, where is it? Has it gone dry? (f) O I often dream of the cage From which my grey partridge, mornings And at sunrise, fronting the rose trees, Would rise, as I did, and start its own distinct cooing. (g) O my homeland, promise that after my death A handful of your holy ashes Will come to rest, like an exiled turtledove, To chant its song of sorrow and tears. (h) But who will bring, tell me, who is to bring A handful of your precious ashes On the day of my death, to put into my dark coffin And mingle with my ashes, Ashes of a singer of the homeland? (i) A handful of ash with my remains, my native home— Who is to bring a handful of ash from your ashes, From your sorrow, your memories, your past, A handful of ash to scatter on my heart?

-Aram Tolegian

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PRAYER

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The swans, in discouragement, have migrated from the poisonous lakes this evening, And sad sisters dream of brothers under the prison walls.

Battles have ended on the blossoming fields of lilies, And fair women follow coffins from underground passages, And sing, with heads bowed down towards the ground.

Oh, make haste! Our aching bodies are frozen in these pitiless glooms.

Make haste towards the chapel, where life will be more merciful, The chapel of the graveyard where our brother sleeps!

An orphan swan is suffering within my soul, And there, over newly-buried bodies, It rains blood — it pours from mine eyes.

A crowd of cripples pass along the paths of my heart, And with them pass barefooted blind men, In the divine hope of meeting some one in prayer.

And the red dogs of the desert howled all one night, After hopelessly moaning over the sands From some unknown, incomprehensible grief.

And the storm of my thoughts ceased with the rain: The waves were cruelly imprisoned under the frozen waters; The leaves of huge oaks, like wounded birds, Dropped with cries of anguish.

And the dark night was deserted, like the vast infinite; And, with the lonely and bloody moon, Like a myriad motionless marble statues, All the dead bodies of our earth arose to pray for one another.

-Alice Stone Blackwell

MY TEARS I was alone with my pure-winged dream In the valleys sires had trod; My steps were light as the fair gazelle’s, and my heart with joy was thrilled; I ran, all drunk with the deep blue sky, with the light of the glorious days Mine eyes were filled with gold and hopes, my soul with the gods was filled.

Basket on basket, the Summer rich presented her fruit to me.

From my garden’s trees — each kind of fruit that to us belongs; And then from a willow’s body slim, melodious, beautiful, A branch for my magic flute I cut in silence, to make my songs.

I sang; and the brook all diamond bright, and the birds of my ancient home, And the music pure from heavenly wells that fills the nights and days, And the gentle breezes and airs of dawn, like my sister’s soft embrace,

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United their voices sweet with mine, and joined in my joyous lays.

Tonight in a dream, sweet flute, once more I took you in my hand; You felt to my lips a kiss — a kiss from the days of long ago.

But when those memories old revived, then straightway failed my breath, And instead of songs, my tears began drop after drop to flow.

-Alice Stone Blackwell

THE YOUNG WIFE’S DREAM Year after year, sitting alone at my window, I gaze on thy path, my pilgrim heart-mate, And by this writing I wish once more to sing The tremors of my body and mind, left without a guardian.

Ah! dost thou not recall the sun on the day of thy departure?

My tears were so plentiful and my kisses so ardent, Thy promises were so good and thy return was to be so early!

Dost thou not recall the sun and my prayers on the day of thy departure, When I sprinkled water on the shadow of thy steed from my water-jar, That the seas might open before thee, And the earth might bloom beneath thy feet?

Ah, the sun of the day of thy departure has changed to black night, And the tears of waiting, beneath the shower of so many years, Have poured from mine eyes like stars on my cheeks, And behold! their roses have withered.

It is enough. Through longing for thee, I feel like plucking out my hair; I am still under the influence of the wine of thy cup.

And a mourner for thy absent superb stature; And, wounding my knees with kneeling at the church door, I entreat for thee, turning towards the west.

Let the seas some day dry up from shore to shore, And let the two worlds approach each other in an instant!

Then I should have no need of heaven or of the sun.

Return! I am waiting for thy return on the threshold of our cottage, My hands empty of thy hands, I dream of thee, in my black robes.

Return, like the sweet fruits of our garden!

My heart’s love keeps my kiss for thee.

Oh, my milk-white hips have not yet known motherhood.

And I have not yet been able to decorate a swaddling cloth With my wedding veil, wrought with golden thread; And I have not yet been able to sing, sitting beside a cradle, The pure, heavenly lullaby of Armenian mothers.

Return! My longing has no end, When the black night comes thus to unfold its shrouds, When the owls in the courtyard shriek with one another,

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When my sobs end and my tears become bloody, Lonely in my dreams of a despairing bride, With my hands, like a demon, I begin To sift upon my head the earth of my grave, which is drawing near to me.

-Alice Stone Blackwell

THE SONG OF THE KNIGHT The sun is up, the hour has come for starting, O my steed!

A moment wait till I pass my foot through thy stirrup glittering clear.

I read my Aim in thy shining eyes, that know and understand.

Oh, joy of joys! Oh, blest be thou, my steed, my steed so dear!

My body still is firm and light with the joy and spring of youth, And on thy saddle I shall perch like an eagle, proud and free.

The golden oats that I gave to thee in plenty, O my steed!

Have made mad life through thy form flare up; how fleet thy course will be!

Galloping thou wilt fly along, fly ever upon thy way, And sparks from the strokes of thy brazen shoes will blossom as we go past.

Let us grow drunk with our rapid course like heroes, O my steed!

And, infinitely winged like the wind, drink in the blast!

The boundless space before thy pace recedes and disappears, The sinful cities with all their crimes bow down beneath thy tread.

Black flocks of crows that tremble thy swiftness to behold Are seeking shelter in the clouds, the thick clouds overhead.

The sad earth seems below us and we up among the stars; Thou no abyss nor downward slope dost heed, with eyes aflame; There is no obstacle, no rock that can thy flight impede; Impatient, fain wouldst thou attain the summit of the Aim. My fleet, fleet steed! My idol of snow-white marble fair!

With all my soul I worship thee! As on our course we fly, My dreamy brow is burning with the flames of mine Ideal; Oh, spur me onward to my Aim! Slave of thy footsteps I! I am the slave of thy fleet steps, child of the hurricane!

Speed on, athirst for vengeance, O swift, swift steed of mine!

A needless halt I spurn and hate, with all my anger's might.

Ours are the summits, and the wreath of victory is thine!

Thy delicate cream-white body boils with thine ardent fire of life; Thy tail is a cataract; rushing down, like a hurricane it blows.

Within thine eyes, so bright and keen, there shine two flaming stars; The rind of thy swift shoes forges fear, as onward our journey goes.

I told thee that I am thy slave, for liberty athirst.

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Oh, bear me swiftly toward the South, away from this frontier!

We shall be clothed with suns and blood, beyond the stately heights Of Ararat and Arakadz. Speed on, my courser dear!

I hold no whip within my hand, my courser, thou art free; Upon thy back, that glistens like a lily white and fair, I only shed sweet touches of my fingers as we go.

They touch thy bright flesh like a stream of honey dropping there.

Thou hast no bridle upon thy neck, no bit within thy mouth; Enough for me one wave of hair from thy full mane backward flung.

I have no need of stirrup-irons for my feet to grip thy sides; A silver saddle thou hast alone, a saddle with pearls bestrung.

For my native valleys I yearn, I yearn, the valleys that hold my home, But halt thou never, my courser swift, the star-strewn heavens below!

Away by the mouths of caverns deep like a shadow thou must pass, From forests, vineyards and gardens green still farther and farther go.

Who knows, perchance a maiden fair by the side of a running brook Might hand me a cluster of golden grapes, and proffer a draught of wine; My soul might understand her, and she like a sister smile on me But I do not wish to be lost in dreams; halt not, swift steed of mine!

Thou wilt pass by the shadowy bowers of my birthplace, Eden-fair; The nightingale, the nightingale, fain would I drink her song!

The rose-scent, on my pilgrimage, I have dreamed of many a year.

Oh, how my heart is yearning! But halt not, speed along.

And in my pathway haply old corpses might arise, Their shrouds upon their shoulders, their hands held out to me, Approach me - me the wretched! - and breathe upward to mine ear Their loves and vengeance ne’er to be forgot - but onward flee!

I shudder at the ruins and at barren, helpless pangs.

My courser, near the ashes of the cities make no stay!

Oh, tears, the tears of others, they choke me without ruth; The woe, the griefs of others drive me mad, upon my way!

Oh, do not halt, my courser, where these corpses scattered lie!

Fly away from graveyards, where white shades of dead men be.

I cannot bear, I tell thee, I cannot bear again The death of my dear native land with anguished eyes to see!

Behold the landscape of the place in which I had my birth!

At sight of it my longing glance with tears grows moist and glows.

But yet I would not shed them; nay, do not pause or stay, My steed, my steed of swiftest flight! My Aim no weakness knows.

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Lo! 'tis Euphrates sounding. Why, river, dost thou roar?

Thy son is passing. Why so dark the flood thy shore that laves?

I am thy son. Oh, do not rage! Hast thou forgotten me?

I with thy current would speed on, and would outstrip thy waves.

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The memory of my childhood draws from me tears of blood; A dreamy youth who used to stray along these banks of thine, All full of hope, with sunlight mad, and happy with his dreams But ah! what am I saying? Pause not, swift steed of mine!

Behold the glorious autumn, which vaguely dies around!

Upon my brow a yellow leaf has fallen like a dream.

Is it my death it stands for, or the crowning of my faith?

What matter? On, my neighing steed, sweep onward with the stream!

Perchance it was the last sere leaf of my ill-omened fate That fell upon us even now. What matter? Speed away!

From the four corners of the land are echoing the words, "Ideal, O free-born Ideal, halt not, halt not or stay!"

I worship thee! Now like a star thou shootest on thy course; Thou art as fleet, thou art as free, as is the lightning's flame; And through the wind and with the wind like eagles now we soar.

I am thy knight, I am thy slave; oh, lift me to my Aim! Down from the summits of the rocks, the dread and cloudy peaks, The cataracts, the cataracts are falling in their might!

Their currents white are pure, my steed, as thine own snow-white form, And their imperious downward sweep is savage as thy flight.

But why now doth a shudder through all thy body run?

Oh, what has chanced, my hero? Why do thy looks grow dark?

Oh, turn thine eyes away from me, thine eyes with trouble filled Past the horizons fly along, fly like a wind-borne bark!

I heard the wailing and the cries, entreaties and laments, From ruined huts and cities that reached us on our way.

But ah! what use in pausing all powerless before pain?

Our task is to relieve it; then do not halt nor stay.

Through the death-agony, my steed, we passed with tearless eyes.

Oh, do not halt! Oh, do not stay! Brave be that heart of thine!

From this time onward, I will burn Hope's torches blazing bright, To halt means death to us; pause not, O gallant steed of mine!

Aloft on they galloping form, full oft, in our journey ere to-day I have heard how thy swift, spark-scattering hoofs, as ever we forward flee, Have many and many a time crushed bones, that fell beneath their tread, And the skulls with their empty sockets dark gazed at me - didst thou see?

I tell thee, under thy shoes I heard the skeletons break and crash,

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But I kept silence. My lips are dumb. Halt not, halt not, my steed!

I will bury my sobs and sighs of grief in my soul's abysmal depths.

Let nothing live but my anger hot! Pause not, but onward speed!

Oh pause not, falter not in thy course, wild creature of marble white!

Tears will not banish the Pain of Life, nor drive out its woe and wrong.

Nay, the Ideal shall toll, shall toll the bells of glowing wrath.

The cranes, far flying, will call to us; oh, follow their distant song!

But where does thy path lead? What is this? My steed, hast thou lost thy mind?

The ashes! Oh, the desolate plains of ashes and ruins gray!

Like fog the gray dust rises up to stifle and choke our breath.

Oh, tear thy way through these frightful mounds, break through them and speed away!

Lift up thy forehead, lift up thine eyes, let me cover them with my hand!

Halt not, 'tis the Crimson, the Crimson dread; red blood beneath us lies.

Across my face to blind mine eyes I have pulled my fluttering scarf; Halt not! What good would it do, my steed, to pause here with useless sighs?

Ah, once, accompanied by my griefs, my lyre shed tears of blood; Weeping I hate from this time on; thou only art my soul.

Thou breathest battle, for glory keen, and I am thy prince, thy slave!

Thy form was worshipped by glorious Greece. Oh, lift me to my Goal!

The sound of the wind is like a horn that is winded far away; The forests, ranged like troops of war, stood ready as we passed.

At the wild ringing of thy hoofs, old hopes like giants woke; Old laws are crushed, old tears are shed, old sounds are dying fast.

And in thy flight, at daybreak, on a lofty table-land, New giants, new insurgents, new heroes shall spy.

The sons of suffering are they, who in this hostile age Were born in blood, are wroth with blood, and wish in blood to die.

When we see columns rolling up, armed with the hurricane, We by their side will march along the pathway to the Aim. Of the glory and the crowning of martyrs I shall sing; My lyre will play, that gallant day, my Torches burn and flame!

The day has dawned, has dawned at last! I am thy knight, thy slave!

The slope is difficult and steep, but, breathing heavily, Thou must fly on - one effort more, amid the fires of morn!

I am athirst for victory, my noble steed, like thee.

A few more ringing steps, my steed, and one last bound! and then What a procession, what a host, all glad and full of might!

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'Tis Freedom's pioneers; their swords flash out life-giving rays, And Brotherhood they celebrate in morning's glorious light.

Here may'st thou halt. Be blest, my steed! Worthy of God art thou!

Tears fill my soul as mine Ideal I gaze on and admire.

Thy triumph is the mighty law of beauty infinite.

Lo, there six centuries are standing, armed with fire!

I, armed already, will arm thee. O'er my shoulder burns thy torch.

They like the tempest wish to walk, under the dawning's glow, Laden with justice. Oh, the land is barren and athirst!

Lo, from our flight the giant Hope sparks in the paths will sow!

-Alice Stone Blackwell

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VAHAN TEKEYAN -Aram Tolegian

1878-1948

THE BEAUTIFUL ONES The beautiful one is always she who walked past you one day And anointed your eyes— a divine visitor, You failed to turn and look back at such beauty, And you did not wish to meet her again.

The beautiful one Is forever, always and ever, She who grow into grace under the warmth of your eyes, Who swayed like a flower in the sweet spring winds, And when you went away, she stayed always fresh in your mind, ever fragrant.

And the beautiful one — you know her delightful name— Is she who might have loved you after all, Who certainly guessed your love and waited eagerly for you, But she is one whose heart it’s just as well you did not wound— Ah, the beautiful ones are only they who through your desires Came and went away, but who call you now from afar...

THE HANOUM Entirely draped in a black silk unlustrous gown, Her footsteps light under deep rushes of silk, A rustling like a lute song down her thighs, The hanoum goes forth, trailing a cloud of musk.

A small hand flashes from her jewelled arm, A hand half-covered by a black jealous glove, While the delicate veil, drawn over her symmetrical forehead, Lends her deep eyes the fireglow of a censer.

Across a bridge, beneath the rich sunset, The hanoum goes forth, from horizon to horizon, Outshining the Golden horn and enchanting the Eventide, The hanoum goes unhampered, veiled, magnificent, Woman or spirit, abroad for a moment from Istanbul’s castles, The spirit of Istanbul-secret, audacious, unknowable.

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DANIEL VAROUJAN 1884-1915

ALMS TO THE STARVING PEOPLE “There is famine; bread, bread!”

Who is sighing?

On the threshold of my fireplace, Ashes within me, ashes around me; oh, what use is it To sow tears on ashes?

I have nothing, nothing! today, with my last Small coin I bought poison; I shall mix poison within me.

Come tomorrow to the graveyard, thou Hungry One, Through the storm, early, when around the village Wolves are still wandering.

Come tomorrow! As bread, from my grave I will throw into that bag of thine My poet’s heart.

My poet’s heart shall be thy blood, the blood of orphans.

As long as thy grief lives.

Come tomorrow to the graveyard, O thou Hungry One! -Alice Stone Blackwell

THE AGED CRANE On the bank of the river, in the row of cranes.

That one drooped its head.

Put its beak under its wing, and with its sagged Dim pupils, awaited its last black moment.

When its comrades wished to depart.

It could not join them in their flight.

Scarcely could it open its eyes and watch in the air The path of the little flock that went along Calling down to those under the roofs The tidings, the greetings and the tears Entrusted to them by the exile.

Ah, the cold autumnal silence, it is dying.

It is vain to dream any more Of a distant spring, of cool currents of air Under strong and soaring wings.

Or of passing through cool brooks With naked feet, of dipping its long neck Amongst the green reeds; It is vain to dream any more!

The wings of the Armenian crane

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Are tired of traveling. It was true To its heart-depressing calling; It has transported so many tears!

How many young wives have put among its soft feathers Their hearts, ardently beating!

How many separated mothers and sons Have loaded its wings with kisses!

Now, with a tremor on Its dying day, It shakes from its shoulders The vast sorrow of an exiled race.

The vows committed bride who saw at length Her last rose wither unkissed; A mother’s sad blessing; Loves, desires, longings.

It shakes at last from Its shoulders.

And on the misty river-bank Its weary wings, spread for the last time, Point straight toward The Armenian hills, the half-ruined villages, With the voice of its dying day it curses immigration, And falls, in silence, upon the coarse sand of river-bank.

It chooses its grave, And, thrusting its purple beak Under a rock, the dwelling-place of a lizard, Stretching out its curving neck Among the songs of the waves, With a noble tremor it expires!

A serpent there, which had watched that death-agony Silently for a long time with staring pupils.

Crawls up from the river-bank.

And, to revenge a grudge of olden days.

With an evil and swift spring Coils around its dead neck.

-Alice Stone Blackwell

TILLERS They are the mighty children of the fields, The tillers of the soil who live around my town, Who weave with pearly sweat Nature’s precious crown; Beneath their swaying strength the soil pulses, And in their broadened veins the sunrays course.

And when they walk heavily across The fields not a single shoot is bruised, But the earth itself trembles from its core.

Their heads are never bowed before the shrine, But are flecked with the golden dust of straw.

They sow mirth among the furrows, And God finds only goodness in the furrows

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Of their brow; the song of the rising sap And growing bud is the only song they know.

What if the oxen’s froth is on their hands.

And their tattered cloaks reek of the stable— The living seeds first sprout in their palms.

-Aram Tolegian

THE FLICKERING LAMP This is a night for feast and triumph.

Pour oil Into the lamp, O Bride, My boy returns a victor from war— Trim well, trim well the wick, O Bride, A wagon stops before the door, beside the well.

Light up, light up the lamp, O Bride, My boy returns, bay leaves on his brow— Bring up, bring up the lamp, O Bride.

Lo— with grief and blood the wagon’s laden— Hold up, hold up the lamp, O Bride.

Here lies my valiant son shot through the heart— Oh... snuff out, snuff out the lamp, O Bride.

-Aram Tolegian

ORIENTAL BATH The inner door of the green-domed bath opens slowly, And as it grates and sweats all day, Against its massive ebony frame pound Heavy pendant pulley weights, That now swing into a wide, true arc, Inviting in a cluster of naked houris, Who drift in, lingeringly, slowly; All naked, and all surpassing beautiful, Their arms folded modestly Across their gleaming breasts which swell Over and onto their forearms, breasts darkly starred With round brown nipples, swaying breasts; Their wooden sandals, worked in mother of pearl, Clink sharply on the damp, cool marble floor; Inside the bath their low melodious voices And their soft breath turn to muffled bells.

And as the vapor rises within The bath, like moistened veils clinging Along their naked bodies, which now start to peal With sweat, their eyes glow with a fine warm luster, Like brilliant stars seen through a foggy sky.

Houris at their baths! Some, stretched out On warm navelstones, dream, smiling languorously, While from the light-spreading dome the sun

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Filters through like pearly rain, Making a lustrous sea of the dense Sliver vapors in which swim these sinuous Swans, Oriental maidens; and now they cast Aside the towels that had clung like seaweed To their thighs—Oh, their bodies unadorned as statues!

And now their hair, braid on braid, like waves On a stormy sea, loosened, And at intervals precious stones escape, That hair, oh, that hair, The whole bath seems to undulate, darkening With its raven sway the white and granite Navelstones. Their hair, they comb their long, Long hair endlessly down to the tips With gold-covered combs, while their fingers Glitter with the sparkle of their diamond rings.

The houris sometimes feel listless and faint, And sometimes shiver suddenly when, from The high vaporous dome above, some cold, Fresh dew falls straight between their breasts.

Behold! the marble founts, the thousand taps Now bursting one on the other Tumultuously, as ashen vapors Rise toward the dome, rise sinuously and slow; The water overflows on every side And winds its way to the empty water troughs.

Houris at their baths! Canova’s graces They all seem to be, and as closely twined, Gathered round the sparkling marble basins, They bathe their breasts, their curving limbs and arms, All their lovely flesh; And, seated on the navelstones, their thighs Spread, spread and taste the delightful Water which glides by and titillates.

Behold! the golden dippers ring across The stones; the boxwood dippers sometimes break, Like hearts, in the hands of these lovely nudes; The argil-cool, thyme-scented clay dissolves As they stroke it through their flowing waves of hair, Transforming them to silk; and the clay Cleans and anoints their breasts, hiding them in foam; And, with the coolness of the argil’s foam, Its slippery substance, the houris grow refreshed, They rub their bellies smooth, Gleaming as sand on a whitened beach.

The water foams and washes pure These beautiful maidens of Oriental fire.

And now from every side of the navelstones The water flows down and away,

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Rushing away, toward sewer troughs, And giving even to these a delicate, perfumed scent.

The water is gray, with lime and argil, And, as it swells, it carries along Small hairs from under their arms, brown twinings from Hair, downy leavings from these pale, white And living statues, who now fill Their final dippers, slowly, And slowly pour water down their backs.

The steaming water runs, once more the baths Roar, the troughs are gorged once more, Once more the houris bathe, and their skins take fire Like flaming full-blown roses in the sun, With languid eyes and the dippers raised high They bathe clean their full, smooth breasts, In the rare vapor, red as tulips.

Beauty on beauty, the houris leave the bath, O the luxurious curls slanting onto their breasts, O those wet curls heavy with water, With drops that fall as pearls around Their groomed and dimpled feet; to sing, O just to sing of their charms and rare perfume, The glow of their bodies, the sandals, silks, and veils!

Those fingers, that today dipped into The depths of henna bowls, as into a bloody Heart, let me just kiss them; and let me Kiss that hair, silked with sweet oils, Hair that in the night, beneath the moon.

Gives Its scent to the down filled pillows; O to kiss, to press against my lips Their aromatic brows, their curving lashes, Bosoms dazzling with brilliant jewels, Whose stones illuminate as torches Around the bridal bed—O but to press My lips to their navels, where deeply concealed, Rests Arabian hashish And Afric musk! Now bound homeward, and burdened, So prettily, with precious stones and rare jewels, Lightly scented with oils and thyme Whose fragrance clouds their paths.

The city squares, scents the leavings in Luncheon baskets, and trails its perfumes deep Inside the folds of undulating skirts— Now bound homeward they go their different ways, The cold slapping their cheeks red, The pavement echoing the sound of their footfalls, Perfumed footsteps on Orient streets; And tracing footprints tender as flowers, as blooms Of May, will make the streets themselves think

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That spring, the soul of spring is passing by.

-Aram Tolegian

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KOSTAN ZARIAN 1885-1969

-Artsvi Bakhchinyan

I SAID TO MYSELF...

I said to myself: Sir, fold Your sorrows, open the deep hidden shades of your grief And wash the pale affliction of your hands.

In the night ghosts prowl At your shoulders And your eyes cage the darkness.

Someone came to the door And said: I am the night, Deep and silent, I am submerged in your body, heaped up in your brain, In your muscles, in your blood As light of the light, As the beginning of the beginning, As that which never ends.

So - you remember Sir - I began to carve the darkness And sparks fluttered their wings And Vision walked and met me On the pathway of the rising thought Where self becomes And grows in the arms of coming days.

Once more I had been. *** We count the hours of passing life on our fingers And then we discover a gate Hole in a wall - and visions Submerged in the shivering steps of the night.

Oh, heart, be silent and wise.

The wingless adventure will rise Upon the horizon And a horseman with a light feather in his hat Will approach and knock at the door While the morning star will discover Our becoming in the future.

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Tomorrow is here, pressed in our hands Of tenderness and anxiety, Like a child whose early crying Shakes the map of Morning and Noon And beats your blood against your will Against your heart Neither silent nor wise.

I. (March 1950) Our body is the life Through which all shapeless time passes into eternity.

I say: Drink my blood.

There will arise from you a deep, rosy morning and horizon will shimmer upon the abyss.

I say: here are the visions of my blind flesh, and you do well to cast down your head and look through the infinity of my eyes.

Let us be together. Heaven hangs its open sail at our side, and our hands feverishly search the embrace of the earth to the singleness of dune and desert.

II. I am the arch under which flows the growing tide of the days to come.

Where, messenger, is your boat and your heart’s sail upon the infinity of stars?

Because our departure has been delayed by the haze of dreams don’t think the road is washed out by images and your steps will resound the eternity.

We have to close our eyes and be magnificently blind about things that will extend themselves into forms of man.

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We have to close our eyes and hark to the breaking of buds from dim trees and the breaking of stars from the universe.

Oh, do understand: Put your delicate hand on my shoulder and side by side let us be the growing tide of the days to come.

III. We went down together through the vineyards.

The paths were narrow and the sea crashed about its blue in utter silence.

Here and there we picked some flowers.

They were graceful and transitory as your intelligent lips and they commit your eyes to my sight.

This was peace.

Through the green, the pink, the red, through the stumbling hills of our ascension and the presence of the immensity of the sea in our hearts.

Ah, feverishly we took in our hands this breath of the earth, this opening into Time and Space, this resurrection of the shadows of the past and this presence of the blooming passion for the incipient love.

IV. This evening, at the cemetery, near a new grave, I went to visit the bellowing wind.

The iron crowns rustled like dry bones, the sighs cracked their oscillating crosses, and the dead, under the rain, were these decomposing rainy nights.

I said to myself that one must accept everything of this October, steeped in the Lagoon, that death in the gondola, a rythmic coffin, will drown in the moonlight, while a star falls into the pit of the well.

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I said to myself, "My soul, don’t lie! Bend to the immensity.

Since the All goes into the All since appearance is nothing, and the dream is cruel.

There above the narrow streets, we will always find some mutilated statue that gestures before the Unknown with its broken arms.

Life, first of all, is Totality.

Love includes all death; and the ram on the zodiac awaits before eternity the dusty passage of the worlds, beaten by waves of ether.

And there, high up somewhere, rustle immense crowns of iron above the gravestones of whole universes, buried in the wet Unknown; and All goes into All. Space coils itself wholly in me and the wind touches my hair.

V. There are days when the hiding presence of a mood is like a raft roving the seas of the heart.

It is cold. Weatherbeaten walls surround us and thoughts are vessels at the pier waiting for the voyage.

But where can we go?

Who will lean and pour the wine and say: Farewell, brother, go and remember?

The frothy mist is pressed against our eyes, its absent, fathomless stare and nobody and nowhere is waiting for us.

It is cold. It is raining.

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MORNING [1]

-Tatul Sonentz

Beneath my bare feet, first light frigid marble.

Within my quivering body a serene embrace sinking in coolness.

Hour of sun-reaping -morning‌ MORNING [2]

-Artsvi Bakhchinyan

The early morning light Shattered the flower-pot.

Blood a perfume.

I throw my arm; The branch pulls my hand And the tree trembles.

That is because the clouds Are running much too fast And the arch upon the sky Follows my looks And pencils out my eyebrows.

I step barefoot upon the pure dawn-marble And enter daylight, holding White snow at every fingertip.

-Tatul Sonentz

STRIDE OF THE HOURS

Behind the mountain, the cymbals of DAWN intone in a shower of light and MORNING comes to golden-waved fields of wheat, where poppies and hemp burst into a beaming blaze From hill to hill, sun-drenched rocks turn to liquid diamond

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and MIDDAY looks lovely -imbibing aromas from mild air day becomes fair and I sit down mute in a silence of fire.

With the EVENING’s

tunic ripples slithers and burns the bright meadow. Then the valley, then the mountain, then again the bright meadow, and the thousand-lanterned forest waits and awaits -whom?

While I climb the mountain.

There, in the hights, at the summit, at NIGHT, My head resting on the heart of a comet, the night, I heed the night, and in the green field of stars I seek the road, the marvelous road of my new, majestic divinity, my entity born of light.

-Diana Der Hovanessian

MY SONG

I want my song to be like the bread on the laborer’s table, humble. modest as the bride is modest, she who, like the pomegranate tree in bloom, burns the countryside With spring fever, burning all the while inside, with her own silent love.

I want my song to tell the burning, undeclared and silent pain.

Let it have the voice, and modulations of the “saz” to give wings to common words.

Like the profile of a mountain,

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Magnificent in simplicity; like an autumn tree flowing with gold, like the heavy pace of the forced traveler far from home, like the faded glimmer of the broken mirror, Like the wheat field In gentle wind; like the everyday sorcery of light refracted in crystal let my gong sing.

And let the simple hearts who see such things understand its castanet beat, the same beat as the pulse in my arm.

I want my song to be simple, humble as a piece of bread.

-Diana Der Hovanessian

ECCE HOMO

I weave my own crown of thorns and wait, telling myself: Look at your dead hopes.

My soul is the black-walled seminary where love is an altar for sacrifice.

And a strange icon speaks staring with copper eyes.

Is it me? Victim and the sacrifice-maker?

Sword and the sharpener of the sword?

Yes. Here, the stone-throwing mob with frothing, laughing mouths, here, the mob spreads like a sea in front of me.

And I, the crucifixion am left to pain.

I, the crucifixion left without blood, bread, soul without burial while Pilate’s hands pretending wisdom wash themselves.

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I, the crucifixion wait against the sky for night.

And who is that weeping? Mary. Mary.

Night.

-Artsvi Bakhchinyan

THE DYING FLOWER

The flower that is dying is traveller: a traveller from the gloomy garden of Time to a dreaming legend of a world to be discovered.

The flower that is dying presses on its sick heart the secret pain the chanting agony of the autumn and the cold, the shivering light from the tears of the stars.

You see: in its petals crouched death is faded.

The wine of life is spilt. Its chalice is drying; the fire of perfumes is no more burning.

Its head bent like an adventure asking meaning from the abyss of the Unknown.

Let us delicately take the cup of its heart not yet silenced and let us drink the fever of its blood, the last flame of its emotion, the last light of its heaven.

And then definitive death will come.

The mysteries of the harmonies will bring a yellow morning to the transmutation.

-Artsvi Bakhchinyan

EXPECTATION

The sea heaps its waves under my footsteps And the day Anxiously hovers around expectation.

The wind blows; Its thousand silver sickles mow the roaring Of the land, While sky is lightening.

Where is my steed, where is my steed?

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O hungry heart, the East is submerged in the darkness, The West is torn And listen, the shores resound to all The crackling of vessels near the rocks.

Come wind, my winging horse Let us careen upon the lands and seas Of all the dreams we conquer We are exiles,We know nothing and nothing Acknowledges us, is our familiar.

The essential is the speed, the line That circumscribes our Destiny, The Vision digging its footsteps here Among the images of fierce life, The highest summits of the human soul.

The soul of planets we have surrendered up To the Universe.

Say, are we not the Givers, The unfortunate donors of everything That makes life into life And the stars shine here, Upon Nothingness?

O heart of hunger, O heart of hunger...

-Artsvi Bakhchinyan

THE TWISTED HANDS OF A FIG TREE

The twisted hands of a fig tree Fasten up the strips of the wind.

The old grey horse of this winter day Knocks its hoofs And the silence neighs.

What am I waiting for?

The night has been nailed upon my fingers.

A lonely voice Digs its shaft upon the darkness And I walk upon the edge of an abyss.

And then I know now what I am waiting for The dawn streams down

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And I unlock and open up the street:

The sky falls softly like a fruit.

THE FRESH WIND OF DAWN’S LIPS -Tatul Sonentz

The fresh wind of dawn’s lips kisses the casement’s cold pane.

The air is a rose of frog’s heart, and the hour -- a hushed, becalmed boat moored to the shore -digs with eyes of a moon-gazing frog a pit in eternity and rocks its heart with both its hands.

I hang around, not knowing what sadness shall descend from the top story of waves swelling in the sea.

My soul wanders alone in the streets of New heaven-Angel, angel, did our neighbor’s dead boy reach there safe and sound?

Or did he forget the address given by his faith?

Or got stuck half way adrift and abandoned forever in the vastness of the station the melancholy collected in his handbag and returned to his casket…

How can one tell?

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RUBEN SEVAK -Samvel Mkrtchyan

1885-1915

TIPSY LOVE You’re the Wonder, you’re the Dream, the Very Love, You’re the flower outlandish and superb.

Full of incense, a mysterious poisonous herb, A temple that deranges any flesh, my dove.

You’re the Wonder, you’re the Dream, the Very Love.

Love me with your coal-black hair and fondle me.

Tell me, tell me of their splendid sacrament.

All because my heart is captured in their scent, They have bound my very soul so tenderly.

Love me with your coal-black hair and fondle me.

Watch me with your melancholy, tear-stained eyes To inject their venom softly in my heart, All because they are so beautifully smart.

Dark as shadows in the backwoods, and so wise.

Watch me with your melancholy, tear-stained eyes.

Hug me like a mother always hugs her child.

Light the fire on my cheeks obligingly; Hold me in your snowy arms and comfort me, Let your body shudder, tumble, running wild.

Hug me like a mother always hugs her child.

Lips have never yearned for anyone like this, Tears have never swelled before as they do now ’Neath the gloomy shadows of my burning brow; Pour on it the savoury dewdrop of your kiss.

Lips have never yearned for anyone like this.

Arms do writhe and squirm with passion as they swing, Eyes enchant all aspiration as they pine.

All because your darkling soul is full of wine, Like the fervent and affectionate nights of Spring.

Arms do writhe and squirm with passion as they swing.

Sweet is ecstasy, the precious hour of bliss; Touch my lips with yours forgetting all you know.

Close your eyes to life, surrender, let it go.

Are you crying? Are you trembling from a kiss?

Sweet is ecstasy, the precious hour of bliss!

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MY NATIVE LAND

How sweet is the night, the intoxicant night.

I walk all alone, as if in a dream, By the banks of the Leman, in a desperate light.

How calm and serene is the permanent scene!

How sweet is the night, the intoxicant night!

The faraway oars with considerate quiver Are swaying the song of many a pair.

The flowery stars have filled up the river.

The amorous lustful obscurity where The sodden oars kiss with considerate quiver.

The dark moon begins to shine in a glow; The queen of the light is changing her hue, Illumed by the alpine and silvery snow– An elderly watcher of pastorals new.

The ashen old lecher now shines in a glow.

What a bottomless sight! What a dream! What a breath!

From pearly and luminous mountains a-glowing, And mettlesome woods that know naught of death To pastures and fields where the Rau is a-flowing.

What a bottomless sight! What a dream! What a breath! *** And you, my tortured native land, In the ardent mists of blood, A victim to the beastly hand Sunken in a fiery flood– Smoking ruins, my native land.

My land, and you, my distant ones.

Euphrates, Araks, Lake of Van, Where are the love-forsaken swans That with their dreamlike wings would break Your ailing bleeding breasts at once?

Where are the pastorals so brave.

You, snow-topped giant, Ararat?

You, Eden turned into a grave.

Your moon was never down like that: Where are your pastorals so brave?

You, stainless maids of Hayastan, Where are your serenades so sweet

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The breeze would carry up the hill The shepherd’s weeping pipe to meet?

Oh stainless nymphs of Hayastan!

THE ETERNAL STORY She was not the kind we meet in cheap erotic books.

A duchess or a flower-girl? She had quite different looks.

Neither fair nor ugly, nothing less than human; In rags or dressed in satin? Well, a woman is a woman.

I didn’t realize if we had met before.

No love, no tears, no sighs: these things are found no more.

But her eyes some secret showed that men sometimes do miss; Blue or black? Well, eyes are eyes who’er she is.

One day... I don’t know why, the reason it may be Her bodice was transparent, until I couldn’t see...

A beast, a man (a poet...)—well, lust is always lust.

Then tired and wan she said, “I begged some love (from whom?)

Instead you poured your curse into a woman’s womb!”

I cried... The same old story, meaningless, unjust.

THE TRUE LOVE The true love is the one you keep From enemies and friends apart, You turn out the lights behind you, Secluded in your heart.

The true love is the one that you Will not deny, will not confess.

Unknowing what it really is, Sorrow or happiness.

It is the love you never tell Your beloved, cherished, waited: You cry and no one sees your tears.

You only think you’re hated.

The true love is the one—don’t say!

All your prisoned hopes are dead; Soul is empty — ruthless words— And idle tears to shed.

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VAHAN TERYAN -Samvel Mkrtchyan

1885-1920

AUTUMN MELODY It’s Autumn, and raining– The shadows, all waning, Are shaking so drearily, Breaking so wearily: It’s raining and raining.

While I feel a merciless pain in my heart.

So keen and so smart.

But away! Don’t come near, I will not shed a tear For the lights all forgotten, For the plight quite forgotten: They would tear me apart.

I know how will ache then, I know how will break then My desolate heart.

It’s Autumn, November– Why do you remember, My lecherous friend, My treacherous friend?

Why do you remember?

You happened to know the world in the end.

World without end.

It’s the life you remember And its luminous dreams.

But I am forgotten in a chilling obscurity, And gone to the bottom.

It’s raining, and Autumn.

OH TO FORGET, GET AWAY FROM IT ALL Oh to forget, get away from it all; Why recall anyone?

Never love, never call and regret, Never come.

In this beamless and dreamless infliction, In the dead of this night, Can there be some balm of delirium?

Can there be some calm light?

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Oh to leave all the world for a moment And to turn into stone, In the rain and the pain of the dark, All alone!

Oh to forget, get away from it all, To forget everyone.

Never love, never dream, never call, Never come.

MYSTERIOUS LOVE My sweet late bride comes to me When the tired sun sets in the west, She appears from a faraway region To lay her sweet head on my chest.

Before dying she said: I will come; Making her will did she part.

Now she comes as a sweet apparition To caress my desperate heart.

She kisses my lips cold as ice, She whispers sweet words in my ear, And telling some soothing sad story, She whispers: I’ll return, dearest dear.

When the screeches and shrills fade away In the battery of this clamorous city.

She sits at my side sadly shedding Her tears of remorse and of pity.

And hearing the song of our lives, Side by side from night until morning, And weaving our dreams of delight We whisper enchanted: It’s dawning.

MY QUIET EVENING IS NOW My quiet evening is now Softly descending from above.

You are here, right under my skin, My chaste and very first love.

The years they will all slip away, The dreams they will die one by one, But your face will be with me to stay In desperate days to come.

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Nights there will be when I weaken, Rainy days when I pine, short of breath; Oh may your name be a luminous beacon Against sadness and the madness of death.

IT’S THE SAME, YOUR WORN-OUT ADDRESS

It’s the same, your worn-out address, Hotel Paris, quite the same, But my melancholy has changed; It has another name.

It’s the same, the opposite shop, The signboard so tediously long, And still you’re forever repeating The old Verlaine song.

I could be inert and light-hearted And my incurable grief Would turn into blissful enjoyment And find some relief.

So I’m leaving, I’m leaving. I’m leaving.

And I don’t know the reason why.

Remember you called me “Gipsy”?

Perhaps it wasn’t a lie.

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MISAK METSARENTS -Samvel Mkrtchyan

1886-1908

LOVE SONG The night is sweet with strong desire, With hashish and sweet balsam sainted, Paths with moonlit colours painted; The night is sweet with strong desire.

Breezes bringing fragrant kisses, Sweet kisses come from blossomed light: It is soul’s festival tonight; Breezes bringing fragrant kisses.

My light is dimming bit by bit, My lips are thirsting for the Kiss, And though the night is full of bliss, My light is dimming bit by bit.

A WINTER’S SERENE NIGHT To your kiss my window is open, oh Night, Allow me to absorb all your glittering hues.

The soggy magic of your chilly dews And the soft-flowing milk of your voluptuous light.

Oh Night, so serene, so wonderful and whole, Flow Into my heart like an enchanting tide, Pour out drop by drop the honeyed sprays you hide And spill them softly Into my warming soul.

Deceitful voices ceased, I would never falter To drain your precious nectar greedily; I wish the hours of the day would never bother me, That I could ever kneel beside your altar.

Oh I would kneel there and never would complain, Saying a thousand prayer to your power; As long as your sparkles come down like a shower My eyes do forget the nadir once again.

Oh fascinating Night! Receive me to your bliss.

Receive me, oh most mystical calm.

Receive my breath and my imploring psalm And my soul’s burning, everlasting kiss.

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My chamber is filled with memories so bitter.

The unrestrained lechery of yesterday’s breeze: Still the wrinkles are mourning with the trees The fury of its kindness and infamous glitter.

Rush in furiously, flow, spread, roll and creep Into my chamber as to console a mourner.

Let your saintliness spill into each corner That I might awake from an ancient sleep.

To your kiss my window is open, oh Night, Allow me to absorb all your glittering hues.

The soggy magic of your chilly dews And the soft-flowing milk of your voluptuous light.

REFUSAL A little kiss that could give me everything.

Oh you didn’t deign to give that little thing; All you did was just to spit a ruthless “no.”

Since then I’ve been suffering, walking to and fro.

Oh you didn’t deign to give that little kiss And you burled all the glitter of my bliss.

And the smile that now and then would gladly show; Oh you made me so unhappy with that “no.”

You just spat a ruthless “no” in very deed.

And the word Just pierced my heart and made it bleed; The cool whip of your refusal once again Made my heart, oh, writhe and twist and roll in pain.

Since then I’ve been only suffering, torn apart, And the grief has utterly impaired my heart.

Ever since that awful poisonous cup I drained, My heart has been but bleeding and my eyes have rained.

NAMELESS Oh wild flower, what’s your name?

Oh you, standing in the shade Of a deep green brier fence That will never, never fade.

Oh white flower, what’s your name?

Tell me, who is missing you?

Tell me, don’t you tremble gently When the breeze is kissing you?

Oh proud flower, what’s the name Of the fairy gone away?

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She just passed you by and vanished.

Leaving here a gentle spray.

Do you know, oh flower, the name Of the tremble that just came, Of the voice that calls my name?

THE SONG OF LIFE In the wrinkles of this life Mournful whispers said to me: All the hopes are for the void.

Life is vanity.

Every flower fades and dies.

Each life has a dark black shade; Like a fragrant transient flower Every hope must fade.

Then something rushed into my heart, A sweet and burning light resembling; ’Twas the glorious Song of Life To which I listened trembling.

Grief must not prevail, it said, Hopes should never be dispersed.

There is laughter after pain.

An end to what is cursed.

See the black clouds mar the sky, See the heavy rains descend.

But this rain, this crying is The song of every end.

The sun comes after heavy showers.

And smiles come after bitter tears.

Then arrives a lasting gladness That never disappears.

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LEON SRABIAN HERALD (LEVON DER SRABIAN) 1892-1981 WASTED ENERGY It is the hunger of my fingers Rather than other hungers That brings me to your door.

I am in need of labor.

I am tired of all-stillness.

Give me your gestures, And I will make new winds Out of them, new breezes with Rainbow-birds and bird-butterflies For hearts in them, And songs for heart-beats; I will make new climates To bear new conditions, New lives, new purposes.

Give me your words, that I May make plants and shrubs With pagan-shaped foliage, Transparent forms and fruition; I will make trees of widest leaves Casting shadows with scent and color, Tall and lissom trees to sway And arch over horizons.

Give me your eyes, And I will pattern a new sky With stars permitting You to see beyond; Low-hanging moons of different cuts; A sun that will bring dawn And its wonders to your window, And cast fantastic sunsets behind.

Give me your laughter, that I May make new rivers and oceans With ripples of unknown rhythm.

I will make waterfalls of your laughter To open for you like doors, Doors of unheard-of palaces Of unthought-of architecture.

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Life now is without its reality.

The sky and its elements, The earth and its elements, Are not what they might have been.

I wish to make them anew.

Make me the Maker of this inchoate world.

Save me from wasting this energy That will earn me my day’s living, And will make you vastly richer.

Make use of this only craft I know.

Offer me some seeds, Offer me something new Because I can accept none other.

Give me something, because my fingers Are withering with idleness, Because my bones are sinking in me.

-Garig Basmadjian

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MATTHEOS ZARIFIAN 1894-1924

-Diana Der Hovanessian

LET US GO IN Look at the moon aloof and alone who has never found a love of its own.

Listen to the wind wandering to no end who never finds a single friend.

Let's not defy them.

Come, let us hide.

We won't make them jealous, If we go inside.

A LITTLE GIRL CONFESSED TO ME A little girl confessed to me that she loved madly.

She loved me.

I turned my head to hide my eyes, that held the pit of night inside.

Without a spark their emptiness, a cruel surprise.

And like a brother gently said: The moonlight's cold.

Go home to bed.

I left too and If I could, I would have cried.

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HAMASTEGH 1895-1966

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MY SOUL BELIEVING IN TOMORROW Jostled by city crowds, I walked head bent, humming the remnant of a song, when a funeral interrupted traffic.

I thought “Even as the procession passes, everyone is confident tomorrow comes.”

I whistled, walking down our street, then I saw a wreath on a door.

Old and young made up the household.

I did not ask which one death culled but kept on homeward, confident that death calls on the neighbors only, confident tomorrow comes.

Then suddenly like a loose object falling a friend died. I went and stood wearing mourning like the others to sprinkle the handful of earth on his stone bed. “My contemporaries are falling,” I told myself, confident that tomorrow comes.

-Diana Der Hovanessian

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HMAYAK SHEMS 1896-1952

THE MONARCH No king known—not one!—draped in purple robes Has, with his proud cortege, his own realm graced As I have this one, roving majestically Through its strange, foreign streets, bright, open-faced.

I stretch my hand to each of countless brethren, Even to those who balk or turn away, And under each foot cheerfully I spread My heart’s imperial colors on display.

I mix my boundless mirth with others’ glee, My clanging cymbals freely on all bestowed, As through my soul’s tears, clear as sunlit rain, I eagerly hand out my joy, like gold.

In tattered rags, how mightily I stroll With my own entourage, stately and grand, Through foreign streets, as no king has strode before, Nor ever will go forth through his own land.

-Vahé Baladouni and John Gery

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*

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YEGISHÉ CHARENTS -Samvel Mkrtchyan

1897-1937 ANTHEM

My sweet Armenia’s sun-flavored word, that always chimes and rings—I love; Our ancient lyre’s melody, its wretched weeping strings—I love; The fragrance of the blood-like flowers, the way the fiery roses smell; The graceful dance of Nayirian girls, their sweet angelic wings—I love.

I love our skies so overcast, our waters pure, our lakes so bright; The summer sun, the dragon-voiced snowstorms in a wintry night; The black-walled huts lost in the dark, their unfriendly cheerless sight; The rock-hard stones of ancient towns, their mysterious pride—I love.

Wherever I am I can’t forget our mournful tunes and melodies, Our steel-lettered sacred books turned into silent prayers and pleas; However sharp they pierce my heart, however deep my wounds may bleed, Even though orphaned and blood-bright, my sweet Armenia-bride—I love.

There is no other pleasing tale or story for my longing heart; The haloed foreheads of Narek, Kouchak—there is no higher art; There is no summit as snow-white as that of lofty Ararat; Like a distant path to glory—that mount, my timeless guide—I love!

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SOMA (Excerpts)

Like the priest of the Ganges, Forever lovelorn and true, I've passed my life to your light, And am singing of you— In this changing red world For you are my praises; I'm acclaiming you, Soma!

Sweet sister—so crazy!

2 For centuries on end, with flowers in my heart, And my flag unfurled, I was out to find you never to depart In this impious world.

I thought that your fiery visage, O Soma, Nowhere could be found;

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And I knew whoever once loved you, now lies Deep in the ground.

Surrendered at length to mortal desires For death did I ask.

Suddenly I saw your face in the twilight That I thought was the last.

O I saw your face in a place that was A sanctified altar; O I saw your face in a grueling world Full of fire and mortar.

Intoxicated by you and your charms I joined the fire-dance; And ceding my life, I stretched out my arms To the burning lands.

3 I do know you are my heavenly sister, A sweet girl, O Soma!

Who is delivering to our sacred flowers Venom, grief, aroma.

O you fertilize flowers and plants With your vital dew.

Sister! You subsist in our sacred herbs— Terrible and new.

We absorb the drink distilled from those plants— Wine that is a fire!

When we're drunk with this sacred beverage, It's you we desire!

O Soma! You're flaming wine in blood vessels!

In our veins you run!

When we're drunk we wish hallowed be your name And your will be done!

4 Soma! O Soma! Sacred beverage, Sacred love on earth!

O sweet spirit of sacred inspiration, Sacred night of birth!

O you sacred womb of daybreak and light, Our soul's Milky Way; Who, before the Sun, paved the sky with gold,

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With her golden rays.

O you sanctified bride of liberty— Its worth and merit!

The last illusion of adorability, Joy of the spirit!

You who simmer up in the hearts of men— A powerful flood.

Boiling froth and foam until you're a spark, Until you're a blaze to inflame the blood!

Soma! O Soma! Blessed be the instant When, in this red world full of sin and vice, You turned into fire, turned into Agni2 In the hearts of ice!

WORDS OF LEAVING So many flames have I extinguished in my eyes, Scores of stars have I extinguished in my heart.

Don't curse my life—a memory will never rise; My life will pass, but my song will not depart.

My life will pass like a fire in a bog— Dull and worthless, with no purpose, with no goal; And in my songs I'm almost vanished in a fog— Was it me singing the blue longing of my soul?

Born to wander, I've been voiceless all along; No one knows what my life is, who I am.

All they know is I have written several songs, Like I know one loves you like no other can.

I've sung your soul, I've sung your smile so brilliant, The consecrated sorrow of your eyes and face, My life in mists, I've sung the deep commitment— My arms longing for your compassionate embrace.

Sister! Here descends the murky dusk of strife; Oh what can I do to stop this heart from crying?

Oh how can I accept the drained cup of my life With my fingers trembling and my days decrying?

Will I ever be doubting myself, or disbelieving?

Will I ever be thinking this longing was a lie?

—Anyway, oh sister, do not curse, while leaving, My arms that fail to reach you when they try.

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ATTILA

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Stamp down their heaven, Attila!

—V. Ivanov

Revived from the depth of ancient centuries Here am I riding the fields of my land, The horizon is burning, but firmly I stand, Recharged from the strength of ancient centuries.

In a tomb of gold they'd buried me before, My hardhearted Huns—and never spread the word: No king ever knew where I was interred, No one ever could disturb me anymore.

They had forgotten King Attila—poor men!

They'd thought I was dead, and my dream was mocked.

I can imagine how they will be shocked When they see me riding half the world again!

See how my yellow blazes reach the skies Scorching the stars as they did before.

—You will dare forget or mock me no more— Great King of the Huns, most daring and wise!

Here again I start burning every home, Village or city—I will strike and smite!

This time you will see how one crimson night, Proud, invinsible—I will enter Rome!

I will devastate your temples and shrines With my iron fist—make my greatest feat!

I will make the kings crawl before my feet Like maggots of the marsh with no bone and spine!

O those flimsy clowns, pathetic and battered, Who laughed in the circus, feeling redeemed, When Theodosius hopelessly dreamed That Attila's swift arrow was shattered!

Whom my sudden death had made deaf and blind; Who believed in vain they had peaceful life And began to dream of freedom from strife For themselves, as well for the human kind.

How could they have thought they could kill the hero!

I am immortal, cold-hearted and crude; I will sleep again to wake up renewed—

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And have countless names: Death, Destruction, Nero!

2 My slant eyes can see, like they saw before, How under the hooves of my restless mare Your mock crystal buildings dissolve in the air Like a memory from the days of yore.

Hey! From East to West—I, who knows no ruth, Must burn and destroy everything and all.

I'm your king, your god, destruction and fall, I am the naked brand and whip of truth.

Let all the rulers of the world discern, Let them, one last time, accept my decree— I have been, I am, I will always be, I am not the one you can ever spurn.

Let the human races consider at last That never again in their hymn and prayer Will grass ever sprout in the places where Attila's old mare has rapidly passed.

Let them bear in mind again and again: My old aspiration, to set the world to fire, Will never diminish, will never expire— Attila the Hun can never be slain!

3 When I'm full as there's nothing left to burn, When my brave body is tired of playing the game, I'll sleep some more years, leaving as I came— To my gold coffin's warmth I will return, Followed by my dismal, fuming giants, who, Without any prayer, without a single word, Once again will have my carcass interred— And those who'll bury me, will be buried too, So that my body will never be found— None will ever know where Attila the Hun Is buried in this world—King Attila, the one Who leveled so bravely your honor to the ground; And when all the stars of the sky complain To the very stone of the earthly fire, Eternally loyal to his old desire, King Attila will arise yet again!

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A VISION OF DEATH

Like a tightly stretched string of a forsaken cello, My heart is vibrating with fears uncontrolled; It's the peak of my longings—my very last lyre— A tight rope that's hanging from crossed wooden poles.

Like the darkest derision of my fortune and doom, An old pledge and promise, just vainly harangued, The poles of the gallows stand proud in the city, Patiently waiting for the one to be hanged.

The gallows stands silent—while there, in the centre, Glumly and gloomily, this dark rope still sways, Like the flameless eruption of my orphaned sad being— Out of these tender and heartbreaking days.

A flameless sad evening has calmly descended, A silence that's tearing the heavens apart, Like the aching abrasion of today and tomorrow Or the anguish of downfall interning my heart.

The stores, dimly stooped, and the crowd congregated 'Round the gallows with ominous crossed wooden poles, So close to death's dismal and delicate lyre— Do they really seek something to be sadly consoled?

Who on earth has invented this vicious delusion?

Who has chosen to turn the bright dawns of my soul Into shadowy evenings — this sinister gallows, A dark rope that's hanging from crossed wooden poles.

Could it possibly be me and my heart faint and moonstruck, That failed to deliver festive flames from afar And wished that no lyre should be blessing the haloed Hopes of my homeland and her forthcoming star?

So I will advance now. With a grief-stricken longing, With a poet's ambitions, and the blazes in hand, With the glowering song of my days so unsmiling , With the last love and dream of my sweet native land, I'll advance in this fading and flickering twilight, Like a lonely ghost haunted, like a phantom long-chased, To offer my neck to the crossed wooden poles— Wishing to swing, oh so mournfully chaste!

May no other victim be claimed but my body, May no other feet make their steps to the gallows.

In my eyes of the hanged, O my motherland troubled, Let them notice the halo of all your tomorrows.

In my eyes of the hanged, protruded and bulging, Let them notice the halo of all their tomorrows.

May no other victim be claimed but my body, May no other shadow come close to the gallows.

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LOVELESS ROMANCE NON-BEGINNING You still like Teryan's1 spit-and-polish Lyric, don't you?

Yet today my tongue will lick your soul with hot iron and you'll love it, won't you?

Is it still misty lachrymose autumn in your sopping souls crying for an illusion?

Ah your half-baked despicable hearts lost in delusion!

No way.

Crying for nothing.

You're late.

Illusions are dead.

When nerves are screaming you're just hushed as can be— If you want feelings I can give you the sentiments of the KGB instead.

What?

Defunct?

Junked before singing these days?

Liars playing lyre? You must love it.

You want me to be furious?

Shall I raze coughing out what you covet to see if it makes you curious?

Shall I look at you?

You! Hunchbacked poets of a moment’s flood, Shall I look at your wayward ways?

You! Who have urine for blood And mucus for brains!

For you, time seems to be an ox-driven farm cart you're pushing to this moment, having loaded your heart.

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You think this is the way.

You can sing what you used to bray with the same old rotten words; Yesterday— love and birds, a steamboat today!

Pay heed to my flaming voice!

But it's no luagh: You have to know how!

That’s why I’m yelling at your hermaphrodite muzzles: I've had enough!

Down with you NOW! Stop wetting our copper language in your drooling foolish tunes (that no one needs) for any pig-headed peddler to chew like cantaloupe seeds.

Stop distorting the nasal language in your wet velvety hands.

You want to wank?

Can’t get yourself a woman?

Use hashish or cocaine for cleanness.

Pen is no penis.

Do you understand?

You don't want the language to blight, corrode or putrefy, don't you?

You want either compost or dehydrated fruit?

Let my whip shoot like an ode past your watery chins tonight!

You've been waiting too long, Charents—it's your turn; Why not rise, incinerate, burn.

Come to scatter your word like a bomb?!

Let them spit, let them paste

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with their spitty organic glue— let them weave line by line the softly plaited rug of their songs— these softly screeching poets of mine!

Oh rise!

Take your bombs.

In a mood so pitiful and pensive, in his toothless row of words let Azat be freely depressive.* I can sing you love, if you choose— tremors of such a pain that will shake and break your heart in two like the fastest train!

Do you understand?

Not that love songs I wrote instead of iron and steam— you know here it comes to stick in your throat!

I've had enough of your wrinkled core pissing frozen emotions.

You bet I'll give you more, I'll put you in motion by my alphabet.

You want a romance or a romantic novel?

Take your chance!

Here's something more— quite novel non-novel or a loveless romance.

BEGINNING You're neither a pallid phantom nor a bogus vision of the soul.

Zhenea, let me sing a song to your moist body with my skull's cling clang clong!

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Skull's cling clang clong— like an enormous drum, with an evil insect inside.

When she knocks from beneath you'll be screaming like mad, terrified!

Who knows?

Who knows?

Who knows?

You're sitting like an elf, all by yourself.

She will come—cussed, reeking of blood, to garnish your transgression with lust.

You lie down to nap, Yet once again— at a snail's pace, like a fire spreading through the house, rising from under your brain— she shows her face.

A girl.

Body and flesh.

Eyes.

Lips.

Brows.

Hypnotic hilltops of hips.

You want her fresh— and her blowing charms in your blazing arms.

Reminiscing?

Having visions?

A wish?

A sleep-walker's wretchedness? No! Wheezing she'll seize you to squeeze you—feverishly.

Unleashed, Unabashed, Flashing— Oh she!

Hiss Hissing in the mist— Caressing, having missed the sin, Like a snake it sticks to the skin.

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Hiss Hissing Hissed.

In your hot insistent hips that swell with pain and cramp, the pitiless desire will flame a crimson lamp.

What else?

What else?

Just nothing.

Nothing left to feel.

Insignificant.

An insect.

Rise, Protect yourself and squeal!

—Ghenea, I want you, it's you I want.

With the terror of time on my face, let me come, succumb— share the blood-taste, destroy the foundation and base!

Like an old heinous witch to be burned alive— slow and dull was your pace, Ghenea, yet you climbed my skull.

Something knocked underneath— like a thunder, an alarm bell of the skull, a rock against my will— my head torn asunder!

Do you hear?

It's calling you so that you never resist.

The hot skull can see

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you exist.

Listen, I'm whispering “Love”— but the chewed-up word I just uttered means that I want you— not bread and butter!

You want me to arch my backbone so that, like a curved spring it will fling both of us in a flat?

If you come, the red gush of my passion, hard as granite, will fly to reach the furthermost ardent planet.

Do you understand?

The horrible horde of my zeal is going to overflow like a song—spilled from the artistic fingers of mad Iza. Do you understand why or how?

Is it from the way you respire?

If love is trash let me cover you now with the cushion of my breath— like extinguishing a fire.

Are you stimulated?

You don't want it. No! Playing the hidden treasure again.

You hate it.

But tell me Who ever called you to come and perch in my brain!

CONTINUATION Listen, you! my iron heart!

Go your own way, run!

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what if she says I'm part of someone?

Part.

Partner.

Pork.

The husband!

Do you see now, featherbrained pimp, that she might sit on his shoulder or even embrace him?

You might get thrilled or irate, lose your head; you might dissolve in the air; but she— will break your tired heart like bread and never care.

Ghenea, do you hear me?

Understand!

Listen to this!

Surrender!

Forget your soft half— Here it is!

Do you understand? It's like thrusting into your throat a piece of wood jagged and tall and hammering into your heart until it explodes like a ball.

Understand?

I'm fed up; You've been glued to me too long.

No use— “love” “nil” “reverie”— the same old song!

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So what?

Do you think I'm Teryan the versifier?

It's true, I've doodled “Odes,” “The Rainbow,” but I've thrown them into the fire.

They've been manufacturing rhymes, poetizing soaked tricks, but how can you render the times when your love is a sea of oil—Baku?

You want sensations to load your soul, heart, vagina.

What if the emotions explode?

What if they blow apart like china— Mortar and shell.

Well?

Listen, love!

Listen, please!

I say listen!

You think I’ll beg on my bended knees?

I will come In the dead of night To blow up like a bomb.

I have seen fire, War, White and red armies, too.

Nothing else.

I’m alive.

I survived Just to f*** you.

Understand?

I’ll come at night, In the jealous poster of my eyes You will read “Gypsy”— instead of tedious smiles!

I will fall like a rock,

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drag you and throw you onto your bed.

See the willpower of the executioner who loves you before you're dead.

Do you hear?

It’s yes or no.

Understand?

It’s either love or—a nose.

“Loony”.

She shrilled in disgust, snickering in my face.

Eyes of a fat mouse Jumping about the house Like she-cats do.

I am, She said, Part of someone— What about you!

The cat!

The female cat!

Gold.

Golden.

Gilded perfectly.

She can fly; she can do rat-a-tat.

What about me?

Me? I’ll get down Picking the fruit Of my dissipated lust, I’ll wait till it gets dark, All over town— I pass!

I'll arrange them along the pavement, Like boiled fish, and me, like a pusher, Shuttling the portions in a dish.

What's more...

When the bargain hunters crowd, I'll give away, for nothing,

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the priceless fruit of my passion to any penniless whore.

Love?

Zero!

It's like leaving a restaurant with dyspepsia and heartburn— It's at once so easy and full of twists and turns.

CONTINUATION AND END You think it's good, I reckon— “Love.”

“Desire.”

“Wine of the eyes.”

How often did you beckon, And— Nothing arrived?

They have given you visions, rainbows, blue and yellow smiles.

But has anyone with lesions shown you his piles?

It's easy to love, no doubt.

Merry-go-round.

Moonlight, bla-bla blab.

But have your hopes ever fallen like hair from scab.

Ah, forget the goddamn moon, and relax!

It's neither a virgin, nor a lady.

Or maybe you need your soul to grow hunchbacked?

Now forget it, Charents, walk into the street.

Rage against the pigheaded pavement. Give off light.

Let your soul explode

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like a dynamite!

Live.

Forgive. be a troubadour to any noseless girl.

Your soul is brighter than a hundred thousand pearls.

Understand, tough heart, illusions are done.

You can't fool the masses.

Understand that a kick from a noseless one is worth a thousand “dream lasses.”

Is this “Illusion?”

I’ll come.

Muscular.

Carrying my wish.

And when she gets undressed— I know I shall smell fish That has to be caressed.

She will lie.

The “illusion,” on the bed.

Me, too.

And when she Melts from tenderness I’ll break her, like bread, In two, And she’ll cry Ye-e-s!

Then— I’ll throw her away, squeezed, Let her bite her tongue, short of breath.

Love!

You see it's no fun.

I have brought you—death.

I, the Hun. Are there emotions? Let them come if they can!

I'll catch them and throw them away

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from Moscow to the Vatican!

Well? Let them come!

Emotions are dead.

Extinct, abhorrent.

Gone are the days of a girl's glamorous flexible bed!

Or if they come—it's fine: use them as spiritual torrent to fuse some cast iron.

A song?

Passion?

They're out of fashion; kissing, spit-smelling et cetera, when intoxicated cities are pairing off from afar.

A voice?

Whose throat can dig the ground when millions are gnawing at the world all around?

So come, I'll incite you, I'll straighten your backs.

I do invite you to a love that fills all the cracks!

Come all you noseless lasses.

Take me (like you give) row by row.

All you creatures having relinquished your skulls, lips, noses, hips.

Go! Come!

I'll give you flesh with nose and face—cold sober, and a soul as red as October.

Don't stand that far.

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Don't be so dull.

I'll scrape your souls with my songs down the street.

And if you want my skull, here you are— —Take it and eat!

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P. S. Are you laughing?

You must be.

Me? A poet, “of iron,” “red,” now all of a sudden— instead of iron hymns— lips, loins, limbs.

Who cares.

But I know for certain; I believe, I swear she'll be in the air clung to my last breath to witness my death when they draw life's curtain.

AFTER READING Is Charents dead? He is.

For the arrival of a new poet Celebrate his decease.

Who cares if the papers will write daftly Rest In Peace.

NAUSICAA For Arpik, Arpik, Izabella - My most beautiful song Y. Ch. 21/09/1936

1 Like Naiads, like Naiads, like Naiads, She is calling with the voice of my yearning, Pledging a true love's incessant attraction, Leaving pains of loss and heart's burning.

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From childhood and days that are gone forever, In the red sands full of affliction and glee, I've been thinking that, clung to my longing, My Nausicaa was waiting for me.

At first like a dream of an unfamiliar life, In a ship sailing the blue translucent sea, Like a tempting and delightful reflection My Nausicaa was calling for me.

Then in a life of irrevocable years, In the red sands again that scurry and flee, I've been dreaming that, clung to my longing, My Nausicaa was waiting for me.

Sometimes like a girl, looking so childish, Sometimes like a coveted lady full-grown, A Manon Lescaut, or a spotless virgin— My Nausicaa would appear all alone; Sometimes like a statue of snow-white marble, Sometimes like an urn of Mycenian clay, Or turned to an Egyptian with an ebony body, My Nausicaa would lure me away; Sometimes with smooth hips of molten silver, Sometimes like a snake of a spiteful intent, Sometimes turned into a green-eyed woman, My Nausicaa would seem innocent; Sometimes in softly rustling swishing shrouds, Sometimes blanket-clad, in a lunar hood, Sometimes stark naked, sometimes veiled or hidden— My Nausicaa, in her womanhood; Sometimes calling me with the voice of a flute, Or with the lyre's sweet melodious moan, Sometimes with new tunes, or with songs of yore— My Nausicaa, in her precious tone; In the highlands above, or in the valleys below, On the golden sands of my heavenly state, In the quiet of lakes and the tempest of seas, My Nausicaa, I have heard your gate.

I have been waiting for you ant second I lived, Dreaming that you would dream of my ways, In any place I've been, any minute I lived My Nausicaa, phantasm and maze; In ingenious songs and in dexterous books,

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Or upon any canvas, by a genius drawn.

In the North, the West, the ancient Orient, Or in the South, my Nausicaa, so warm; On any twist and turn, with every single step, In any evil scheme, or in any great event, I have anticipated our meeting anywhere, My Nausicaa, despite the years spent.

With every breaking day, or in any dream That I've had at nights, full of hopes and threats, Even when the wind breaks open a door, My Nausicaa, I'm guarding your steps.

From my sweet childhood to the midday of life, In my days elapsed like a dream, my mission Has been looking out for you to appear, Nausicaa, my daily apparition.

All my beleaguered books, all my deathless songs, The flame of my thirst, the cure that I seek here— Whatever I've done, whatever I'll do— Were meant to find my Nausicaa.

Till my blackest day, when the world relapses, When my flesh receives nothing from above, I'll be seeking you in all lustrous pathways, Nausicaa, my unreachable love!

I have coveted poet's reputation, Fame, blood-tasting songs, love and thrill, Hoping constantly that my Nausicaa Has been waiting for me, still; That despite dead roses and my scythed years, And my dreams dissolved in all mortal aisles, At my journey's end, as a priceless gift, My Nausicaa, I may see your smile.

Like Naiads, like Naiads, like Naiads, She is calling with the voice of my yearning, Pledging a true love's incessant attraction, Leaving only death and heart's burning.

2 In Memory of Arpenik Charents, my wife Like Naiads, like Naiads, like Naiads, She called me one time with the voice of my yearning, She promised true love's incessant attraction,

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Leaving only death and heart's burning.

Surrounded by seven maids of her own, Those maids of devotion and terrible pain, As if sentenced to death on her own free will, My Nausicaa accepted my name.

In the craving sea of my vanished isles, You became my island, golden and true.

Yet my black love grew to be ruin and murder, My Nausicaa, alas, for you.

Like crimson coral, tinted like roses, Over the red sands, like a gentle tide, Gliding you smiled, and sliding you vanished, My Nausicaa, my deadly bride.

3 Like Naiads— now turned into naive creatures, Like Naiads, with voices that flatter and woo, Promising the Spring's pleasures and delight, Who is it calling me? Who? Like one Ulysses, succumbed to the mast Of my desire and the Naiads' sweet wail, Succumbed to the voice of my memories, I approached those shores yet again.

Am I, as another Ulysses returning, In an impossible dream of retention, Visiting the isle where my Nausicaa Met me with love and attention?

O the same Naiads with their enchanting songs, Yet more profound and gladly converted; The magical horizon is nearing at length, But why does it seem deserted?

The shore is the same—the strolling girls— And there's my Nausicaa like a vigorous gleam!

She stared without blinking—the irrevocable past Flared in her eyes like a dream.

Going down, sinking deep, like crimson coral, In the vain red sands of lifelong endeavor; Like childhood she lapsed into delirium— My Nausicaa departing forever.

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4 Like Naiads, like Naiads, like Naiads, They called me with the voice of my yearning, Promising true love's incessant attraction, Leaving death's grief and heart's burning.

In the islands of my sea of adventures So many Nausicaas have been sent from above— Each one departed, clung to their longing To a new Ulysses and a different love.

Clung to her fabulous and indigo shoreline, A different Nausicaa belonging to others, She was a princess now, guarding her Ulysses Among the red sands of my longings and bothers.

Assumed as princesses, clung to my longing, How many beautiful Nausicaas have drown ed, Going under and sinking like striking red corals, Among the red sands of my craving unbound.

Clung to the islands of my sea of adventures, In the ruby dream of my minutes and seconds, Each Nausicaa I met would turn out to be Someone 's princess, as she would be reckoned.

Yet, crowned a princess in someone else's land, Each Nausicaa I lost to disorderly throngs, Happened to meet me again, as my lover— Amid the ruby sands of my desperate songs.

Having dreamed of them in my infinite dreams, Enthused with obsession amid my ruby sands, I gathered whatever was left out of my poems, To put them, my unloved one, in your feeble hands.

Clung to my longing elapsed through the years, My only Nausicaa, my undreamed one, alas— Wherever I was waiting, I lost them forever— So cherished in dreams, like all of them, passed.

Sought in red longing of all my adventures, No Nausicaa smiled at me in this world; Whatever I had to give them lavishly, I handed to you, O my unloved girl.

Whatever was left out of my livid poems, With the fervor and passion amid my ruby sands— And whatever I had to give them lavishly,

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I put it, my unloved one, in your feeble hands.

In the roads of my life, in those brutal days Of passion, fire, whatever—I gave you everything To finish any dream—so that I might forget them, So that no Nausicaa would ever want to sing.

Yet again and again, like Naiads, like Naiads, They are calling me in their hankering breath— Promising true love's incessant attraction, Yet giving me barely the sorrow of death.

Neither my cuddles, richly splashed on you, In the crimson dreams of nightly desire Nor the boundless longing written in my songs, Did stifle, my Nausicaa, my everlasting flame.

Like Naiads, like Naiads, like Naiads, You are calling me today—and tomorrow You'll be calling me, as long as I breathe, Promising me love, but giving me sorrow.

They'll be calling me until my last dream; She'll be kissing me—just before my death— As if she is kissing the Ulysses she longed for— My Nausicaa, clung to my very last breath.

TO MY READER I am sending you my book, O my reader, today; It's up to you to read Or throw it away.

I have written in this book Such lines (I do know it) You can never find In another poet.

So judge with your heart Whether they're bad or good: If your heart is the critic, I'm not misunderstood.

NIGHTFALL MOOD I Life has granted you poison and decline, O my sleepless heart, you've endured on time.

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You've always accepted fever and decease, My heart, you are empty—no longer at ease.

O where are you now, my sweet gentle fire, O my ailing hawk, my feeble desire?

Is the hopeless craving nothing but a trial?

A meaningless delirium are both life and lyre!

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II However, my heart, what have you desired That has been truly hopeless to aspire?

You've preferred to breathe with your melodies, The joy of song—the dream that will never cease.

Life chuckled in your face, my heart, once again The song gave you nothing but soreness and pain.

The song is a crime in a life so dire, When no one but you plays the sacred lyre.

THEY WERE BEHEADING US They were beheading us with each breath-In the name of gold, blood, faith and guile; In the name of our will scheming and vile; In the name of fear that lasts until death.

They were beheading us with each breath-In the name of the foe and consistence; The minaret against the pulpit; the existence, For all they saw in us was dust and death.

AN IMMEASURABLE SONNET ... All by yourself you shall accept This new Calvary...

—VAHAN TERYAN

Where are you carrying, o my tormented Soul, Your black wooden cross to? Have you found another Calvary to mount proudly — for people to be bowled Over your luminous crown with infinite ardor?

Are you ascending, now, the foothill as Jesus, Or just as a burglar condemned to the cross?

Has every man at present turned into Pilate the Specious Washing their hands of you and their colossal loss?

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What is a crown of light? Is it good to delude us Ascending the hill when only affliction prevails; You don’t even know if you are Jesus or Judas!

Do you have, o my Soul, those merciless scales To measure this very immeasurable thought In this midnight's anguish—depressing, distraught?

BLACK GALLOWS I'm betrayed and defrauded, my heart, I'm helpless in this taciturn war.

Life and world have torn us apart, While you are as naïve as before.

They show up to hurt your feelings, Doing everything they've known or heard, While you're staring up at the ceiling, Chewing up those meaningless words.

You're defrauded and trampled once more; Your light is their poison and gall; Like whores they knock on your door, Marring, and making you small.

Their desire is to spit in your face, Their odes are so deadly complete.

Black gallows is the name of your place Where they want you to chant your defeat.

Ah, down with all those creations You once held as sacred and bright— Disregard any hope of salvation, Be the first one to turn out the light.

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BUZAND TOPALIAN 1902-1971

-Diana Der Hovanessian

THE HITTITE LION We resurrect you, pull you up through four thousand years of dust to let the newly opened earth catch this awesome sight.

Out of the entrails of the ruined the game of fate unites our common path and brotherhood, your future and my past.

The centuries insisted as they closed, we do not exist But must bow to this hour now and acknowledge us.

In your stone arteries I greet my ancestors’ pulse and meet their stern-eyed will governing your progress still.

I trace your stylized mane and feel the sculptor’s breath once more who gave you his mighty heart and kept you ready to roar.

THE LIE (Or, the ILLUSION) You hurt as much as truth. And you are just as big.

Sometimes I feed on you in the rush of the day.

Other times I bandage you, like an all-purpose ointment over the agonizing hurt or the itch of the hours.

I know you could energize my soul.

I know you would calm down the agitation of my blood if your tragic eyes would cast their spell and unite with my beast.

I could shed all bitterness If I could deliver myself completely to your charm, and could only stop the frightening beat

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of inner consciousness that knocks and tears down the foundations of the dream.

BEAUTY WEEPS HERE

Beauty weeps here where it was worshipped in the curved light, like pigeons shedding snow, sowing white shedding silence as if wafted from the stars to make deaf marble shiver where feathers fall.

Beauty weeps here in an imploring voice hopeless, mocking as it stares into the eyes of vanity in the shadows.

Laughter is silenced here and the old worshipful smiles fade in the moon-faced mirror.

Your own thin face abandoned by the gods is that face, with wine-press eyes that squeeze out the old emotions into unfinished songs.

In the moon-faced mirror your emaciated face floats like a sad dream, an old tragedy, and Beauty weeps.

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GOURGEN MAHARI 1903-1965

QUESTIONS What is this storm, life’s momentum of you?

This unfathomable disturbance that splits me in two?

And you my riddle, standing so calmly there, do you feel anything?

Either concern or care?

No. In this gale how calm you remain, refreshed, even cooled, like a rose in the rain.

-Diana Der Hovanessian

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ARSHILE GORKY

(VOSTANIK MANUK ADOYAN) 1904-1948 SING WHEN YOU RECEIVE THIS LETTER In homage to Karlen Mooradian, Gorky's nephew, biographer and translator of his letters. Culled by AG's letters by Harold Kulungian, 1991.

Sing when you receive this And recall our mountains!

Would that we were together So that we could sing of the homeland!

I believe that you all are here And that we are singing sad songs Together as I paint.

Dance the Shadakhtzi dance And I will join you!

Sing of Van and I will hear you!

Sing the mountains and I will Climb them with you!

Sing of sorrows And I will grip your hand!

Sing of Van, sing of apricots And wheatfields, of plows, Sing of songs!

Oh, Moorad, sing When you receive this letter-Sing, Kasheh gutan ari yar vaile lele (Pull the plow, Oh come my sweetheart).

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NIGOGHOS SARAFIAN 1905-1972

THE TRAIN My misanthropic soul Is neither strong nor ill; A poor passenger, it rolls (And maybe always will) Travelling between What I have left behind And what is waiting still Indefinite and blind.

Against the darkened glass I sadly lean obsessed The objects flowing fast And all foundationless.

My pale and bloodless face Is like a jelly-fish While my nostalgic heart Gallops back unleashed.

The arm that drives me forth.

As if I must transfer.

Pulls a table-cloth With a sudden stir From beneath the ground Where each house and street lamp rolls And collapses down With the telephone poles.

The engine is a tree That must give away Its leaflets to the breeze Beneath the brilliant stars Until the break of day.

A thousand hammerheads And ill-bred souls do breed From abysmal bellies Of bridges, at full speed.

And a sword is hurling All my memories Across the river swirling.

Don’t you change your mind, Don’t look back to see

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What you left behind.

An angel said to me.

For if you ever halt You will lose your life.

Turn to a pillar of salt Like Lot’s pathetic wife; Let your sad glance dart to The Christmas tree, select A branch to bind your heart to, A branch that will reflect A thousand tiny moons.

All the mutely beaming Multi-mirrored ballrooms And the shops a-gleaming.

See the brand-new city.

The street lamps and the trees.

And behold those gritty Cascading factories; And the bottomless perch Of those roofs so white.

That always seem to surge Blindly in the moonlight; And there, beneath the moon.

Whatever you can see And what you are descrying.

As Daniel’s adversary, Is the very lion lying Golden, harmless, hairy.

The river disappears.

An elevator carries Me in a flash – my pierced Heart from its miscarriage; An open door – and then You notice from a distance Women and gentlemen, An old bearded mister.

Everyone is silent.

Everyone’s perplexed.

The scene now evanesces Yielding to the next, Which may hardly strike But which is true for certain: A window opening like A movie theatre’s curtain.

But the city that you left

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To return no more.

Having bitten off The knotted edge of your Still decaying heart, Empties you, alas, And voids you bit by bit, Like a bobbin as You go away from it.

My misanthropic soul Is neither strong nor ill; A poor passenger, it rolls (And maybe always will), Travelling between What I have left behind And what is waiting still Indefinite and blind.

-Samvel Mkrtchyan

EXILE Years later, after experiencing the manic pace of great cities and awakening from their illusions, I returned and found the home where I had passed my childhood.

Traversing fifty miles of snow, my feet were ice and fire.

So still beneath the whiteness, the same old place before me.

For a long time I had thought that when I opened the door Memories and forgotten scenes would come to stir my mind And that my voice would burst forth, my eyes filling with light.

But no tears and no joy, since the love of struggle had killed in me the love of tranquility. And the skyscrapers I had seen made that small wretched town seem poor and foreign.

Art had marked my heart. No sense of affection, no lament.

Oh such anguish!— as I stood for a long time guiltily in front of the door. Like a stranger, the very silence Of the yard waited for me to speak as though filled with loathing, And the snow-covered fig tree trembled continually.

The fluttering wings of crestfallen, dying swans, A funereal sadness in the snow and wind. Such a conflict!

The very setting sun became the abandoned hearth whence The fiery gaze of my forebears fixed me accusingly.

Like a man unable to give up his bittersweet hashish, I longed again for my deliverance among the crowds Of the cities and beneath their magic, beguiling lights...

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Oh, the merciless destiny of our uprooted souls!

-Ralph Setian

ON THE ROAD JO INSOMNIA Sometimes a dream comes to disturb sleep, which stops, then, like a watermill struggling with a corpse that floats downstream to stick on the axle of the turning wheel.

And other times, the dream drops like loose stool on its pajama-wrapped creator, decays his sleep, Or like a mysterious rope around his neck yanks, and makes him fall awake.

Or like a secret agent, the dream stops him short, pulling him off a happy road to shiver back to life, innocent but perspiring a guilty sweat.

And like a monkey, eating only the fruit's skin, the dreamer takes the vision instead of deep sleep and swallows down its poison like a sedative only to be turned over to insomnia.

-Diana Der Hovanessian

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WILLIAM SAROYAN 1908-1981

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, an 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 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.

TO LAKE VAN Lake Van, O inland sea my father saw With stinging eyes and steadfast blurring stare, Our hearts unite in race’s filial prayer.

His blood to mine restores that fearful awe He felt as he from homeland’s shore turned west, Smothering harsh and violent farewell.

O lake and symbol of our grief, they spell With growing strength denies all easy rest.

He from his spirit’s soil took lasting leave, From heavens that his legend had sustained, And though he left and died, there he remained, In his young ghost, above thy cool grieve.

Lament and weep in mists and pouring rains, O lake and pool of all your mortal pains.

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MOUSHEGH ISHKHAN 1913-1990

JOINED WITH OUR LAND O my mother, sun and remote moon, Transformed into communion bread, you joined with our land, And the age-old earth of our homeland, always sweet, Became still sweeter.

O my mother, lit by holy heaven and morning, You gave your soul, laden with incense, to our land, And the land of our honored fathers, always holy, Became more sacred still.

O my mother, treasure, inexhaustible gold mine, You became both mystery and paltry mound of earth, Yet the store of unfound treasure, lying deep in our earth, Became still richer.

O my mother, source of love’s unreachable miracle, You went to your sleep beneath the Illuminator's star, And the boundless heart of Armenian’s own earth Became still more motherly.

O my mother, O refuge, O reverenced altar, Native language, holy vernacular, Now with your presence, the peerless Armenian world Became still more Armenian.

-Aram Tolegian

SUFFERING Perhaps all this around us is a dream, Our human eyes, the screen of this delusion, The occurrences of life a motion picture show, Perhaps all this around us is a dream.

Only the misery of our life is real, Mysterious and profound our suffering, A bubbling broth of tears, food for the soul, Only the misery of our life is real.

Joy is but a momentary memory of dreams.

Laughter and high spirits the echoes of some fleeting hope, The smiles of men just shimmerings of moonlight, Joy is but a momentary memory of dreams.

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Alive our tears alone really exist, The essence of this world, distilled eternal, The shining spirits of intoxication, Alive our tears alone really exist.

-William Kennedy and VahĂŠ Oshagan

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HOVHANNES SHIRAZ 1914-1985

I PUT MY HEART IN THE OLD OAK-TREE I put my heart in the old oak-tree, And the bend oak-tree sprouted anew, Raised itself, stood against the gales And, restored to youth, roaring again.

And my tender heart, thirsting to soar, I put under decrepit eagle’s breast: The dying eagle took wing and flew away, Hunting for prey of its youthful days!

-Mischa Kudian

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HAMO SAHIAN 1914-1993

-Mischa Kudian

MY GRANDFATHER My grandfather planted The saplings of our village; My grandfather shoed the horses of our village.

My grandfather built The walls of our village And alone mounted with flints All the threshing-boards.

He watered his orchard, He dug up the meadow, And kept his family By his honest sweat.

My grandfather tilled And sowed the land, While at harvest time The wrist of his hand That held the sickle ached.

My grandfather thought And talked with the soil, He cried with the clouds, And flowed with the water...

One day when suddenly His knees folded up, He was petrified with surprise And he blushed with shame.

He let go the plough To save his breath: The sweat on his brow chilled, And my grandfather lay down In the furrow and slept, Blending with the very earth That had nurtured him.

THERE REMAINED THE THIN THREAD OF THAT WORN PATH There remained the thin thread of that worn path On the flanks and knees of the rocky cliffs.

There remained the fable of my first love On the azure lips of the streams.

Now, when I grow weary or intoxicated,

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Like a cloud perched on the rocky cliffs, The streams and the path suddenly weep At the tears that I shed so very pure.

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MARO MARGARYAN 1915-1999

A GREAT PITY You never offered me a share of your hard life and deep despair.

I found no way into your heart to ease the hurt and torment there.

Aloof, correct, nothing but kind your words belied the tortured mind.

Our smiles the smile of those who part, you on one road, I left behind.

I had no right to make complaints.

You gave me none. But it’s a shame life passes by and we remain strangers who left the past unclaimed.

-Diane Der Hovanessian

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ZORAYR MIRZAYAN 1916-1964

THE KETCH Soon, very soon I pull up anchor, cast off From these grey, deep, intimate waters.

My dark sails full of thoughts, and jump ahead, bound to the infinite blue.

And the surge will foam at my lips, The bleaching sky pegged into my pupils, My broken arms the praying oars Gesturing to the cruel charms of the open sea, Passionately, I bear my breast To the eager touch of the swelling, drunken waves, And I will sail away on buoyant vanity.

I am a modest coracle of skin Adrift in small forgotten pool.

-William Kennedy with VahĂŠ Oshagan

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SILVA KAPUTIKYAN 1919-2006 PERHAPS Perhaps you became so small, Armenia, so we could carry you in our hearts.

Perhaps you changed into charred parchment so we would tremble lest you fall apart.

Perhaps your handful of soil is meant as talisman, lesson and exercise.

Your name became the symbol, perhaps, for purification in a world of lies.

-Diane Der Hovanessian

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GEVORG EMIN 1919-1978 THAW No, not yet, trees, This is a false start. A fake.

After the endless freeze, this thaw is a trap. Wait.

It is an ambush.

Don’t bud. Winter is back to trick you, acting like spring.

Keep track before you turn to ice, tighten each bud like a fish and fight.

Stand fast.

Stand up to this false start in the name of the true spring to come at last.

-Diana Der Hovanessian

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SHEN MAH

(TORKOM MANOOGIAN) 1919-2012 THE CYPRESS In the monastery courtyard it stands aside, young and pale like a new acolyte while the other dark trees, arms flying wide, nourished by earth, embrace the light.

Alone in the cold sun, but erect with pride It grows slowly, lengthening in yellow shade, while we watch as if it were a lesson, a guide in climate, in aloofness, in blueness and jade.

In motions of wind, in degrees of light, in gentle deep rhythms for the coming of night, wrapped in the aura of prayers in this yard, while the other trees darken with thickening boughs in this monastery courtyard it stands apart like a young acolyte who has just taken his vows.

Diana Der Hovanessian and Marzbed Margossian

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HRACHIA HOVHANNISIAN 1920-1996

THE SWAN They say the swan loves only once, Loves only once, loves forever; And when death comes, the swan spreads its wings, Sings only once, and dies with its one song.

My darling, through all my life I searched for you, And once I found you always loved you; And in this alone is our love akin To the noble legend of the swan.

WHEN THE RAIN STOPS Once the rain passes, I will leave the village And go out running in the fields, Become lost among the springs, Caressing the flowers.

The wind will carry the dew to my face, The trees begin swaying in the wind, And delighted by the rainbow's play I Will get lost among the lanes.

I will enter the woods, wander among The hills and valleys, drunk with the pure taste of the air, Offer my bright imaginings to the mountains And my love to the gentle breeze.

I will take away with me a ray, a fragrance, a hue From each one and from all Roam, fill the longings tumbling in me, Longings bound with the earth of my native land.

I will take away with me a ray, fragrance, a hue, And gather them into my songs, And with these songs, my endearing homeland, Leave with you what you have given me.

-[from] www.littlearmenia.com/html/poetry/poets.asp

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LEO HAMALIAN 1920-2004

"SUITE FOR SHUSHANIK VIII" [EXPLICIT] A POEM IN THE VOICE OF ARSHILE GORKY VIII: GORKY'S LAST WORDS People of Turkey, this is Arshile Gorky speaking to you, the son of Sedrak and Shushanik Adoian.

Listen to me.

With my last breath, I forgive you.

I forgive you for driving Shushanik and her children across the desert, for shoeing neighbor Sarkis like a horse, for eating Armenian babies because you were hungry, for burning Armenian children in self-defense, for violating Vartoosh with your thick cocks.

Your country was at war and these acts were necessary.

Now you have our house near Aghtamar you are rich with Armenian real-estate and every day you get more and more cars, radios, and American dollars.

You take vacations at the seashore.

And I, Arshile Gorky, about to leap out of this life, forgive you for everything.

THE EXPOSE I am the shell that awaits the word.

I am the gun that shoots the shell That shocks the weeping flesh so well.

I am the hand that pulls the cord (Now more potent than the sword) When the certain word is roared.

I am the one that roars the word That lifts aloft the shining bird When ordered by the one who's heard From those who say it's time to gird.

I am the one who teaches to read Those who cry the ancient creed

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To the ones who feed the need Of the hand that's go to heed The word that fathers forth the deed.

I am the one who works the drill, Who tills the soil, who takes his pill, Who backs with tax the shell he makes To feed the hand of him who takes The word that comes from certain men Who give the word to fire when.

Who is the one who gives the word To life aloft the shining bird?

I am the one behind the shell.

I am the one who makes this hell.

TWO POEMS ON THE SAME THEME, BUT EACH IN A DIFFERENT MOOD (1) Oh, I have seen the oak tree Beaten by the storm, Uprooted by the fury, Lose its mighty form.

I have seen the fortress Fall to the siege of sand, I have seen the brute sun Burn out the works of hand.

Oh, weak is the hand, And weak is the tree: But the force behind them Shall tomorrow be.

(2) By three shapes knocked to numb, In the bowl of the blasted land, A stream threads through the sand, Across the kingdom come.

Towards that silent stream Two thirsting creatures crawl, With no pride left to fall, With nothing left to dream.

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HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD Sometimes on Friday evenings, I say to myself, “To Hell with this jazz, “ and I drift over to Al-Cazar, where I drink too much Scotch, talk very loudly, and slap the sumptuous behind of the belly-dancer.

Afterwards I get the eye From the pimp with a crooked smile.

Al-Cazar is a nice place To visit on a Friday, But no place to live.

The next morning, Cursing a small hangover, I am at work again In the confines of my study.

I pause from my pursuits, And wait for the children To return from school, The quiet cocktails before dinner, And the pleasant talk afterwards.

This is no place to visit, But it’s a nice place to live.

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ARCHIE MINASIAN 1922-2011

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.

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.

THE ROAD We sit, and gazing on the hills My thoughts to wild.

I see the road that led me to her house in snow.

And Autumn just begun, I cannot bear the long months in my mind, or push the drift.

They bring me raisins, figs, and dates, And press me to the wine.

They see my father in my face and ask of home.

I give strange answers.

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.

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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.

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.

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VAHAGN DAVTIAN 1922-1996 DREAM Often I dream of a white swan swimming a black lake.

Sometimes I dream of a black swan swimming a white lake; and that is the dream I dream after seeing you.

MY HEART An intricate snowflake, delicate, new on the earth, And a tear dropped among the wet leaves, The flight of a sharp-winged swallow, The glance of a gentle girl, The sun's ray, softly bright and warm, And you throb inside my breast, nay heart, What it is you remember I do not know, But I Am so grateful, my heart, That you can throb so, And that though maddened, you can sob For an intricate snowflake, a shred of memory, The blue mist hovering over the fields, The flight of a bird, the melting of spring, For the glance of a gentle girl.

STONE CARVED WITH CROSSES In the thorns, in the rocks, in the wind, in the storms, through the snows through the scorch unmovable stubborn crumbling straight undeciphered

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simple, alone and modest against the sky against the sun a pillar of grief a column of conscience against time like beauty crucified.

[from] www.littlearmenia.com/html/poetry/poets.asp

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VAHÉ OSHAGAN 1922-2000

LITTLE LAKE (Dedicated to Bedros Tourian) 1 perhaps there was a little lake which waiters laid out stained and creased on tables every morning and lingered to fold up again at eventide and put away with rooftops asleep in their dark refugee camp of molecules where it lay coughing on its back O Melik of Misr and of immortality we Boy Scouts from Lilliput who carry you on our shoulders marching onward hay foot straw foot give me a match where has everybody gone 2 we take our uniforms off we scampering set our watches back the whole of a day to gain time lest our journey come to an end the sun sweeps up in any case its leftovers from round about it lies on the sidewalk while we apprentices polish antique chairs for the cabinet maker frantically all day all night and holding our breath undersea paint the Titanic stem to stem we're going on our honeymoon 3 the traveler is his useless way for roads of exile have no end at the bus stops Polyphemus bellows across the universe clanging firetrucks doing eighty

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plunge thundering to false alarms in the end are abandoned left to ourselves in the courtyard of a Biafran orphanage you crack crystal dawn of springtime from a steel splendor of cobwebs a superb glint of red and black like loving’s great shiver we swell out and then to iron the shroud to apologize gently close the lid as if it weren’t you you don’t remember anything honest to God we are sorry it was a misunderstanding back now back you son of a bitch who gave you leave to block traffic 4 no one could run the big machine no one knew who sabotaged it how the tyrant took hostages wounded them in words and tortured them the catastrophe’s witnesses who now can find out what happened whom shall we tell what we can say all those not on the hostage lists whose trucks plied high with furniture were turned back at the frontier who did not stand bound and blindfolded at the middle of the ruined bridge but were left on oblivion’s continent beyond the river 5 what did not happen will never happen and will forever choke the universe with its absence the road was blocked before we came traffic locked in by accidents scarcely room for the walking foot

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idle hungry hoodlums hurry to find you and junkies and freaks come to be photographed with you

6 useless to leave or hang around staring at this staring at that if only a few threads of blood purling in the joints of the slabs could draw closer to each other and even touch perhaps who knows before being sucked away by the sands of the Coliseum if only I could find a tomb old train ticket or ancient map a petrified black shishkabob or two chairs on a balcony or a faded calendar page if only a line from my palm continued on out beyond me to translate the coded language of trees and roofs for the prompter to whisper us our absurd lines our vague uncertain syllables the one tragicomic actor speaks in the elevator’s square root 7 no: waiters will line up smartly and sharp at the monster’s breakfast where only a child’s bones remain under the silt neither fire nor parchment but a yearning maintains for naked words on rafts afloat for a moment if even that perhaps there was a hand invisible in the distance scattering pebbles on the lake spreading tied untying ripples

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intertwined like us to what shore breaking at the sound barrier light barrier thought barrier and beyond fleeing right and left but impotent to reach the bank where he kneels to look for himself in the ringed ripples of the lake 8 0 little lake of consciousness traitor and mistress who never disclosed who you are to me whose fingers never touched you I loved you in the night if I loved you I do not know what you look like you watch me from your hiding place where I cannot reach and you are a shimmering mirage of what? we are buried alive so deep but were and are born alike obscenely cursed and without teeth clasping and eating each other low tide high tide in our one pond blind to the world hungry to live yawning and stretching as the hand and its shadow reach famine’s wall around the city and beyond O little lake of solitude with what anguish do I watch you lest you drown me and cast me out on bitter shores and walls of pain imagining sunrise while my life spills while the axe stuns with one blow you take me in my cradle O little lake when I cannot swim everything’s strung facing elsewhere the immense din of things is blocked by a thick glass wall of silence

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while Herod kills my unborn child

a machine now parts meat from bone with crossed knees the pastor’s wife sits detaching tendons from her veal my little lake is an isthmus of water it is a cistern under a tall defiant fort we will endure the desert’s siege the betrayal of illusions I shall reach your shores of myself a self-irrigating canal my lake empties for human good fills to bring life into being I the mirage of my own self shall watch the executioner the cruel executioner wretched Pharaoh I will not be buried under your pyramid of words nor shall I as overseer of the baths of Caracalla allow him ever to sleep there 9 now little lake if only you do not drown us in our secret on a vacant listless weekend I will see how this myth can end -Guy Davenport

EXILE They told me the dark universe is an old rug in a winded hotel where the days wear on wind down went away from the nocturnal monsters till morning a wet crackling darkness my soft skinny bones placed upon a cross the grave hairy lord having taken the unknown bodies of life and find only I remaining here the detritus of exile.

Then from all directions came thick curtains of light which they drew a shadow play which I sit on the ground watching for twenty-four hours seeing hands in the darkness placing countless landmines around me barbed wire already pullulating lacerating my flesh how should I know whose body it is thrown like that in the middle of

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nowhere I found it lifted it up cared for it like a companion in exile.

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Now I am his friend as we roam the sidewalks of alienation while there at the end of the road stands the sweetheart of my adolescence calling to me with dreamlike severity from anear and afar sleepless sins whispering to each other inside should we tell the scoundrel that there is neither forgiveness nor punishment anymore the only hope being two doorless dungeons of exile?

My friend and I condemned to not being able to touch or see each or see each other they have made a mosaic of our eyes our fingers fallen into a boundless and mindless mold how can we know the pattern without even a hope of understanding who composed the image or where the limits are when it cuts right through the middle sizzling men’s hearts in the fire and in the fumes it is no longer clear what the wound where the plot of exile is?

A terrible tom-tom that throbs from the open streets of consciousness all the way to its back alleys hold up the last wall rub salt in your wounds eat raisins stand vigilant we must reach the frontier cross it stealthily traverse the desert of words— oh numinous nubile nymph!— life awaits me somewhere in her nuptial chamber -Ralph Setian

MIND (excerpts) One by one we lie down on the sidewalk In slow motion grumbling in the dark crippled, half naked, emptied of pleasure and pain.

Maybe this is the moment when time comes to life rushing off through deserted streets like a tardy commuter, Perhaps our real life wakes itself in our sleep and starts its secret road gripping the legs of hurrying time then comes to sit by us, its back to the wall looking for a short desperate second

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at our unnecessary bodies, striking up a conversation with a stray cat or plays checkers with itself using pearls gathered from the dump; then bending gently over the slab writes the story of our life and of mankind, with its finger.

Perhaps.

For us who wake up every morning faithfully to wander room to room, with creaking bones and aimless sniffing, glancing into the mirror.

We piss, mouth dry, eyes shut lukewarm pleasure in the legs and ears crumpled loose pajamas and we in them incomplete, eight months premature, bare soles on the corridor floor as we grow back to four years old life spreading from the weight of our hands, we prowl, like our shadows, take the shape of things on which we fall unaware, searching for what lies around us hiding before us, before the coming of man, and looking at the clock we crawl back to bed exhausted before the bed cools down, before the dream is forgotten.

Between the pages of ancient books there are dry, odorless humans who wake up in the morning and strut around, fingers sliding over the edge of mahogany tables, the glow of intellect gleaming like a pregnant woman’s cheeks, damp, but barren, on their brows.

The mind squats in the central courtyard of an abandoned madhouse, by the fountain, holding a cup, waiting, waiting, water dripping from the crack endlessly while blissful poets wander outside in fields bewitched by glittering cobwebs where myriads of eyes peer uselessly like humans caught in existence trying to say something.

Empty, empty.

These skulls are like cracked flower pots.

And we are surprised that nothing will grow.

While life is free and so abundant like the roadside pebbles.

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But the train will not stop for us to jump out to pick a bunch of flowers to deck the fake tomb of the globe.

While the ancient, trembling daguerreotype photographer stands by his tripod in the alley of the embassy, washing, washing the negative for years waiting for the client to return to recognize himself.

Life is that pain we cannot endure and die of.

Life is that pain we revolt against, cursing, searching the pockets of the living peering at their napes and visiting cards and into the dark glasses of God and into the bubble of happiness from where we came to life and where we yearn to return.

Life, life before it was changed to the raw material of the tailors and into the bench at the terminal, the cemetery guard, to the wages of the unemployed crowd to the unquenchable desire of the wet sparks trying to be part of the great fire but disappearing into darkness. Life, life is thirst and memory of living and the habit of dying.

It is the appointment to which we are too early or too late.

It is the last hope at the time to die, a false promise made to us before we were born, a tiny bit of blue we see from the skylight of the dungeon while the walls are pounded from other cells trying to say something but the echo of the blows returns alone without hope closing in on the crazed prisoner, talking to himself alone.

What do we know of life, we who tirelessly for sixty years, run up and down the Tower of Babel out of breath, with no time to puzzle, but talking about it while munching the raw sandwich, before putting down the phone, repeating the gossip we heard of the man sitting all by himself in a corner of the cafe his back turned to us.

-Diana Der Hovanessian

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PARUIR SEVAK 1924-1972

GOOD EVENING The sun slides down.

The day narrows to a close, And again mountains bear children, Shadowshapes That grow little by little And bury their mothers.

The whirlwind Leaning on its foot, Soars up into the sky, Confirming The recanted legend of the Ascension.

In the chilling air, a small Warm body, some say a bird, Stumbles in flight.

A woman stands in an enclosed field, And under her feet The axis of the earth turns, unseen.

And unseen, forms a part of her.

Without being caught red-handed, Without eyewitnesses present, I see myself guilty; And drawn by fear unto myself, I mumble from afar, And I mumble now, not to that one.

But to this one — me, the remote one— “Good evening, my solitary one...”

-Aram Tolegian

FOREST Is it the forest That breathes through my breast?

Or do I fade In the forest’s breath?

In the forest’s breath, That is all-embracing!

I don’t brood, however,

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Over this too much.

And why should I ever, Since I am aware That I’m able now To be mute like a trunk, To wheeze like the wind, Like a bird to tweet, And like the bushes To rustle so sweet.

To be like the forest, When it clacks And crackles.

To be like the forest, When it sighs And soughs.

To be like the forest, When it is enraged.

And if in the nude, After foliage fall, To be like the forest, Not ashamed at all...

-Dora Sakayan

IN PASSING When twilight sinks among the clouds like a fine comb, And the sniffing light wind stands still like a puppy, Before each bush, each tree or clod, and each person, And when youthful cold starts to show its real force Obliging us to button shirts and mutter words of displeasure, And when against velvety dark the day's uproar hushes itself, And here and there the lights that show seem to become an old painting.

I have again become naive, I believe in right and justice, And it does seem to me that I Shall die my own... natural death.

-Alice Ezegelyan

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ZAHRAD

(ZAREH YALDIZCIYAN) 1924-2007 CELESTIAL SNICKER There’s a naughty star Anchored up in heaven -Over three million years now It’s been looking at earth And laughing its head off -Tatul Sonentz

DIFFERENCE Kiko has bought glasses for his eyes He sees blue wherever he looks The skies blue – the seas blue His sweetheart’s eyes blue He sees blue wherever he looks Glasses on his nose he looks around – You tell him the seas were always blue You tell him the skies were already blue He won’t believe – I just noticed he says -- Glasses on his nose he looks around Kiko has bought glasses for his eyes NOW he perceives blue as blue -Tatul Sonentz

THIEF Eyeglass on our noses Necktie around our necks Wearing uniforms Ironed just now We – officially -Watch Kiko Who, startled Has stolen a bit of our childhood And hidden it – forgetting Under which stone -Tatul Sonentz

THROUGH THE KEYHOLE Inside the lock The key turns back

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A tumbler moves inward And a door opens on life Then the door is locked on us - The key turns forward The tumbler outward – And the joy of life is left Behind the closed door Then all of us Turn back And watch ourselves Through the keyhole -Tatul Sonentz

CHRISTMAS TREE To prepare a Christmas tree you need two things.

First, the tree itself and then the ornaments.

To decorate a Christmas tree you need three things.

Besides the tree and ornaments you need Hope for a string of good days about to begin.

Actually, to decorate A Christmas tree you need only one thing: eyes to change tinsel to diamonds.

-Diana Der Hovanessian

PRECAUTION A man stands scanning the posted lists of names with dread, hoping not to find his own among today's dead.

- Diana Der Hovanessian

ATHENS Ancient gods pick their way among the stones, each carrying a pillar on his shoulder up the mountain to rebuild the old temples.

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An old crone watches them with empty eyes and tries to remember just what she was goddess of once. . .

- Diana Der Hovanessian

THE CROW THE BAT THE MONKEY THE DOVE THE CROW To try less To know and perceive less Only to learn that if you climb up this steep hill on the way back your descent will be calmer still and easier I am not the one saying this but an old black crow that landed on my way one morning THE BAT While screaming “arrest them!

Catch them!” A crafty bat yells a warning at the words around him to run and get away! and the poem is left half finished – unable to reach you THE MONKEY You are the monkey Supposedly you ape us – You illicit forebear!

Who is aping whom?

THE DOVE If words were to lack bit by bit I dampen old canvasses I mend them I collect – and dispatch the words to the oldest deluge the last dove

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of which has not returned yet Should words be left over I rekindle I plan – I feed with words the foremother of birds the dove of the deluge And words cease to be words They turn to dove

-Tatul Sonentz

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ZAREH KHRAKHUNI (ARTO DJUMBUSHIAN) 1926OUTGOING The room is cold, the room is empty My hands trembling, my hands hesitant— Who has left the low window open?

The shutter thumps like remorse The clock goes futilely around The hours all spilled upon the floor; Like guilty persons the hanging drapes The cage is open, the bird is gone...

Shadows move upon the sun; The chandelier swings with bowed head The cradle is wood, still and vacant...

Shadows pass beneath the doors A drop is afraid to fall from the tap The soap of conscience obstinately dries up The abandoned table is an endless yawn; The refrigerator trembles again The water in the pitcher has no lid The radio's sound like the lamp's light The silent telephone covering the directory Footfalls interred in the rugs the pillows crushed, the bedcovers open The sheets wet, the sheets bereft...

Line upon line of dreams on the shelves Heap upon heap of memories in the drawers Crucified longings of clothes hangers; The flower faded like a clot of blood...

The door inside to outside, the door top to bottom Closed upon itself, open to the darkness The twin door clappers a sign of parting Two suspended periods, the third Invisible...

The door handles two uncertain parentheses My hesitant hands ready to grasp— The lock an implacable full stop forever.

-Ralph Setian

THE UNOWNED FIELD It is waiting.

On this side of the dam The thirsty field is waiting To fulfill its thirst.

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On the other side The reservoir is swollen With water.

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It is waiting.

On this side of the dam The field is waiting To be immersed.

On the other side A river bleeds the water away Like a vein.

From our ancestors’ lofty mountains Bathed in light Water pours down like overflowing tears from giants.

It forms into many streams and creeks That flow into and build up the mighty reservoir With the same type of immense force That swells the heart of a brave person, powerless and imprisoned, When his secret tears drip incessantly inside of him.

From afar, From the mantle of our ancestors’ sacred land Sold beforehand, the creek water leaches and trickles like sweat; The spring flows and gushes like blood that is shed in vain; And together they give birth to a murky river That divides into veins and branches And it goes To water others’ gardens and fields in an incorrect fashion.

And as it moves farther away, it enlarges and sickens, becoming a swamp, Until it drains into the ocean’s dark melting abyss, While the field is waiting for one or the other or both together To become a torrent, To be inundated, To be possessed.

-Alfred and Lusine Mueller

THE BOAT There is a boat on the sea, It is small and light.

There is a boy in that boat, A skinny, little boy.

The oars are thin, His arms are delicate.

He endlessly rows Against the tide, against the tide,

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Moves neither forward nor back, He endlessly rows.

We shout to him from the shore, –Son, what good are your efforts, Don’t you see, it’s so much easier To let the current carry you...

Look, how others pass you by, Just hold on to the helm...

–I do not have one, I do not have one, The boy exclaims wearily, –The current is strong, it is so very strong, If I let go it will take me...

We look at his arms, We look at the oars, at the current– And we curse the sea, Or spit into it, Then drop a few words about destiny, And we each go our own way...

-Berge Turabian

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METAKSÉ 1926-

FOR MEN ONLY Men, what’s your beef about us anyway?

Haven’t you learned how to make love yet in all these years?

Undressing a woman is a delicate art, roughnecks.

You can’t just let your fingers move like creeping bugs. No. You have to have a strategy against each buttonhole.

You have to whisper to each earring.

You must enflame the hairpins.

And you have to gather a bouquet from the flowers if a nightdress.

Tenderly. And don’t pick those flowers out of duty.

But because you want every single one.

-Diana Der Hovanessian

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DIANA DER HOVANESSIAN 1930-

-Garig Basmadjian

TWO ARMENIANS WALKING ON SUNDAY 1 Walking with an Armenian is different from walking with anyone else.

In the first place he will stride to catch up with another Armenian unless you happen to be one.

In the second place he’ll keep looking sideways for other Armenians unless you happen to be one.

Laughing with an Armenian is different from laughing with anyone else.

You know you’re laughing because you’ve survived.

2 He’ll lead you off the path and like tassled whips the grass will beat your legs as you plough through for motion not direction, for denseness that makes a path.

3 “What does that butterfly that keeps flying over your head mean?”

“Is it a monarch or phantom blue?”

“White. Small and white.”

“That’s one of the ghosts of the 34 Armenian dialects

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inquiring into our silence.”

4 And when two Armenians are quiet it’s not because there’s nothing to say.

BIOPSY You entered my left eye traveled through my brain infiltrated lungs and breath. You altered heart rate and changed bloodcount and hormone chain.

You have stayed inside for years now.

Every cell is dyed from ink stamping your name. Take any flake of skin.

It’s more yours than mine.

PLAYING WITH WORDS "Mirros are doors to that other world.

The dead walk through."

James Merrill I looked into the mirror and saw my great aunt's beauty marks on my arm fifteen years after her death.

I looked into the mirror and saw my father whom I had never looked at, only escaped.

I looked into the mirror saw my face, blue veined marble colder than any reflection should be.

TEACHING YOU ARMENIAN 1.

To understand

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the western dialect you must breathe in the heavy-air of the Mediterranean and eat the pink flesh of a ripe apricot while I speak.

If the apricot is not truly ripe you will need two.

2.

The eastern dialect has nursery care in greenhouses and stonehouses.

Its long pale roots grow so strong that transplanted anywhere its flowers change the passing winds into pauses between Armenian songs.

AFTER THE STORM All night long the splintered rain needled the wincing window pane with the thin voice of old sea tales of days before Odysseus sailed, of monsoon, typhoon, gale and mud to bully the land-locked heart with flood daring the vitreous sun to claim a wild eye water cannot tame.

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SOUREN MURADYAN 1930SEVEN SAINTS

Seven saints accompany The Armenians for centuries Land Honor Soul of Creator Belief and Tongue They are valuable and Will always be sung.

The other two holly names Family and Motherland Blessed by the Almighty hand Like the two suns That brightly shine They stretch and stretch In a never-ending line.

These are the seven saints The Armenian is accompanied by The seven colorful paintings Leading to the Sky. -Rita Gevorkyan

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DAVID KHERDIAN 1931-

-Garig Basmadjian

ON THE DEATH OF MY FATHER Dead now, and forever, ceremony release him to the ground, where once he played in tales that have been handed down.

Cupped upturned hands lower through your spreading fingers this soil-splashed man.

You knew him first that touch him last.

His circling fading time hovers over my head, his life my own to lose or live again.

Take him earth in final release.

Toss him and catch him in your cloudy hands.

He’ll know your touch, his feet, when he comes to you are sure to be bare.

THE MIDDLE-AGED ARMENIAN MEN The middle-aged Armenian men walk the silent streets of this industrial Midwestern town.

Many of them have been here only a month or two. Walking with one hand crossed over the other behind their backs, some finger orange prayer beads; each is silent.

In their homes they preach the language and culture of Armenia to their children; their unruly preoccupied children. Each have become strangers to the other, erecting barriers they cannot pass over.

Years later these grown children seek out aging old men who knew

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their fathers and who carry Armenia in their fallen faces. Armenia!

Each regards the country now as his home.

Seated in the coffee houses raki and Turkish coffee are passed around.

Slowly these young men begin to course the rush of blood that brought them to this moment in time.

LAST NIGHT We awoke into the day from out of each others’ arms. Last night, for the first time, you said you were moved by the arms that held you in love into the arms that awaited your sleep. Softened by our faith, hushed by this trust, we stayed all day in this single room, and made our work within the moving noises of our private lives. By night we knew that the life that it strokes into existence by the forms of art is the poem that is brushed into being by the grace of love.

MELKON Father I have your rug.

I sit on it now -- not as you did, but on a chair before a table, and write.

It is all that is left of Adana, of us, of what we share in this life, in your death.

In my nomad head I carry all the things of my life, determined by memory and love.

And on certain distant nights, I take them one by one.

And count.

And place them on your rug.

UNTITLED Our trivial fights over spading the vegetable patch, painting the garden fence ochre instead of blue

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and my resistance to Armenian food in preference for everything American seemed, in my struggle for identity to be the literal issue.

Why have I waited until your death to know the earth you were turning was Armenia, the color of the fence your homage to Adana, and your other complaints over my complaints were addressed to your homesickness brought on by my English.

My father always carried a different look and smell into the house when he returned from the coffee houses in Racine playing in the streets we would stop, walk quietly by, and peer in thru the cracked doors at the hunched back-gammon players, their Turkish cups at their elbows.

Years later, reading the solemn, and bittersweet stories of our Armenian writer in California, who visited as a paper boy, coffee houses in Fresno, I came to understand that in these cafes were contained the suffering and shattered hopes of my orphaned people.

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KRIKOR N. DER HOHANNESIAN 1932-

THE CHERRY TREE Aintab, Cilicia Forgotten corner of the caliphate, mother’s birthplace, she uprooted at two, a tramp steamer to Salonika - otherwise another statistic in the million and a half or, worse, a concubine in some pasha’s seraglio.

Cousin Anahid went back, the family home survives .

She is eager to describe. Her mother made the trip at 100, her voice awash in weeping the entire stay.

Don’t tell me, I plead.

The pomegranate trees, the bushes hunched with pistachios, the smell of lamb spit-roasted, the line dancing, the happy voices – it all disappears if you tell me.

Pamuk says Armenian houses in Kars are ghost houses, haunted by specters that wail bloody murder. One by one the last of those who survived April, 1915, pass on – the thread frays to a wisp.

Five decades I have pondered going back, wondering if I would spit on the first Turk I saw, Tell me to my face you still deny it! Tell me!

But I fear the ghosts. I fear mourning what was never mine , the sadness I have no right to feel - it belongs to hairig and nene.

Instead, with those who survive I leave instructions: till my ashes into the patch at Mt. Auburn where their bones molder.

Wait ‘til April, I say, the cherry tree rooted to their graves will be in full bloom then.

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LOVE SPELL

Some things are indelible, like India ink, not just on paper but on the parchment of the soul.

If you are one of the fortunate the imprint is early etched. I sat beside him, his well-scarred desk, the green-shaded lamp, watched him dip the nib into the black well, scratch out his Baikar editorials, his poems, his short stories in Mesrob Mashtots’ script letters of the Armenian alphabet, exotic, ancient, cryptic. Mashtots, ascetic Armenian monk, his life’s work to translate the Bible into the tongue of his people after a vision, it was said, where the hand of God revealed the alphabet, the written word birthed in letters of fire.

Spell my name, hairig, I asked, and with a flourish of a conductor’s baton he dipped the pen. Spell “love”, grandpa, I want to see what it looks like. He smiled with his eyes, tousled my thick, black hair – janig (dear one), he whispered.

EXECUTION Hrant Dink, in memoriam They snuffed him – Turkish style, a teeming street in Istanbul three bullets, back of the brain, point-blank, draped his corpse in white shroud weighted with bricks at four corners, left him lying there for gawkersto what end? Horror? Or the mute message, This Is What You Get for Being Un-Turkic?

Like you, hairig, he was a journalist a life’s quest of opening doors to blackened rooms where suffering abides, where grudges are held tight to pained hearts, where decades later old wounds still fester.

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And we stand, unable to pity the assassin or forgive his maniacal hatred, waiting for light to dawn on the lightless.

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HAIG KHATCHADOURIAN 1932-

WE LIVE ALONE we live alone whether together or apart whether shuttling about in the Undergrounds of time rushing from station to station with the miming crowd whether caught in the silver noose of each other’s laughter or held captive in each other’s arms whether together or apart we are alone in separate cells of delinquent desires scribbling our despair on the dirty walls enacting violent dreams of escape or release hoarding blunted hopes like bits of broken saws we stay apart; we too o my love; but in our apartness, i and you, our fingertips, like torches of pinewood, touch a moment (mortals call it love); we manage (we do) to speak together a little word or two.

IF I FORGET THEE, O JERUSALEM The grass there is never so green: birds do not sing. Only lean sparrows twitter endlessly under ancient eaves.

Alley cats sit brooding on rooftops, dreaming fierce dreams.

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Dogs do not bark there, for there are none; the masters have not enough to eat.

But the potbellied bells peal ponderously and loud for belfry and tower, on holidays, Sundays, saint’s days, sinners’ days and every day of the week; their booming baritones mingling with the tintinnabulation of the slender tinkling bells, now in counterpoint now in joyful cacophony In the Cathedral where rests the sainted head of James beloved of Christ it’s never morning or night: the oil lamps (vying with Jacob’s robe in delicate hues) etch rainbow-tinted haloes in the twilight and candies, Immaculately white, lick the sculpted shadows with golden tongues as stern-eyed prophets and saints stare down from the walls, painted by rude artists In perishing oil.

Here stoops sad Abraham with drawn knife preparing to make his perpetual sacrifice to a jealous and demanding God and the angel tarries with the sacrificial ram; there Jesus, tall against a semicircular sky with arms outstretched and uplifted eyes communes with the Holy Spirit incarnate as a Dove.

The soaring pillars half-float In the pungent dusk of incense, half-melt In their clouds; the priestly voice rises and falls in waves through the diaphanous air but the few moving among the present and the still unborn; kneeling figures swathed in black are too deaf with age to hear the word of God. and we are because of them not quite the same.

His mansions are many, but God is far, having moved on to some happier land, and men’s hearts are empty like the empty streets echoing strangely the sound of weary feet.

The men sit, waiting, idly playing cards as If they thought some miracle might still transpire some savior ride in triumph through their streets, might feed five thousand with a few fishes, a little bread.

They do not realize that miracles are not the order of the day.

The poor in body have very long to wait, the crippled, for the healing touch.

Poor, battered love, poor beggar, ruined town!

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But the birds there do not scream so loud!

TIME AND THE TRITE INTERCOURSE OF DAYS

time and the trite intercourse of days are like fine dust upon our love which is a precious bowl or vase wrought with delicate patterns alive with subtle tints that do not hold the novice eye: they hide but do not destroy: see how with a flick of one finger we gain the smoothcaressing surface curved to hug the hand the mild colors the delicate designs so simple if one moved a finger! yet how often do we let trite Intercourse and time work their silly silent ways and not lift one little finger to flick their settling dust AMONG THE LIVING AND THE STILL UNBORN MOVES THE HEART among the living and the still unborn moves the heart. the present is the warm flesh and body of reality the fresh pulse of things, the full blossoming of time. the future is the present’s promise, the would-be “Now” and stands upon the heart’s threshold entreating attention. time grows into the future which is already present in the present while it is still future and the past in the present is already not the past but the present embracing the past. therefore the shadow cast into our lives by the past is not a shadow in the past but a present shadow cast by a present sun. so it is not the same familiar ghosts that greet us when we turn suddenly a quaint corner of thought and run into an ancient feeling; the arms that embrace us and the hands are not the same since our embracing arms and hands have changed. but we are changed because we were what we were and loved the old familiar faces that now are gone; because they themselves have long become incorporated into our newer self. we could not have become strangers to them had we not been lovers first. therefore we can forget, and afford to forget, them since they are in part the forgetters themselves: the busy forgetting heart

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moving among the present and the still unborn; and we are because of them not quite the same.

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HELENE PILIBOSIAN -Garig Basmadjian

1933-

DOMED History is blind.

Did you not know it?

Large eyes, dark eyes, hair that matches night, we have forgotten you.

Grief is a concrete slab.

Beware, it may fall on you.

There was an Armenian king.

His name was Roupen or Vasken or what does it matter, it was so long ago.

Was, was, the sting of was blames itself.

There was a church.

Its dome broke.

The same church is duplicated in Cambridge, proud.

But history does not see it.

The neighbors say the dome is too high.

The visitors say the windows are beautiful.

The choir says let us hear our history.

SINCERELY My relative, are you still Mediterranean or has your mind as I suspect assumed the geography of the country on which you stand?

My mind is American,

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they say, but I say, perhaps half.

You are no doubt too busy to search as I, as we, trying not to think too much of the Mediterranean that was for us younger days.

DIALOG Friend, you repeat yourself as if you are haunted by a voice that bows only to its past.

Yes, my ancestors often whisper meanings to me, but I seldom listen.

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ZOULAL KAZANDJIAN 1933-

6I—RUE ROCHECHOUART Far far away lost in time and creation where wings of wind can only reach to carry off voices or to gather silences— there, in the shade of a hedge a child of miracle a wild flower quietly expired.

And there, in the wonder of time and creation, in the shade of a hedge blossomed a wild rose.

It was the touch of my nation's lips like a shaft of light falling thick in the dark night of my blood— I am no more alone.

I know now on what I must pose my lips and what I have to love.

I am thankful to you, O world of admen, that you exiled me till here into my absolute essence.

I am now complete.

As if by a country-road— whether in this forsaken street or another place where I stand above the soil and not under it not yet— I open out every morning like the door swung out by the wind and enter the world with the plant awakening in its plot like this plant unimportant unnamed.

Me and my plant, we have no accounts to settle with the world,

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that's what we are. like everyone else give and take a little, depending on day and season, and other things far and near real and false, strong and weak, me and my plant we share a common hue and form a moment which once started and will close on itself like the door swung shut by the wind here or elsewhere— that’s how we want it, my plant and I because that way alone is good and real— as if by a country-road.

There is no horizon below which things could happen, but behold as if of their own and in secret, one by one the windows of the building opposite light up.

And thus every day. You know the time has come folks have returned home like birds one by one unnoticed noiselessly.

It is dark already like when you lean your head on your hands, like saying “I'm tired”, like a moment of reflection of settling down or standing in a precise place.

A bald barren mold-cast peace a loneliness of ice-cold cement a body that you touch every nightfall— you hold its hand intimately now and come out into the street to take a walk buy a paper have a coffee to remember and to forget and God knows what else.

In this world, finally—do you understand, George— this street has its place its name and its rights, so that whether you have a tear to wipe or not, here too, it is dusk.

-Vahé Oshagan

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LUDWIG DURYAN 1933-2011

THE ARTIST The huge tree was clapping its leaves To the rising sun.

The artist himself was happy With the happiness of the cheerful tree.

With his eye-lids brush by brush He drew it, in the first place.

Then the image sunk into his heart Making the tree tremble in his heart, Clapping to the rising sun.

The brush glimmered In the sunshine, Dancing, like a child, And mixing colors on the palette.

The brush was dancing! And the colors, wet with the sun, Started dancing upon the white canvas.

The artist tumbled dry the delight of the tree With his eyes, pierced it into his heart And took it out with a dancing brush.

Upon the canvas, the tree itself was clapping To the rising sun.

Days passes. The artist tried to depict The tree’s delight burning with autumn.

God, there was no tree.

He sat on the stump, Like he would sit on a tomb of a huge tree.

Then there was the exhibition, full of light.

People were admiring and praising The artist’s art.

Upon the canvas, the tree was clapping To the rising sun.

-Samvel Mkrtchyan

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VIVIAN KURKJIAN 1934-

TO A SAGITTARIAN (The Archer - Prudence, with Curved Lines) That studious face you wear, My Pet, Deprives you of the sweet mundane.

And so I beg, if once again We chance to meet and you should Whisper "Dearest" to my back, Do me the favor so I will know That you and I are blood and flesh-Pinch me--very hard.

LOVE'S COLORS I met him once when we were very young and green was the color we chose.

A thousand years have passed a thousand hues and love has come again, dressed in blue.

POEM OF LOVE I will pull my hair back In an old maid's knot And don the widest rimmed spectacles I can find To hide from you And the other men until you see What does not show And only then Will I let These long brown locks fall As you see fit.

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ARA BALIOZIAN 1936-

DREAMS/NIGHTMARES When dreams Come true/They turn Into nightmares.

HAIKU Little toadstools On the lawn: Reminders of Hiroshima.

THE HUMAN CONDITION We walk like apes Eat like cannibals Talk like parrots Fight like dragons And call ourselves Civilized human beings.

CASTING PEARLS BEFORE SWINE Casting pearls before swine.

I like the sound and rhythm but above all the meaning of that sentence.

Casting pearls before swine.

Coined by an anonymous speaker thousands of years ago, repeated countless times since, it has lost none of its authority and power of penetration.

Someday I would like to write a verbal fugue in which this sentence appears and disappears, enters and exits again and again until it penetrates the thick skulls of our self-appointed commissars of culture.

Like Hitchcock, making a brief appearance in all his films, I wish I too could interpolate this sentence in everything I write to remind our chauvinist charlatans of who and what they are.

Casting pearls before swine.

Yes, I like the sound of that sentence ever since a gentle reader said that’s what I have been doing.

Casting pearls before swine.

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WHETHER WE LIKE IT OR NOT Whether we like it or not, we are all in the same boat and the boat is sinking; and it is sinking not because it is not seaworthy or we hit an iceberg but because the captain is down below drilling holes.

ON THE ART OF WRITING You can learn to write a grammatically correct sentence; you can even learn to be erudite and eloquent; but you cannot learn to write a readable line.

To write such a line you must be honest and honesty is neither an art nor a craft but a moral commitment.

We are all born honest, of course, but as a result of education, peer pressure, and a number of other factors, we become liars.

I speak from experience.

As a child I was fed such a steady diet of falsehoods that it took me many years to get my bearings.

I remember once, many years ago, when a fellow Armenian spoke to me the way I write today, I buried him beneath such a verbal avalanche of chauvinist crap that he said nothing; he only smiled.

I will never forget that smile and the words he never spoke.

Some words don’t need to be spoken to be heard and remembered.

THEOLOGY Christ was not crucified to save mankind.

Look around you.

Does anyone look saved?

Do you feel saved?

Christ was crucified for two very pragmatic reasons: he refused to be (one) a dupe to rabbis and (two) a slave to Romans.

The rest is theology.

DECEIVERS The Pope may doubt his faith seven times a day

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(according to an old Italian proverb) but he will never admit it.

He will go further and assert, in matter of faith he is never wrong.

No one will ever say he is the proud offspring of former commissars or KGB agents for the same reason that no king will ever admit to being the offspring of ruthless killers and rapists, no priest will ever admit to being a child molester, and no democratically elected head of state will ever admit to being better at making promises than delivering them.

The 1% has ruled by deception and continues to do so to this day because it can always count on the ignorance, stupidity, and cowardice of the 99% -in case you thought I had a dog in that fight.

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YURI SAHAKYAN 1937-

FOR G.S. You are not coming, You are being reborn all the time.

All along I discover your existence.

It’s been a year, It’s been a century— Eternity.

This is how fingers excavate melody in a cello— Stirring its soul.

The moment turns to infinity In our lips, having found each other.

The heart escapes the time To float upon the waves of love.

I’m not telling you to stop Because you are in me.

My gestures repeat your manners, This is more then perfect.

There is an and to everything, Yet we live in our beginning.

-Samvel Mkrtchyan

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HAGOP MISSAK MERJIAN 1937-

THE FATHER My son believes the mountain of his grandfather is the world’s greatest mountain.

It isn’t.

But I need to let him believe.

He tells his friends the mountain, the terror of the height, never ends.

Snow caps the mass, the kyrie of the mountain. White, he says, all seasons, every day. And Who am I, a father, to tell my son Ararat’s peak is blood and all his days are done?

-Garig Basmadjian

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VARDAN VANATOUR 1937-

HOW MANY TIMES How many times I, Naturally alone, Have fought with myselfAll on my own.

I have been Shedding tears, Have been laughing alone Relied on myself for years All on my own.

I have disappointed Hoping against hope, But my own light would not Let me fall or grope.

I’ve been blaming myself With the simplicity of hope.

I’ve been blaming myself To cleanse my heart alone; Even it was in vainAll on my own.

Again and again and again Eternally alone.

-Samvel Mkrtchyan

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HAROLD BOND

-Garig Basmadjian

(HERANT BONDJOUKJIAN) 1939THE CHANCE

First grade. I am the skinny one with the foreign accent. I am so scared I think I will wee in my pants. Miss Breen is teaching us colors. We are cutting out strips of paper in the fashion of Indian feathers. We must order them in descending hues on a black headband. I cannot understand Miss Breen. It is not done the way it should be: blue with yellow and black with white. Unless I do something soon Miss Breen will say I am a dumb Armenian. So without looking I shuffle my feathers in my hand. I paste them over my headband. I spill my pastepot, and I know I will wee now because here comes Miss Breen, only Miss Breen says, Good, Harold, good, blue after purple and green after blue. It happened, it happened like a rainbow, like a swatch of oil on water, eight feathers thieved in perfect succession one on the other. Miss Breen did not say I am a dumb Armenian, and I do not even have to wee.

THE BIRTHMARK ...some inner war of chemicals and nerves and cells.

Joseph de Roche Father called it his rose. Mother, who owned it, called it nothing I can remember. They agreed from the first

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to take it from her, box it perhaps, freeze it and put it on the market.

Photographs came back, the film retouched, the right cheek perfect as the left.

Salesgirls in the department stores besieged her with Max Factor, promising to make it disappear. And always the dutiful doctor through the years insisting on the operation, on maximum cosmetic effect with minimum pain. Relatives came, and it was the other cheek turned for the embrace—the scarlet, vascular, perpetually blushing side of her face touched only by the hands that loved her.

Later, to her sons and her sons’ sons, it grew apparent she would keep it.

They battered down the tarpaper walls at homecoming, and leaping over fathers, flowerpots, family albums, they seized her, they kissed her and loved her, and they believed how it would be there.

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SLAVIK CHILOYAN 1940-1975

-Samvel Mkrtchyan

DOGS Dogs waifs, kicked out of doors and other animals we are your walking memories on a spinning parchment.

THE SONG OF NAMES In the 20th century or any century there are two types of names— proper and common.

The proper names are those that turn into a promontory, a city, a street, a monument, a park, a ship, a cake, et cetera, for instance, Bering, Washington D.C., Peter the Great, David of Sassoon, Napoleon, Josephine, and so on.

The common names are those that turn into earth, for instance, our neighbor Artash “mauserist” of Kars who used to repeat till his dying hour “Skoro budet voyna”; karo the locomotive driver who was really honored, or conductor haik the patriotic diasporan who arrived in mother land in 1946— and many others, the wonderful seven, all the ranging gypsies, to name a few.

Exception: since all the promontories, cities, suburbs, streets, cakes, etc., originate from the earth, all the proper names turn into common and the other way around—they start to spin, like the EARTH. EMPTIED I am emptied like the empty globe which I would beat like a drum

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emptied like this vodka which I drain into my empty brain emptied like your empty bed where I sleep emptied.

MY PERFORATED HEAD My perforated head (600 holes in it) perforated for you my love my perforated heart for you many times my love I came to persuade you a little with this perforated head that looks like grid to many with this perforated heart that has turned to raisin in any stranger’s room I came to demonstrate you all this to make you realize that the brain and the heart are very expensive but I gave them away to you like a grid and a raisin.

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RAZMIK DAVOYAN 1940-

OPEN UP YOUR BARK The days passed one by one.

The days elapsed in pairs; We witnessed both affection And sufferings, and cares.

I’m tired of nights and days That merely came and went.

I’m tired of all the guilty, Of all the innocent.

I’m tired of all this crazy Sadness that’s a-burning.

Tired of this endless Miserable yearning.

Open up your bark, tree, And take me inside, And take me inside, There I will hide.

Take me inside your bark In these flowerless years As a little Spring That never disappears; As some hermetic grief I will remain too deep, I will shine with anguish And then fall asleep.

And if the winds blow hard To drive us asunder, I will awake, my tree.

And we will start a thunder; I will strive with you, I will thrive with you, Safe from those bad winds I’ll survive with you.

Then one mystic night Beneath the sleepy moon

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I will sing to you My enchanting tune; We’ll rise so silently.

We’ll tiptoe or we’ll creep To keep my love awake In her carefree sleep.

And in her sweetest dream A lonely magic tree Assuming human shape Will whisper words like me; And with a human tongue He’ll whisper of the past.

Of a love that’s lost forever And a yearning that will last.

-Samvel Mkrtchyan

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HENRIK EDOYAN 1940-

THE RUINS OF ACROPOLIS Time passes over me now like a blind bird leaving a feather with which I write on the open call of my memory the names of men things cities– This is the image of a final assurance, these are the ruins of Acropolis among which entangles the stare of a casual tourist.

-Samvel Mkrtchyan

TWO STATES 1 The sun plays on my face running like a fly.

The street is floating in a summer tide.

I remember some mantras (translated from Sanskrit) thinking of their essence.

No, I am no Jesus, I am no Buddha, either: I can’t resurrect anyone, I can’t sanctify Mary Magdalene.

Can’t even heal an ailing arm.

2 The raindrop falls and rolls from leaf to leaf, running and playing like a kid.

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The same old world before my eyes.

Seems nothing has changed— the same old drop running along the curving branches of my years.

Sitting on this bench today, I haven’t recalled your name, nor have I thought of you, to say “Listen to me, if you can.”

A man and a woman walk along the alley.

Grayhaired, they carry a puppet.

They didn’t look at me. Just passed me by. Gone.

-Samvel Mkrtchyan

EZRA POUND’S TREE The day grows in me, being filled and ripened; slowly, the hours dissolve in my veins; the waves beat against the shore, it inflates, flowing out from all sides— it is in me, although it’s voices come from the outside.

I give away to it some blood-drops of mine, some of the air I breathe, of my vigor, my distress, my silence— it takes what I take, I furnish it with life— its teeth exhume my chest and reach my soil.

-Samvel Mkrtchyan

SHELLS WITHOUT PEARLS Shells without pearls, dust without wind, the old truths foretold without voices to sing; in a landscape with no frame, a memory with no past.

I grasp for your hand as you’re walking by.

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i nod to you, friend, as I sit on this tomb, a stone with no name, no words fading fast like a dying star that is plummeting past

While titan gods stare as if we were reeds they themselves planted there to fulfil their needs.

They look our way but we look away.

-Diana Der Hovanessian

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AREVSHAT AVAGYAN 1940-

INFINITY You know that the roads never end, The wind carries the green mass of the woods through clouds Whose white foam is flowing Deep down in the soil.

You know about these magnificent transformations, You know about my love Which is a red current in your spinning heart.

You know that the flower is the revelation of a dream, it is the smile of the soil and the fear of the sky, you also know that this shrunken flower-shop is rolling in pain, sometimes, when people take away the smile of the soil To veil the day’s burden — sorrow.

You know that the pain of loss will ease Through the rows of days, The sky will embellish the day with snowflakes, And conscience will not coagulate in blood’s circulation You know that piercing stars Which are restlessly flickering Will fade away in the eyes of the dawn.

-Samvel Mkrtchyan

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RALPH SETIAN -Garig Basmadjian

1941-

MHER’S DOOR It seems right and good that you should be my first wilderness companion hiker of trails climber of peaks trekker after waterfalls no path too steep no crags too sharp no water too cold for you.

Midst these mountains of ice and granite I am an ambling old goat following a gamboling young ram.

(A son who is stronger and fleeter than oneself must surely be the wish of every true father.)

As the sun rises the chickadees come pecking for crumbs close to our tent.

You wonder why the bears did not come last night, steadfastly refusing to emerge from your sleeping bag till the sun has risen fully and finally over the crest of the Sierra Nevada.

(Hermes is almost an anagram of your name.)

From the edge of the meadow we can see the snows glistening on the nearby high ridge.

Trout leap in the glacial lake.

Lizards begin to awaken from their torpor.

Squirrels and marmots bark among the rocks.

The door was closed — now it is open.

The wheel revolves — yet it is still.

This day always was— and never will be again.

DIASPORA The hungry scythe reaped and slavering we walked

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along our way blind and lame bareheaded till today if no longer barefooted.

CHIMERIA You open the door and there is no spark of light that strikes the eye or falls upon the floor in that dark of night where only the cry of one’s own voice echoes back a strident noise.

YOUR HANDS Your hands are not like her hands: Imagine two spiders, each with three legs lopped off.

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VARLEN ALEXANYAN 1942-

A COMEBACK Where to?

Towards the waters feeding on snow, Towards the snow storm whore friendship causes no pain.

A comeback A comeback Towards unending borders Towards winds running wild Where the swishing crops Whisper one word for each and everyone.

A mere word, You can choose yourself.

A comeback A comeback Towards the vein of meaningless days, Towards the very last dream.

It’s time to pack up, Time to lock the doors.

How meek you are!

Creature living From Stone Age up to the last rainHow absurd you are, and lustless, how willing your soul is to surrender.

This is the end, then.

Before you return, nail cross-shaped wood on your windows and doors, write one last letter and burn it right off; from inside, write with your finger on the window-pane: “Has left for God knows where for God knows how long”Meaning he has returnedWhere to?

-Samvel Mkrtchian

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JAMES MAGORIAN 1942-

MIME PERFORMING WITH A KNEE INJURY The news spreads through town like wildfire.

THE WHEATFIELD OF VAN GOGH The wheat is lifted, bent back like a trapdoor, a searching, sweet reek of the past: the paths--wet sticks poked into a fire-hunter's bread, howl of flowers, the earth red where the angelus bell is buried: bright sorrow, light rattling on the crooked stairway to the cloud-orchard, that wheat, dependable chaos, ripening, (stem rust, cutworms, 20 bushels an acre?), that wheat, held open, scold of color--whooping it up to no avail-one torment like any other, the body (a century of dark cellars, all the hours huddled at the end of the day) remembers, deepens, what is left in dreams, desperate in an ashy intention, that wheat, a warding off (time, pout of desire), gruff yellow, molten oddities, finished things, denials--the crows departing, one field like any other.

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ARMEN MARTIROSYAN 1943-2008

BETWEEN THE HORIZONS OF TWO LIVES Between the horizons of two lives A dove’s wings are soaring; There are two yearnings upon the sea and in the watery folds of a moan.

—Take off, sweetheart, Take off your mind The white coat of those mermaids.

There are two yearnings upon the sea And in the watery folds of a moan— —Spread, sweetheart.

Spread lovingly the white coat Of those mermaids upon the waves.

A dove’s wings are soaring Between the secrets of your life and mine— Two feathers come off the wings To dart into the seas of moan.

Two words of sadness hang from the feather destined for my life.

—Take off, sweetheart, Take off your mind The white coat of those mermaids Between the secrets of your life and mine A dove’s wings are soaring.

The wings dart into the yearning seas To strip feather by feather.

The white dove disappears Into sadness, moment, and days.

— Spread, sweetheart, Spread my inner earnings— The white coat of those mermaids In the shadows of my yearnings.

-Samvel Mkrtchyan

FISHERMEN The fishermen of Koghten are singing in their boats.

The sun has burned, has bronzed, has blackened their backs

The Anthology of Armenian Poets | Volume I

and they row, singing songs, the songs of Koghten that they pull in from the sea instead of fish.

The fishermen of Koghten are hauling out the songs claiming that the songs are endless, cooked by the sun as they pile up on the decks.

The fishermen sing that they are rich with their catch of songs.

They are convinced.

-Diana Der Hovanessian

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ARAM SAROYAN 1943-

PAGES Poems 1964-1965 New York POEM One two three there are three are never seen again.

OLD POEM I make another room smaller in this one --there-is all I want.

Carry over to it the ashtray POEM A new telephone on the table.

"If I really see anything.

I hear it too."

A new telephone on the table.

TWO SENTENCES 1. I'm trying to write a poem.

2. The broom is in the corner.

FEBRUARY'S GONE on this machine.

TRAVEL I want all across country A sense of humor The size of farm animals A POEM TO K. Q.

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I'm going to kill you.

Had West followed up her fine opening lead by dropping the club king or queen on the second round of clubs, she would have been able to play the ten when Stayman tried to throe her in. Then East could have overtaken and returned a heart, wrecking the contract.

MOVING The floor passing through the hole in the bag I smell of you!

TWO POEMS A PENNY A PENNY A PENNY A PENNY A PENNY A NICKEL A NICKEL A NICKEL A DIME

1¢ 1¢ 1¢ 1¢ 1¢ 5¢

+

5¢ 5¢ 10¢

+

A DIME 10¢ A DIME 10¢ A NICKEL + 5¢ A QUARTER 25¢ A QUARTER 25¢ A QUARTER + 25¢ FIFTY CENTS 50¢ FIFTY CENTS FIFTY CENTS ONE DOLLAR selection d a leaf left by the cat I guess selection c wind oil to blows out sea

+

50¢ 50¢ 100¢ = $1

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selection b a car roars over a conversation selection a Later the atelier ate her.

THE PICKPOCKET delicately lifts a wallet from somebody’s inside coat pocket.

The beat-up door to his room halfclosed in sunlight: Money changes hands one thief to another so the first thief can’t be apprehended.

Visited by a beautiful woman, he’s oblivious, preoccupied.

The idiot!

Stealing a woman’s purse, he puts a rolled-up newspaper under her arm

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to replicate the push of her purse.

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LORNE SHIRINIAN 1945-

-Garig Basmadjian

OLD MAN I am an old man my meat is dry I will sit against this tree and slowly turn to earth thinking of the hard days and the stiff vein I drank and loved and stole myself around this world five times five times and nothing’s changed hard days and the stiff vein I’d bury these rotten legs but nothing would grow my meat has turned black I am a disgusting old man left with slow thoughts of quick days slowly turning to earth ARMENIAN POETS for DDH

First there is the need to be a poet to bear witness through words But your poems are only words Then one day you find you have made the earth shift to reveal with frightening clarity some mystery ancient and human unfolding through you Slowly, you begin to understand this desire your words disappear to reveal the poem But you are Armenian

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absence and longing are your heritage you spot Varoujan dancing in Harvard Square you bump into Siamanto at Wordsworth's bookstore you receive a phone call; Tourian is lost in Watertown you try to understand Armenia you write Armenia Armenia In the time warp called America you mythologize the dead land find yourself stranded between fable and reality In your life love and genocide gather your images and desires use English like a native make you an Armenian poet

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DAVIT HOVHANNES 1945-

THE PAST THAT IS LOST There’s a raven right over my head, squealing, He has certainly chosen to live on my ceiling— I have no way of knowing why he came reeling, With his pest and curse, and would never go!

His black heart’s a-ticking underneath his chest, He is so shadowy with a fiery crest— Neither cold nor warm, no smile, no jest— Unfamiliar even to Edgar Allan Poe. He gives me the sign, reminds me of faces, Picks at my heart full of mem’ries and places; Whenever he squeals, my heart pounds and races, I am sleepless as he takes me back in a flash— Takes me back to my past full of evergreen flowers, Full of loves, hopes and dreams, and sky-scraping towers, And songs that would pour down like showers— Now they’re covered with dust and all-devouring ash.

Let me go, I beseech him, you screech of the hell!

Who have I been then? Who am I? I won’t tellI am starting anew, I am through with this spell, I’ve forgotten my past and the days of yore.

But this ominous bird would not leave my haven, His cast-iron stare showed he couldn’t be craven, He’s screeching and squealing, this raven— The word that I know: nevermore, nevermore!

O what can I do to chuck out this premonition, His nightmarish smiles and his devilish mission?

How can I shirk this wicked commission?

How can I make him abandon my door?

But his grip is so tight, he has evidently caught me, This menace, this beast that has always sought me To tell me he’s the one who should have taught me The real meaning of the word — nevermore!

-Samvel Mkrtchyan

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JAMES BALOIAN 1945-

HOMELESS The roads all came back bringing with them the gray weather of old coats A flammable moon wrinkles the landscape into blacks and whites Winter wanders in on the breath of an empty page From an old photograph I listen to a black man play the clarinet to crows silhouetted into musical notes between telephone wires My feet turn the earth as I try to keep my head from the wind's inevitable noose.

ARRIVING IN THE NEW WORLD Like empty shoes Words Gestures of a blindman In the face of a mirror The Earth trembles over Your orphan blues, I see clearly Through a broken glass Outside the earth is barren Your fingers dig the graves of young roots Hives of honey...

Choke of nightmare sweat Tomorrow the city stumbles With population And law The thin shadow through a green visage Of winter The future pitched with each step I see you oldman

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Closing the dark With invisible breath You hidden like a treasure Naked Landing barefoot in the New World.

The Anthology of Armenian Poets | Volume I

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ALICIA GHIRAGOSSIAN 1945-

MY WILL In the huge city of Buenos Aires in the year 19 hundred something in September at such and such a time of day, or to be exact, night, my arrival was announced and made official.

But, dear fellow human beings since then I have accumulated nothing to leave you... graduate of a university a piece of paper certifying my work but useless to my life.

Some snapshots of friends who have disappeared from my life and of course books books and books.

But what will calm my poor spirit?

O, that I could leave you something from this life so precious it would make me immortal, something that cannot be bought in any shopping mall, something to redeem my living.

-Diana Der Hovanessian

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The Anthology of Armenian Poets | Volume I

ROMIK SARDARYAN 1945-

AMULET (a ballad)

I am tempted with people— The dead and the living.

Those cold and motionless masks Pierce my heart.

—I am veiled in mists.

I am tempted with the world, With the days and the nights; I know my life will not end, I know it will only stop— —I am veiled in mists I am tempted with the past, With the present and the future; I saw the arrow today, Yesterday and tomorrow— —I am veiled in mists.

-Samvel Mkrtchyan

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HOVHANNES GRIGORYAN -Samvel Mkrtchyan

1945-

DO NOT GO GENTLE… What troubled waters flowing down the arid streets.

What a wonderful ghost of death dashing along each plane, wincing at the frightened passengers, knocking on the windows with skeletal fingers, sitting on the wing, flailing its legs. Pretending it doesn’t hear the intensifying cry of the kids.

Oh Allen Ginsberg, I mourn your death, but more I mourn the loss of my luggage that vanished away in the labyrinth of JFK Airport.

I still proceed with mourning though I’m in Armenia now and my shoes are strolling down the streets of New York City— patting heels (oh what beautiful heels—brand-new!), travelling the underground elevators.

Oh Allen Ginsberg, you passed away—oh Moloch! Oh Moloch!

You didn’t live to see how I mourned your death, how my eyes were raining tears, I didn’t even have a handkerchief to wipe them away, since my handkerchiefs—brand-new, tightly folded, disappeared along with my bags—they may be cleaning an American’s nose by now.

Flutter oh black flags, the last Beatnik is gone—at the very wrong time, on a bright Spring day, when I was investigating all the passers-by in the heart of Washington D.C.—confident that none of them knew I was leaving the next day for ever.

ADVERTISEMENTS FOR SALE— was written, in big tearful letters, on a building gate.

FOR SALE— was written, in small exhausted letters, on a car trunk.

FOR SALE—was written on a kiosk door.

FOR SALE—was written on a drug store show-window.

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The Anthology of Armenian Poets | Volume I

FOR SALE—was written on a factory wall.

FOR SALE—was written on trees in the woodland, as well as on bushes and sporadic mushrooms.

FOR SALE—was written on the cirrus and the stratus, the sun and the stars.

FOR SALE—was written on rivers and lakes, gorges and mountains, cats and dogs.

SOLD OUT—was written, in invisible clandestine letters, on an enormous signboard of the government building.

I SHAVED AND WROTE A COUPLE OF LINES I shaved and wrote a couple of lines.

Heaved a sigh watching little birds fly away right in the day’s eye.

Then I shaved again and wrote a couple of lines, heaved a sigh watching the day return without a single bird.

What happened to my day?

I resented watching my lines fly away heaving a sigh right in the day’s eye.

AND NOTHING MORE I tell you, there’s no love in your hearts.

A man, arrived from faraway lands. Here you walk between these high buildings, living this only life. Only the dead know its intention.

See the hell on earth, admire the rigidity of copper casks filled with sulphur. Run your fingers along statuettes and keep in mind that the old masters have always been desired guests here—moreover, they have habitually been permanent tenants of the casks made by themselves.

Have little interviews with reprobates—you’ll see how words ooze like honey from their splintered lips—or the smile that does not corrode even in sulphur, the smile that unquestionably eases that suffering half of the body that is thrust in the heavy liquid

The Anthology of Armenian Poets | Volume I

of pains and twinges. Yes, a man, arrived from faraway lands, who stands among the ruins, hushed, with a broken smile on his face. Although his knees shake from pain, he manages to raise both hands, like a sign saying—Come, come out of the multistorey caves, come to me, touch my body, see with your own eyes how the soul leaves the body, see with your eyes how the heart is cracking in the palm of my hand, letting love go, how it, turned to dust, trickles though my fingers— see I have almost turned to earth, just a little hillock.

And nothing more.

SOMETIMES Sometimes the rain lasts more than (too long) and I have to take pen in hand to write dissonant lines in that humid monotony— to make some modifications in a desperate try.

Sometimes the sun doesn’t warm up as possible though the globe has ceased turning a long time ago, though Giordano Bruno is still being roasted in a sparkler, whereas we had to shake the earth, like a stopped watch; maybe it would start working again.

Sometimes stars sparkle hither and thither, while we can clearly see the trees, with hands in their pockets, stretched along the street. We can see clearly how Giordano, with the globe wrapped in a multicolored rag under his arm, rushes to the watchmaker with—it’s the very last hope.

Sometimes it’s autumn at times.

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The Anthology of Armenian Poets | Volume I

Index of poets in alphabetical order (Volumes I and II) Adalyan, Yeva Aharonian, Avetis Alekyan, Bagrat Alexanyan, Varlen Alishan, Ghevond Alishan, Leonardo Assatour, Zabel Arian, Sako Aristakes Lastiverttsi Armani, Nora Armen, Vahé Atamian, Christopher Avagyan, Arevshat Avakian, Monique Avdalyan, Ashot Avetyan, Nariné Balakian, Peter Baloian, James Baliozian, Ara Bekyan, Zaven Beledian, Krikor Bedikian, Lory Beyleryan, Hrachya Bond, Harold Charents Yeghishé Cheraz, Tigran Chiloyan, Slavik Chopanian, Arshak Dakessian, Sylva Dasnabedian, Shoushig Davoyan, Razmik Davtak Kertogh Davtyan, Vahagn Demirdjian, Tina Demirjibashian, Yeghia Der Hovanessian, Diana Djanikian, Gregory Dourian, Petros Duryan, Ludwig Dzerigian, Ronald L Edoyan, Henrik Emin, Gevorg Frik Gevorgyan, Armen “Von” Ghazaryan, Artashes Grigoris Aghtamartsi Grigor Narekatsi

The Anthology of Armenian Poets | Volume I

Grigor Magistros Pahlavuni Grigor Marashetsi Grigor Tgha Gregorian, Alina Grigoryan, ManĂŠ Grigoryan, Violet Grigoryan, Hovhannes Gorky, Arshile Ghiragossian, Alicia Gyanjyan, Kamo Hakhverdyan, Edward Hamalian, Leo Hamastegh Hoveyan, Hovik Hovhan Mandakuni Hovhannes, Davit Hovhannes Karnetsi Hovhannes Sarkavag Imastaser Hovhannes Tlkurantsi Hovhannes Yerezenkatsi Pluz Hovhannessian, Hovhanness Hovhannisyan, Hrachya Hovhannisyan, Sevak Hovhannisyan, Tanya HripsimĂŠ Intra Isahakyan, Avetik Ishkhan, Moushegh Kaputikyan, Silva Karslyan, Karen Kazandjian, Zoulal Khatchadourian, Haig Kherdian, David Khrakhuni, Zareh Kilikyan, Gagik Komitas Kostandin Yerzenkatsi Kosyan, Samvel Kouchak, Nahapet Kurghinyan, Shoushanik Magorian, James Mahari, Gourgen Mamyan, Ignat Manukyan, Khachik Matgaryan, Maro Martirosyan, Armen Merjian, Hagob Missak Mesrobian, Manian Mesrop Mashtots

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Metaksé Metsarents, Misak Mgrdichian, Ara Michaelian, William Militonyan, Edward Minassian, Michael Minnassian, Medrik Mirzayan, Zorayr Mkrtich Naghash Mkrtchyan, Samvel Mkrtchyan, Shant Movses Khorenatsi Movses, Hakob Muradyan, Suren Naghashyan, Anoush Najikian, Brenda Nalbandian, Mikael Navasardyan, Herminé Nerses Mokatsi Nerses Shnorhali Norian, David Oshagan, Vahé Paghdassar Dpir Paskevichyan, Tigran Patkanian, Paphael Peshiktashlian, Mkrtich Petrosyan, Marine Pilibosian, Helene Raffi Sahak Partev Sahakdoukht Syunetsi Sahian, Hamo Sarafian, Nigoghos Sardaryan, Romik Saroukhan, Hrachya Saroyan, Aram Saroyan, William Sayat-Nova Semerdjian, Alan Setian, Ralph Sevak, Paruyr Sevak, Ruben Shahaziz, Smbat Shekoyan, Armen Shems, Hmayak Shen Mah Shirinian, Ara Shirinian, Lorne Siamanto

The Anthology of Armenian Poets | Volume I

Simonyan, Hasmik Sirunyan, Ghukas Sisyan, Armenuhi Sona Van Srabian Herald, Leon Srvantstian, Garegin Taghiadian, Mesrop Tamrazyan, Hrachya Tekeyan, Vahan Tekyan, Vehanoush Teryan, Vahan Topalian, Buzand Toumanian, Hovhannes Tsatourian, Alexander Vanatour, Vardan Vardan Anetsi Vardan Haikazn Vardanyan, Vahan Varoujan, Daniel Vivian Kurkjian Whitehorn, Alan Zahrad Zarian, Kostan Zarifian, Mattheos Zuloyan, Samvel

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