13 Saturday Apr 2013
Posted in Armenia, Poetry, Translation
the Syrian desert called Der ez Zor, site of the Armenian genocide
* * *
Կորած ուրվական.
Ես որոնում եմ ձեր գանգի:
Տէր Զօր.
* * *
Lost ghost.
I search for your skull.
Der ez Zor.
11 Thursday Apr 2013
Երբ մենք համբուրել, քայքայում ավերում.
Այրում վիշապաճանճում, իմ բերանին.
When we kiss, havoc.
A dragonfly burning in my mouth.
10 Wednesday Apr 2013
Posted in Armenia, Poetry, Translation
Tags
Աստվածուհին սիրո եւ վերջին սերը.
Աստղիկ, ես մենակ եմ.
Ուղարկիր ինձ իմ ցանկություն.
Բեր ինձ ցանկամոլություն.
Սապփո, որ Աֆրոդիտեի դուստրը.
Ես ուզում եմ ձեզ հիմա, իմ մուգ մայրը.
.
Goddess of love and last love.
Astghik, I‘m alone.
Send me my wish.
Bring me my desire.
Sappho was Aphrodite’s daughter.
I need you now, my dark mother.
.
note:
Astghik, besides being a popular Armenian girl’s name, is one of the old gods that lived in the Caucasus mountains before Armenia became the first Christian nation in the world. She was, and is, a love goddess, the protector of young girls and the guardian of fresh water. The Greek poet Sappho wrote a hymn to Aphrodite. This is my hymn for Astghik.
And once again I must apologize for my poor skills in Armenian. I am slowly learning the grammar, but it is a slow process when you are teaching yourself. One day I hope to be able to write the poems I dream about writing in Armenian, but until then I will keep on trying.
09 Tuesday Apr 2013
Posted in Armenian, Erotic, Poetry, Translation
≈ Comments Off on տաք ջուր է ցնցուղ
Տաք ջուր է ցնցուղ,
դուք լվանում հեռավորության վրա, թե ինչ ենք արել.
Կամ գոնե փորձում եք.
.
Hot water in the shower,
you wash away everything we just did.
Or at least you try.
09 Tuesday Apr 2013
Posted in Armenian, Poetry, Translation
≈ Comments Off on ձեր երազանքների
Ես հասկանում եմ ձեր երազանքների.
Ոչինչ մի անհանգստացեք.
Ձեր գաղտնի ապահով.
.
I understand your dreams.
Do not worry.
Your secret is safe.
09 Tuesday Apr 2013
Posted in Armenia, Erotic, Poetry, Translation
Tags
Armenian, Pablo Neruda, poem, Sappho, translation, Walt Whitman
Ուիթմեն. Սապփո. Ներուդա.
Տաղ. Հնչեակ. Վիպերգ.
Ես գրում եմ իմ բանաստեղծությունները վրա ձեր ծլիկ.
Whitman. Sappho. Neruda.
Ode. Sonnet. Ballad.
I write my poems on your clit.
* * *
Notes:
As far as I know these are the correct spellings in Armenian of these poets’ names. Պաբլո Ներուդա (Pablo Neruda), Ուոլթ Ուիթմեն (Walt Whitman) and Սապփո (Sappho).
Writing, as they say, is a gamble. We put our art out for the world to see, and then hope the reader enjoys it enough to write back. Some people find their audience right away and some never do. I have no idea where the audience for this poem is, but I am willing to take the chance that once I send it out into the void that is the Internet it will, slowly, find its way to the one who it’s intended for. And who knows? That person might even help me with my grammar, since my ability to write in Armenian is շատ վատ (very bad). Cheers!
08 Monday Apr 2013
Posted in Armenian, Poetry, Translation
≈ Comments Off on i want to sing only for you
Someday I will find a friend to help me re-learn all the Armenian I knew while in Peace Corps. Now I feel frustrated, I’ve forgotten so much. But I know one day I’ll sing again, sing beautifully.
Ես մուրացկան.
Ես ուզում եմ այցելել ձեզ.
Բայց ես չեմ կարող երգել.
Խնդրում ենք սովորեցնել ինձ երգել.
Ես ուզում եմ երգել է միայն ձեզ համար.
.
I am a beggar.
I want to see you.
But I can not sing.
Please teach me to sing.
I want to sing only for you.
08 Monday Apr 2013
Posted in Armenian, Erotic, Poetry, Translation
≈ Comments Off on ձեր երանության
Իմ լեզուն ներսում ձեր շուրթերը.
Ես խմել ձեր երանության.
Ձեր ձեռքը իմ գլխին.
.
My tongue inside your lips.
I drink your bliss.
Your hand on my head.
08 Monday Apr 2013
Tags
“… loveroot, silk thread, crotch and vine.”
— Walt Whitman
I’m not interested in who suffered more,
just those who mastered pain’s blood alphabet.
Trust joy. If what you long for is a door
that will lead you to love do not forget
that the door is here. What other purpose
could the orgasm have but to let me
talk to gods? At the moment of climax
when I leave behind ego and body
I call that act enlightenment – no hate,
attachment or pain – only bliss. Only
pilgrims working hard at their nightly prayers,
at blood’s loveroot. Don’t trust those who dictate
the path to wisdom. They are not holy
like you and all of your sticky fingers.
07 Sunday Apr 2013
Tags
frog, goats, honey bee, knitting, my mistress's witcheries, poem, Poetry, sonnet, tink, witchcraft, yarf
“It is knitting time,” a friend, a witchling,
informed me. She knew secrets to distill
dyes, how to tink, frog and yarf. Loom knitting
was her passion. “I was taught how to kill.
I was trained in the witcheries of war.
But,” she added, “Blood does not interest me.”
She lived in a lone mountain pasture, far
from the engines of men and their ugly
tools. That spring she taught me how to prepare
wool for spinning; how to charm honey bees
from their hives; how to talk to willow, yew
and oak. “I was trained only for warfare,
but witchcraft is far better. This craft frees
me for my loves: knitting, goats and now you.”
.
NOTE:
For a while I wanted to write a knitting poem, but since I don’t actually know how to knit I wrote this instead. The terms I use in the poem:
FROG: To rip back (when you say, “rip it, rip it”) by removing the needles from the project and pulling on the loose end of the yarn.
TINK: To undo knitted stitches by reversing the knitting motion, effectively un-knitting the stitch.
YARF: Slang for “yarn-barf.” A big lump of yarn that accidentally gets pulled out of a new center-pull ball, usually when you’re trying to find the end.
memories of my ghost sista 