warm body

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When you finally take your last corporeal
form, I’ll bake you sticky buns, your favorite.

Until then, snuggle close; let sunlight, dull
and warm, filter through you. I love ghost smut;

where the dead fall in love. Slowly seven
dust motes move as your fingertip explores

my breasts, smoothing fabric taut; your ashen
touch. My skin is so alive your dead pores

gasp for breath. Will you be this mesmerized
with me once you have a shell of your own?

Or will I be just one more warm body?
Will you, who died for love and once despised

false hearts, leave me? Is it just flesh and bone
that makes you whisper lover’s vows to me?

night fall

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The Fates hate me; others make their bedsprings
squeak, I lay on mine alone. At Night’s Fall

there comes ethereal leathery wings
to scrape at my window and on the wall

misshapen shadows crawl, mimicking trees
swaying in the wind. I love Mister Poe

and all the eldritch dark. I know, and please,
darling, don’t preach. It’s frustrating, I know,

to wait for dark things that do not frustrate
our needs. Across the fields, through the moonlight,

slipping between my sheets. I hate to sleep
alone and I do not know why the Fates

refuse me but I’d rather make the night
all mine than to sit up each night and weep.

honey, hemlock and wine

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Not all stores have a LOST CHILDREN section,
but they should. You would not believe the ghosts

who pass through, confused, an endless legion
unaware that they’re dead. I love these Hosts

of the Air, as the Irish call them. Fey,
banshee-wild-eyed and wailing. I wail, too.

As do you. A child is bewitched away,
a sop of wood left in her place. Who knew

you could fall in love with a changeling?
You were once a child of honey, hemlock

and wine. Some say you can’t go back. Bollocks!
Childhood is not a one-way bridge. Dreaming

of the Fairy Down, come, hold me, we’ll walk
entwined, until dawn break and the crow cocks.

child mother and calf

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“the bridge remembers” — Wong May

To the forgotten dead, the unhonored,
silent; to those still with untamed passion,

the mad ones, those still in love with the word;
to those never buried, without coffin,

gravestone or name. Come, your lover calls you.
Come, I remember your name. My lovers

number in the millions because those who
take so much pride in race and ancestors

are the worst caring for them. So I call
and call. Some hear. Some answer. Abandoned

is a curse. Come home, love, come. I have love
enough for us all. My bed is nightfall,

my kiss is the moon. Come, don’t be frightened;
wolf and child, mother and calf, kite and dove.

i met two who knew my name

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two

three

four

one

On the road I met two who knew my name
which is never a good sign. When angels

and ghosts know who you are, that sort of fame
only ends poorly. I don’t trust mortals

who claim to know what happens after death.
By life’s own definition no one can.

Mystics travel far. Yogis count each breath.
Skeptics laugh. We’re all sure what will happen

next, poor sods, and we’re all missing the point.
Perhaps I will leave with those two today,

perhaps not. I’m still in deep, my debt
unpaid and I want to tear up this joint,

run wild and be ignorantly blase.
There’s some knowledge that I don’t want just yet.

out of this wasteland endlessly turning

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Make her a tomboy, one who likes to read;
with hair down to her hips. Every evening

I would loosen it, pick out each hayseed
and green bumble-burr, then brush it, twisting

it up into two plaits, like horse’s reigns
that would hang down her back. She would love math

and stars; fill her summer days with grass stains,
kissing and wild roving. Like Hera’s wrath

none would dare call her “foundling,” “witch’s brat”
or “fay” within earshot. The Blessed Arbor

would be hers; birthright only to children
of the gods. Forgive me, my ghostly cat,

my lost foal; you see, I have no daughter,
and my dreams, like my body, are barren.

garcia lorca’s sorpresa [por michael brown]

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… because even as I work on this translation another person has been shot by police in Ferguson, MO.  As Garcia Lorca said about an apathetic country when its children are murdered by their own police, “Nobody could look into his eyes staring up into the hard air.” I suppose this is the point where I say something cliché like, “I pray for peace,” when in reality the only way there will be peace is when those who have been hiding behind their “to serve and protect” badges are held accountable.

][

SORPRESA

— by Federico Garcia Lorca

Muerto se quedó en la calle con un puñal en el pecho.

No lo conocía nadie.

¡Cómo temblaba el farol!

¡Madre, cómo temblaba el farolito de la calle!

Era madrugada.

Nadie pudo asomarse a sus ojos abiertos al duro aire.

Que muerto se quedó en la calle que con un puñal en el pecho y que no lo conocía nadie.

][

[in English]

SURPRISE

Dead they left him in the street with a knife in his chest.

No one knew who he was.

How the lamppost trembled!

Mother! How the little lantern trembled!

It was early morning.

Nobody could look into his eyes staring up into the hard air.

And he was dead in the street with a knife in his chest, and no one knew who he was.

][

[in Armenian, transliteration]

ANAKNKAL

Merrats e, vor lk’yel e nran p’voghots’um danakov ir krtsk’avandaki.

Voch’ vok’ ch’giter, t’ye ov e na:

Vor lapterasyun vakhets’av!

Mayry! P’vok’r lamperi vakhets’av!

Da vagh arravotyan:

Voch’ vok’ ch’i karogh nayel nra ach’k’yeri mej ch’ap’azants’ ach’k’i ynknogh mej tsanr od:

Yev na merrats p’voghots’um danakov ir krtsk’avandaki, yev voch’ vok’ ch’giter, t’ye ov e ink’y:

][

[in Armenian]

ԱՆԱԿՆԿԱԼ

Մեռած է, որ լքել է նրան փողոցում դանակով իր կրծքավանդակի.

Ոչ ոք չգիտեր, թե ով է նա:

Որ լապտերասյուն վախեցավ!

Մայրը! Փոքր լամպերի վախեցավ!

Դա վաղ առավոտյան:

Ոչ ոք չի կարող նայել նրա աչքերի մեջ չափազանց աչքի ընկնող մեջ ծանր օդ:

Եւ նա մեռած փողոցում դանակով իր կրծքավանդակի, եւ ոչ ոք չգիտեր, թե ով է ինքը:

garcia lorca’s la guitarra [in english and armenian]

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awesome

Note from the Translator:

I must apologize with my sorry attempts to bring a beautiful Spanish poem by Federico Garcia Lorca into both English (my mother tongue) and fantastic Armenian. I’ve been told on more than one occasion that both my grasp of Spanish and Armenian are comically pathetic, usually by native speakers, which is only fair. However, life is short and as far as I can tell there is nobody who lives near by to help in my translations, so I present these new labors, not because it is the best that you can find for free on the Internets but because it’s the best that I can do. You’ll find four versions here; the original Spanish, my English translation, and since not a lot of people can read pure, uncut Armenian, a transliteration version as well as the pure Heyeren. Hope it does not displease. Cheers!

][

LA GUITARRA

— Federico Garcia Lorca

Empieza el llanto de la guitarra.

Se rompen las copas de la madrugada.

Empieza el llanto de la guitarra.

Es inútil callarla.

Es imposible callarla.

Llora monótona como llora el agua, como llora el viento sobre la nevada.

Es imposible callarla.

Llora por cosas lejanas.

Arena del Sur caliente que pide camelias blancas.

Llora flecha sin blanco, la tarde sin mañana, y el primer pájaro muerto sobre la rama.

¡Oh guitarra!

Corazón malherido por cinco espadas.

][

[in English]

THE GUITAR

The crying of the guitar begins.

The glasses of dawn are broken.

The crying of the guitar begins.

It is useless to stop her.

It is impossible to stop her.

She weeps endlessly, as water weeps, as the wind weeps over the snow.

It is impossible to stop her.

She weeps for things remote.

The hot southern sands yearning for a white camellia.

A weeping arrow without target, evening without morning, and the first dead bird on the branch.

Ai, guitar!

Heart wounded by five knives.

][

[in Armenian, transliteration]

KIT’ARR

Sksvum e kit’arri lats’y.

Skahakner ein arravotyan kotrel.

Sksvum e kit’arri lats’y.

Anogut e lrrets’nel ayn.

Anhnar e lrrets’nel ayn.

Da lats’ e linum anverj, ayn lats’ e linum jri pes, ayn lats’ e linum nman k’amu nkatmamb dzyan.

Kit’arry artasvum e baneri hamar herravor.

T’yezh haravayin avazner klk’i spitak kamelianeri.

Lats’ e linum mez slak’y arrants’ npatakayin yerekoyan, arrants’ arravotyan, yev arrajin mahats’ats t’rrch’ni masnachyughi.

Ai, kit’arr!

Sirty mahats’u viravorvats e hing danakner.

][

[in Armenian] 

ԿԻԹԱՌ

Սկսվում է կիթառի լացը:

Սկահակներ էին առավոտյան կոտրել:

Սկսվում է կիթառի լացը:

Անօգուտ է լռեցնել այն:

Անհնար է լռեցնել այն:

Դա լաց է լինում անվերջ, այն լաց է լինում ջրի պես, այն լաց է լինում նման քամու նկատմամբ ձյան:

Կիթառը արտասվում է բաների համար հեռավոր:

Թեժ հարավային ավազներ կլքի սպիտակ կամելիաների:

Լաց է լինում մեզ սլաքը առանց նպատակային երեկոյան, առանց առավոտյան, եւ առաջին մահացած թռչնի մասնաճյուղի:

Օ, կիթառ!

Սիրտը մահացու վիրավորված է հինգ դանակներ:

with the word pervert

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“nasty boys/ don’t mean a thing …”
— Janet Jackson (1986)

I love how “pervert” is still genderless,
and how anyone can play. Other’s porn

seldom is open-minded. Who’d say “yes”
to things that they’re not hard wired for? You scorn

so much and still claim to be broad-minded.
Curious. I’ve smoked Whitman’s Leaves of Grass.

finger-fucked Sexton in her sad bed, slid
my tongue over Lorca’s cock. Rumi’s ass

hung like the moon. Shams’ too. Still, you can’t guess
who I am with the word “pervert.” Riddle

me this: why are you so frigid-rigid
with all your desires? You who profess

to be nasty? You say that you’re lustful …
but you won’t touch me, bite me, drink my blood.