sounds so rude

02 Tuesday Jul 2013

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.
After your third moon’s dry menstruation,
after your third divorce and third tonic
without the gin. After the gin. Pardon
this dull child in love with you, your chronic,
lickity-clit poetry. The lyric
of the older woman and her green bud.
I can’t fly, but I can lick like a buck
at a salt-lick. Fill you, with acid-blood
alcohol and joy. Pardon your dull child
who makes you cry and cum. The gods, leading
me to you, knew your needs. We are all crude.
Shameless. All these teachers and students. Wild
fucks and praise for learning new words; making
what you call “motherly love” sound so rude.
.

 

 

blood ties

27 Thursday Jun 2013

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fa1

y un azoro de mujer/ llora a su cedro de Líbano
— and a ruin of a woman/ cries for her cedar of Lebanon
[from Gabriela Mistral, La Fugitiva]

Sister somewhere it’s my mother’s birthday
soon so I must go and find her. You said
why? warned that nostalgia is a cliche.
How can I answer why? Sister, instead,
please let me wash your feet before I go.
Let me clothe you in something more than dust.
We all say that we will return, I know,
and then we never do. You’re my bravest
friend, so if I can find that shining path
back to you then I will find you. You claim
all blood ties complicate things, like men’s laws,
and should be smashed. Perhaps. But, a bloodbath
will not help us be together. Don’t blame
blood. You asked me: Why? I tell you: Because.

poet’s note: I’ll be gone for a couple of days celebrating my mother’s birthday. Wish me luck, I’m looking for the path now.

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remembering zaruhi petrosyan

26 Wednesday Jun 2013

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zaruipetrosyanaaabbb

This is a friend I will never know, a sister I will never meet, a teacher I will never learn from.

This is Zaruhi Petrosyan. She was beaten to death by her husband. There are no domestic violence laws in Armenia; no place for women to go for safety; no one to turn to for help.

But change can only happen from within, domestic violence will only stop when it is taken seriously and not viewed as a private, family issue the government has no business with. I, personally, never want to lose another Zaruhi. Please consider signing this petition. Thank you.

PETITION LETTER:

Dear Prime Minister Mr. Tigran Sargsyan,

According to research in 2008, a quarter of women in Armenia are victims of domestic violence. These women think they can’t report the violence or rape because of social stigmas and pressure from others. Although there are steps in your country to fight gender-based violence, there needs to be specific laws directed at domestic violence. Please take steps to create laws fighting domestic violence.

If laws don’t specify violence within a family from violence with strangers, the proper protocol can’t be taken. Police sometimes see domestic violence as a “family matter,” which makes women think it is acceptable. This leads to women not reporting violence and Armenia as a whole covering up a serious problem. The other problem is women do not have the resources, such as shelters, to get the necessary help when they are victims of violence. I am asking you to create laws that will prevent domestic violence and punish the assailants.

Sincerely,

[Your Name Here]

do not be afraid

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arm_women_violence_demo

Demo

DV-article-2-photo-credit-Society-Without-Violence-Armenian-FB-page-protest-in-front-of-courthouse-during-Mariam-Gevorgyan-DV-trial

1-year-anniversary-of-Zaruhi-Petrosyans-death

Video

domestic violence in armenia [video]

26 Wednesday Jun 2013

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reblogged from One-Armenia:

Armenia faces a severe crisis of widespread violence against women and children. Due to the cultural and safety concerns of reporting violence, many women do not report violence and are often stigmatized for doing so. As a result, the Armenian government is able to deny the problem. Furthermore, Armenia currently has weak domestic violence laws and no law addressing sexual violence. Encouraging greater reporting and greater awareness of the problem is the first step to legislative advocacy and legal enforcement.

iris murdoch the one alone

26 Wednesday Jun 2013

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

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Is there any other way out of this
skull? I’ve drugged it, drilled holes in it, shot it
full of electricity. Nothing. There’s bliss
in pain, yes. But not release. I mean, shit,
Murdoch’s fog still creeps in. I am blurring
in front of the mirror. I’m freaking out.
Maybe ghosts are just us dead forgetting
who we are? Without memory I doubt
I am going to be saved, find a path
out of this woods. Lover, do not leave me.
I am afraid. Perhaps I have always
been this afraid, I do not know. My wrath,
my laugh, my fears, my love I am sorry
no, no, no do not sink into this haze.

machine-born rage and bedtime stories

25 Tuesday Jun 2013

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Homer’s heroines were virgins, witches
and fools. I need more than that from my myths.
Give me witches who can raise slain corpses,
virgins who command armies, girl blacksmiths
who forge the sort of swords that burn worlds down.
There are fools enough to make any queen
of the wood fairies swoon. I want to drown
the world in menstrual blood and fire, machine-
born rage and bedtime stories. Homer’s ass
hangs out here. We all take turns kicking it.
Poor mule. Poor Titania. These myths blur.
The world is a tinder box; with teargas,
sulfur and wrath. Would you try to light it?
Let us go and try to replace Homer.

the thing you call without a name

25 Tuesday Jun 2013

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Because we’re fragile. Because we spill truth
the way blue glass spills light. Because someone
loved us enough to be rude and uncouth,
crude and bestial, in ways that heaven
refuses to be. We’re the harbingers
of our fate. We’re cracks in the stonewall smile.
The blood-copper smell of sticky fingers
under your nose. Heh. Because the exile
wants to be something else. Because we all
want to be something else. Our mysteries
are just like that, kid. We’re unknowable.
We’re the cracked enigma. The thing you call
without a name. Except me. I’m a tease.
I’m what you want that’s rude and bestial.

last cricket song

25 Tuesday Jun 2013

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The dead aren’t poetic. They don’t murmur
about being leaves in a storm, the last
cricket song on the last night of summer.
Leave that bullshit to the living, who cast
one scared eyeball on the shadow and claim
it is in their image. What a deep lack
of faith. As if faith was some sort of game
you could name. It’s either raw and bareback
or not at all. You can’t pull out, just pray
that this time the crude dead will not claim you
as their own. They will, sooner or later,
but not tonight. Tonight you should obey
no one, no laws, like the dead. The one true
law that you’ll learn later, but not sooner.

before the storm: poem for lilith

24 Monday Jun 2013

Posted by in Armenia, Armenian, bibical erotica, Feminism, Illustration and art, Lilith, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation

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before the storm 1

Ահա թե ինչ եմ հրաժարվել: խոստումը ծերության, պոեզիայի, սիրո.
Ես չեմ ուզում մի բաժակ գինի.
Բան չկա, իր բյուրեղային խորքերը.
Իմ ափիոն խողովակը վնասվել է:
LSD չի բավարարում.
Քույր. Քույր. Քույր.
Սովորեցրեք ինձ ձեր ալքիմիա.
Ես ուզում եմ իմանալ, թե ինչպես պետք է կատարել մի մոռացկոտություն դեղ, օգտագործելով ձեր կույս-կաթ.
Երեկ ես կենդանի.
Վաղը ես կլինեմ մահացած.
.
Aqui está o que eu vou desistir: a promessa da velhice, da poesia, do amor.
Eu não tenho nenhuma necessidade de copos de vinho.
Não há nada dentro de suas profundezas cristalinas.
Meu cachimbo de haxixe está quebrado.
LSD não vai satisfazer.
Irmã. Irmã. Irmã.
Ensina-me a alquimia.
Mostre-me como fazer um elixir do esquecimento do teus moça-leite.
Ontem eu estava vivo.
Amanhã vou estar morto.
.
Here’s what I’ll give up: the promise of old age, of poetry, of love.
I have no need for a glass of wine.
There is nothing within its crystal depths.
My hashish pipe is broken.
LSD will not do.
Sister. Sister. Sister.
Teach me alchemy.
Show me how to make an elixir of forgetfulness out of your girl-milk.
Yesterday I was alive.
Tomorrow I’ll be dead.

before the storm 2

before the storm 3