ArmenianPoetryProject

I never wrote a poem about war.As a child every storm shookthe walls of my home.I never wrote a poem about war.In classrooms I read the scene of Juliekplaying his violin in the Giewitz snowfall.I never wrote a poem about war.At six, I was given thick-bound books filled withpages of my decapitated poets.I never wrote a poem about war.All my dears are toiling, ferventas they cry out the death tolls of children.I never wrote a poem about war.I haven’t the right. How can I ever knowthose sorrows. I dare not try.I never wrote a poem about war.Not even today when a cellist playedK[h]atchaturian on a pile of wreckage in Beirut.I’ll never write a poem about war.What can I say that hasn’t been said,when I’m silenced into prayer for the deadand the dying.Aida Zilelian lives in New York City. This poem appeared in Decelaration.

She fed me oranges and my worries went awayon the road from the BosphorusI spit the seeds out the windowof the small white carspeeding down the mountainat fifteen I planted my memorythere on the dirt roadand found the beginning of wheremy skin was bornon the hands of all my grandmotherswaving to me on that dirt road;shouting their stories in the windso I can hear their echoeven in the speeding car,and carry voices in my pocketeating orangeslaughing and telling jokesin another language,and smiling each timeI see an old woman reminding meof all my grandmothersand all their sad eyes staringat me, watching me leavethe land where they were born;hoping I take a piece of themwith me to remember when I am old.1999

who used to drawin the mud of the water bankwith a stick and weave marvelousstories for her little boyin a village called Tadem,who used to decoratethe tops of pastry with cut outsof fantastic figures;this is for Zarifwho did needleworkpassably welland figures faster than any man.This is for Zarifwho prayed with two handsand who wrote to her sonthat although she could not watch himwhile he was away at schoolshe knew he would want to belike the other good men in his familywho did not smoke.This is for that simple womanwho did not teach her sonto be a revolutionarybut when revolution came, hid a gun for himin the garden, against bad days.This is for Zarif whom the Turks beat,asking the whereabouts of that son;for Zarif who said over and over againI do no know,although she did.This is for Zarif whose arm was smashedthen made raw then broken to piecesthen cut off while she repeated when she wakedshe did not know.This is for one-armed Zarifwho lived through hell;who lived to see her grandchildrenin another world,this is for herwho once held my right hand in her leftand never told me what I must do with mine.

We were the first humans seen by thosethree on the dirt road near Crane'sbeach. More innocent than tamethey mistook us, holding hands,for something four leggedlike them, and allowedus to walk close.We reached nearer, neartheir wilderness. They did not stiruntil one bounded offhalf leaf, half bird.The others followed, disappearedinto the trees. And we becametwo bipeds instead of one deer.Diana Der Hovanessian, from Songs of Bread, Songs of Salt

https://armenian-poetry.blogspot.com/2007/03/harout-kostandyan-untitled.html

https://armenian-poetry.blogspot.com/2007/04/harout-kosdantyan-land.html

https://armenian-poetry.blogspot.com/2007/06/harout-kosdantyan.html

https://armenian-poetry.blogspot.com/2025/08/blog-post_06.htmlDialogue, from the Album "Conversations with Manol”. By special permission by the composer and performer, Ara Dinkjian.

https://armenian-poetry.blogspot.com/2025/08/blog-post.html

https://armenian-poetry.blogspot.com/2008/07/blog-post_26.html