L’Hôpital du Haut Richelieu
St-Jean, Québec
10:32 am
the waiting room is full
waiting
in the waiting room
full of waiting
waiting
surrounded
some fat
some ruddy-faced
blue-veined and
hacking
some light up yet another
to draw the thick blue smoke
deep into the dead alveoli
of their lizard lungs
they are waiting
I am waiting
then at 10:32
the electric crackle static
through the thin speaker
announces a new list
of hopeful names
Grégoire, Tremblay, Lefebvre,
Baillargeon (long fretful pause)
Lrn Sh-Sha-Sha-rn-nan
Allez a la sale numero 1
At room 1 another roll call
Grégoire, Tremblay, Lefebvre,
Baillargeon (long fretful pause)
Mon Dieu, chui pas chanceuse ce matin
Instinctively I rise
What is it, Miss
The nurse steps back embarrassed
But not enough
Pourtant c’est bien facile I say
Vous le prononcez comme vous le lisez
Shirinian Voyez-vous
And when you say it
And when my name fills your mouth
Think of massacred Armenia
Then think of the Turkish peasants
Whom you adopted
Think of Montreal’s Armenian cabbies
In front of Café Van Houtte on McGill College
Think of crafty business men you couldn’t trust
Think of terrorists
Think of the strange food you don’t like
Think of the earthquake packaged for you
In the Canada Français
Think this land is my land
This land’s not your land
Tell yourself this Armenian’s
Only renting space
And, Miss, if it’s still too much for you
To say Shirinian
Just call me Gélinas
From the volume, Earthquake: Poems by Lorne Shirinian
Mellen Poetry Series, Volume 16, The Edwin Mellen Press, Lewiston, NY 1991. Printed here by kind permission of the author.https://armenian-poetry.blogspot.com/2006/09/lorne-shirinian-glinas.html

https://armenian-poetry.blogspot.com/2007/06/nancy-agabian-soup.html

https://armenian-poetry.blogspot.com/2008/07/blog-post_12.html

https://armenian-poetry.blogspot.com/2006/09/daniel-varoujan.html

Click to hear the audio clip The Game read by Yeraz Markarian.
When papa was in a good mood
he played hide and seek
with my little brother and me
in grandma's huge orchard in Isfahan.
Sacco hid the best.
Papa, the worst. And I
didn't like to hide at all.
But we were together and it was fun.
We went on playing
as the years went by. One
hid in England, one in America,
and papa stayed counting in Iran.
Then we found each other again
and again we played.
But there was a problem now:
whoever hid, could not be found again. . .
Oh, my most beloved ghosts,
this is your brother, this is your son,
and I'm done counting!
Ready or not, here I come.
Leonardo Alishan (1951-2005)
Leonardo Alishan was born of Armenian parents in Tehran, Iran. He came to the U.S. for graduate studies in 1973 and from 78-97 he taught Persian literature and comparitive literature at the University of Utah in Salt Lake City. His poems and stories have been published in a variety of national and international journals and have been the recepient of a number of literary awards. Alishan's first collection, Dancing Barefoot on Broken Glass, appeared in New York in 1991. His second, Through a Dewdrop was published in Glendale, California in 2002. "Tired Thoughts" was awarded the People Before Profits Poetry Prize for 2003.

https://armenian-poetry.blogspot.com/2006/08/leonardo-alishan-game.html

The youngest boy, with his ulcer,
sleeps. His lower lip pulsates, a small fish
breathing. A bed of torn pillows, cradles four
of them, two brothers, two sisters—
curved, quiet on the living room floor.
Buzzing, the open window has its mouth full
of street lights, mosquitoes, those who stay
awake. Peeled paint on the ceiling, the door
sheds the skin it wore through
a drawn-out, twenty-year civil war.
The parents sleep in a room full of faith
hammered to the walls. Posing, a copper
cross, its inscription in Armenian asks
for blessings of God upon this home.
Through the mother’s sleeping lips a prayer
slips, rises, drifts and hovers above the boy
who dreams: he’s a grown man
spinning yarn around their home
until it’s as thick as a bombshell.
Then, cane in hand, walking through a cedar
grove, he drops a string of worry
beads into a well. Cracking a pumpkin
seed open with his teeth, he tastes
childhood in each closed casing.
In the morning, a thin scroll
of bread filled with tomato paste, oil, mint
will start the hurried day. But now, he sleeps
as he did the day he was born. Stillness
enters his lip, his mouth finally rests,
breathing as he will when his is older
than this war whose finger has carved a scar
in him, the size of an eye that will not close.

"Night in Lebanon" appeared in the Crab Orchard Review and was reprinted in Blue Arc West: An Anthology of California Poets. 

https://armenian-poetry.blogspot.com/2008/05/lory-bedikian-night-in-lebanon.html

For the original text in Armenian and its English translation visit https://armenian-poetry.blogspot.com/2025/01/blog-post.html

https://armenian-poetry.blogspot.com/2009/02/blog-post_22.html

Կը դիտէ
Հեռաձայնը զիս կը դիտէ
Հեռաձայնը զիս կը դիտէ ակնդէտ
Սեւ աչքերը քու աչքերուդ կը նմանին…
Կը սպասեմ
Քեզ կը սպասեմ ես անհամբեր
Քեզ կը սպասեմ ես անհամբեր ժամերով
Սեւ ժամերը օրեր կ՛ըլլան կ՛երկարին…
Կը մնայ
Հեռաձայնը լուռ կը մնայ
Հեռաձայնը լուռ կը մնայ անբարբառ
Մինչ սեւ բառեր կը կուտակուին մտքիս մէջ…
Կը տանի
Սրտիս զարկը կը տանի զիս
Սրտիս զարկը կը տանի զիս գործիքին
Սեւ գործիքը հոգւոյս վրայ կը ճնշէ…
Անշարժ է
Հեռաձայնը անշարժ է դեռ
Հեռաձայնը անշարժ է դեռ կը քրքջայ
Սեւ քրքիջը կը տարածուի, կ՛ընդլայնի…
Կը դողան
Մինչ ձեռքերս կը դողան
Մինչ ձեռքերս կը դողդղան անոր դէմ
Սեւ դէմքին պէս սեւ շրթունքներ, ականջներ…
Կը դիտէ
Հեռաձայնը զիս կը դիտէ
Հեռաձայնը զիս կը դիտէ ակնդէտ
Սեւ աչքերը քու աչքերուդ կը նմանին…
4.4.1960
Իրմա Աճեմեան, « Տալ Միայն» Իսթանպուլ 1975

Irma Ajemian: The Telephone

It watches

The telephone watches me

The telephone watches me intently

Its black eyes resemble yours…

I wait

I wait for you impatiently

I wait for you impatiently for hours,

The black hours become days, they drag on…

It stays

The telephone stays silent

The telephone stays dead silent

While black words pile up in my mind…

It moves

My heartbeat moves me

My heartbeat moves me to the instrument

The black instrument lays heavily on my soul…

It is motionless

The telephone is still motionless

The telephone is still motionless, it giggles

The black giggle spreads, it grows…

They shake

While my hands shake

While my hands shake towards it

The black face similar to the black lips, ears…

It watches

The telephone watches me

The telephone watches me intently

Its black eyes resemble yours…

Translated by Lola Koundakjian

https://armenian-poetry.blogspot.com/2008/06/lory-bedikian-beyond-mouth.html

On the back of every tongue in my family
there is a dove that lives and dies.
At night when my aunts and uncles sleep
the birds comb their feathers, sharpen beaks.
They are carriers, not only of the olive
branch, but the rest of our histories too.
As from the ark, we came in twos
with tired eyes from Lebanon, Syria,
the outskirts of Armenia and anywhere
where safety said its final prayers and died.
Like every simile ever written, the doves
or our tongues are tired and misread.
Dinners begin with mounds of bread, piled
dialogues between the older men.
Near our dark throats, the quiet
birds lurk to watch meals descend,
take phrases that didn’t reach
the truth and spin them into nests.
Now and then, we spit them out in shapes
of seeds, olive pits, or spines of fish.
The men never watch what enters past
the teeth, what leaves their moving lips,
and the doves know this. The women shut
their mouths when they don’t approve
of the squawking laughs. There is a saying
(or at least there should be) that if one doesn’t
believe what is said or true, they can ask
the dove on the back of the tongue
and it will chirp the ugliness or the pitted
truth, of how we choke on what we hide.
“Beyond the mouth” was first published in Timberline.

This Armenian poem, The Working Girl, a seminal work by Daniel Varoujan, is read by Yeraz Markarian

Visit the link for the original text

Դանիէլ Վարուժան։ ԲԱՆՈՒՈՐՈՒՀԻՆ https://armenian-poetry.blogspot.com/2006/10/daniel-varoujan-working-girl.html