THE GREAT WHITE SHARKS OF YOUR EYES

see the night was decorated with the yellow clouds
of the questions in your eyes on your knees and back
and this bird – look it’s flying – really is just the agent
of this darkness that was needed for the clouds
to show off the yellowness of the joy of the questions
from your eyes and your knees and your back

see the night never really ends it’s just that bird
that leaves our sky to go where people like you and me
are waiting for its return to see the yellow joy and hope
from our eyes and our knees and our backs
and the questions – I mean decorations of the night
and do you want a glass of water or a sip of this?

::: ::: :::

[Picture : The Great White Sharks Of Your Eyes by reading_is_dangerous]

HULTABUNAMEH & RAMSHAGHTABUNABEH

I have no words. Nobody speaks to me. I do not hear a thing.

I am stuck with my fingers. They want me to write. Silly fingers of mine. Silly me. I know words, many words. I could invent words too. Let me do it. Hultabunameh. That word means “all the soft surfaces in the world.”

There is a spear, you know, that is ready to strike at the hultabunameh. The spearhead itself is part of the ramshaghtabunabeh, which is just another invented word for “the community of all the piercing things in the whole universe.”

The
hultabunameh
and
the
ramshaghtabunabeh
enjoy
a
very
special
relationship.

I have no words. Nobody speaks to me. I do not hear a thing. Without a word from you, there can not be a word from me. Not a good word.

::: ::: :::

[Picture: Words, because I stopped drawing by reading_is_dangerous]

I MISS YOUR BODY

sedentary hate sits on the countless mouths
of all the wise rivers that run parallel
to the noise of the markers of the end
of death, of being unable to wait while being still

one thing does not go unless artificially
within the dark surfaces of the edges

...are eaten the blind eyes,
the frozen departures,
the dirty seat of the unholy sight

...has left, has grown little
the worth of this, the worth of that -- oh!
the worth of so many things

I miss your body
and all that shines within

::: ::: :::

[Picture: Frozen noise by reading_is_dangerous]

MAYBE TWO DAYS

maybe two days
one on top of each other
like title and subtitle
or the light bulb in your mouth
or the walking torsos
or the cut hand and the cut beak of a chicken man

maybe two days without you
turn everything upside down
break the glass
throw the bottle
dig a hole where it can’t be done
and speak to yourself alone, at night

maybe two days without you
and my blood leaves me
I become a flying knife
a noise
a tear as heavy as a bad poem

maybe two days without you
are growing on me
are pushing me
my head
looks down
I see
two days walking

I walked two days without you
into the desert of my room
a camel – an orange in my hand
looking for the light of you

two days without the sun of your love
and I’ve become the inside of a crow
the inside of a planet
the inside of a god of darkness

maybe two days
the difference in between
being with you and being without you.

::: ::: :::

[Picture: The forest by reading_is_dangerous]

THE HAND OF THE SKY

an old man
an old voice
reading from the Bible in Russian
over the radio

I would turn it off if I didn't know
that music will soon be playing again
earlier they played something pretty
by Tomaso Albinoni

some people enjoy both the music and the readings
not me
although the readings do not bother me
as much as the commercial adds on other radios

in Paris, it was driving me mad
hearing all what they were saying
this product, that service
information mixed with jokes & sound effects

back here, in Yerevan
the cars, trucks, buses
half of them have old soviet-made engines
very noisy

hand of the sky
hand of the sky comes down on me
white fingers on the roof tops
sun rays in the noisy day

here I am, back to my studies of the Russian language
but I should be reading:
Refugee Health:
An approach to emergency situations

hand of the sky plays with dust
hand of the sky does not mind the noise
hand of the sky, if it were writing
what words would it give us?

::: ::: :::

Picture: Jokes & sound effects

FATE IS AN EMPTY POCKET

rolling hills
sleepy plains
silent mountains

I don’t know where I stand—
but in the middle of a river, maybe

I am, I find myself unable to articulate my thoughts
to put words,
to choose the right words

rolling hills
sleepy plains
why are the mountains silent?

I went to Paris to get a job
and I got it.

Soon I shall be going to Congo
To study… ha! ha! ha! I should have been a doctor;
Then I will be going to Russia, Moscow

rolling pills
sleepy plains
I have been a mountain

four years, four years I spent unemployed
Because of my own decision…
I didn’t want to work

I had hopes
I thought… what did I think?

depressing pills
sleeping at certain hours
to avoid… a certain pain

a volcano stands there in Congo
They told me there is a forest
I wonder what plants grow there

militias, armed men
They rape women – all of them

what pills will I need
That’s not important
The volcano could drive me crazy, mad, insane

Hypnotized by a mountain
Shit.
What’s happening to me? is not important

eyes
many eyes – what is, is

I was never a poet. No
My English is, is

too old am I, yes, no
I am only forty, already, oh! I found a white hair

on my chest
Silver. Old. Monkey. Mountain.

Russia, after Congo, after France, after Armenia,
after Canada, after so many countries

here fascism. I never gave you the full story
Bah! There is nothing to say

although I did speak – today I spoke
for two hours, I explained everything

good people listened to me, my words
Monkeys, mountains, plains, rivers

Rivers of words
Rivers of words

I bought books in Paris, yes, yes
I allowed myself that luxury

Anthologies – Yiddish poems, poems by Darwish
and poems from a group of French poets, LE GRAND JEU

and words, hills of words by Cesare Pavese –
Travailler fatigue (To work is tiring)
La mort viendra… (Death will come…)
et elle aura tes yeux (and she will have your eyes)


Le jour sera tranquille, froidement lumineux
Comme le soleil qui naît ou qui meurt
Et la vitre hors du ciel retiendra l'air souillé.
--LE PARADIS SUR LES TOITS

last month I couldn’t speak
because I was convinced that my words were read
by the wrong people – here, in Armenia

in Paris I could not speak
because I could not afford the fuckin’ Internet –
I had no time, and to work is tiring

right now I can not speak – again,
I cannot tell you – because, I cannot even tell you why –
Congo, then Russia, then…

fate
fate is an empty pocket. Woods. Silence. A river?

fate is just a word
Who is afraid of words ?

::: ::: :::

[Picture: Tulips by reading_is_dangerous] (April 10, 2008)

"The secret of happiness is freedom, and the secret of freedom, courage."
Thucydides (B.C. 460-400)