ԱՂԲԻՒՐ
Լեռնային աղբիւր,
Սառնորակ, զուլալ,
Դու անմեղութեան
Տիպար եգ կարծես,
Քո ջրից միայն
Թող խմեն նրանք,
Ովքեր աշխարհում
Մաքուր են քեզ պէս։
MOUNTAIN SPRING
Mountain spring,
Flowing, chanting,
You are innocence incarnate
I’d like to think.
May only those
Who are as pure as you
Touch your sweet lips.
Vera Seinian
Baku, 1978
ՀՈՆԻՆ
Կարմիր, կարմիր,
Շորեր հագել,
Կարմիր, կարմիր,
Գոգնոց կապել,
Կարմիր շղարշ
Գլխին առել,
Գլխին կարմիր
Պսակ հիւսել…
Նորահարս է
Հոնին ասես։
Here is the English translation.
ROSEHIP
Clothed in
Red, deep red,
Garbed in an apron of
Red, deep red.
A red drape,
Wrapped around her head,
A red crown,
Woven into her hair…
A newlywed – her spring coronation,
Here in our mountains
Here, our rosehip…
ԱՓԵՐԻՍ ՄԷՋ
Ափերիս մէջ մի բուռ ցորեն,
Մի բուռ ցորեն ափերիս մէջ,
Ափերիս մէջ հողւորի տենչ,
Ու հողւորի մի բուռ քրտինք,
Մի այդքան էլ հաւատ ու երգ
Ափերիս մէջ…
Հաւաքել եմ հատիկ-հատիկ…
Ու ժպտուն են
Ցորեն ու շեղջ
Հողւորի տաք ժպիտի պէս
Ափերիս մէջ…
Ափերիս մէջ…
Here is the English translation.
IN THE PALM OF MY HAND
A fistful of wheat in my hand,
Glowing, a handful of sun it sits,
A fistful of a farmer’s toil in my hand,
Burning, a handful of his sweat it sits.
The song and melody,
Here in my hand.
I’ve collected it all – bit by bit,
And they look up at me,
The wheat and the grass,
And the farmer’s warm smile,
Here in my hand…
Here in my hand…
ՄԻ ՏՐՏՄՆՋԱՐ
Մի տրտմնջար, անտէր հոգի,
Թէ չունիս զենք ու պաշտպան.
Գանձերդ չեն խորած ոսկի,
Որ վրադ աչք ուենան։
Հոգիդ անդուռ շտեմարան,
Բերքերդ անկեղծ, անկապուտ.
Բաշխէ առատ եւ անվարան,
Մինչեւ վախճանն օրերուդ։
Վահէ Վահեան, 1967
****************************
****************************
****************************
Here is the English translation…
DON”T GRUMBLE
Don’t grumble, you restless soul,
That you don’t sit in a guarded fortress,
Yes – your pockets are not lined with gold,
But you are free from greed’s grasp.
And so, your soul remains a doorless warehouse,
Your fruit pure, untainted,
Spread it far and wide without hesitation,
Until your final breath.
Vahe Vahian, 1967
ԶԱՐԹՕՆՔ
Մի գիշերուայ մէջ,
Վրձինն առած,
Գարունը եկաւ
Մեր այգին մտաւ։
Գարունն իր սրտից
Զմրուխտէ-արեան
Կաթիլներ տուեց
Ծիրաններին։
Մի գիշերուայ մէջ
Գարունը առուին եռանքներ տուեց,
Զգեստներ տուեց ժայռերից կախուած
Մասրենիներին։
Մի գիշերուայ մէջ գարունը մէկէն
Ներկերն իր ամբողջ տուեց աշխարհին։
Վերա Սեինյան, Բաքու, 1978
****************************
****************************
****************************
Here is the English translation…
REBIRTH
One night,
Brushes in hand,
Spring arrived
And entered our garden.
One night,
Spring took her heart and squeezed –
Dripping her blood into our apricots.
One night,
Spring gave the creek new life
And clothed the grey boulders
In a mossy green.
And in this fashion,
Spring shared all of her paints
With mankind…
Vera Seinian, Baku, 1978
I saw “Here” this past spring when it had a brief run at the IFC in Greenwich Village. The film depicts the intense relationship shared between an American cartographer Will [Ben Foster] and an Armenian photographer Gadarine [Lubna Azabel] who has just returned to her homeland after spending several years abroad. After a few chance encounters together, Gadarine agrees to help Will with his GPS-to-land mapping assignment. Thus begins their road trip across the Armenian countryside – the honesty of the film is what impressed me most.
The film has a very poetic ebb and flow. The travels of Will and Gadarine progress in a very natural manner. From the rest stop to visiting friends to the border crossing into Nagorno-Karabakh, the films brutal honesty sets it apart from the standard road trip romance. The characters they encounter along the road to Karabakh and back are actual locals. By casting people familiar with the land and its customs as themselves, the film is transformed into a dream-like documentary…It is a film that needs to be watched or rather experienced…
This is a poem that I wrote while on a commuter bus into the city. There was an exceptional amount of traffic into the city due to a stalled tractor-trailer in the Lincoln Tunnel. New Jersey Transit remedied the traffic situation by diverting about a hundred buses or so to Secaucus junction in order to use the trains…This gave me just enough time to drift away and write this…
Haig’s “My Heart”
To the pages of an old photo album…
How many unspoken emotions,
How many dreams of yearning and of love,
And how many overripe hopes,
Sleep within the bosom of these pages,
Like an a flower that has never blossomed ?
But they begin to tremble, they wake !
Hopes and dreams, yearning and love,
Just as Spring fills the gnarled branches of oak with vibrant green youth,
I give new life to these shadows of the past…
My soul fills with tears..
And I begin to think…Who,
After many years have passed,
Will give these slumbering pages life once more,
And give these fading shadows another Spring…
Vahe Vahian, 1955
Here is the original Armenian version.
Vahe Vahian’s “To the pages of a photo album”
Այգուն, այգուն առուին լացող
Յանկերգն, ու ծար, ու ծիլ, ու ցօղ,
Ու արտոյտն ալ վեր խոյացող
«Սիրէ՝» կ՚ըսին…։
Ռուբեն Սեւակ, 1909
The flowing waters of the creek
through the orchard,
The trees, the fresh blossoms, the morning dew,
The nightingale – they all sing out –
“Love” they say.
Roupen Sevag, 1909
TO BE CONTINUED !!!
Twilight
The sun has set. The final rays of light stretch out from the edge of the clouds. The mountain tops remain snow covered.
And I walk.
The passers-by, the workers, their carts, their horses…I walk, lost amongst the crowd. The sadness within me grows heavier each day. The warmth of my heart has frosted over. I walk – broken, lost. The dying gleams of light – they torture me.
And so, another day has come to an end. And I walk; I walk on unfamiliar lands, to an unfamiliar sunset.
The wide sidewalk cries out beneath my feet. The tall buildings breath a cold indifference down my neck. Men pass me by – they lack the warmth of generations past. And the youth do not smile like my brethren back home.
Old pictures, hazy visions, my sweet memories – why do they torure me so?
I start to drift away – to a far away village. Along the edge of a field – the friendly path below my feet. I walk to my family home, on the far edge of the sleepy road that cuts through the farm.
The cobblestone path that witnessed you grow from toddler to grown man, that saw your grandparents grow. The mossy, friendly smile shines down from the homestead. And to
think of this nest – that belongs to you, your brothers, your sisters, your parents. This heavenly home that, on that wretched day, you decided to abandon for unfamiliar
skies under an unfamiliar roof.
And think back to your childhood – when the concepts of struggle, of exhaustion, and of suffering had no meaning and you were happy. Think back to the childhood memories, now long gone.
The aspirations of my dreams, these dead hopes – why must you plague my every step?
The sun has set, and I want to walk.
Walk, wayward soul.
You left your loved ones behind; they mourn your absence. The whisper of the happiness that you left beind, it calls out for you. Turn your back on your teary-eyed loved ones. Don’t look back. Just walk on.
Walk on to new struggles, a new hopelessness. Walk along the pathetic path of a pointless life. Walk; walk…as the sun sets again and again and until the sun sets no more.
They put a heart in your chest and a brain in your skull. “Live,” they said. “You are going to die.”
To feel pain, to breathe pain, to suffer and to walk until you die.
The sun has set, and I walk on.
Walk – that’s all that I can do…
Roupen Sevag
Here is the original Armenian version.
Roupen Sevag’s Twilight