Tuesday 5 May 2009

The lost and found Armenian with a power


Helene Pilibosian


Helene Pilibosian was born in Boston, MA, and lives in Watertown, MA. She attended Harvard University from which she received a degree in the humanities. After working as an editor at The Armenian Mirror-Spectator, she now heads Ohan Press, a private bilingual micropress, which has published eight books of both prose and poetry. Its web site is


Her poems have appeared in such magazines as The Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review, Louisiana Literature, The Hollins Critic, North American Review, Seattle Review, Ellipsis and Weber: The Contemporary West and in many anthologies. She has published the books Carvings from an Heirloom: Oral History Poems, At Quarter Past Reality: New and Selected Poems and History’s Twists: The Armenians. Her early work has been cited in the Greenwood Encyclopedia of Multiethnic American Literature.


Some of her poems

1
Spirit climbs


where rhymes chime bold.


The bells of diction.


The rills of sound.


The goddess Anahit grew


in pagan beauty bounds.


With a gold bracelet


and an Armenian coin,


I dreamed reams of time


and climbed the Roman fence


like the adventurous vine


to the ancient Antioch yard.


A rooster crowed on an ancient day


near a mountain that sang praise


in the minor key.


It was the Asian symphony


with soldiers rollicking


in their nights of Bacchus.

The walls of empire were strong


but as legions went along they cracked.


Bits of mosaic that had tiled the floors


of the baths became artifacts.


Armenians grew the grapes


as that throne rose,


rams locking horns in habitual battle.


Armenians were lost,


but hung onto some Roman whims


like designs of rams and peacocks


in their embroidery,


like the rooster on the mountain


and the handsome profiles


of Roman men and women.


2
Armenians commanded


kings and property.


There were dynasties,


one after another, that entered


into the total mentality.


Give me a primer or a tale,


that of Tigran ruling for unity of states,


that of Queen Satenig with silk and gold thread.


Royalty in the clothes is also in the head.


It was then dead after the cymbal clash


lost its willing dash.


Impotent candles roamed the palaces.


Manuscripts found their thrones.


Puffs of incense rose.


Give me a primer showing


soldier Vartan freeing the cross


from the Persian deity.


Then there was Byzantine fealty.


Celebrations breed celebrations.


Celebrations seed us.


3


The Euphrates was near with ideas,


its belly having been swollen


with domination for so long it burst.


Centuries were the sanctuary


from which even the Church


took its inspiration in songs of the mass


that oozed a sweet sadness.


The Turkish sword or empire.


The Soviet Union hammer.


Yet landscapes were still


on perpetual loan for art.


Presidents adjusted the manners


of kings and czars.


The soothing hand of banners


was on their brows.



My heritage was born


out of the ice of these rivers


as God washed time with fine soap


and made it leather boots


for stepping in mud


and climbing through snow.


The tryst of the old


rhymes with people who were cold.


The beat of the new


rhymes with what to do.



The immortal grapevine


bears the leaves that wrap our lives,


the taste of tradition


preparing grapes for wine,


the fame of Armenian cognac


and of recovery in time.


From the book History's Twists: The Armenians by Helene Pilibosian



Serious Cartoons


We are all proofreaders


trying to correct the politics


that satirists like best


or trying to reverse the slide


of a sublime civilization.


The clock is saturated


with cartoons of the bus


driving us out of the storm


of human formations.

Our wishes slither along the stage


like anacondas searching for breakfast.


One door opens American,


the other closes French


as we practice our illusions


like children again playing with blocks.


Less often we search for that house


where our identity lived


and where our wishes whisper


once upon a moment that wasn’t.


We act silly as we climb trees


that pretend to be eternity.


We become saints when we spend


all emotions for food and healing.


We are grocers of our happiness,


magicians of our disappearances.


We are handypersons


of our liabilities and ideas.


We are now prisoners


of geometry and electronics.

The old illusions are simply


bubbles down the drain


and fade away as slyly


as they first appeared.

So lets hear global jokes,


funny as any we know,


to erase the frown’s creases.


Seashore Seeding


Sand in my mouth


was a dry day at the shore


where the swim had been


the wave of the hand


out of the cold


of the new Nantasket


without a roller coaster ride.


Former days hid there


like honey on yogurt,


slightly sweet like the photo


of the silken wheat field.

Like the impractical artist,


I couldn’t be taken by the vision


of the shore gradually being


drowned by rising waters.


I rejected the pessimism


of the puerile pen


for the joy of a wreath


understating its welcome.

Though there was no flavor


to savor in the smog


that sometimes deleted thought,


I painted my own ideas


with the wonder of ice cream,


the sensation of strawberries,


the pick of orchids,


the clean sweep of streets,


the shine of a new car,


the sense of the frugal,


the nostalgia of the rules,


the praise of winter ice,


the melting that is better.


All for a shore


that didn’t see me there.


The Saved Vase

A vase from 1800 speaks


with lips of testimony


in no court but the present moment.


Its chic takes a palatable poll


fired in a hired kiln


to play a tame chord


with magnificent sputter.


It saves its palatial luster.


Its design was always hence,


flowers with joints


like our fingers and toes.


A spray of blossoms


would compliment it neatly


in imitation or celebration


of its acceptance.


Its diction never slurs


or blurs its careful lines


into indefinites.


Attitude upon the table


is its final sum.


I’ll call the experts


if questions of value peak;


but who would tweak the truth?

Contrast the games that need


no glass or firing,


no time for their striving.


"What’s My Line"


and "Wheel of Fortune,"


the TV brainy lanes


or Pac-Man that made


computers so famous.


Contrast truth with truth


and you will see the vase


in all its radiance.



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