Breaking down cultural barriers
Transposer une culture dans une autre par delà les barrières culturelles

Wednesday, 8 September 2010

Artem Harutiunian - ROADS


Shall I give a call
to my big-city buddies,
and quickly divulge
the exact place
of stillness?
Shall I tell them
of the real medieval
chaos of those who live
under grey roofs, that
they acquiesce to life's
silent whip?
Those looking down
their towers have decreed
a new decision against man,
and are astounded when
the poor body screams,
concealing its possessions
in the cold shade of the bridge
as if in rebellion.

Shall I give a call
to the stations, where
wide-awake, they await
my soul's call?
But let us delay till the horror
of time has passed away to enter
the millennium and no longer be.
I have covert tutors --
the trees of the
crooked alley.

My jet approaches
the frozen moon, and comes back
to human beings'
warmth-city, where
you seldom find these days
a being such as this.
Sick to the bone, what sort of senility
has the block created,
and these roads of the flesh
will they lead all the way
to the fiery call
of the soul?

Myself, my road,
guardian and killer,
son of my mind,
lord and master that
beheld bile everywhere.


Elsewhere, concealed in the soil,
writhing like a hydra-tail,
burrows the secret path,
on which structures built of solid mind,
medicine-stores, prison-inns,
secret underground sediments
building big bombs,
also lively children
among the dense blessings
of s pringtime leaves,
death-row inmates defeated
in confrontation with evils,
with a sharp-edged knife at the neck
honed with the gentle words
of a decree printed with the
delicate hands of a young girl living
with musings of marriage,
printing papers about death-life,
dreaming of acquiring love
under a half-moon,
(you were writing the firm poem
of your body and roaming
around city parks.)

Ah! the same hydra
(endless evil-motion)
absconds with centuries-long life,
turning thousand year old wisdom
to threadbare illusion,
the season negotiates with us
secretly over love.

Do us a favor, fog,
you who cover every notion
with your flake-soft hair,
it's your seal on Ararat
that awakens once in a while
the heavily armed conscience
of nations, (the contempt-face
of super-surveillance
has dust all over the place
that turns to deadly poison
in any sudden rain.)
Shall I report to you,
shake your forest-scented hand,
become stone in the core
of wet clay that keeps in touch
with death without the care of the living?
(So many shapes in oblivion!)

Here is the short list
of my covert actions:
(tramping around the thick skirts
of Mrakatz) I squeeze the hand
of the fallen month that had turned
to widespread compassion,
like a maimed and lame person,
(waking up in the morning, I cringe
instantly in the dourness of regret,
time is filled with warm
humanoid sounds.)

In a corner of the year
born for a year, near the bridge,
the musician with no future
blows a horn. Around him,
a casual passer-by,
twisted mouth, weeping voice,
without future, the entire chaos
without future, flows along the same
greedy bed, spilling-rushing, dumping
itself on the waste-heap of time.
And I swear to be honest,
and never commit a dishonest act
in my dreams (only in life),
I'll be civilized as soon as
I open the bouquet of papers,
although, they say Pan is still alive
in the old forest, and has passion,
and love and home,
and his cat -- now obese --
secretly owns the Naiads,
as well as narcotics,
concealed within
its sharpened hidden claws.

Suddenly a bunch of screams --
confessing failed dreams,
fallen areas along the border,
the roots of its origins,
no caveats facing sorrow,
like birds in flight,
they knock themselves about
and turn silently to ashes
at the hands of the
specter's mind.

...On the sunny side
of the year of the dragon,
there's a small flower taking root,
open as a wound, but smiling --
a sign of hidden universe.

translated by Tatul Sonentz

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