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

Thursday, 9 December 2010

Varand - LINES IN YOUR ABSENCE

The city was breathing
crimson white cerulean

Smooth sidewalks
in wondrously serene
clean measured gasps.
They helped
synchronize the pulse
of the city's towers
before the hustle while the pristine
countenance of dawn still retained
the invisible dew of plants
flowers
and meadows
before sunrise.
Or the last vanished scraps
of overnight hilarity scream cries¦
Serenity --
Sainte Marguerite
our quiet street
which stalked with proficiency
the re-ascension of pyramids
from Egypt to the great world-renown
museum near-by
the monumental emergence of the temple
in the eternal city
the prancing of the ram and the lion
from Mesopotamia
the awakening of the goddess Anahit
from Uratu, and
stones stones stones
eons eons eons


*  *  *

The city was breathing-murmuring
crimson-white
moments
as if seven hours before
a night of fireworks had never flared
and the hotel-fortress
at the stark corner
of the square
had not soared high into the sky
like a mystifying
fearsome phantom
With Count Dracula's black cape
on its nape.
As if
There never were
blazing rings
of frozen
hand eye
ardor chase.
As if no crowd ever gathered
at Chinatown, and
Tom Jones
had never freely excavated
the strata
of the tattered curtain of years
never was there a deluge of lights
and deflowered ones
Now, the Sainte Marguerite avenue
seemed so blameless
one would guess
you could not
in one or two leaps
reach the jaws of the huge
chinese dragon
the belly of the underground transit
incredibly awesome
which instead of taking you
to the Armenian Church
delivers you to an area
of drugs
drugstores
and a near-by
organic food store
farm village village village
clear soup
pepper mustard
and yellow blue green
oil oil oil
Then
as I look for eye-glasses
for my future
the black dude says,
Upon return,
and, upon return,
it turns out
my petty mistake is forgiven
beginning
and all is well
all things
have reached their destination.
prescription prescription
prescription
The yellow city was breathing
crimson
white.
Instead of the Armenian Church
we reached Organic Village
blue yellow green oil
and a decrepit old man
who has unbuttoned the blouse
of his homely spouse --
such an abundant breast
as if newly varnished
and polished.
Everything has gone back to its place
except for me --
having left my tiny domicile
I desire to return
to my abode
having already bought
eye-glasses,
for future use.
Eons eons eons
stones stones stones
my love
my love
my love


*  *  *

the city was breathing
crimson white
moments
Had I known
that after losing you
for so many years
you are living here
I would not have waited
at the waking day's gasp
inter-night laughter screams sobs
ripped shreds
bypassing the reappearance of the great
international museum
pyramids from the desert
the re-erection of the temple
from the eternal city
the rising of the ram the lion
from Mesopotamia
the arousal of the goddess Anahit
from Urartu
and disdaining eons eons eons
kicking stones stones stones
I would have found you my love
And the city
the pyramid
gushed red
cobalt torches
far from being fireworks
it was more a holocaust
and Count Dracula
taking advantage of the general
world-wide
fracas
flung himself down
from the hideous roof
of the fortress-inn
at a corner of the square
reaching the plaza
frozen
he broke
he hacked
the fiery rings
of hand eye
fervor flight
Chinatown was sacked
the gurgling monotone and black
Spitfire shift-shields of motorbikes
to stand In glorious warfare
against the javelins
of an erupting volcano.
The Count looked for virgins
to drink their warm blood
under his black cape
and the blue mist of young skin.
Chinatown
resonated with sirens
And dispatched protests
To the all-powerful and incredibly awesome
dragon
And the volcano and the monster
engaged in an inhuman
mortal battle.
The cannibal wolf-man Count
roamed everywhere
entering drugstores
drinking potions against
Cross silver chrism and metal.
Invisible in mirrored glass
yet he applied to his hair brilliantine
oil oil
Then treating the metropolis
as a mountain town
he located roof
tower dungeon
and facing the moon
concealed behind
clouds of thick
volcano smoke
ashes and soot
howled
Ooo ooo ooo
And you and I my love
in this nightmare
In this frightful apocalyptic
chaos
at last found and entered
the small yet warm and cozy
Armenian Church
to be saved
under the silver cross
of the priest in a black cassock
drinking wine the color of blood.


*  *  *

Outside they congratulated us
the decrepit husband
his varnished wife
and the virgins
swooning to the robust singing of Tom Jones.
Then
the awesome flood subsided
the liquid fire of the lava froze
turning to icy snow
the drops of blood dripping
from the fangs of the Count flowered
into myriads
of tiny glitzy glittering
violets on the floor
a white waft drifted along
a cool shivering zephyr
echoed a carol
orbiting around
serenity
blue yellow green sea


*  *  *

From the desert pyramids to the temple
of the eternal city
from the altar of Mesopotamia
to the Urartian mask of Anahit
stones stones stones
eons eons eons
scripts scripts scripts
And this is also script
halved by the sword of fate
these are lines
turned to cinders in the fire of time
immolated in the flames of the furnace
of sighs
in the wounds of regrets
they are brittle fragile
they are throbbing docile
in short they are stems of snow-flowers
they are lines born in your absence


Varand
translated by Tatul Sonentz

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