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

Varand - THE SEA

The serene sea,
Truly enormous,
Kept kissing
The bashful shore
incessantly

The one next to me
Asked: Would you like to be
Immense as the sea?

Staring at the boundless blue,
I answered him:
I like to be like a brook,
Meandering towards
A hidden destiny

Let this blatant sea
Kiss the blushing shore
Forevermore

VARAND
translated by Tatul Sonentz

Varand - THE CITY 1 2 3 4

THE CITY 1

My city of desire,
city of dreams,
there was a time
when I mused
at each and every
of your corners of light.
There was a time,
I daydreamed of
the virgin I loved,
at a time, when
all were gathered
here together.
Whatever happened
to your big shindig?
What shadow fell
on your shining face?
Which scam was it
of your spiteful luck,
that left you thus,
on your own
my city of desire,
city of dreams?

Can there be a more
fascinating game?
Is there a fortune
more false and frigid
to beckon me
to a last encounter?
To show up as a stranger
just passing by?
To appear as an alien?
Heartfelt yearning
will draw me there
But don't let anyone
be there, no one
to open a gate,
not even my virgin --
let's walk alone.
Who thinks of you now,
city of desires,
city of my dreams?
It seems they walked out
on both the quick
and the dead

No matter, let all go well
at your new festival
(feast or circus?
Who can tell!)
I stand here
guarding your dreams,
your possessions,
but in particular, that
which you don't have
I stand guard
till sleep vanishes
and untainted memory
drops in as visitor

My city of desire,
my city of dreams


THE CITY 2

Now darkness
has veiled the magic city
of my yearning.
Sinful eyes glisten
in the gloom
above groping hands.
Snared in there
a love-sick woman
goes insane waiting
for a blood red
dusky dawn.

Now, darkness
has settled on the wet
sidewalks of my longing.
Blood-red eyes
come alive in the dark,
as hands weave a nasty plot.
Blood drips down
the plucked cheeks
of my virgin of hope,
gripping my lone dream coin
in her icy fist.

Love seeks hope
in a frenzy,
and finds nothing.
Hope seeks love
to find warmth without fear,
while I seek them both,
with no faith at all
Because darkness has
descended on the
city of my dreams.

THE CITY 3

Half-perceived cat
in the creek,
I believe it is
tainted water.
Either my eyes
are no longer keen,
or your cats are
far from clean.


THE CITY 4

An ant strolls on a drum,
it sees itself as a large army.
Echoes reaching from the rim
sound to it like a solemn hymn.

They ogle each other from skyscrapers
(the drum already a taught square),
a man, a god, in mirrored reflection,
flash thin smiles at the sculpted ant.

 

translated by Tatul Sonentz

VARAND 

Varand - GEHENNA'S SABATH

When the Creator fashioned the cosmos,
He noticed things like in flaming sunshine,
light was bottomless

Rain was mirthless,
violets shrinking,
fire spotless!

He sensed, that the melody
of waters falling
was way too flat and faultless,
and that the thirst
of a sprouting seed
exceeded that of the entire planet.

Then, God also noticed,
that He was not through
constructing the world,
he was not yet done
with His crucial quest!

For something to reflect
His own spirit
a haven for man,
something bare and open,
contentious, yet
something that could be
simple, within grasp
and yet beset
with complexity!

And much, much more!


Therefore He concocted
basic elements,
bestowing on them,
conjurer's skills,
He placed in the fusion
a breath of His own,
and He completed
His best opus yet:


The soul of the poet!

VARAND

translated by Tatul Sonentz 

Varand - YOU STILL DON'T KNOW

You still don’t know,
That each rain has its own colour,
You still don’t know, that each corner
Has it’s own shadow.
You are yet to know,
That each single dream
Is memory yet to bloom,
And each remembrance,
A trembling reverie.

Since you don’t know,
Come, listen, behold –
I love you as much
As all showers that turn into seas,
With all the longing of veiled spectres
Of all my dreams
– Now mere mementos –
And all budding memories yet to bloom.

My rain, my memory,
My dream, my love…


Varand
translated by Tatul Sonentz

Varand - ANCHOR

We met
On a clear evening.
The town was down with the blues,
Yet, we did not speak,
We said nothing,
Even though
we had missed each other so.

Such is life –
Hollow delirium
Striving for speech and wisdom,
Yet when uttering an “A”
It fails to connect
with any “B”…

Maybe that is good, even a must,
To keep the flame of dreams alive,
Like a wrecked vessel
laden with treasure
That does not rust
On the sands of
The shore…


Varand
1987
Translated by Tatul Sonentz

Varand - HONEY SOAKED SKIN

I sit and stare at your empty chair,
I miss your essence so clear, so fair,
The restless flow of your golden hair,
And the honey-yellow blouse you wear.

Sitting here I stare at your empty seat,
And I yearn to see your smile so sweet,
Your naughty eyes' twin candles when lit,
The orb of your mouth when you open it ...

So I sit and stare at your empty chair,
Sipping this coffee, dark as my kismet,
That keeps us apart -- yet in its despair,
This honey-soaked lust snubs the sunset.


VARAND (b. 1954)
Translated by Tatul Sonentz

Varand: Desertiana

At night, I cry and pray,
I burn a candle by my bed.
I set on fire the muted road
of sacred ruins,
a lone violet in my hand, blown in
by the blue wind…

I cry and tell my dreaming eye:
May you always bear the pain
of telling Good from Evil,
and may you be shut only
when I expire without a grave
and you rise again
as new dawn…

I pray that smiles stay
on infant lips forever,
like miracles in a dream…
I cry to spread faith
in fables and to make clowns
stop crying behind
their masks…

I pray that my hands remain clean,
with each grey hair on my head
a quest for absolution…
I do believe in the small blind dog
waiting at its dead
master’s door…

For my toil steeped in this half loaf,
and for the missed days
Ilost in dreams,
tormented by my many sins
I pray at night
and I weep…


Poem by Varand
Translated by Tatul Sonentz

Varand : Florist

I said, “Look
At that poor old
Florist’s
Twisted back,
Totally bent towards
The bouquet held
In his hand…

“Yes,” he replied, “but you see --
As a result,
His nose is close
To the flowers’ smell…
There is no gain
Without pain!”


Poem by VARAND
Translated by Tatul Sonentz