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Originally posted on Harvest:
© Ani Poghosyan (Boghossian) Absurdity Whenever the poet Balances the sea Paces the theater Without taking gravity Towards that perch He stands and awaits for air to exist. 2013 © Ani Poghosyan (Boghossian)

The inaccuracy

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Originally posted on Harvest:
© Ani Poghosyan (Boghossian) The inaccuracy of the reader With play at his match (However the world would produce Results) Constantly gaining a definite queen. 2013 © Ani Poghosyan (Boghossian)

How Long

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Originally posted on Harvest:
© Ani Poghosyan (Boghossian) How long Can an archangel, Both beautiful and insane, Ask the terrible world Why a country of my room Might be listening to only you? 2013 © Ani Poghosyan (Boghossian)

365 seeds of Armenia

Untitled by Rorò controvento

photo by Rossella Stocchetti

I live in a distant land that is born from the sun
Where eagles soar high and wind children run
I live in a land that is made from gold
Where summers are hot and winters are cold
Here the wind prays with the churches
This land you will find in your saint searches

I live in a land where east finds the west
Where raindrops are diamonds and rivers flow fast
Where the young make a circle and dance
Streams are laughing, bardis are tense
Girls with sunny eyes and long shinning braids
With jars in their arms walking down the grades

I live in a land where mountains are masters
Just see their height, feel the pride and nothing else matters
With honey dripping apricots and dark grapes
And the Saryan skies with clouds of all shapes
And the colorful manuscripts full of wisdom and glory
And the old wise men tell David’s brave story

I live in a land with miles of gold grains
Wind, wind again and apricot rains
Climb up mighty mountains, try to touch the skies
Touch freedom, endless space where eternity flies
And hear the drums clatter, hit and then roll
The young dance at sunset, the duduk will call

I live in a land with the nation of Hayk
With the pages of history where lightning has struck
Burning eyes are sad, dead sons of a mother
Two parts of a family that were never together
And if they fell then surely for us
If God let us live then surely we must

I live in a land that is armed with a cross
And the distant Ani that once glorious was
Is now mourning for us on the other bank
In the sea of grief our history sank
Generations that are forced to see
Ararat with vision of distance and dream for the.

I live in a land with a pomegranate heart
The earth sometimes cracks with the hope of rain
The holy stone cross that is now apart
Is kissing the soil, the soil is insane
Through these sad eyes the wind has gone through
The stones tell a story, some say it’s not true.

I live in a land that is small, I know
The map of Tigran we are never to show
But I assure you that our hope is great
And if we were forced to face such a fate
Then let light now shine on Nairi’s face
Let Hayastan wait for glorious days.

Vosdanig Adoyan by Bedros Afeyan

You’ll be alone again with your stained canvas
Studio walls receding, madness in full gallop
Your easel creaks with honking horns, Whooping Cranes
Half-drunk tubes, steep step fallen, hairy brushed lagoons

Cezanne could appear through pirouetted pears, pitied peaches
Matisse’s true lips, breasts, bottoms smiling almost colorless
Or Picasso to rearrange burning eyes and needles, crimes, cradles
So only Picasso remains — in all female receptacles

And you return to the canvas, exhausted
Mother and sister whispering in your head
Horse’s hooves, Turkish death march spring dance
Silence, pause, silence, breath

When even paint washes lines and traces
In smooth jolt, rapid caress, ejaculate
The canvas turns to overcoat, walks
Towards the NY night, into spittoons,
Museums, a loud curse abandoned

The virgin canvas bought from the provinces
Innocent, unassuming, bewildered
Deflected, diasporic renegade

The virgin canvas begs to forget
The virgin Mary and her son blast open
The past in lake Van, a chapel in ointments
Pigments, streaked scratches, eyes and hands
Chapel for cattle, for target practice, erased
Young Turkish recruits reclaiming their heritage

Vosdanig hangs himself to a pin on the wall
To carry the weight of witness, to see saints
Art and Armenia in endless stone serenade.

Bedros Afeyan
Pleasanton, CA

** aka Archile Gorky