the next beginning
another restart
rekindled hopes and dream
aspirations, wish lists
and something about buckets
we navigate life
we negotiate with others
but mostly ourselves
trading off, always,
well, frequently
what we think we want
for what we think we want
this minute...
yeah, i used the royal we
the plural if you will
but honestly, truthfully,
it's all about me...
june 6, 2021
i should be writing
by the cold clear
mountain brook
under my apple and
walnut trees
the brook exists
flowing from the mountain
top of my mind to the
fertile valley of my heart
the trees in the yard
of the house in which
my children were born
june 5, 2021
you seem so... darn comfortable
comfortable in the very you of you
comfortable in the simple being you
making it so easy being content
being grounded and centered
it is in your aura
your well-tended modest garden
your two miniature collies
your home, the style and colors,
all seeming so... you.
it is what it is,
you are what you are...
there is nothing to covet here
its all part of the mindset
you never really set
it's some genetic blessing
or circumstantial behavioral thing
some psycho-spiritual blah blah
we all long for but never
quite have in our grasp
perhaps the secret
is there is no secret
just stop grasping and...
april 29, 2021
never got it, really,
that whole veiled thing
women covered up
some ancient antiquated...
but now,
neo-modernized
pandemically speaking,
all of us now as chaste women
veiled demure and humble
and the eyes, oh my,
blue hazel brown and green
spirographed corneas
and focusing pupils
almond shaped lashed and browed
are indeed the oft' spoken
windows to our souls
this i get... finally.
april 21, 2021
the forest by the lake
it is a poetic morning
with no clue why.
is it that the hard part
of spring is over?
is it the mesmer,
the slow numbing eddy
of this pan-demonic thing?
did i simply get
a good or perhaps bad
night's sleep?
was it something i et?
something i read?
a bit too much,
or not enough, drink?
was if this planet or that
is confounding with some
other heavenly body?
ah, the mysteries abound...
april 17
albany park
i want to write
full-time, poetry, novels,
essays that change the world.
i want to... truly.
i want to so bad
i will make the time
create the opportunity
rearrange and plan.
i will make a schedule
up at dawn, eat, coffee
write
break, walk, coffee
write and lunch
cycle, correspond, last coffee
write then dine
read, write, and watch
and retire
sounds like a plan
right?
i will do it
i will adhere
dutifully
with great resolve
dedication
the best intent
for two maybe three
days.
then the days
turning quickly to daze
from gazing into
the abyss of boredom
caused by impatience
and servitude
to routine...
april 17, 2021
albany park
Prelude
A son, a grandson,
Of this nation
My nation
Where I live
Only in my heart
Only in my soul.
There was or was not…
No, for sure there was
A city, a town,
A village
Many cities, towns,
And even more villages
In the highlands
The root, the very source,
Of my transplanted genes.
That village,
Those collective villages
Of our diasporan lot
Where but a meager few
Have ever been
Breathed the air
Sipped the water
Felt the soil, the rocks,
Beneath our feet.
Where we might have
Hunted, fished, tilled, and milled
Where we might have
Weaved, chopped, or hammered
A living of our own
In our own stores, shops, and schools
In our own land.
The villages
Maybe renamed
And changed
Villages that
Don’t know us
Could care less
Indifferent
To our returning
In pilgrimage
For a few days
Or hours.
Signs we were there
Mostly gone
Turned to rubble,
In urinals
Or barns
Used to build
The hovel homes of
Peasants, occupiers,
Victors
Grandsons
Great-grandsons
Of those
That kicked our asses
That kicked us out
Or made us… them.
It is from that
Imaginary altar
That altar, in my
Mind, soul, perhaps even
My American born liver
That I sing this song
In this foreign tongue
This great-grandson
Of Nishan and Mardin
This grandson
Of Levon and Aram
This son of Aram.
I. Job of a Nation
In our mountains
Yes, our mountains,
Separated by dialects
Of our common language
And influences of
Being conquered
Of intermingled words
And genetic codes
We mish-moshed into
This collective thing
This defiance
This independence
This hate of being
Subjugated
Though we so often were.
This fierce independence
A drive to be more
To build and succeed
(not together mind you)
All which seemed to
Totally piss off
Everyone around us…
For centuries
We, tending to ourselves,
On our lands
In everyone’s way
And whatever
Their manifest destiny.
II. The War
Repeat history
Sure, why not,
Blow up our old churches
Deface graves and stones
Displace people that
Lived there, again,
For centuries
Erase our facts
Our existence
It’s what you do
And have done
So very well.
What’s a building?
A statue?
Just things.
Our things, but,
Just things.
They are us
They are not us
Turn them to rubble
It’s what you do
So very well.
Don’t worry
Like the churches and schools
In the highlands
We have the photos
(Now videos too)
But as always, we keep them,
Etched or branded
In the broken, aching, hearts
Of all of us, every one of us,
Born there or
Wherever we have
Created a new Armenia
III. Tavadjaner
We need to blame
Ourselves
Well not all of us
We need
We must have
A traitor or three.
We were played
Putin taught us a lesson
As Stalin did
Again, over Kharabagh,
Nakhitchevan long gone.
Erdogan provided
The iron ladle
Of mercenaries
Of drones
Of command and control.
Forced to a treaty
The best we could do
Versus… what?
Annihilation?
So, our leaders are
What? Traitors?
For being played, big time,
For being naïve
For shunning Putin
For lack of leadership
For our paper ladle
Peashooters vs drones
Conscripts and volunteers
Facing seasoned mercenaries?
Traitors indeed!
Sure, traitors, something
We can grumble about
For centuries.
IV. Those still in the Highlands
My crypto brothers
My hidden sisters
Cousins and
Half Armenian
Half whatever
Part Muslim
Part Christian
A foot in the
Highland dock
The other in the
Diasporan Boat
We have nothing
But everything in common
To explore
To learn
To tolerate
To listen and share
And then what?
Part?
Çetin’s stoic
Joyful morose
Easter çorek baking
Heranuş
Hamşini Ayşenur
Singing sweetly
Songs Levon might have
Loved and danced to.
My father’s cousin
Somewhere
In Istanbul
Do you even know?
Are you even alive?
Do your children know?
Or care?
What about these Armenians
We or they or someone
Has labelled “crypto”
Children of the sword
Survivors of the sword
Indeed…
What a good culture
They got going there.
Don’t believe me?
Ask ‘em…
People of peace
And harmony
Of love and understanding
And Grey Wolves
And swords
And mercenaries
Armed with drones.
We had paper ladles…
IV. 1915
Incense wafting
Jingling into the air
Flowers cast onto a holy river
A simple handful of dirt.
Thousands thrown to die
Into Dudan near Çüngüş
Just a creviced
Bottomless cavern.
An entire village lies there.
Or souls burned in a church
The incense of charred flesh
The kushots of screams
Their ashes…
Stories upon stories
All different, all the same
Cut by swords, beheaded, or hanged
Cast clutching their babies
Into some river
You know the names…
Survival
Against the odds
The horrors
The blisters and burns
The tortures and whippings
The sites no one
Should ever see
Nor could ever forget
But for the dementia
Of old age… or death
V. Confession
Me?
Like the rest
Sitting in diasporan
Comfort… suffering.
We wrote checks
Worried a lot
Cried, felt the gut punch,
Followed the news
And opinions, of course,
On tactics
On geopolitics
On who should be helping us…
Surprised and aghast
At what when down
In that agonizing month
We expressed
From afar
The pain, the anguish,
Of loss
Of yet, another defeat.
That is our history.
There should not be
Heroic songs for this one.
Can’t dress this defeat
This sad outcome
Up as any kind of win.
So, what then is this?
This almost a poem
This pathetic cathartic
Attempt at what?
I’m not even sure.
A flailing attempt
To say something
Anything that helps
Ease the anguish
We all feel?
That is exactly
What it is…
Megha Asdoudzo.
April 24, 2021
First published in the Armenian Weekly.
covidian days
grudge on with
nothing to do
but, breeze on they do
from having done
nothing
accomplishing more
it is simply the idea
the idea of loving you
that makes me, almost,
want to start thinking about the
notion of, perhaps, maybe,
actually doing something
(but for the chaos
it would certainly
eventually
bring about)
it was simply that notion
a momentary glimpse
a reverie of
the list of firsts...
(until the first fight, but, then
there is that whole make up thing)
blushings of tenderness
spiraling into, whatta they call it?
oh yeah, passion
(or a winter - spring
approximation thereof)
made that next sip of coffee
one of the very best
