Guest Posted October 20, 2000 Report Share Posted October 20, 2000 Alright you lot? Well I must say, I've heard so much about this famous Armenian poets, and poetry. But I'm so frustrated because, although I can pick out a few bits and sentences, I cant read any! I would really love to read some. Is there any translations in English? Also for those who speak limited armenian as well! Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted October 22, 2000 Report Share Posted October 22, 2000 So I take it that's a "no" then? Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted October 22, 2000 Report Share Posted October 22, 2000 Kazza, I am sure there are some references, but I don't have it in my possession. There is an Armenian American poetess – Diana Hovhannesian (?). Others may correct me if this is not her right last name. I think she translates Armenian poetry into English. [This message has been edited by MJ (edited October 22, 2000).] Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted October 28, 2000 Report Share Posted October 28, 2000 Kazza, Actually you will ba able to find plenty of translations. If you ever have the time, drop by the UCLA URL (University Research Library). They have a lot of Armenian books in translation. I hope this will help. Aneta Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted October 28, 2000 Report Share Posted October 28, 2000 Aneta, Thanks. That helps - but where is this library? The only things is if it's on america it would be pretty difficult because I dont live there! Never mind - I will do a search from Uni research libraries and see if there are any in England. Thanks for the congrats on my cousin, by the way! Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted October 29, 2000 Report Share Posted October 29, 2000 Kazza, Here are a few poems I found. St. Nerses the Gracious (1102-1172) Morning Song O Day-spring, Sun of righteousness, shine forth with light for me! Treasure of mercy, let my soul thy hidden riches see! Thou before whom the thoughts of men lie open in thy sight, Unto my soul, now dark and dim, grant thoughts that shine with light! O Father, Son and Holy Ghost, Almighty One in Three, Care-taker of all creatures, have pity upon me! Awake O Lord, awake to help, with grace and power divine; Awaken those who slumber now, like heaven's host to shine! O Lord and Saviour, life-giver, unto the dead give life, And raise up those that have grown weak and stumbled in the strife! O skilful Pilot! Lamp of light, that burnest bright and clear! Strength and assurance grant to me, now hid away in fear! O thou that makest old things new, renew me and adorn; Rejoice me with salvation, Lord, for which I inly mourn. Giver of good, unto my sins be thy forgiveness given! Lead thy disciples, heavenly King, unto the flocks of heaven! Defeat the evil husbandman that soweth tares and weeds; Wither and kill in me the fruits of all his evil seeds! O Lord, grant water to my eyes, that they may shed warm tears To cleanse and wash away the sin that in my soul appears! On me now hid in shadow deep, shine forth, O glory bright! Sweet juice, quench thou my soul's keen thirst! Show me the path of light! Jesus, whose name is love, with love crush thou my stony heart; Bedew my spirit with thy blood, and bid my griefs depart! O thou that even in fancy art so sweet, Lord Jesus Christ, Grant that with thy reality my soul may be sufficed! When thou shalt come again on earth, and all thy glory see, Upon that dread and awful day, O Christ, remember me! Thou that redeemest men from sin, O Saviour, I implore, Redeem him who now praises thee, to praise thee evermore! (The above rendering is incomplete; there are in fact thirty-six stanzas, each consisting of three verses, all the verses of each stanza starting with one letter of the Armenian alphabet - which in those times still consisted of only thirty-six letters. There exist at least half a dozen different musical settings of this rather popular, early-morning hymn.) Sayat Nova (1712-1795) The youth and the streamlet Down from yon distant mountain The streamlet finds its way, And through the quiet village It flows in eddying play. A dark youth left his doorway, And sought the water-side, And, laving there his hands and brow, "O streamlet sweet!" he cried, "Say, from what mountain com'st thou?" "From yonder mountain cold Where snow on snow lies sleeping, The new snow on the old." "Unto what river, tell me, Fair streamlet, dost thou flow?" "I flow unto that river Where clustering violets grow." "Sweet streamlet, to what vineyard, Say, dost thou take thy way?" "The vineyard where the vine-dresser Is at his work to-day." "What plant where wilt thou water?" "The plant upon whose roots The lambs feed, where the wind-flower blooms, And orchards bear sweet fruits." "What garden wilt thou visit, O water cool and fleet?" "The garden where the nightingale Sings tenderly and sweet." "Into what fountain flow'st thou?" "The fountain to whose brink Thy love comes down at morn and eve, And bends her face to drink. "There shall I meet the maiden Who is to be thy bride, And kiss her chin, and with her love My soul be satisfied." Fr. Leont Alishan The Nightingale of Avarayr Whence dost thou come, O moon, so calmly and softly, Spreading o'er mountain, valley, and plain thy light, And over me the Patriarch, wandering sadly, With wandering thoughts, in Avarayr to-night? Here where our matchless, brave Armenian fathers Fell as giants, as angels rise anew, Com'st thou to spread o'er the bones of the saints a cover Of golden thread, from thy cloud of snowy hue? O dost thou think, though thy brow be bright already, Adornment of heroes' blood would become it well? Or dost thou still, in silence and secret, wonder To think how the great and terrible Vartan fell, Giving his enemies' lives to the shades of darkness, And giving his spirit into the hands of God? And thou, O River Dghmood, thou flowest lamenting Amid thy reeds, sad river bestained with blood. And thou, O wind from Mankuran's upland blowing, Or Ararat's sacred summit, gray-haired and hoar, Thou, too, like me, uncertain and trembling movest, On faint wings passing the mountains and valleys o'er. From forest to forest, from leaf to leaf, lamenting, Thou comest upon the plains, in pale moonshine, To carry unto Armenian hearts the echo Of the last sighs of this worn heart of mine. Nightingale, voice of the night, little soul of the roses, Friend of all mournful hearts that with sorrow are sighing! Sing, little nightingale, sing me a song from that hillock, Sing with my soul of Armenia's heroes undying! Thy voice in the cloister of Thaddeus reached me and thrilled me; My heart, that was close to the cross, in a reverie grave, Suddenly bounded and throbbed; from the cross I hastened to seek thee - Came forth and found thee here, on the field of Vartan the brave. Nightingale, this is the tale that of thee our fathers have told us: That Avarayr's nightingale, singing so sweetly at daylight's dim close, Is not a bird, but a soul, - it is Yeghishe's sweet-voiced spirit, That sees the image of Vartan for aye in the red-blooming rose. In winter he walks alone, and mourns in the midst of the desert; In spring comes to Avarayr, to the bush with roses aflame, To sing and call aloud, with Yeghishe's voice, upon Vartan, To see whether Vartan perchance will answer when called by his name. If like the voice of a nightingale faint and weary, Songs of Togarmah, my voice shall reach your ears,- Sons of the great, whose valiant and virtuous fathers Filled plains, books, and the heavens, in former years,- If one small drop of blood from Armenia's fountain, The fount of Bahlav, flow into your bosoms' sea,- If you would that your country's glories for you be written, Come forth to Ardaz with your Patriarch, come with me! NB. Yeghishe was an Armenian historian of the fifth century AD, a contemporary of Vartan, who died in the battle of Avarayr in 451. In his history of the Persian invasion he compares Vartan drenched in blood, to the red rose. Hence the allusions in the poem. Fr. Alishan actually wrote the poem in ancient Armenian of roughly the same period. This poem (from the seventh stanza onwards) is also a famous and rather beautiful song - there are at least two different musical versions of it. In fact Vartan, and the other Leontines, as they are known, are now saints! Moon in the Armenian Cemetery O moon, fair lamp divinely lit! God set you in the sky To lead night's hosts, for darkness blind And for my heart an eye. When o'er my head you swing, your lamp A glittering chain doth hold; Your string of heavenly silver is, Your wick of burning gold; And, as a diamond flashes light, You shed your rays abroad. How bright you were, that second night, Fresh from the hand of God! How bright you were when first was heard The heavenly nightingale! The wind, that seemed like you alive, Played soft from vale to vale; With that calm breeze, the limpid brook Plashed in an undertone; There was no human ear to hear, The angels heard alone. The angels swung you in their hands, And silently and slow You traversed heaven's cloudless arch, And sank the waves below, What time the sun with feet of fire Was soon to mount the blue, While o'er the silent world were spread Twilight and hoary dew. Stay, stay, O sun! awile delay; Rise not in the blue sky, But let the little moon still walk The cloudless realm on high! Stay, little moon! Oh, linger yet Upon the heights and hills; Pass slowly, calmly, where your light The sleeping valleys fills! For I have words to utter yet, To you I would complain. Oh, many are my bitter griefs, My heart is cleft in twain. Bright moon, haste not away because You hear a mourner's cry! As comforter of broken hearts You shine there in the sky. You come to Eden's land, but not As on that far first night, When man was happy, knowing naught Save life and love's delight. Then your white radiance was warm To waves and flowerets fair, And wheresoe'er your soft light fell, Immortal life bloomed there. Turn and look down on me, O moon! Gaze at our mountains' foot, And see the ruined temples there, And tombs so sad and mute, - Tombs of Armenians who long since From earth have passed away. There sleep the ashes of our sires, In darkness and decay. Armenians they, the earliest born Of all the human race, Who had their home within the land Once Adam's dwelling-place. [Here follows a long list of Armenian kings.] But you are setting fast, O moon! Your lustre fades away, And like a silver plate you sink In cloud-banks dense and gray. Stay yet a moment's space, O moon, Stay for the love of me! There in the valley is one stone Unknown to history. Go, let your last light linger there, And lift it out of gloom, For that obscure and nameless stone Will mark the poet's tomb! Catholicos Mgrdich Khrimian "Hayrig" (1820-1907) The memorial of the lamenting soldier Oh, not for me will be a grave With cross-marked stone to view! I die upon the field of death; My name will perish too. And not for me a splendid bier, Or burial's pageant vain, Or family to mourn for me, Or friends for funeral train. My tomb, which my own hands have dug, Will be a trench profound; The graves of thousands of the dead With mine will make a mound. Then strip me of my uniform, My arms and honours proud, And leave me but my blood-stained shirt To serve me for a shroud. A soldier's corpse is valued not; Within a trench to lie 'Tis cast, as on the threshing floor The sheaves are piled on high. We from the battle-field set out, And we have reached our rest. Tired soldiers of the field of blood, Sleep with untroubled breast! At Gabriel's trump, our mound shall stir, And as in fresher guise Eagles their plumage strong renew, We to new life shall rise. Christ comes as judge, and all earth's thrones Before God's bar are set. The judgement of the field of blood Just God will not forget. Ye living soldiers, fare ye well! I leave this world. I bore The sword, and perished by the sword, As Christ foretold of yore. A farmer God creted man, The soil to dress and till; Curst be the hand whose wicked art Has taught him blood to spill! Wise men predict a golden age When peace o'er earth shall breathe, When kings shall all be reconciled, And swear the sword to sheathe. The lion shall gentle grow, the wolf Browse by the lamb in peace, The fields of blood with lilies bloom, And all earth's conflicts cease. A dream! I do not credit it. Christ's words come back to me, That nation shall 'gainst nation rise, Earth be a bloody sea. O Jesus, Saviour bringing peace! Our world you came and saw. Men are insane; they have not yet Mastered your gospel's law. Angel of love incarnated! You said all men that live Are brethren; give to us your peace, Which this world cannot give! Mikayel Nalbandian (1830-1866) Liberty When God, who is forever free, Breathed life into my earthly frame, - From that first day, by His free will When I a living soul became, - A babe upon my mother's breast, Ere power of speech was given to me, Even then I stretched my feeble arms Forth to embrace thee, Liberty! Wrapped round with many swaddling bands, All night I did not cease to weep, And in the cradle, restless still, My cries disturbed my mother's sleep. "O mother!" in my heart I prayed, "Unbind my arms and leave me free!" And even from that hour I vowed To love thee ever, Liberty! When first my faltering tongue was freed, And when my parents' hearts were stirred With thrilling joy, to hear their son Pronounce his first clear-spoken word, "Papa, mama," as children use, Were not the names first said by me; The first word on my childish lips Was thy great name, O Liberty! "Liberty!" answered from on high The sovereign voice of Destiny: "Wilt thou enroll thyself henceforth A soldier true of Liberty? The path is thorny all the way, And many trials wait for thee; Too strait and narrow in this world For him who loveth Liberty." "Freedom!" I answered, "on my head Let fire descend and thunder burst; Let foes against my life conspire, Let all who hate thee do their worst: I will be true to thee till death; Yea, even upon the gallows tree The last breath of a death of shame Shall shout thy name, O Liberty!" The Russians exiled Nalbandian to the province of Sarakov, where he died of lung disease contracted in prison. It was forbidden in Russia to possess a picture of Nalbandian; but portraits of him, with his poem on "Liberty" printed around the margin, were circulated secretly. Raffi (1835-1888) Thou and I I would I were the lake, so blue and calm, And thou, fair maiden, with reluctant pride, Wouldst see thy picture, delicate and faint, Thy sacred image, in my depths abide. Or would that on the shore a willow grew, And thou mightst lean on it, and the frail tree might let thee fall into the lake, and there Sway with its waters everlastingly! I would I were the forest, dark and vast, And that thou there mightst come to muse alone, And, ere I knew it, I might overhear What thy lips murmur in an undertone. Or would that thou mightst sit beneath a tree, Singing a pure, sweet song; and leaf and bough, With admiration trembling, would descend And form a coronal to wreathe thy brow. I would I were the face of the dark sky, That so from heaven I might shake down on thee A multitude of stars, as 't were my tears; Ah, do not tread upon them scornfully! Would I the writer were, and thou the theme! Would though affection wert, and I the heart! I the bouquet, and thou its silken string; When thou art loosed, the flowers will fall apart. Oh, would I were a lover of sweet song, And thou my lyre, angel for whom I pine! And that thy chords beneath my unskilled hands Might vibrate till thy heart responds to mine! (Actually, this does not seem to have translated well...) Archbishop Khoren Nar Bey de Lusignan (d. 1892) Dawn Roses upon roses Spread in sheets below, In the high blue ether Clouds that shine like snow, Lightly, brightly, softly, Spread before thy feet, In this tranquil season Wait thy face to greet; Waits in hope all nature, O Aurora sweet! Radiant, pure she rises, In her veil of white, With her floating tresses Gleaming golden bright, Spreading wide in ripples By the zephyrs swayed, And her pearly pinions Opening, half displayed - Gracious, fair Aurora, The celestial maid. On her brow bright jewels Glow in loveliness, And her joyous glances Heaven and earth caress; While her rose-lips, brighter Than earth's blooming bowers, Smiling blithely, scatter Perfume sweet in showers, Making yet more fragrant Many-coloured flowers. Now the small birds twitter 'Mid the leaves so green, Blending with their rustle; Hail, O Dawn serene! Hail! Thou changest darkness Into sunlight free, The sad earth thou makest Glad and full of glee. All created beings Cry "All hail" to thee. Unto thee each offers Its first gift in love, Tenderest gift and holiest; Cloud that floats above, Zephyr, crystal streamlet, Flowers and nightingale - All with love are melted, Praise thee, bid thee hail, Heavenly maiden, lovely In thy shining veil! Thou our hearts that charmest Now with such delight, Leave us not forsaken In the grave's dark night! When our eyes are closing, Let it beam and shine Still before our souls' eyes, That sweet light of thine, Full of hope and promise, Dawn, thou maid divine! To my sister Fain would I be to thee, my sister sweet, Like the bright cloud beneath Aurora's feet A pedestal to help thee mount on high Into the blessed peace of the blue sky. The zephyr would I be, to which is given To waft the rose's fragrance up to heaven, That thy pure soul, amid life's stress and strain, Might not exhale its perfume sweet in vain. Fain would I be to thee as crystal dew Of morn, that doth the young flower's sap renew. And with its vapour veils her from the sun, Lest thy fresh heart be seared ere day is done. Fain would I be to thee a nightingale, Telling within thine ear so sweet a tale; No meaner strain thine eyes with sleep should dim. And thou shouldst wake to hear a sacred hymn. Fain would I be to thee a broad-armed tree That casts wide shadow on the sultry lea, And cheers from far the wandering traveller's view; So would my love shed o'er thee shade and dew. Fain would I be to thee a refuge sure, As 'neath the thatch the swallow builds secure. A humble roof, it yet the rain can ward; So I from storms thine innocence would guard. Ah! when to thee this world, as yet unknown, Its barren hopes, its bitterness hath shown, Fain, fain would I bring comfort in that hour To thy sad heart. Oh, would I had the power! The first green leaves Scarce are the clouds' black shadows Pierced by a gleam of light, Scarce have our fields grown dark again, Freed from the snow-drifts white, When you, with smiles all twinkling, Bud forth o'er hill and vale. O first-born leaves of spring-time, Hail to your beauty, hail! Not yet to our cold meadows Had come Spring's guest, the swallow, Not yet the nightingale's sweet voice Had echoed from the hollow, When you, like joy's bright angels, Came swift to hill and dale. Fresh-budded leaves of spring-time, Hail to your beauty, hail! Your tender verdant colour, Thin stems and graceful guise, How sweetly do they quench the thirst Of eager, longing eyes! Afflicted souls at sight of you Take comfort and grow gay. New-budded leaves of spring-time, All hail to you to-day! Come, in the dark breast of our dales To shine, the hills between! Come, o'er our bare and shivering trees To cast a veil of green! Come, to give sad-faced nature An aspect blithe and new! O earliest leaves of spring-time, All hail, all hail to you! Come to call up, for new-born Spring, A dawn of roses fair! Come, and invite the breezes light To play with your soft hair! Say to the fragrant blossoms, "Oh, haste! men long for you!" Hail, earliest leaves of spring-time, Young leaves so fresh and new! Come, come O leaves, and with sweet wings Of hope from yonder sky Cover the sad earth of the graves Wherein our dear ones lie! Weave o'er the bones so dear to us A garland wet with dew, Ye wings of hope's bright angels, Young leaves so fresh and new! Bedros Tourian (1851-1872) Little Lake Why dost thou lie in hushed surprise, Thou little lonely mere? Did some fair woman wistfully Gaze in thy mirror clear? Or are thy waters calm and still, Admiring the blue sky, Where shining cloudlets, like thy foam, Are drifting softly by? Sad little lake, let us be friends! I too am desolate; I too would fain, beneath the sky, In silence meditate. As many thoughts are in my mind As wavelets o'er thee roam; As many wounds are in my heart As thou hast flakes of foam. But if heaven's constellations all Should drop into thy breast, Thou still woudst not be like my soul, - A flame-sea without rest. There, when the air and thou are calm, The clouds let fall no showers; The stars that rise there do not set, And fadeless are the flowers. Thou art my queen, O little lake! For e'en when ripples thrill Thy surface, in thy quivering depths Thou hold'st me, trembling, still. Full many have rejected me: "What has he but his lyre?" "He trembles, and his face is pale; His life must soon expire!" None said, "Poor child, why pines he thus? If he beloved should be, Haply he might not die, but live, - Live, and grow fair to see." None sought the boy's sad heart to read, Nor in its depths to look. They would have found it was a fire, And not a printed book! Nay, ashes now! a memory! Grow stormy, little mere, For a despairing man has gazed Into thy waters clear! Isn't this autobiographical poem rather charming?! It may have been a little weakened by the English renderer's attempts to make the verses rhyme, but the original is of very high quality, very simple but also very direct and very touching... Bedros Tourian died of consumption at the age of 21, and the allusion is to the fact that apparently Tourian was in love with an actress, whom he overheard scornfully saying, at a meeting during which he wanted to persuade a distinguished theatre producer to stage one of his plays, when a friend of hers mentioned the young poet/playwright, "Oh him? He is trembling and so pale - he might even die one of those days!" (which, alas, was indeed borne out in the event). My death When Death's pale angel stands before my face, With smile unfathomable, stern and chill, And when my sorrows with my soul exhale, Know yet, my friends, that I am living still. When at my head a waxen taper slim With its cold rays the silent room shall fill, A taper with a face that speaks of death, Yet know, my friends, that I am living still. When, with my forehead glittering with tears, They in a shroud enfold me, cold and chill As any stone, and lay me on a bier, Yet know, my friends, that I am living still. When the sad bells shall toll - that bell, the laugh Of cruel Death, which wakes an icy thrill - And when my bier is slowly borne along, Yet know, my friends, that I am living still. When the death-chanting priests, dark browed, austere, With incense and with prayers the air shall fill, Rising together as they pass along, Yet know, my friends, that I am living still. When they have set my tomb in order fair, And when, with bitter sobs and wailing shrill, My dear ones from the grave at length depart, Yet know, my friends, that I shall be living still. But when my grave forgotten shall remain In some dim nook, neglected and passed by, - When from the world my memory fades away, That is the time when I indeed shall die! To Love A galaxy of glances bright, A sweet bouquet of smiles, A crucible of melting words Bewitched me with their wiles! I wished to live retired, to love The flowers and bosky glades, The blue sky's lights, the dew of morn, The evening's mists and shades; To scan my destiny's dark page, In thought my hours employ, And dwell in meditation deep And visionary joy. Then near me stirred a breath that seemed A waft of Eden's air, The rustle of a maiden's robe, A tress of shining hair. I sought to make a comrade dear Of the transparent brook. It holds no trace of memory; When in its depths I look, I find there floating, clear and pale, My face! Its waters hold No other secret in their breast Than wavelets manifold. I heard a heart's ethereal throb; It whispered tenderly: "Dost thou desire a heart?" it said. "Beloved, come to me!" I wished to love the zephyr soft That breathes o'er fields of bloom; It woundeth none, - a gentle soul Whose secret is perfume. So sweet it is, it has the power To nurse a myriad dreams; To mournful spirits, like the scent Of paradise it seems. Then from a sheaf of glowing flames To me a whisper stole: It murmured low, "Dost thou desire To worship a pure soul?" I wished to make the lyre alone My heart's companion still, To know it as a loving friend, And guide its chords at will. But she drew near me, and I heard A whisper soft and low: "Thy lyre is a cold heart," she said, "Thy love is only woe." My spirit recognised her then; She beauty was, and fire, Pure as the stream, kind as the breeze, And faithful as the lyre. My soul, that from the path had erred, Spread wide its wings to soar, And bade the life of solitude Farewell forevermore. A galaxy of glances bright, A sweet bouquet of smiles, A crucible of melting words Bewitched me with their wiles! What are you, love? What are you, love? A flame from heaven? A radiant smile are you? The heaven has not your eyes' bright gleams, The heaven has not their blue. The rose has not your snowy breast; In the moon's face we seek In vain the rosy flush that dyes Your soft and blushing cheek. By night you smile upon the stars, And on the amorous moon, By day upon the waves, the flowers - Why not on one alone? But, though I pray to you with tears, With tears and bitter sighs, You will not deign me yet one glance Cast by your shining eyes. O love, are you a mortal maid, Or angel formed of light? The spring rose and the radiant moon Envy your beauty bright; And when your sweet and thrilling voice Is heard upon the air, In cypress depths the nightingale Is silent in despair. Would I, a zephyr, might caress Your bright brow's dreams in sleep, Breathe gently on your lips, and dry Your tears, if you should weep! Or would that in your garden fair A weeping rose I grew; And when you came resplendent there At morning with the dew, I'd give fresh colour to your cheek That makes the rose look pale, Shed on your breast my dew, and there My latest breath exhale. Oh, would I were a limpid brook! If softly you drew nigh, And smiled into my mirror clear, My blue waves would run dry. Oh, would I were a sunbeam bright, To make you seem more fair, Touching your face, and dying soon Amid your fragrant hair! But, if you love another, His gravestone may I be! Then you would linger near me, Your tears would fall on me; Your sighs would wander o'er me, Sighs for his early doom. To touch you, O beloved, I must become a tomb! Zabel Assadour (b. 1863) Tears There are tears that fall in grief and sadness; Slow and mournfully the cheek they stain, Every drop a sob, a lamentation, In its dew a throb of bitter pain. There are other tears, bright, clear, untroubled, Shining as the sun, untouched of care, Like the violet rain, calm, cool, refreshing, When the scent of earth is on the air. There are tears all silent and mysterious, From the soul's love-yearning depths that steal; They relate to us long tales of sorrow, Buried loves which mourning veils conceal. There are tears that seem to me like laughter - Like clouds tempest-tossed, that roam for aye, Flinging lightnings to the winds of ocean, Drifting, mistlike, out and far away. There's a dry tear, burning, never falling - Liquid flame, intense, consuming, dread - Not to pass until the eyes are ashes, And the mind is ruined too and dead. Tears, I know you all, though ye be only Memories of a past that sorrows fill. Strong emotions, be ye blest forever! 'Tis through you my heart is living still. Arshag Tchobanian (b. 1872) To the moon Why am I not the thin white cloud That, floating soft and slow, Veils the pure splendour of your face 'Neath its transparent snow? Or one of those unnumbered stars - Bees that in heaven's height Flit round you, seeking honey there, O shining Rose of light? Why am I not the dark-browed mount Where you a moment stay, Ere spreading your broad, viewless wings To soar through heaven away? Why am I not the forest deep, Where, dropping through the air, 'Mid foliage dark slip in and hang Threads of your golden hair? Why am I not the tranquil sea On which your beams descend, Where molten diamonds and fire And milk and honey blend? Alas, why am I not at least That cold tomb of the dead, On which your rays so tenderly Their tears' bright sadness shed? Tchobanian also wrote poetry in French, some of which was set by Honegger. Siamanto (1878-1915) My tears I was alone with my pure-winged dream in the valleys my sires had trod; My steps were light as the fair gazelle's, and my heart with joy was thrilled; I ran, all drunk with the deep blue sky, with the light of the glorious days; Mine eyes were filled with gold and hopes, my soul with the gods was filled. Basket on basket, the Summer rich presented her fruit to me From my garden's trees - each kind of fruit that to our clime belongs; And then from a willow's body slim, melodious, beautiful, A branch for my magic flute I cut in silence, to make my songs. I sang; and the brook all diamond bright, and the birds of my ancient home, And the music pure from heavenly wells that fills the nights and days, And the gentle breezes and airs of dawn, like my sister's soft embrace, United their voices sweet with mine, and joined in my joyous lays. To-night in a dream, sweet flute, once more I took you in my hand; You felt to my lips like a kiss - a kiss from the days of long ago. But when those memories of old revived, then straightway failed my breath, And instead of songs, my tears began drop after drop to flow. Prayer The swans, in discouragement, have migrated from the poisonous lakes this evening, And sad sisters dream of brothers under the prison walls. Battles have ended on the blossoming fields of lilies, And fair women follow coffins from underground passages, And sing, with heads bowed down towards the ground. Oh, make haste! Our aching bodies are frozen in these pitiless glooms. Make haste towards the chapel, where life will be more merciful, The chapel of the graveyard where our brother sleeps! An orphan swan is suffering within my soul, And there, over newly-buried bodies, It rains blood - it pours from mine eyes. A crowd of cripples pass along the paths of my heart, And with them pass barefooted blind men, In the divine hope of meeting some one in prayer. And the red dogs of the desert howled all one night, After hopelessly moaning over the sands For some unknown, incomprehensible grief. And the storm of my thoughts ceased with the rain; The waves were cruelly imprisoned under the frozen waters; The leaves of huge oaks, like wounded birds, Dropped with cries of anguish. And the dark night was deserted, like the vast infinite; And, with the lonely and bloody moon, Like a myriad motionless marble statues, All the dead bodies of our earth arose to pray for one another. The song of the knight The sun is up, the hour has come for starting, O my steed! A moment wait till I pass my foot through thy stirrup glittering clear. I read my Aim in thy shining eyes, that know and understand. Oh, joy of joys! Oh, blest be thou, my steed, my steed so dear! My body still is firm and light with the joy and spring of youth, And on thy saddle I shall perch like an eagle, proud and free. The golden oats that I gave to thee in plenty, O my steed! Have made mad life through thy form flare up; how fleet thy course will be! Galloping thou wilt fly along, fly ever upon thy way, And sparks from the strokes of thy brazen shoes will blossom as we go past. Let us grow drunk with our rapid course like heroes, O my steed! And, infinitely winge`d like the wind, drink in the blast! The boundless space before thy pace recedes and disappears, The sinful cities with all their crimes bow down beneath thy tread. Black flocks of crows that tremble thy swiftness to behold Are seeking shelter in the clouds, the thick clouds overhead. The sad earth seems below us and we up among the stars; Thou no abyss nor downward slope dost heed, with eyes aflame; There is no obstacle, no rock that can thy flight impede; Impatient, fain wouldst thou attain the summit of the Aim. My fleet, fleet steed! My idol of snow-white marble fair! With all my soul I worship thee! As on our course we fly, My dreamy brow is burning with the flames of mine Ideal; Oh, spur me onward to my Aim! Slave of thy footsteps I! I am the slave of thy fleet steps, child of the hurricane! Speed on, athirst for vengeance, O swift, swift steed of mine! A needless halt I spurn and hate, with all my anger's might. Ours are the summits, and the wreath of victory is thine! Thy delicate cream-white body boils with thine ardent fire of life; Thy tail is a cataract; rushing down, like a hurricane it blows. Within thine eyes, so bright and keen, there shine two flaming stars; The rind of thy swift shoes forges fear, as onward our journey goes. I told thee that I am thy slave, for liberty athirst. Oh, bear me swiftly toward the South, away from this frontier! We shall be clothed with suns and blood, beyond the stately heights Of Ararat and Arakadz. Speed on, my courser dear! I hold no whip within my hand, my courser, thou art free; Upon thy back, that glistens like a lily white and fair, I only shed sweet touches of my fingers as we go. They touch thy bright flesh like a stream of honey dropping there. Thou hast no bridle upon thy neck, no bit within thy mouth; Enough for me one wave of hair from thy full mane backward flung. I have no need of stirrup-irons for my feet to grip thy sides; A silver saddle thou hast alone, a saddle with pearls bestrung. For my native valleys I yearn, I yearn, the valleys that hold my home, But halt thou never, my courser swift, the star-strewn heavens below! Away by the mouths of caverns deep like a shadow thou must pass, From forests, vineyards and gardens green still farther and farther go. Who knows, perchance a maiden fair by the side of a running brook Might hand me a cluster of golden grapes, and proffer a draught of wine; My soul might understand her, and she like a sister smile on me - But I do not wish to be lost in dreams; halt not, swift steed of mine! Thou wilt pass by the shadowy bowers of my birthplace, Eden-fair; The nightingale, the nightingale, fain would I drink her song! The rose-scent, on my pilgrimage, I have dreamed of many a year. Oh, how my heart is yearning! But halt not, speed along. And in my pathway haply old corpses might arise, Their shrouds upon their shoulders, their hands held out to me, Approach me - me the wretched! - and breathe upward to mine ear Their loves and vengeance ner'er to be forgot - but onward flee! I shudder at the ruins and at barren, helpless pangs. My courser, near the ashes of the cities make no stay! Oh, tears, the tears of others, they choke me without ruth; The woe, the griefs of others drive me mad, upon my way! Oh, do not halt, my courser, where these corpses scattered lie! Fly away from graveyards, where white shades of dead men be. I cannot bear, I tell thee, I cannot bear again The death of my dear native land with anguished eyes to see! Behold the landscape of the place in which I had my birth! At sight of it my longing glance with tears grows moist and glows. But yet I would not shed them; nay, do not pause or stay, My steed, my steed of swiftest flight! My Aim no weakness knows. Lo! 'tis Euphrates sounding. Why, river, dost thou roar? Thy son is passing. Why so dark the flood thy shore that laves? I am thy son. Oh, do not rage! Hast thou forgotten me? I with thy current would speed on, and would outstrip thy waves. The memory of my childhood draws from me tears of blood; A dreamy youth who used to stray along these banks of thine, All full of hope, with sunlight mad, and happy with his dreams - But ah! what am I saying? Pause not, swift steed of mine! Behold the glorious autumn, which vaguely dies around! Upon my brow a yellow leaf has fallen like a dream. Is it my death it stands for, or the crowning of my faith? What matter? On, my neighing steed, sweep onward with the stream! Perchance it was the last sere leaf of my ill-omened fate That fell upon us even now. What matter? Speed away! From the four corners of the land are echoing the words, "Ideal, O free-born Ideal, halt not, halt not or stay!" I worship thee! Now like a star thou shootest on thy course; Thou art as fleet, thou art as free, as is the lightning's flame; And through the wind and with the wind like eagles now we soar. I am thy knight, I am thy slave; oh, lift me to my Aim! Down from the summits of the rocks, the dread and cloudy peaks, The cataracts, the cataracts are falling in their might! Their currents white are pure, my steed, as thine own snow-white form, And their imperious downward sweep is savage as thy flight. But why now doth a shudder through all thy body run? Oh, what has chanced, my hero? Why do thy looks grow dark? Oh, turn thine eyes away from me, thine eyes with trouble filled Past the horizons fly along, fly like a wind-borne bark! I heard the wailing and the cries, entreaties and laments, From ruined huts and cities that reached us on our way. But ah! what use in pausing all powerless before pain? Our task is to relieve it; then do not halt nor stay. Through the death-agony, my steed, we passed with tearless eyes. Oh, do not halt! Oh, do not stay! Brave be that heart of thine! From this time onward, I will burn Hope's torches blazing bright, To halt means death to us; pause not, O gallant steed of mine! Aloft on they galloping form, full oft, in our journey ere to-day I have heard how thy swift, spark-scattering hoofs, as ever we forward flee, Have many and many a time crushed bones, that fell beneath their tread, And the skulls with their empty sockets dark gazed at me - didst thou see? I tell thee, under thy shoes I heard the skeletons break and crash, But I kept silence. My lips are dumb. Halt not, halt not, my steed! I will bury my sobs and sighs of grief in my soul's abysmal depths. Let nothing live but my anger hot! Pause not, but onward speed! Oh pause not, falter not in thy course, wild creature of marble white! Tears will not banish the Pain of Life, nor drive out its woe and wrong. Nay, the Ideal shall toll, shall toll the bells of glowing wrath. The cranes, far flying, will call to us; oh, follow their distant song! But where does thy path lead? What is this? My steed, hast thou lost thy mind? The ashes! Oh, the desolate plains of ashes and ruins gray! Like fog the gray dust rises up to stifle and choke our breath. Oh, tear thy way through these frightful mounds, break through them and speed away! Lift up thy forehead, lift up thine eyes, let me cover them with my hand! Halt not, 'tis the Crimson, the Crimson dread; red blood beneath us lies. Across my face to blind mine eyes I have pulled my fluttering scarf; Halt not! What good would it do, my steed, to pause here with useless sighs? Ah, once, accompanied by my griefs, my lyre shed tears of blood; Weeping I hate from this time on; thou only art my soul. Thou breathest battle, for glory keen, and I am thy prince, thy slave! Thy form was worshipped by glorious Greece. Oh, lift me to my Goal! The sound of the wind is like a horn that is winded far away; The forests, ranged like troops of war, stood ready as we passed. At the wild ringing of thy hoofs, old hopes like giants woke; Old laws are crushed, old tears are shed, old sounds are dying fast. And in thy flight, at daybreak, on a lofty table-land, New giants, new insurgents, new heroes shall spy. The sons of suffering are they, who in this hostile age Were born in blood, are wroth with blood, and wish in blood to die. When we see columns rolling up, armed with the hurricane, We by their side will march along the pathway to the Aim. Of the glory and the crowning of martyrs I shall sing; My lyre will play, that gallant day, my Torches burn and flame! The day has dawned, has dawned at last! I am thy knight, thy slave! The slope is difficult and steep, but, breathing heavily, Thou must fly on - one effort more, amid the fires of morn! I am athirst for victory, my noble steed, like thee. A few more ringing steps, my steed, and one last bound! and then What a procession, what a host, all glad and full of might! 'Tis Freedom's pioneers; their swords flash out life-giving rays, And Brotherhood they celebrate in morning's glorious light. Here may's thou halt. Be blest, my steed! Worthy of God art thou! Tears fill my soul as mine Ideal I gaze on and admire. Thy triumph is the mighty law of beauty infinite. Lo, there six centuries are standing, armed with fire! I, armed already, will arm thee. O'er my shoulder burns thy torch. They like the tempest wish to walk, under the dawning's glow, Laden with justice. Oh, the land is barren and athirst! Lo, from our flight the giant Hope sparks in the paths will sow! BTW - Siamanto said in a poem "Yes yerkelov g'ouzem mernil", which means "I wish to die singing". He was murdered in 1915 like most of his colleagues. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted October 29, 2000 Report Share Posted October 29, 2000 This is Baruyr Sevak's "MENK" english transilation:We Are Few But...We are few but we are called Armenians We do not put ourselves above anyone Simply we also admit that we, only we have Mount Ararat And that it is right here on the clear Sevan that the sky could make its exact duplicate Simply David has indeed fought right here Simply the Narek was written right here Simply we know how to build from the rock, a monastery How to make fish from stone, how to make man from clay To learn to become the student of the beautiful, the kind, the noble, and the good We are few, but we are called Armenians We do not put ourselves above anyone Simply our fortune has just been so different Simply we have just shed too much blood Simply in our lives of centuries long When we were many and when we were strong Even then we did not oppress any nation See, centuries have come and centuries have passed Yet over no one have we become tyrants If we have enslaved, only with our eyes And if we have ruled, only with our books If we have prevailed, only with our talents And if we have ever oppressed, it has only been with our wounds Simply with us death had fallen in love Yet we willingly did not give ourselves And when we were forced to leave our own land Where ever we reached, where ever we went Everywhere we left indelible trace We have joined efforts for everyone, always We plowed everywhere, we built bridges, we tied arches We plowed everywhere and we brought forth crops We gave everyone mind, proverbs, and songs Another words we defended them from spiritual coldness Every where we left our eyes reflection A peace of our soul and a sacrament from the heart itself We are few, truly, but we are Armenians And by being few we do not succumb Because it is better to be few in life, then to control life by being many Because it is better rather to be few, then to be masters by being many Because it is better to be few, then to be swindlers We are few, yes, but we are Armenians And we know how to sigh from yet unhealed wounds But with a new juice we rejoice and we cheer We know how to thrust into the foe's side And how to lend a helping hand to our friend How to repay goodness which was done to us by compensating for each one by ten And the benefit of it just in the sun We vote with our lives, not only with our hands Yet if they desire to rule us with force We know how to smoke and how to quench their fire And if it is needed to disperse darkness we can turn into ashes like burning candles And we know as well how to make love with lust And we do this always by respecting others See we do not put ourselves above anyone, but we know ourselves We are called Armenians And why should we not feel pride about that We are, We shall be, and become many. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted November 2, 2000 Report Share Posted November 2, 2000 Aww gee! (As you californians would say) thanks a lot! I'm sorry it took me so long to say that by the way. Sulamita did you find those in Netscape? Because I did as I was doing a search for Baruyr Sevak (funny enough, I was looking for Armenian Maid. Was the guy who wrote that one english? I like the last one that was posted. MJ jan I think you must a have spelt Diana Hovhannesian(?)'s name wrongly, because I tried a search for her and di'nt come up with anything, and netscape is usually really good with armenian names/people. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted November 2, 2000 Report Share Posted November 2, 2000 Dear Kazza, Please check my last posting in the Armenian Poetry thread. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted November 2, 2000 Report Share Posted November 2, 2000 OK, I'm going now! Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted November 2, 2000 Report Share Posted November 2, 2000 Just off the subject for 5 mins: where is the Armenian poetry thread MJ? I cant seem to find it! Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted November 2, 2000 Report Share Posted November 2, 2000 In the Language section. Here is what I was referring you to, though will still recommend reading that material: Diana Der Hovanessian, Anthology of Armenian Poetry, 1978. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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