Showing posts with label Raffi Wartanian. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Raffi Wartanian. Show all posts

Thursday, October 19, 2023

Raffi Joe Wartanian: Phantom Tongue

The Armenian Poetry Project is proud to share this unpublished poem by the Inaugural Poet Laureate of Glendale, California,  Raffi Wartanian, and his pictures of Խուլավանգ, which is the church in Kharpert that he referenced in the poem.


Phantom Tongue
by Raffi Joe Wartanian

Somewhere in the world 
my history is erased
my name is changed

Րաֆֆի Վարդանեան 
կլլա
Րաֆֆի Վարդանեան 
glla
Raffi Vartanian 
becomes
Rayfee Wartaynyin

Wartanian
Like the tan on your wart
Stylized melanoma
Signifying the end

Or Wartanian
A song of war
Death, destruction, murder
Nothing I stand for
Mixed into the moniker 

Not here: Vartanian
Warrior sons and daughters 
Defiantly defending a people
Only to have their nom de guerre lathered
Like suds swirling down the drain
Of the car wash on Jackson Street
Under an American sun baking flesh white
Calls for change, or at least a discount, stifled by the heat

Somewhere in the world 
my ancestor’s creations are destroyed
          crosstones of a medieval Armenian necropolis on the banks of the Araxes River reduced to rubble
a stone church, Խուլավանգ, in the golden wheat fields of Kharpert, on its crumbling column defiled with a spray-painted swastika
homes in Hajin, Adana, Zara, and Kumkapi
 never to be known
only to be evoked
during visits, with maps, in verse
their names are ghosts who saunter in meadows of the amnesia I recall
so that sometime in the future
I can sit down with my boy
look him in the eye
and have “the talk”



Will the news destroy his innocence 
The day I tell him
That we were, are, will be
Objects of genocide?

How will he come to understand the unfathomable?
A series of moments…by osmosis…
Lighting candles at the church
The old typewriter hanging on the wall
A grainy image of emaciated corpses
Their sunken eyes somehow familiar
Protestors demanding recognition from violent nations we now or once called home

Or will he already know? Was it coded in his bones? 

When will he learn that the imposed tension 
Between erasure and endurance
Is not just a thing of the past
But a choice today
Between internalizing the oppressors’ will, 
And facing the question
Answers illuminating a path
Fraught with the promise of truth’s daggered thorns

Poking holes in our language
“Endangered” like a fading phantom living in my throat
Կոկորդս, Լեզուս
Spoken to my child
Hearing him voice the revenant

On his tongue does she live or die? 
Maybe both. Maybe none of it matters, especially once we’re erased. 
Have we already arrived?
And once we’ve arrived, can we finally begin to return?








Saturday, May 18, 2019

Raffi Wartanian: Ani

Ani

Are you a city?
Are you a person?
Are you an angel?

Were you my love?
Were you my home?
Were you always baking softly in the sun?

When did the fortress start to crumble?
When were the churches scorched to earth?
When were crescents cut from crosses?

Whose eyes absorbed this unthinkable dismantling?
Whose voice was swallowed by the Akhurian River?

For how many centuries has that bird sung?
For how many revolutions will these bees swarm?
For how many miles will this vast chamber
Echo the dog bark, the church bell, our wavering voices,
Into the bottomless gorge?

Is man so stubborn as to think his questions matter?
That countries can endure?
That species can survive?

As our ruins shudder
As our population declines
As the black smoke rises over the minaret
    Chilling a headless church in its shadow,
Do we see ourselves in you, Ani?

Do you return to us as we honor you with namesakes and stories?
Or have you hidden forever
Behind the cloak of
History and nation,
Memories and myth,
As we helplessly try uncovering the mystery
And capture justice
In our dogged pursuit
Of something lasting
Something fair
Something ours?

We as individuals
As a people
As a humanity
Bound by genetic hope

And a vision of the future before our very eyes
In this fallen city.


Raffi Wartanian.
This poem originally printed in h-pem

Thursday, April 11, 2019

April 24th 2019 reading in New York City (streamed event)



The event was streamed:

https://www.facebook.com/AsianAmericanWritersWorkshop/videos/2117403338561093/

Saturday, December 11, 2010

Րաֆֆի Վարդանեան։ Պարտէզը



Լօլային

Հայկ Նահապէտին պարտէզէն դուրս
Լեզուս թաղեցի
Հօրս պարտէզին մէջ,
որպէսզի
Ուժ տայ բնութեան,
Որովհետեւ հոգիս
լռութենէն ալ յուսահատ է ։
Անյոյս է
Որպէս սփիւռք
Որպէս ինքնաօտար
Որպէս հոգի ու վկայ եւ
Աքսորի զաւակ։
Պատերազմ և ողբերգութիւն
Կը կոչուին այդ երես լզողները, Ու ծնողքս,
իրենց
հաճոյքը կը պահեն
Մեծմօրս գրպանին մեջ։
يعني sabersiz, mon ami

Այս կեանքը բնական չէ
Որովհետեւ ան
Կը ծաղկի
Կմախքի մը կողէն
Այն գերեզմանատան մէջ
Ուր կը Ֆր-ֆրա Հովը - Թուրքիոյ, Հայաստանի ապա, Ռուսաստանի հովը, Ամերիկայի, Չինաստանի, Ուրուկուաի հովը - Նահատակներուն հովը, Զոհերուն, Երգիչին և արհեստաւորին հովը:
Բերնէդ բրցուած լեզուն
ընկղմեցաւ
Մելանին մէջ
ուր կրցաւ
պատմական նիւթեր գրել։

Ծովափին աւազներուն վրայ
Դարերու ընթացքին
Տարիներով
Օրերով
Մրջիւններով,


Türkçe dilinde,
En français
بللغة العربية





Րաֆֆի Վարդանեան


Saturday, November 06, 2010

Raffi Wartanian: Palabras Del Camino


I
Durante la noche
Queremos amor, Queremos vida.
Durante el día,
Necesitamos bocadillos con queso.

II
Ahora es el tiempo de Cola Cao;
Yalla Habibi, leche calor.
¿Que es eso? ¡Eso es queso!
Queso y jamón en todo mi cuerpo.

III
Hay más en mis pantalones
Mas - amor, chocolates, pimientos -
Verde, rojo, naranja frutas;
Los árboles significan la vida.

IV
Hay un fuego en mi corazón
Por todos las chicas del mundo,
Del país de Contador;
Y Los Catalonskis por supuesto
Y los Basqaderos en Pamplona

V
Cuando el sol entra al día
Tengo mucha felicidad en la vida
Sra. Paetow, muchos gracias,
Tú eres la verdad, no hay más.

VI
Ay árbol - ay. Qué vida.
Qué pueblo.
Necesitas una navaja para lavar
Sus pelos - yalla.

VII
¿Qué significa la vida?
¿Qué significa el amor?
No hay una realidad, no hay.
No hay Tú, no hay usted, no hay yo.

By Raffi Wartanian
El Camino De Santiago, 07/2008

Special thanks to Ana Arzoumanian

Saturday, October 09, 2010

Raffi Wartanian: shapes


around every corner,
a circle.
inside every circle,
a triangle.
At triangle’s tip,
hips
oscillating,
feasting,
purring,
on sideways eights.
inside infinity,
a broken line,
it’s teeth -
yeasty & yellow.
outside hexagons,
spacetime
informed,
inconceivable,
impenetrable,
by man,
monkey,
octopus,
or fire cylinders.
around every circle,
corners.
inside your lips,
an abacus,
hollow-centered
and dashed,
sliding and
sliding and
counting
waiting
breathless.


Saturday, September 18, 2010

Raffi Wartanian: Beneath Beneath

The ground dissolves beneath my feet
The earth dissolves beneath the ground
The universe dissolves beneath the earth
The                 dissolves beneath the universe
The                 dissolves beneath the
The                 dissolves
The



Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Raffi Wartanian: dear stranger who is probably homeless and has sat next to me for the past three-and-a-half hours



you think i don’t notice you sitting there
next to me?
i’ve been here
three-and-a-half hours
typing verse,
structuring plots,
and you have sat there,
right next to me,
staring blankly,
at nothing,
with feigned interest.

where did you find those papers in your hand?
the fed ex care package you cradle like a newborn,
and its accompanying papers that connect you to
a body
and time
and place
that i could never surmise
nor trust that it is any more likely authentic
than your digging it up from a trashpile
to validate a sense of justification to sit in this bourgeois café.

and the fact i think these things about you,
that i doubt your belonging here
makes me look at myself with disgust,
and ask,
“who am I?”

when i went to the bathroom,
i took everything
because i didn’t trust you;
i only left the cup of water
that kept inflating my bladder,
forcing me to confront this dilemma.

the awkwardness when I returned,
we both felt it,
my distrust alarmingly apparent;
you fidgeted, i know it,
and it made me fidget
though i never let on.

why would i think for a second that
somehow i belong here more than you do?
because there’s (more) money in my pocket?
because i was born with more opportunity than you?
how would this scene play out,
who would we be,
if the roles were reversed;
if i endured your life,
and you mine?

do i choose to distrust you,
or am i programmed to distrust you?
do i choose to obey the programming?
do you?

would you feed me if i was starving in your arms?
would you throw me a penny if i begged for salvation?

what is your name?
what is your story?
why are you this way?
why am i?
why am i unable to ask you?

i hate you
and
i love you.


Monday, August 02, 2010

Raffi Wartanian: The Worst Poem In The History Of Poems ("Give yourself some credit," they demanded.)

Dear Reader,


I am going to write
The worst poem you have ever read.


As you read it,
Flashes of kindness and generosity
Inside you
Will seek meaning and art and substance
In my ill-conceived and sometimes (let’s not kid ourselves…ALWAYS) arbitrary words;


But soon,
The meaning of words and images
Will stack so high
They’ll become incoherent
For the sake of being artful.


This is when your eyeballs
Rocket out of your face
To shout into your mouth
In a language that
…tastes…
like the
…juices…
of a senile
…hippo’s…
acrid urine;





And you’ll have to perceive it all
Through your sense of hearing, damn it,
Since you’ve now learned, can’t flab it,
That your eyes have a
…mind (whoah!)…
of their own,
And, baby,
It’s not your mind
Clinging to visionspheres
With the optic nerves you might mistake for
An umbilical chord (gross!);


No, it’s the eye’s mind.
(Not the mind’s eye, you hippy space cadet freakFace with your inflatable four foot hammer that squeaks on contact and draws glances of distant Bedouins)
- Alarming Klebsielaesque Adrenals –
The little brain enjoying rod and cone massages
To best generate
Proclamations
In a purely unique language
With a purely unique alphabet
That, anglicized, says,
“Ali Pap Sukapindi,
Dep Defersechok,
Yabamba Yabamba.”


-----
This is Raffi Wartanian’s biographical blurb. It’s about himself, written in the third person because writing it in the first is both pretentious and unconventional. He’ll stick with tradition on this one. Raffi studied writing with people and traveled places. He has a unique background, like everyone else. He includes this blurb to be professional. Most importantly, he loves you.



Thursday, July 08, 2010

Raffi Wartanian: We Are All


We are all gods

We are all devils

We are the howling spirits

We are all obstetricians

We are all murderers

We are the mirror fragments pointed at each other

We are all brilliant

We are all buffoons

We are the shards of meta-meninges

We are all alive

We are all dead

We are the nightmares of Jupiter

We are constructive destructors

We are destructive constructors

We are the cotton wrecking balls

We are all rising

We are all falling

We are dancing in our sleep

We are all sporks

We are all shovel-fingers

We are the children of economic dictatorships

We are all friends

We are all freaks

We are the Deepwater Horizon



We are all Jacques Cousteau

We are all British Petroleum

We are the earth’s exploitation

We are all humble

We are all self-obsessed

We are the cohesion of left and right


We are all spokes

We are all sparks

We are the true wheel

Thursday, June 03, 2010

Raffi Wartanian: Between You And Me



Between Time and Space
Between You and Me
            There is something
                        That cannot be explored
                        With words
                        Or silences perceived as meaningful
                        Or eyeballs looking deeply into eyeballs
                        Or hugs
                        Or smirks to diffuse a tension born of
                                    Misunderstandings,
                                                Neglect,
                                                            Fear,
                        Or target variables
                                    Identified
                                                As Determinants of Destiny.
            There is something
                        That transcends Time and Space
                        You and Me
                        Planet Earth
                        Milky Way
                        That-planet-whose-name-I-dare-not-mention.
            There is something
                        That weeps and laughs
                        And holds on with
                        Steel strands of hair
                        Against some odds
                                    Perhaps all.
            There is something
                        That shrinks 4 hours
                                    Into 4 seconds
                        And burgeons the central nervous system
                        To stand up against
                                    Chattering teeth –
                                                Goosebumps –
                                                            Thoughts of warmth –
                                                                        Logs popping.
                        That sets appetite
                        Into a four-bar phrase
                        That crescendos
                        With two dotted repeat symbols
                        That crescendos
                        With two dotted repeat symbols
                        Then, again,
                        Satisfaction just a distant wave
                        Appearing and fading
                        In a horizon
                        Where gushing oil
                        Smears a coarse fluid of non-being
                        Against the purplebluegreenyelloworange sky
                                    Veiled with altocumuli
                                                So fresh it looks like it’s been airbrushed
                                                By some masterful, cosmic artist
                                    Who we must believe
                        Possesses some sort of answer
            Some sort of word
To express
That which is
Between Time and Space
Between You and Me.

By Raffi Wartanian
May 2010, New Jersey Turnpike