With tears, with tears did I hear that ruin by ruin,
Your massive walls fell one after another,
In a day of horror, a day of massacre, a day of blood...
On the flowers of the garden which surrounded you.
C.
And that blue room had turned to ashes,
Where behind its walls and on its carpets
My happy childhood had taken its delight,
And my life had grown and my spirit had developed wings...
D.
Did it crush, then, that gold-rimmed mirror,
In whose heavenly depth
My dreams, hopes, loves and red will,
For years reflected with my thoughts...?
E.
And did the fountain which sang in the yard die?
And did my garden’s willow and berry trees break?
And that stream which flowed among the trees,
Is it dry, tell me, where is it, is it dry, is it dry...?
F.
O, I dream often of that cage,
In which my gray quail, in the morning,
With the sunrise and across from the rose bushes,
At my waking hour chirped clearly.
G.
Home of my fatherland, believe me that after my death,
On the blackness of your ruins my soul,
Will come as a banished turtle-dove,
To cry with the tear and song of its misfortune...
H.
But who will bring, who will bring, tell me,
From your sacrosanct ashes a handful of ash,
On the day of my death and in my sad coffin,
To mix with my, the fatherland singer’s remains...?
I.
A handful of ash with my remains, home of my fatherland,
A handful of ash, from your ashes, who will bring me?
From your memory, from your pain, from your past,
A handful of ash...to sow upon my heart...
SIAMANTO
(1878-1915)
BIOGRAPHY AND POEMS
The Vintage
By Siamanto
Translated from Armenian by Shant Norashkharian
“How abundant was autumn this year...
Its heroic suns and blessings,
After our pains, our ashes and deaths,
Have filled field and valley, village and city immensely
With unknowable prosperity.
I write to you that strange vision which I saw...
This morning was the dawn of the vintage,
The same fountain of the old days, across the wine press,
Was singing in the pond which was the mirror of our childhood
Such a song that only an orphan could understand...
In the vineyards, bunches of grapes under the vines,
Burned like the hearts kindled with hope,
Which waited by the roads of those who were deported...
And the thousands of pieces of the most blessed grape,
Reflowering under the blue of the homeland,
Were as numerous as the stars of the nights...
From the top of the berry tree, the cranes, burning for what they missed,
Singing their call came down to the fields.
From the depths of the vineyards the sound of joy overflew,
In the fields, around the wheat that they had reaped,
The Armenian brides danced the whole day by the bales...
This morning of vintage was our first revival...
After years of terror and mourning
It seemed today was both man’s and nature’s resurrection...
After this day of labor and drunkenness,
When the night fell like velvets...
And the golden grapes rested in tubs from hill to hill,
By the fountain, where one morning you left me with a kiss...
I, your sister, an orphan girl with clear eyes,
Suddenly it seemed I saw our deceased father...
I, shaking with fear...he embracing me with love,
Immersing his hands in my hair...
Sobbing from joy or his old hope said to me:
‘Girl, perhaps you do not recognize me...
But you are my soul’s and my heart’s sacred fruit...
Like many others, I also died one day, for all of you...
And from the day you were born, and from your sun until today,
This is that first year,
When Armenia’s red vines of the vineyards,
Write to your brother, sprouted without blood...’
The shadow of this old sweetness wetted my clear eyes,
And in the dark, moving away under the stars with his shroud,
As the specter turned back: ‘Was it really our father?’
As the specter turned back, he told the processions of those returning
from the vintage:
‘Neighbors of old days and pilgrims of labor,
May you be blessed, sing, may you all be blessed,
And believe my good news, your new wine of springs,
Under the law of justice and your own will,
You will drink from your vessel or your silver cup,
From now on, believe me, without blood...”
The DANCE
By Siamanto
* From RED NEWS FROM MY FRIEND *
Translated from Armenian by Shant Norashkharian
And as her tears drowned in her blue eyes,
On a field of ash where Armenian life was still dying,
This is what the witness of our horror, the German woman narrated:
“This story which I tell you and which cannot be told,
I saw with my cruel human eyes,
From the window of my safe house which looked on hell,
Crushing my teeth from my terrible rage...
With my cruelly human eyes I saw .
It was in Garden city, which was turned to a pile of ashes.
The corpses were piled high to the top of the trees,
And from the waters, from the fountains, from the streams, from the roads,
The rebellious murmur of your blood...
Still speaks now its vengeance into my ears...
O, don’t be shocked when I tell you this story which cannot be told...
Let men understand the crime of man against man,
Under the sun of two days, on the road to the cemetery
The evil of man against man,
Let all the hearts of the world know...
That morning in death’s shadow was a Sunday,
The first and helpless Sunday which rose over the corpses,
When inside my room, from evening to dawn,
Bending over the agony of a girl slashed with a sword,
I was wetting her death with my tears...
Suddenly from afar a black, beastly mob
Brutally whipping the twenty brides who were with them,
Stood in a vineyard singing songs of debauchery.
Leaving the poor dying girl on her mattress,
I approached the balcony of my window which looked on hell...
In the vineyard the black mob became a forest.
A savage roared to the brides: “You must dance,
You must dance when our drum sounds.”
And the whips started wildly cracking on the bodies
Of the Armenian women who were missing death...
Twenty brides, hand in hand, started their round dance...
The tears flowed from their eyes like wounds,
Ah, how much I envied my wounded neighbor,
Because I heard, that with a peaceful moan,
Cursing the universe, the poor beautiful Armenian girl,
To her young dove spirit gave wings toward the stars...
In vain I moved my fists against the mob.
“You must dance”, roared the furious crowd,
“You must dance until your death, lustfully and lasciviously,
Our eyes are thirsty for your movements and your death...”
The twenty beautiful brides fell to the ground exhausted...
“Stand up”, they shrieked, waving their naked swords like snakes...
Then someone brought to the mob a barrel of oil...
O, human justice, let me spit at your forehead...!
They anointed the twenty brides hastily with that liquid...
“You must dance”, they roared, “here is a perfume for you which even
Arabia does not have...”
Then they ignited the naked bodies of the brides with a torch,
And the charcoaled corpses rolled from dance to death...
In my terror I closed the shutters of my window like a storm,
And approaching my lonely dead girl I asked:
“How can I dig my eyes out, how can I dig them out, tell me...?”
***
Copyright (c) 1996 by Shant Norashkharian
ANTRANIG
By Siamanto
Translated from Armenian by Shant Norashkharian
It was him, who, on the marble edges of my Dream, tonight,
Standing invincibly like a rock,
Immersing my fiery head of a rebel into the stars,
And arming his hand with the swords of hatred,
Like a brother marvelous for his love of saving the land,
Whose soul bleeds when a brother becomes a foreigner,
Spoke to me, and his words one after another, and phrase by phrase,
Were solemn and sweet and true and revengeful and virile...
“It is me, O son of feebleness and immobility,
Who has come from afar with perturbing noises,
To finally shake your dreamy and indifferent and inactive and selfish and feeble
Youthful body and your being and your soul,
With the strike of my arm and the uproar of my swords,
For the compelling hours of the fights...
Listen to my voice, which in these decisive days
Of our race, is the terrible tumult of our vengeance and our blood,
And merge with our mighty crowd, join our company, become a brother,
If there is still in your soul any spark of freedom left alive,
If your arms still have the courage to strike the enemies,
If your heart even once became wounded from the death of our motherland,
If from the suffering of your race and from the nightmare of the massacre of
innocents
Within you rose the forests of hatred and rage...
If you will still be able to embrace a purpose in your life,
If your eyes still have not been blinded by these useless tears...
If you changed your prayers to roars of Hatred,
If you still feel your race’s militant blood from the sun
Being inflamed in your veins and head,
If still from Aram’s, Dikran’s, Ardashes’ and Vartan’s
Victorious strength there was a breath left in you,
Then from the heroic steps in front of your dreamer’s stares
A way of self-devotion, revenge and freedom is opened,
Stand up then, become a brother to my squads and a storm with them,
Because, know that in these days of sacrifice, rebellion and hope,
It is the basest of all baseness for all of us to give up our souls in bed...”
Suddenly the squads went far through the fires of sunrise,
And the iron ring of their volunteer’s conscious and decisive steps
Was like the ring of countless chisels crushing marbles...
While the detached heads of the enemies were burning like torches
On the tops of the swords which they raised over their shoulders...
At that moment, kneeling on the ground with envy and passion,
I kissed with awe the trace of their heroic steps...
***
The SON
By Siamanto
Translated from Armenian by Shant Norashkharian
Let me narrate to you an epic and take heart for a moment...
An Armenian farmer, having heard of the news of fighting and blood,
Like an eagle rushed to his village riding his horse.
Leaving his mighty oxen bellowing with rage
As they watched the burning of the lands which they plowed...
And he left his newly-grown hallowed wheat,
He left his plow, he left his shovel, he left his bountiful tiller,
He left the hope of his days, he left the land of his fathers,
And instead of the peace-breathing songs of work,
He started thundering a red song of arms,
Riding the horse fully-armed to save his village...
It was evening.
The sun was painting the horizons with its death like a crime...
When the heroic peasant, advancing from field to field,
Stood on his threshold with a horror which could not be told...
But he only saw piles of ashes and corpses everywhere...
He saw his beloved wife behind the door cut by a sword,
Her hair pulled from the enemy and her white naked shoulders
Were soaked in the precious blood flowing from her chest...
He saw his son bending over his mother’s stares,
Kissing the last teardrops of her death...
The barbarians by the village edge, enraged by his arrival
And by the wild neighing and prancing of his terrible horse,
They all began clamoring as they stood on their feet :
“We must go there one more time, there are breaths still breathing.
Who was this fully-armed man who wanted to attack us?
Those ashes must be turned to ashes one more time...
There are still voices, whispers, some are still not dead yet
Some still beg this newcomer stubbornly for their vengeance...
We wanted a cemetery, yet there are still some lives there,
We all want ashes, we want death, you infidels...”
These noises came and reached the brave Armenian, who was alone
With his young son, full of passion, watching the black mob;
Suddenly with a lightning explosion from his guns
He forced the wild mob of thousands back like a hurricane...
But he was alone...there were only weepers and corpses everywhere...
And the mob started again like the sand of the wilderness
Advancing one more time toward this ruined village...
Yet his son had to be saved, but from which hazard,
From which secret, which luck, which law, which evil...?
And in a frenzy he put the warm corpse of his wife on his lap,
And holding his son by his waist he came down to the river...
He had to save his son, his last Hope of the New Days...
And he knew that with the terrible fight with man there was still the fight with nature...
At least he had to defeat her, and to save his son,
He had to defeat nature, there was no other hope...
Less evil-willed than man, that dark titanic power,
Would have mercy...after all, nature is the mother of man...
And like an oak pulled from its roots and blown by a hurricane,
Taking his son’s hand and dragging his dead wife,
He threw himself in the waters of raging Sihoun...
He let the raging waves take the corpse of his wife
To perform her burial carrying her on their breast...
And the waters with their bubbles,
Washing his wife’s blood for a last bath,
While throwing her from rock to rock, like an illusory coffin,
They carried her away in front of his eyes which burned with love...
As the farmer, like a furious lion who runs
Holding her life’s cub in her mouth,
Likewise holding his son’s belt with his teeth,
Defeating with his hands the iron power of the waters,
Groaning and swimming, he was trying to save his son.
Sometimes holding him above the mighty waters with his hand,
Crushing the waves with his torso he was carried toward the sea...
The whole night he furiously struggled with nature,
And other corpses following his way often passed over him...
But he was mighty, and holding his son above the waters
Like a bamboo branch with his teeth or with one hand
With a superhuman strength stretching him toward the stars
He swore to save the only Hope of his ruined Village...
The Mediterranean with the boundless sun shone in front of his eyes...
He had reached his destination. When he put his son on the land like a
madman’s kiss,
He suddenly recognized his dead wife who, leaning against a rock,
Had reached there as if with the reddish rays of dawn,
To welcome the arrival of her saved son as well...
***
Copyright (c) 1996 by Shant Norashkharian
The Prayer Of Navasart
By Siamanto
Translated from Armenian by Shant Norashkharian
O Goddess, I have now washed my conscience from feeble religions,
And I walk to You gracefully. My slippers are still holy.
Open the marble door of your temple, let me make your forehead bleed...
Open your altar and give me the red power of my Artashessian ancestors...
Hear me, Golden mother, fertile sister, sister of goodness,
The giver of abundance and Goddess of Ancient Armenians,
With the morning of Navasart, Your former race is festive...
Allow me to pray on my knees in front of your image...
Hear me, Rose of Miracle, goddess with golden feet,
White Bride of Night and Mistress of Sun,
And radiant nakedness of Aramazt’s Veil,
Let the sun light with one ray your altar again...
I believe in You. Standing on the hills of Bakrevant,
I, a pagan of many centuries and your son armed with arrows,
As a messenger and implorer I come to You grandly,
Hear me, my Haigian castanets were born from the Koltan earth...
I come as a pilgrim. Wearing a chlamys longer than my height and green twigs
in my hand as wands,
Here is a silver pot with rose essence to anoint your breasts...
Here is an incense dish shaped like an urn where I cried for your ruin with my
tears...
I walk toward You with precious roes following my shadow...
From the hills of Bakrevant the pagan life flows,
Sons of the sun, magnificent, dressed in muslins,
After their training with bows, spears and arrows, on the threshold of your
place of sacrifice,
Let them pierce their swords into the necks of mighty bulls...
Let the uniform flock of turtle-doves take flight to your statue
From the shoulders of fruitful Armenian brides. Let the water games of the Day
of Roses begin...
And let sixteen year old girls surround your altar,
Let them offer you their mystical bodies, O Great Mother of Sageness...
Let me take your vengeance of twenty centuries for you today,
O Goddess Anahid. There I have thrown in the fires of your altar,
The two poisonous wings of my destroyed wooden cross,
And be joyful, O Golden mother, I shall burn a pestilent bone from the ribs of
The Illuminator for you...
I beg You, of all powers you, Beauty second to none,
By offering your body to the sun, impregnate yourself with its Element,
And give the Armenians the gift of an invincible, formidable God...
From your diamond womb, O Goddess, give birth to a formidable God for us...
A and B
REVENGE OF CENTURIES
By Siamanto
Translated from Armenian by Shant Norashkharian
From the tops of the iron ladder of hopes I announce my good news,
From the valleys of ashes, corpses and sorrows I have reached you,
And, alas, the blood of my magnificent race still drips from the sleeves of my
chlamys...
But my steps are tireless and my will is mighty and my voice severely fierce...
Although my head is gray from mournings and from revenge and from my fate,
But look, my eyes are as red as a hero’s eyes and my appearance is terrifying.
Under the sun of my wisdom and my passion my robust torso
No longer needs a cornerstone to bear that vain glory eternally.
And the manuscripts of supplication, prayer, crying and lament and mourning,
Where century after century my generations have cried their blood and
suffering,
I threw them aside, not to move from defeat to slavery, and from begging to
tears...
And with my thought and with my rage I measured the deepest roots of my
pains;
I saw that your bare feet of salvation beggars burned from the ashes of ruins...
I saw that you were blissful in tears and horrified from the life-giving battle...
I saw that justice had to be created and freedom had to be fiercely snatched...
And today, there you see, my unweighable rage has lit all its fires...
“I now appeal to you as well, come and stand on my road, sing for me to release
you,
Sing war songs on my road, so that I may revengefully and eternally release for
the sons of my faith the savage horses of hurricane...
Tell me, which lighthouses of my idea should I burn against the four directions,
Tell me, on which breasts of injustice should I roll the piles of my rocks,
And begin with my land’s fiery and rebellious troops
The advance of my formidable armies of revenge and terror...?
Tell me, so that I may have my trumpets blown with the glottis of ancient heroes,
Tell me, so that I may harden my irons and shine my steels,
Tell me, so that I may also gloriously saddle my blood-drinking horse,
Tell me, so that its hoofs may spark above the valleys, only from mountain to
mountain...
Sing, there the blood of all has turned to sun and the wills and wrists have turned
to brass,
Sing, the brotherhood has been celebrated and the breaths and souls have
been crowned with the revenge of the same centuries,
Look the pouring tears have turned back and the beating of breasts has
stopped,
Look all of them together, all of them together, advanced under my wings of a
Highest prince,
Still inebriate them, if you can, and worthily sing an epic for me, harpist,
I know that your harp has the thirst for the Fatherland, as for the revenge of
centuries...
Therefore snatch your strings from the lightnings of zenith, bunch by bunch,
Raise your hands and stretch them out toward the blues of the night,
And decorate my head with the glory of a light-dripping cluster of morning stars,
Cover me with incense and worship me and when the time comes burn yourself
alive for me,
And crush your earthling’s forehead against the marbles of my monument,
Because it is Me, it is Me, my name is Struggle and my end is Victory”.
***
Copyright 1996 by Shant Norashkharian
The Mother To Her Son
By Siamanto
Translated from Armenian by Shant Norashkharian
You, the oldest fruit of my chaste love and body,
It was me who bore you like a sanctity in my sides...
Your banished existence took its steps from my being,
And for two springs my breasts with their pearly milk
Gave this brave appearance to your youthful body.
It was me who made my life a fruitful garden,
Where your life innocently grew...
My tears irrigated you, my smiles like the sun,
My kiss like anointment and my lips like lilies
And my lullaby like a breeze through my song...
All of this I sent to you completely and fully,
In front of your cradle, like the moon so fair and awake.
It was me who chased away with my gullible prayers
The evil spirits of the nights from the garden rose of your dream...
It was me who through the drunkenness of the spring of your birth,
Standing on our roof, for the first time
Opened your first glance toward the sun...
And under that fiery flood of nature,
Your newborn’s smile on your cheeks,
It was me who for the first time saw it with my God...
Ah, I still remember the rainy autumn of the day you departed,
When the leaves were falling from the trees with my tears...
And the years follow after the years like coffins;
But neither my tears stopped, nor the leaves from their death...
I am terrified from my memory...when I look at the door,
Four dark-faced bearers of dead with a coffin on their shoulders,
Until today, still, as if, hurriedly move
Your father’s body out of our house...
From those days I measure the ashes over my head,
And you still banished like this,
Until today did not enter through that door,
But I shall fight with the fires of my will against my God...
Leaning on life, leaning on hope, and on my sun and on your sun,
I shall fight against my death with the strength of a mother...
I want life, my son, I want to live, I want to live...
My body will not go from this house to the cemetery,
Until one morning you enter through those same doorways...”
***
Copyright (c) 1996 by Shant Norashkharian
The Son To His Father
By Siamanto
Translated from Armenian by Shant Norashkharian
“Father, until which sun will I, your son, a stranger,
And you live as if we were foreigners...?
Let your blood boil in my veins,
Let my eyes reflect until this day
The memory of your eyes,
Let my heart be inundated with your love...
Let my height begin, just like your height,
To grow with my youthful brightness...
Let my dreams be filled with you,
Let my mind with its wings, take flight
In vain, to search for its creator...
All these are illusions for me,
Until your fatherly lips,
Approach with their fire, my white forehead,
Approach to kiss my forehead in my dream.
Father, I am that strong branch, of that beautiful green tree,
Which will be your crutch in your days of weariness...
I am that water which springs out from the rock of pride,
Which in times of your thirst,
Will pour from the diamonds of your cups...!
I am that diligent bee of your hive,
Which in your days of misery
Will make from its nectar the golden honey on your plate...
I am your green garden, your field of flowers, your vineyard...!
I am that place where a weary father must rest...
I am that string in the that harp of the universe,
Which only the son knows how to strike for his father...
I am your Oasis, your shelter under the sun,
I am your sun in your days of discontent or storm...
I am your Being and the beginning of your end,
It is in me that you shall live after your life...
What atavism, what mystery, what secret...!
They told me that in my eyes your silhouette is reflected...
And in my pupils I keep your face like Holy Sacrament...
But I do not want to blur it with my tears from missing you,
Until I embrace you and cry from my shiver...”
***
Let Might Speak To You
By Siamanto
Translated from Armenian by Shant Norashkharian
To Zohrab and Zartarian
B
You, sons who were born from the secrets of my existence,
This is the day for me to speak to you. You must defeat
That law, which poorly divided the fire of your lives...
I am that Force. In my burning horizons of creation,
Under which my mercy does not even recognize its own shadow,
At the moment of your doubt and weakness,
I am that rampart which suddenly collapses
Upon your misfortune and for your sake...
I am that sword in your hands sawing your necks...
I am the hell of equivocal and pessimistic faiths...
I am the destroyer of non-ringing steps,
Against the bowing forehead
I am a fierce Vulcanic hammer...
I am the persecution of idleness and the guillotine of suspicion...
I am the abyss of falling and the spur of climbing,
I am the iron throne of wills and the abode of movement.
And your noble and wasted mind,
And the flight of your conception
Have poured down from the dusts of the warehouses
Of the ammunition of my genius...
Don’t waver! And drinking jar after jar from my Hope,
Rush over the stairs of promises and pursuits...!
And from your unwilting crown of glories,
Let the beggars weave slippers for themselves...
Because, every laurel on the forehead of the strong,
Must flower only one day...!
Let me tell you! Poet, and seeker, and sage,
It is only the love of might which with harps or numbers
From the days of old centuries they have translated
To your thirsty hearts contemplating under the stars...
I am the ground of existence and the cause of the orbit,
I am the axis and the mover and the center of the person and of matter,
And just like the belts of the universe and the rolling of the rivers,
Often clear, fertile or blurry,
Your corpses come and pass by me to be melted in my furnace...
So that I may give bud again and piece by piece
Accumulate your diamond values one by one,
I am the might which gives birth to the new Wills of god-men.
Arm yourself with my voice, O listener,
And joyfully spread your muslin sails,
And for recuperation, from storm to storm,
With valiant sarcasm and laughter
At the faces of uncertainty, danger and obstacles,
Defeat even your greatest victory...!
And from that day, sow your fiery seeds with sanctity,
For the sake of the golden chief cities,
Where only and only the chosen ones shall live...
And put the Achilles seal of your thought
On the unerasable shapes of your marbles
And on dominating over your books of oracles...
Do not defile your hands with the blood of evil,
Do not fall for colorless benevolence,
Neither ask for mercy from the weak nor have mercy for the weak,
Only strengthen yourself radiantly,
And let me say again, let your victory be superior to the nature of your self...
And packing in your fist the lightning oak of your will,
Rise, the zeniths of your might are waiting for you...!
Son of sun, with your mighty soul,
Rise, audaciously singing of Might
From this decisive tower of overmen which is still deserted...
1911
Eulogy
By Siamanto (1878-1915)
* From Saint Mesrob. This is the last work that Siamanto published before his death, in October of 1913 in Tbilisi, for the celebration in Constantinople of the 1500th anniversary of the invention of the Armenian alphabet and the 450th anniversary of printing. Before his murder less than two years later by Turkish soldiers, he probably wrote other works which may have been destroyed after his arrest.
Needless to say, any translation cannot do enough justice to the original work. * This is public domain.
*Translated from Armenian by Shant Norashkharian *
Oshagan's most sacred tomb,
Land of genius, from where today,
A magnificent history
Of fifteen tempestuous centuries,
Freely moves toward You
Both Armenias from East to West...
Oshagan's greatest dead one,
You, with thousands of branches
Of the golden-flowing river of knowledge,
Savior of mind, Giant of hope, Center of life,
You, undying one who turned to dust,
You, storehouse of unextinguishable torches,
From where, in my days of childhood,
I came to light my brain like a poor man...
Sublime priest of Oshagan,
You, highly significant monk and the cup of God,
You, multi-perfumed gown of Jesus,
Fountain of speech, height of reason,
Endless summit of abilities,
You, pond of meaning and blue rain of prayer,
From a handful of your soil all of heaven still perfumes...
You, Oshagan's unperished clergyman,
Hermit immersed in the desert,
You, inculpable and a temple's recluse,
Forest of incense, fragrant garden of frankincense,
You, lordly spreader of Christ's noble word,
You, upright granite column,
And steeple of mind and limitless horizon of spirit,
You, autumn fountain of grace,
Being faithful from your faith, I cried as well...
In Oshagan immortally dead,
Unprocurable and senior educator,
I, a six year old dreamy child,
Your alphabet in my hand, spelling it innocently,
The first cross, from my forehead to my heart,
Believe me, O Armenian people...
I made it in front of your picture...
And listen today, from the lily-bodied,
Stammering children of the infant school
To the soil-perfumed old people,
Are singing the blessing of your Sacred name...
Oshagan's pile of soil where a genius rests,
Obscure sleeper by the altar of the church,
And Jehovah's message-bearing great Book's
You, emender translator,
Diamond key of the Golden Age,
You, frameless skylight of Armenian literature,
You, academy of marble thought,
Forgive that your drunken student
Is worshipping you after fifteen centuries...
God of Mind watching over us from Oshagan,
You, foundation stone of reaching high,
Golden-statured tower which fills up with light from the stars,
Where our brains smile...
You, silver sea of mental thirsts,
You, giant Moses born in Daron,
You, unapproachable author of mother-language,
Let those in my funeral procession,
In place of an incense box,
Burn my skull, on the last light,
With my lyre, full of ashes,
Upon the pile of your soil...
Translation Copyright 1996 by Shant Norashkharian
VISION OF DEATH
By Siamanto
* From TORCHES OF AGONY AND HOPE, written when Siamanto was only 20. *
* Translated from Armenian by Shant Norashkharian.*
Massacre, massacre, massacre...!
Inside the cities and outside the cities,
And the barbarians are rolling in blood
Over the dead and the dying,
Flocks of crows are passing above,
With bloody mouths and the giggles of a drunk...
A desert wind strangles the half-dead with a rage,
And mute caravans of old women
Hastily escape from the wide roads...
Through the night rises the wave of blood,
Drawing silhouettes of fountains with the trees,
And from everywhere the cattle rush with horror
Being chased through the burning wheat fields...
In the streets I see slaughtered generations
And mobs returning from unspeakable massacres,
A tropical heat rises
From the grand cities given to fire...
And under the snow falling with the heaviness of marble,
The loneliness of the ruins and the dead feels the cold;
O, listen to the terrible screeching of the wagons,
Which are under the corpses piled upon them,
And the tearful prayers of the mournful people
Which stretch from a trail to the pits for the masses!
Listen to the last voices of the dying,
In the blows of the wind which crush the trees,
O, do not approach, do not approach, do not approach,
Do not ever approach the cemeteries and the sea!
On the red waters I notice ships in the far distance,
There are piles of corpses inside them,
And over the waves which are rolling with pain
Skulls and legs appear to me...!
Listen you all, listen you all, listen you all!
The cry of the storm upon the waves of the sea,
Massacre, massacre, massacre...!
Listen you all, listen you all, listen you all!
The death-like roaring of the horrified dogs,
Reaching me from the valleys and the cemeteries,
O, shut the windows and your eyes as well,
Massacre, massacre, massacre...!
The Song Of The Knight
By Siamanto
Translated from Armenian by Shant Norashkharian
A
The sun has risen, charger, and it is the hour to leave,
Wait so that I may pass my foot through your radiant stirrup,
In your wise eyes I read my Goal,
Oh, what a joy is my joy, may you be blessed, charger...!
B
My young trunk is still light and agile,
I shall perch on your harness like an eagle...
And the golden barley with which I abundantly nourished you,
Fired a mad vigor in your body.
C
You must always run galloping, oh charger,
And from the brass of your hoofs sparks will flower,
And let our running make us drunk like heroes,
And let us drink wind, and like the wind have infinite wings.
D
The edgeless universe dies under your flight,
And the sinful cities bow under your steps,
Flocks of black crows shaking from your torrent,
In the clouds, into the clouds they take refuge.
E
As if the sad land is below us and we are above with the stars,
You fear neither abyss nor cliff,
There is no barrier, there is no obstacle which will stop your advance,
And impatiently you want to cling to the summits of our goal.
F
My swift-dashing charger, oh my marble idol,
You know that I worship you with my soul,
From the flames of my idea my dreamy forehead burns...
Throw me toward my goal, I am the slave of your steps!
G
I am the slave of your steps, oh you, son of storms,
My swift-flying charger, you must rush revengefully,
I hate the futile stop with my passions,
The summits are ours and the victory is yours...
H
Your milk-colored body boils from the fire of your life,
And your tail is like a waterfall storming down from your croup,
In your two eyes shine fiery stars,
And the ringing of your hoofs is fiercely dreadful.
I
I told you that I am your freedom-thirsty slave,
From this border toward the south take me like a dream,
From the glories of Ararat, even beyond Arakatz,
We shall wear suns and blood, hurry, run.
J
I have no whip in my hands, you are free,
I only pour on your rump which shines like lilies,
The sweetness of my fingers,
Flowing like honey over your flesh.
K
You have neither bridle nor reins across your mouth,
A wave of hair in my hands from your abundant mane is enough,
My feet do not need stirrups to embrace you,
Only your saddle is on you, your silver saddle studded with pearls.
L
I miss the valleys of my homeland, I miss them,
But do not stop under the star-flowing sky, charger,
You must pass like a shadow by the front of the caves,
By the forests, by the wine presses, even beyond the vineyards.
M
And who knows, perhaps, a pretty maiden at the edge of a grove
May offer us golden grapes and a sip from a jug of wine,
Perhaps my soul will understand and smile to me like a sister...
But I do not want to dream, do not stop, charger.
N
You shall pass through the paradisal valleys of my birthplace,
The words of the bulbul, the words of the bulbul I want to drink...
For years I dreamed the fragrance of the roses as a pilgrim...
I miss them, I miss them, but do not stop, do not stop.
***
Copyright (c) 1996 by Shant Norashkharian
The Saint's Prayer
By Siamanto (1878-1915)
* From Siamanto, Complete Works, published in 1989 by the Press of the See Of Cilicia, in Antelias, Lebanon. The original volume, Saint Mesrob, in which this poem appeared, was published in Tiflis in 1913, in the aftermath of the celebrations in Constantinople of the 1500th anniversary of the invention of the Armenian alphabet by Mesrob Mashdots. *
*Translated from Armenian by Shant Norashkharian *
"Give me light, God irrefutable,
Inexplicable architect of the universe,
Creator of fate and recognition,
Tempest of breath, central ability,
The deacon of your Holy Table Mesrob,
For his great foggy dream
Pleads for lucidity from your hands...!
Help me, great gift-giving wisdom,
I, a staff-less shepherd for your great sermon,
I, pitiful mortal, I, pale steward
Of my formidable Haygazian race...
I, ignorant scribe, I, illegitimate monk,
I, non-floating flag for your faithful masses,
I, gift-less reciter and rainless husbandman,
I, blind fountain and humpback for your glory,
Plead for light for my shepherd-less flock...!
Help me, chaste God...!
I, miserable searcher and futile explorer,
I, untalented inspector and barren molecule,
I, ladder-less hermit and flight-less orator,
Bitter-smiled wanderer and dumb student,
Daydreaming lost rover and ungifted visioner,
I, bounded window and closed door,
I, iron wave crushing against my soul,
I, cemetery guard and accountant of the dead,
I, reaper of wheat longing for your fiery bread...
I, roofless night sleeper and jar-less thirsty,
I, lonely cultivator lost in the thistles,
I, ray-less dusk, wire-less lyre,
For the still mute soul of the Haygazians
I plead for a Key of explanation...!
Help me, father of Elements,
I, blurry eye and impenetrable vision,
Empty-headed listener and ear for bad news,
Unharmonious musician and mild-voiced singer...
I, non-farming field man, wine-distributing warehouse,
I, uninvited guest to the wedding of Jesus,
I, oil-less light-giver and book-less thinker,
I, non-affectionate caresser and love-deprived lover,
I, charm-less preacher and stoned Christian,
Dowry-bringing poor and gold-less rich...
I, kiss-less lip and soul-less sober,
I, love-less heart and imperfect virginity,
I, direction-less walker and swaying traveler...
From your lighthouses of salvation give me a drop of light...!
And with your spiritual heavenly doors
Let the doors of life open like paradise...
Help me, infinite God...!
I, murmur-less brook and hindered waterfall...
I, uneducated teacher and irresolute monk,
I, still ungraduated principal of scholarship,
I, falling curtain over consciences...
I, a somber wall, prisoner of hell,
I, lost splinter, infertile seed...
Bush-filled path, snaky underground road...
I, inhospitable inn and mattress-less nearly-dead...
Do not refuse me the light of your lamp...!
Help me, general principle,
For baptism, I am a pond without chrism,
I, half-ruined courtyard of prayer,
I, plow-less farmer, scythe-less harvester,
I, perfume-less anointer and bitter-tasting oil,
I, balm-less physician and muslin-less bandage,
I, broken lantern and thirsty wick,
I, storm-beaten forest and tear-dropping willow...
I, unshaven timber and moldy log,
I, earth-made censer and unsmokable incense,
I, grape-less vine and contagious oats,
I, untruthful forehead and crooked hand,
I, incompetent clergyman and Sacrament-less priest,
I, caravan-less desert fuming in my solitude,
Give me a visit...!
Help me, O incomparable law,
I, indecisive man and hopeless person...
I, terror-stricken individual and confused breather,
I, wind-worn from swaying in doubt,
Non-hearable scream and echo-less trumpet...
I, dead leaf falling down from the autumns...
I, dried branch and smell-less rose bush,
I, phantom of intelligence,
I, intellectually shallow and a bowing mind,
Sobbing under the arches of your church
Across from your Christian people
I, of your great Book the Bible,
Foreign-tongued reader and unfamiliar translator...
Help me, boundless Knowingness,
Super-mighty Lord, infinite inventor,
Zenith of light, unwrinkled meaning,
Heavenly water, space-less soul,
Non-counting distributor, sluice of dreams,
May your lighted covering of recognition
Float upon my ruined shoulder,
And on this evening of vigils, sobbing and prayers,
This fortieth night,
God immutable, God shore-less,
Stretch your Creator's hand to my brain
To knead my invention there..."
Translation Copyright 1996 by Shant Norashkharian
The Vision
By Siamanto (1878-1915)
* From Saint Mesrob *
* Translated from Armenian by Shant Norashkharian *
O miracle, O immaterial fire of faith,
O astoundingly acting might,
O fiery talisman, O unsolvable mystery,
There, a Seraphim in Mesrob's sleep,
With his light-drawing right hand,
For an instant, upon the wall of the monastery
Wrote the letters of the Armenian Alphabet...
Suddenly, the Saint, moved by his great Vision,
Like a dead man jumping on his feet,
With the feather pen and the tablet in his hand,
Weeping under the miracle,
Infinitely kneeled in front of the wall...
Translation Copyright 1996 by Shant Norashkharian
The Glory of the Invention
By Siamanto (1878-1915)
* From Saint Mesrob *
* Translated from Armenian by Shant Norashkharian *
Mesrob, standing against the Armenian centuries,
You, rock of diamond,
You, undiscoverable lighthouse of consciousness,
Which sows flashes
From the naked brains of children to the genius...
You, whose hammer's blow,
Like the hours, ceaselessly every minute,
Forges the statues of the museum of intellect for us...
You, non-sleeping watchman, you, titanic Seer,
You, from the Cradle to the grave,
Beautiful-voiced interpreter
Of each word, of each breath of ours...
You, creator of language, prince of Reason,
You, unlimited labyrinth of permanence,
You, fertile father of existence,
You, rising like a tempest upon the soil of the fatherland,
Forest infinite, forest of heart,
Of whose each gigantic thick-trunked tree
Is each a lyre, each a bandora to our breath...
Is each a war trumpet to our throats,
Is each a barricade to the misfortune of fate...
You, non-consumable field of wheat, you, free bread,
You, rich harvest and you, fiery-red reaper,
You, pond of drunkenness and wine,
In which I have submerged my golden jar as well...
Mad with my thirst for suns...
You, apostle with deeply-penetrating stares,
It was you who saved the Haigazian ray
Of your race which sings of you today
With the ruby foundation stone of your mother-language,
From the genius and fiery Hellens
And the great world-conquering sons of Rome
And the fire-worshipping neighbor Persians...
You, second God,
And You, first creator of thought...
You, abundant goodness, fountain of heart,
Treasure of colors, throne of mercy,
You, undrawn bridge arching the flying centuries one to another,
Through which your race by the millions,
Gloriously or vilely,
Passes from life to death...
You, declared by the Hellens
As grand-titled Academic,
O recluse, O Magister, there,
Both Armenias are shouting 'Hosanna to you'...!
And Hosanna to the Chief Father of Vagharshabad,
Your equally important acolyte,
And to King Vramshabouh,
Because by being in support of your great invention,
One with his Cross, the other with his equally powerful Sword,
Walking with your steps,
At Ararat's dawn,
Opened the door of learning for us...
Ah, the whole blood of Your brain,
From which fevers to which fever,
From which shudders to which shudder,
From which hellish twirlings to which twirling,
And from which uncertainty to uncertainty and hypothesis to hypothesis,
And from which wave of the sea to which wave,
From which transforming scale to which scale,
And from which balance to which balance, did it take you...?
And every molecule of your soul,
And every ray of your eyes,
Every drop of the sparks of your genius,
Your windy panting and crazy impetus of your flights,
The fiery vortexes of your prayers,
For forty days, day and night,
In your solitude, like a lonely dead man,
Took you toward your Vision...
And from the flower sprout born in the dream
And the ungrown bud,
You, from the fading light, you, from the shadow of the ideal,
From the colorless line and the sublime rose of the dream,
You, from the spire, the silent accent, the colorless word,
You, from the floating and rootless strips,
Created an Alphabet of harmony...
And from the Golden Threshold of the Fourth century
Until our day, with our dark blood,
There, the multi-stringed Armenian Genius,
Is molded in your forms...
O unsolvable enigma,
O bundle of thunderbolt nerves,
Furnace of blood, spotless expansion of visions,
O astonishing and permanent trickster of senses,
Lyrical awesome-pupiled Chimera-seer,
You, rainbow drawn by God...
Bringing us the fire of reconciliation,
You, master of the doubtful and the confused,
You, unusual and irregular steeple...
You, clergyman of great passions,
Man of God, brother of mind, sister of lyre,
From your cup, allow me, to drink as well...
And today, nourished with your sanctity,
I, tardy lyre player,
And an unpaid and unworthy grateful one,
I bring you the mirror of the soul of your race...
In my eyes I took fire from its eyes...
And I have reaped my words from its heart,
And whatever you read upon my forehead,
Whatever you read in my smile,
I have written it with its Hope...
And allow me, today, O Mesrob,
That I rise upon your golden ladder
Which reaches from the land of Armenians to the stars,
And with firm steps, step by step,
And from crown to crown and light to light,
As a son of your thought,
To come to you to sing my song...
1912
Translation Copyright 1996 by Shant Norashkharian
* Compiled and translated by Shant Norashkharian *
He published his first poem in 1898 and his first book HEROICALLY in 1902. In 1904 he fell victim to tuberculosis and stayed in a hospital in Switzerland for two years. In the following years he published ARMENIAN SONS and TORCHES OF AGONY AND HOPE. After the declaration of the Ottoman Constitution in 1908 he returned to Istanbul. In 1909, the year of the Adana massacres, he published RED NEWS FROM MY FRIEND. Later that year he left for Boston, United States, where he published his Collected Works and FATHERLANDÕS INVITATION. in 1911 he returned to Istanbul and published his last book, SAINT MESROB. In 1914 he was called for military service, and barely saved himself by paying the fee for staying out of the army, 43 gold pieces, which were collected by friends with great difficulty. In a letter to a friend he wrote:
"Let me not forget to tell you, that a poor woman has donated 5 gold pieces to save Siamanto...and has kept for herself the other 5 gold pieces, half of all she had.".
On April 24, 1915, Siamanto was arrested with hundreds of other Armenian intellectuals. A few days later he was taken by train with a group of 71 Armenian writers to an insignificant railway station, called Senjakoy. On August 3, 23 of them were slain in a remote place called Ayash Beli. Siamanto was thought to have been among them.
Siamanto (born Adom Yarjanian), was one of the greatest Armenian poets of this century and a martyr of the Armenian Genocide at the age of 37. Judging from the genius of this poet, one can only imagine what he would have produced if he had lived 37 more years. Siamanto, in my opinion, single-handedly created a new form of Armenian poetry, which was prose in style but with very powerful poetic content. Many of his poems describe the unspeakable savagery perpetrated upon innocent Armenians by Turkish rulers, and the systematic extermination of a whole nation over a period of decades.
Siamanto was born in the town of Agen in Western Armenia, currently occupied by Turkey. After finishing the secondary school in Istanbul, he left for Egypt because of the Hamidian massacres, and the next year he became a student at the university in Geneva, Switzerland, in the Department of Floriculture, and later a student of literature at Sorbonne University in Paris until 1901.
