{"id":16027,"date":"2013-04-28T01:09:50","date_gmt":"2013-04-28T00:09:50","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/norkhosq.net\/?p=16027"},"modified":"2013-04-28T05:22:56","modified_gmt":"2013-04-28T04:22:56","slug":"vahe-vahian-%e2%80%93-a-great-poet","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/norkhosq.net\/?p=16027","title":{"rendered":"Vah\u00e9-Vahian \u2013 A Great Poet of Western Armenian Literature"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a>Vahe-Vahian’s Portrait by the great Armenian Painter, Ashod Zorian<\/strong> was accomplished in 1949,\u00a0after a sitting of an hour or two\u00a0when the poet was on a lecture tour to the then vibrant Armenian community in Cairo (Egypt). <\/em><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

What is remarkable about this realistic work of art, is that it succeeds on both levels of delicate French impressionaism and … passionate German expressionaism, while simultaneously being Zorian’s own masterpiece, and a sheer masterpiece in world-painting; it captures magnificently and very realistically indeed Vahe-Vahian’s noble character as a poet and a civilized human being of colourful, sensual (red lips) cultured tastes<\/span> —<\/em> Professor Hovhanness I. Pilikian<\/span><\/strong>. <\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>by\u00a0 Edwina Charles, BA (Phil), BSc (Psych)<\/em><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

*<\/span><\/p>\n

I know about Vah\u00e9-Vahian, <\/strong>through the work of Professor Hovhanness I. Pilikian. <\/span>At the peak of his career in the Seventies, as a legendary theater-director of classical Greek Drama in Britain \u2013 Pilikian had discovered for the first time ever in the history of world-drama<\/em><\/strong>, among other original features, a gold-mine of white-on-Black racism in classical Greek Drama<\/em><\/strong> (Euripides\u2019 Helen<\/em>), in the words of the most eminent translator into English of Ibsen<\/em><\/strong> and Strindberg<\/em><\/strong>, Michael Meyer \u2013 \u201cPilikian single-handedly affected a revival of classical Greek Drama in Britain\u201d<\/em>, while the egregious Principal of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art<\/em>, Hugh Cruttwell, the Doyen of the British Theatre, had referred to young Pilikian as \u201ca man of original genius<\/em><\/strong>\u201d. <\/span>Pilikian had also created unique theatre-companies, the first of their kind in Europe \u2013 Hanano<\/em><\/strong>, an exclusive Mask-theatre Company, and Cervantes Players<\/em><\/strong>, an all-black theatre-actors\u2019 company.<\/span><\/p>\n

Directing on both sides of the pond \u2026 a position first achieved by Pilikian, and hugely envied by London theatre-directors, in a rare and unique co-operation between Harvard<\/em> and Princeton Universities<\/em> (the Oxford and Cambridge of the USA), Pilikian was invited from London personally by a special envoy Professor Daniel Seltzer of Princeton University, to direct an original modern version of Agamemnon <\/em>by William Alfred (a Harvard Professor) to launch the MacArtur Theatre<\/em> at Princeton University as a professional venue. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Pilikian never forgot his Armenian roots and introduced the work of Vah\u00e9-Vahian<\/strong>, to the English speaking world. <\/span>Vahian (so abbreviated by friends to his great annoyance as he preferred the full double-barreled pen-name he had meticulously selected from millennia-old Armenian Pagan culture of temple-worship) had been teenage Pilikian\u2019s teacher of Armenian literature in the Hovagimain-Manougian Secondary School for Boys<\/em> in Beirut, Lebanon. <\/span><\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/em>Vah\u00e9-Vahian had survived a great tragedy of classical Greek proportions \u2026 his darling child, Vahram,<\/strong> second to his eldest son Tsolak, had qualified as a Mechanical Engineer in Soviet Armenia. <\/span>Vahram was then employed by a foreign company in the Emirates<\/em>, had climbed quickly to the top of his profession in Abu Dhabi<\/em><\/strong> by 1972. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cVahram was an angel<\/em>\u201d, confirms Professor Pilikian, still in tears today, when he reminisces about the family who were very close friends with his own family. The Professor\u2019s father Israel Pilikian<\/strong>, a prominent Entrepreneur\/Businessman, had helped financially the publication of the Literary Magazine ANI<\/strong> founded and edited by Vah\u00e9-Vahian for several decades as the most distinguished literary enterprise in the Armenian Diaspora. <\/span>One of its leading contributors was Arm\u00e9n Tarian<\/strong>, an unsurpassed master of Armenian prose-fiction (and the Professor\u2019s brother-in-law). <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Great Poetry Saves Life <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

On a Sunday night, in 1976 (on March the 28th<\/sup> to be precise), on his return from an evening with his English friend, alone in his car, Vahram had swerved into a ditch and alas breathed his last. <\/span>To this day, his death remains unexplained, and totally mysterious. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cVahram was devilishly handsome, like his father, and a totally decent and upright human being \u2013 He died as a saint at the age of 32<\/em>\u201d, states Pilikian, and continues with moving melancholy, \u201cfather Vah\u00e9-Vahian, who had survived as a child the genocide of the Armenians by the Young Turks<\/strong>, then the sudden death of his most beautiful young wife, Ashkhen, could hardly survive this time his own child\u2019s demise. <\/span>It is very difficult for non-Armenians to grasp this \u2013 in the classical Armenian tradition, one\u2019s child is everything! <\/span>Parents breathe by the breath of their children \u2026<\/strong> Frankly, what saved Vah\u00e9-Vahian <\/strong><\/em>from a sudden death in shock, was his poetry<\/em><\/strong>\u201d, states Professor Pilikian with a tearful sadness in his voice. <\/span>He continues;<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat is even more extraordinary is the subtle literary critical fact, that the poems Vahian produced and published as Houshartzan Vahramis (= A Memorial Stone for Vahram)<\/strong>, in Beirut, 1977, carved for the poet Vah\u00e9-Vahian a unique pedestal in the history of world literature. <\/span>Moreover, even within the context of the Western classical Armenian Poetry that counts VERY great poets<\/strong> like Daniel Veroujan, Missak Medsarents, Siamanto \u2026 most murdered by the Ottoman genociders, <\/span>Vah\u00e9-Vahian upgraded his poetry by a notch or two \u2013 until the son\u2019s tragedy, the poet Vahian was unable to liberate himself from the shadow of Vahan T\u00e9k\u00e9yan<\/strong>, a very great poet whose distinctive stamp was the simple but telling inversions in the Armenian poetic diction, e.g. haigagan yegeghetsin = the prosaic \u2018the Armenian Church\u2019, would become in his poem yegeghetsin haigagan = \u2018the Church Armenian\u2019, suddenly releasing in the exuberant Armenian language all kinds of percussive new rhythms and hidden meanings impossible to translate \u2026 Vah\u00e9-Vahian was poetically trapped in T\u00e9k\u00e9yan\u2019s bewitching rhythmic mazes \u2026 his son\u2019s unbearable tragedy suddenly freed him entirely from T\u00e9k\u00e9yan\u2019s poetic prison \u2013 he found his own voice and flew with it, soared to unconquered Himalayan heights of intense poetry \u2026 the great evil of sweet Vahram\u2019s death turned into poet Vah\u00e9-Vahian\u2019s victory song over Death itself<\/strong>, securing for Vahian a unique place in the history of world literature<\/em>\u201d. <\/span> <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Vahian\u2019s eldest son, Tsolak<\/strong>, a distinguished architect internationally, and a childhood class-mate of Professor Pilikian, surprised the latter recently by discovering in his archives the latter\u2019s translation of his Father\u2019s poem. <\/span>Tsolak copied it to the Professor, with the Introduction Pilikian had published in the Ararat Quarterly<\/em><\/strong> (New York, 1982, a first-class Magazine of Armenian culture), edited by the very well-known American Armenian Literary critic, L\u00e9o Hamalian<\/strong>. <\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Mother-and-Child Society \u2013 a Sociological Paradigm<\/span><\/p>\n

Pilikian had done something very subtle and complex with Vah\u00e9-Vahian\u2019s memorial poems \u2013 he had edited a selection into a single whole, justifying even in Platonic Form<\/em> his claim for world-uniqueness of Vahian\u2019s poems. <\/span><\/p>\n

L\u00e9o Hamalian himself was an expert (and author of books) on D.H Laurence\u2019s works. <\/span>L\u00e9o absolutely loved Pilikian\u2019s introduction of Vah\u00e9-Vahian\u2019s work, for its very original and specific content, advocating the constitution of a Child-welfare centered Society \u2026 it took British governments several decades (the Children\u2019s Act<\/em><\/strong> of 1989 \u2013 a major re-write of the British Law) to catch up with Professor Pilikian\u2019s ideas, yet still simultaneously abused horrendously by the Euro-pedophiles whose ring of rape and mutilation of children is not still fully uncovered \u2026 <\/span><\/p>\n

We just heard the posh version of it by the Australian Prime Minister apologizing for the state-crimes committed in that country against ignorant teenage single-mothers, whose children were taken away for adoption in the name of fraudulent Christian morality, only to be abused as slave-labor (and who knows whatever else!) by Anglo foster-parents! <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Professor Pilikian\u2019s proposition to achieve the ideal Utopian Platonic Republic<\/em><\/strong> is to construct the social structure upon the non-feminist woman\u2019s love of her children \u2013 men must learn from such women to love all<\/strong> children and not only their own, which should eliminate all wars and genocides, while teaching Men simultaneously to love their women first and foremost as the potential mothers of their children;<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>\u201cThe British ruling classes have nursed a huge cultural tradition of child-rape; at the peak of Victorian times, child-prostitution was institutionalized by <\/strong>those mustachioed fat-bellied Victorian nouveau-riche capitalist Industrialists<\/strong>. <\/span>Capitalism constructed its monetary system on the exploitation of men and women, and children most of all<\/strong>, sending them down the mines (as miners) and up the chimneys (as chimney-sweepers), and behind the huge textile machines in factories as cleaners, shredding them into bits \u2026 <\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/em>I can see that Professor Pilikian is hardly able to contain his livid fury and polite conversation. <\/span><\/p>\n

L\u00e9o Hamalian loved the Professor\u2019s sociological constructs of a mother-and-child-welfare society, and used to tell how he would read Pilikian\u2019s text to his wife frequently every week \u2026 His young wife grasped the depth of Pilikian\u2019s sociologically innovative ideas \u2013 they visited London merely to make the personal acquaintance of Professor Pilikian, in appreciation of his rendering of Vah\u00e9-Vahian\u2019s unique child-centered poetry published in the Ararat Quarterly<\/em><\/strong>. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

And here it is, 36 years later, as fresh as almost four decades earlier \u2026 <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

A MASTERPIECE OF WORLD LITERATURE<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span>by Hovhanness I. Pilikian<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span>HOUSHARTZAN VAHRAMIS (= A MONUMENT TO MY DARLING VAHRAM), by Vah\u00e9-Vahian, Beirut, 1977.<\/span><\/em> <\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

<\/mce:style><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span>This volume of poetry by the greatest living poet of Western Armenian literature occupies a unique place in the history of world literature. If this claim sounds <\/span>extravagant, I would like to point out that there is simply nothing like it anywhere in literature; the lament of a father for his dead son (presumably in heaven\u00a0now). A parallel may be sought in the New Testament<\/em>, which represents a similar obsession, however in the reverse, a son’s fixation (Christ\u2019s) on his father (in heaven).<\/span><\/p>\n

\n
\n
\"\"<\/dt>\n
\u054e\u0561\u0570\u0567 \u054e\u0561\u0570\u0565\u0561\u0576 \u0578\u0582\u057d\u0578\u0582\u0581\u056b\u0579\u0568 \u0564\u0561\u057d\u0561\u057a\u0561\u0570\u056b \u0568\u0576\u0569\u0561\u0581\u0584\u056b\u0576 \u054a\u0567\u0575\u0580\u0578\u0582\u0569 1955 \u0569.<\/dd>\n<\/dl>\n<\/div>\n

Unlike\u00a0Vahram<\/strong>, who died in a car-crash at the same age as Jesus Christ on the Cross, the latter knew<\/em><\/strong> he would die soon. And in classical Greek Drama (on the look-out for <\/span>more parallels), protagonists often speak of their children in very <\/span>physical<\/em><\/strong> <\/span>terms, almost incestuously, interpreted (or rather misinterpreted) by the post-Freudian standards of the European criticism. <\/span><\/p>\n

Vah\u00e9-Vahian’s poetry indeed shares with the classical Greek dramatists that same disturbing element, which,\u00a0however,\u00a0untangled\u00a0from diseased Freudian notions, could represent one of the most profound Jungian A<\/span>rchetypes of the human predicament. Put in a question form, it begs the whole history of human civilization: <\/span>can the male love the child at all as the female does?<\/span><\/em><\/strong> Improvement of mankind’s lot hinges upon the answer to this very question.<\/span><\/p>\n

While a woman loves the child, and not only her own but <\/span>all<\/em> <\/span>children, most men hate children \u2013 witness the organization of Labor in our patriarchal societies, <\/span>where the <\/span>Father’s work keeps him away from his children most of the time; hence, the coinage of the term, „week-end fathers“. Most men, the best of <\/span>them, seem to need a lifetime to learn how to love their own children, never mind children in general<\/em><\/strong>. <\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>
\n Until mankind (the male) learns from the female to love <\/span>all children and not only his own, we shall never achieve the society of peace, and happiness, which can only be based on the loving care of the children <\/span>everywhere in the world<\/span><\/em><\/strong>. For war is the most terrifying expression of the male’s inability to love even his own child. No warmonger can pretend he loves his children if he plans the killing of thousands of others. A warmonger may even consider himself a good Christian (as most Generals in the world do) by attending <\/span>mass on Sundays. No amount of prayer can cover-up the disturbing truth that most men do not know the meaning of Christian love, for, as Jesus Christ stipulated, one must enter God’s Kingdom of Heaven like a child. <\/span><\/p>\n

The untimely death of his son leads the poet Vah\u00e9-Vahian, to achieve this overwhelming emotional <\/span>understanding, that he loves and cherishes as his own all the children of this world<\/em><\/strong> suffering at the hands of foolish men, who rule our societies as if we were their toy-soldiers, ready to fight their silly wars.<\/span><\/p>\n

A poet like Vah\u00e9-Vahian is not a mere poet! He is a Saint. He belongs to the future and even more, to the very ancient past when\u00a0Paradise\u00a0was on this earth. <\/span>His mournful monument is a\u00a0gospel\u00a0for the improvement of the human lot.<\/span><\/p>\n

\n
\n
\"\"<\/dt>\n
\u0540.\u0532.\u0538.\u0544. \u0534\u0561\u0580\u0578\u0582\u0570\u056b \u0545\u0561\u056f\u0578\u0562\u0565\u0561\u0576 \u0561\u0572\u057b\u056f\u0561\u0576\u0581 \u0565\u0580\u056f\u0580. \u057e\u0561\u0580\u056a.\u056b \u0578\u0582\u057d\u0578\u0582\u0581\u0579\u0561\u056f\u0561\u0576 \u056f\u0561\u0566\u0574\u056b \u0570\u0565\u057f, \u054e\u0561\u0570\u0567 \u054e\u0561\u0570\u0565\u0561\u0576 \u0571\u0561\u056d\u0567\u0576 4-\u0580\u0564\u0568, \u054a\u0567\u0575\u0580\u0578\u0582\u0569 1955 \u0569.<\/dd>\n<\/dl>\n<\/div>\n

And yet a man of Vah\u00e9-Vahian’s life-story could be forgiven for making a pact with the Devil; he has lived through more suffering than Job, though unlike him, Vah\u00e9-Vahian never shows any bitterness, being no less than <\/span>all l<\/span>ove all the time for the oppressed<\/em><\/strong> and the suffering. His passionate love of life, symbolized by the <\/span><\/span>love for dead son, often pours scorn upon the heads of all evil-doers, the warmongers. And yet Vah\u00e9-Vahian never soils the purity of his own soul. Never rude in his tragic grief, he is a civilized poet, and a poet of high civilization, if that implies a utopian Society of humanism, compassion, and respect for human life \u2013 the Child itself.<\/span><\/p>\n

As if the terrifying experiences of surviving, as a child, one of the most brutal massacres of history (the genocide of the Armenian race perpetrated by the Young <\/em><\/span>Turks<\/em>) were not enough, and having survived the horrors of the two world wars, Vah\u00e9-Vahian was yet destined to lose his charming wife Ashkhen whom he dearly <\/span>loved, and experience at\u00a0first\u00a0hand the most terrifying civil war since Vietnam, which is still raging in Beirut, where the most advanced technological warfare is <\/span>being fought by a thousand and one\u00a0guerrilla\u00a0groups. <\/span><\/p>\n

Finally, the\u00a0unbelievable\u00a0blow of evil fortune; while on an entirely humanitarian mission of a fund raising trip to U.S.A. for the Armenian victims of the Lebanese Arab civil war, Vah\u00e9-Vahian, this poet of total suffering, receives the news of this time his own son’s accidental death, a young man of such gentle and kind disposition, that all those who knew him, held him in deep affection.<\/span><\/p>\n

Only a saint could withstand so much diabolic misfortune, and could love this world enough to pray for it. \u00a0Vah\u00e9-Vahian\u2019s poetry is that prayer. \u00a0Through his <\/span>unswerving humanism and compassion, as if the\u00a0divine\u00a0spirit of the good, God himself signals through Vah\u00e9-Vahian\u2019s spirit His presence to this world in turmoil, in the grip of barbarous systems of ruthless\u00a0exploitation\u00a0and military destruction.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Excerpts from A MONUMENT TO MY DARLING VAHRAM<\/strong>, by Vah\u00e9-Vahian<\/strong><\/span><\/em>, selected and translated by Hovhanness I. Pilikian<\/strong> in such a way that together they\u00a0constitute\u00a0a <\/span>whole, and give the reader a sense of the whole book of 29 poems.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/span>For the stanza numbers, a small typeface is chosen, as unobtrusive as possible, so that the\u00a0totality of the text <\/span>may be read as one long poem, even though the extracts are from different poems (numbered correctly from the original text, although never translated <\/span>in their totality).<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

<\/mce:style><\/p>\n

I<\/p>\n

My heart; a volcano, my eyes; fountains of lava…
\nDo not approach me,\u00a0friends, lest you burn.<\/p>\n

That I may not turn to clouds and rain, O you people,
\nDo not touch me, not even with your glances.<\/p>\n

He was my son, dawning upon my darkness,
\nHow he went down so early and so soon.<\/p>\n

My soul; a censer, his memory \u2013 noble incense \u2013
\nTurns in me blue fumes and perfume.<\/p>\n

When shall, when will, the path be clear,
\nThat with no more interruptions,
\nI may reach him, never to part again, in eternal union,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

XVI<\/p>\n

And now already a whole year
\nHas gone by, slipped away,
\nFrom the sweet moment of our last meeting …<\/p>\n

Tell me, my sweet son, how may I bear it,
\nWhen I long for everything by you,
\nYour shy smile, the shadow of your eyelashes,
\nThe breadth of your shoulders, the thick hair on your chest,<\/p>\n

I long for your words, and for those still unsaid.<\/p>\n

From Cleveland to New York and from there to London,
\nI arrived then, why, my heart<\/p>\n

O my heart, the door of your\u00a0desolation,
\nSometimes strong now breathless, half-dead,<\/p>\n

My eyes frozen and my arms dangling,
\nI do not know how, O my bursting heart,
\nIn the thick crowd at the airport,<\/p>\n

I saw your elder sister standing,
\nIn a black dress, like a black pillar,
\nStanding there as if turned to stone.<\/p>\n

What happened then and how did it happen?
\nOnly Koko your in-law knows best;
\nShogher in black wrapped herself around me tightly.<\/p>\n

„Papa, do not ask about Vahram“,
\nShe said and sobbed silently so,
\nHer whole body, pressed to mine,
\nWas all a-shiver!<\/p>\n

The shocks of an electrical current,
\nThat I shall feel run through me,
\nEvery time my thoughts go
\nTo that black instant,
\nWhen a couple of black flames,
\nInvisibly but with the same heat,<\/p>\n

Were burning in an embrace…<\/p>\n

Your brother Tsolak,
\nMy only one now left upon this earth,
\nSparkling once in appearance\u00a0like\u00a0flint-stone,
\nNow he is soggy, like honey-bread…<\/p>\n

And repeats the same words,
\nEach time he comes home and finds me immersed
\nIn the depths of my thoughts flooded by tears,<\/p>\n

„Papa, you cannot, by blackening your days,
\nBy chipping away at your life bring Vahram back…
\nYou must be reconciled, we must be reconciled,
\nAt least we must pretend we are reconciled
\nWhen amongst other people …<\/p>\n

\u201cMust I tell you what you surely know, Papa,
\nWhether we exist or not,
\nOne more Vahram or one Vahram less
\nNobody cares in this world.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey will not feel our grief,
\nAn insult in itself,
\nThey will perhaps even snigger in themselves,
\nThink us weak, unworthy of life,
\nEven the sanctity of our pain, they will desecrate“.<\/p>\n

Your brother, without a doubt, is right,
\nI will not argue,<\/p>\n

But when has the heart heard the words of the mind?<\/p>\n

This is how we live since your departure…
\nOur lives have become a sky without sun.<\/p>\n

My son, the grief of my heart, and hearth<\/p>\n

The flames burn fiercer
\nWhenever the thought passes through my mind,
\nThat you too may burn by the same flame.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

XVII<\/p>\n

The black accident snatched you,
\nWhisked you away
\nFrom my very own hands,
\nFrom the golden palace of my dreams,
\nMy pride, the Ararat of my hope,<\/p>\n

Orphaned once again this orphaned man,
\nSince that black accident,<\/p>\n

I am transformed, Vahram,
\nI am transformed so much so
\nThat in every\u00a0victim\u00a0I see
\nA rebel or a servile particle of you,<\/p>\n

From every drop of spilt blood
\nI smell the sharp bitter smell of your own blood,
\nSon, and my heart burns!<\/p>\n

I am so changed; I am changed so much…
\nAnd, know it, Vahram,
\nYou are the maker of this transformation.<\/p>\n

I burnt with you, I became ashes,
\nAnd with you again, by higher strength,
\nI was re-born once again from my own ashes,
\nWith the wings of my mind stronger than ever,
\nAnd under my chest a heart so large,
\nThat I can contain within it
\nThe mountainous grief of all mankind …<\/p>\n

This, my growth, son,
\nI owe it to you with all my being.<\/p>\n

Blessed be you
\nToday and for all days,
\nAnd let the flame of your memory
\nLet it never die out under my breath,<\/p>\n

Let it not pass away without a trace
\nFrom a forgetful mind of this our earth.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

XVIII<\/p>\n

I confess again and again,
\nMy sweet son, my very sweet Vahram,<\/p>\n

My re-birth this of grief’s fire
\nI owe it to you and you alone.<\/p>\n

Whatever I shall give to men, noble and kind,
\nTo the end of my life already near its end,
\nIt shall be born of you; it will belong to you,<\/p>\n

As if we were,
\nYou; a symphony of light,
\nI; a receptacle of sound,<\/p>\n

That gives to the world by ceaseless self-consumption
\nWhat it receives from you as waves born of light.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

XIX<\/p>\n

My voice, does it reach you,
\nOr does it sink in the desolate darkness?<\/p>\n

Who could inform me and how?<\/p>\n

I only know that as an answer to my calls
\nSince your separation till this very grim moment
\nNot a whisper has reached me,<\/p>\n

And I am struck ill by your unheard voice.<\/p>\n

Now sitting in the bosom of the yawning night,
\nWhen with the torches of my mind
\nI search out the path you and I have taken,<\/p>\n

I mourn twin deaths in a single person,
\nOne in yours, Vahram my soul,
\nThe other, mine own…<\/p>\n

Who ever has wept his very own death!<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

XXII<\/p>\n

Vahram, my darling, my dream child,
\nI saw you frozen in the house of death,
\nYour height collapsed under a cover,
\nLike a mummy,<\/p>\n

And on your face,
\nAn unworldly veil of light,
\nWhich through my eyes
\nCarried a cold wind down my veins…<\/p>\n

The chill of that wind stays in me
\nStill, until now.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

XXV
\nA rocket the other day
\nKnocked down fifteen people at once …
\nFive of them returned to life no more…<\/p>\n

One of them was Vah\u00e9,
\nOur neighbor, your old playmate …<\/p>\n

I did not follow his coffin,
\nIt seemed to me that with Vah\u00e9
\nPeople were burying \u2026 you all over again.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

XXVII<\/p>\n

Not having you,
\nNot seeing you,
\nThe\u00a0deprivation\u00a0of not hearing you,
\nSon, let’s say I could endure,
\nWith my soul squeezed between my teeth,
\nAnd my eyes shut.<\/p>\n

But how shall I look in the face
\nAt the sweet, sweet world,
\nHow can I henceforth
\nGreet a summer,<\/p>\n

Without fearing the terror of a burning hot furnace
\nAt every summer’s threshold,<\/p>\n

Where the treacherous fate leads you,
\nTo burn you alive as a wholesome sacrifice …<\/p>\n

* * *<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Vahe-Vahian’s Portrait by the great Armenian Painter, Ashod Zorian was accomplished in 1949,\u00a0after a sitting of an hour or two\u00a0when the poet was on a lecture tour to the then…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-16027","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/norkhosq.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16027","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/norkhosq.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/norkhosq.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/norkhosq.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/norkhosq.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=16027"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/norkhosq.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16027\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/norkhosq.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=16027"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/norkhosq.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=16027"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/norkhosq.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=16027"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}