Kabkaban
I wear a black, white-lined bolero from a distant tribe
But territorial lines state that I still belong to them
If I listen closely, I can hear the voices of my people -
I don’t understand half the words they’re saying…
But territorial lines state that I still belong to them.
They sing to me from across the mountains and the seas—
I don’t understand half the words they’re saying,
Yet their drumbeat calls for me to come home, come home
They sing to me from across the mountains and the seas.
I hear the crashing of the waves on my father’s sands…
See how the tide calls for me to come home, come home
She will still welcome me with open arms, though I am changed.
I hear the crashing of the waves on my mother’s sands
I long to stand under the kabkaban leaves of my grandmother’s garden
She will still welcome me with open arms, though I am changed
My seven thousand six hundred islands will not turn me away.
I long to linger by my grandfathers’ graves.
I listen to their voices call out to me from the past:
“Our seven thousand six hundred islands will not turn you away.”
And so I wear the embrace of my distant tribe.
Armenian History I
It was as if he had just walked straight out of a book
I was used to seeing older faces teach us, but here he arrived
With a young face, Darcy-esque curly hair, and furrowed brow
He had intention in his gait, this keeper of the past
I was used to seeing older faces teach us, but here he arrived
With a thick American accent and an Armenian last name
He had intention in his gait, this keeper of the past
“What do you know about your past?” he asked us,
With a thick American accent and an Armenian last name.
He looked at every one of us – we who had come from all corners of the earth –
“What do you know about your past?” he asked us.
And so he filled the whiteboard with the words we had inherited
He looked at every one of us – we who had come from all corners of the earth –
We who owned different languages and a myriad identities
And so he filled the whiteboard with the words we had inherited –
Even from me, an alien and a stranger in his own land
We who owned different languages and a myriad identities
Found ourselves in his young face, Darcy-esque curly hair, and furrowed brow
We loved him – even me, an alien and a stranger in his own land
It was as if we had just walked straight out of a book.
The Pantoum Exhumed
I'll try my hand at a pantoum.
They say it's closest to my culture,
Although I've seemed to have locked the room
To memories that have caused my sutures.
They say it's closest to my culture–
This form taken by white men and exhumed
From memories that have caused my sutures.
Why would I weave more pain into the loom?
This form taken by white men and exhumed
Will be the death of me; my carrion, my vulture,
Why would I weave more pain into the loom?
Why not call this enterprise folly, instead of valour?
Won't this be the death of me; my carrion, my vulture,
The moment I unlock the room
And call this enterprise as folly, instead of valour
When I try my hand at a pantoum?
Restoration (a ballad-prayer)
I want to forget this world
And all its pain and strife
To fix my eyes on you and you alone
To love you for the rest of my life...
You heal my broken heart
from indescribable grief
You listen, you hear me in the secret place
where deep cries out to deep.
Why would I run from your presence?
Your love is a healing balm that coats my soul.
Though many were torn away from me
You've come to restore and make me whole.
Again - you call out to me
Your voice gentle and sweet
I feel like a child again,
Jesus, when I sit at your feet.
You talk to me and you listen.
I have seen too much, though I am yet young...
You see the pain in my eyes, but I know -
Loving you has kept my heart from being numb.
I know you also bleed.
I know you also weep.
I know your heart breaks for them and for me,
And I know we're united in grief.
The Man from Bethsaida
To see—
to be reunited with humanity—
to see the faces of the friends who brought me
to Him,
I see.
That He is Lord of all
that He takes care of things as small
as me.
I see
trees and leaves and seeds
and hands and sandals and smiles
on those who loved me
enough to hope against hope
and put their trust in this Man
who laid His hands on me —
ah, the way they held their breath
and hid their disgust
as He spat on my eyes —
the first try,
their hope flagging as I
saw only trees under murky water
blobs - shapes - shadows
light green - brown - grey
not - human.
I heard them groan, but He kept on going
He touched my eyes
and when I opened them again,
I - could - see.
And then I couldn't see again
because of my tears
and I was laughing and laughing
and He laughed with me,
and He took me in His arms,
and I was lost within His shoulders
and I could only see the dark of His sleeves
oh, I couldn't believe
I could see again.
but, by God! I - could - see!!
And He told me not to go home through the village
where people could see me —
for they did not believe
in Him.
They could see Him, but they
did not
believe.
And so
they could
not see.
I went back home.
I didn't need the hands of my friends
to guide me back, but,
I brought them anyway.
And the next day,
I went out to that little secret place of mine
by the trees
by the stream
where, for years, I only listened to the water
gurgling and flowing,
where I smelled of the leaves deeply
and learned the languages of the birds
and felt the grass under my two feet.
But now I can see the hues of sunlight,
flashing and sparkling over the leaves,
and the bees buzzing over the flowers
the million swirling colors of the brook
and the little fish jumping out the water
the flurry of the brown grasshopper who
jumps away from my feet,
and now I can't see again -
my eyes are blurred with tears.