Knarik O. Meneshian

March, 2009 Earthworms glide around crocuses, In and out Of soil black and soft, Wet with night’s rain And morning’s dew. Ants scurry up and down daffodil stalks Green and firm, Into buttercup faces That smile yellow at hyacinths pink and blue And heavy with the scent of spring. Robins chirp and flutter, Carry away twigs And blades of grass To make ready for speckled, Sky-blue eggs. Under the peonies Lilies of the valley bow, Knowing that soon The bumblebee will come To caress the roses....

She treads softly on the parched earth. He steps stoically on the rocky soil. The river Arax shimmers in the distance And age-old mountains called Zangezur stand watching. The couple passes the wishing tree Where strips of fabric hang, But they wish for nothing anymore And brush past tattered bits of dreams and faded shades of hope, Murmuring, “Wishes do not come true.” Down in the orchard Where fruit trees drink Murky water - Runoff from the mine - And piles of debris decay Near butterflies, shanties, and tumbleweed, Large, sugary pomegranates - crimson and yellow - lie on the ground Spilling liquid ruby and gold....

The old woman Takouhi Watches the fly Climb up the window screen. She blinks As wind blows strands Of white hair across her face. Pressing her crooked finger Against the screen, She points To pink roses spotted brown, Half-shriveled tomato plants Sprawled on the ground. And she remembers… Her mother and father Dead in the fields, Her baby brother Tossed in the river, And her big sister Dragged away by men....

Lala is little, Not because she is a child, She never finished growing. Forever her mother’s ‘baby,’ Her father’s ‘if only.’ She spends her days In the toneer room Where once a week Her mother bakes bread, Thin, round, flat bread–lavash– The first piece always For the Lord. Lala looks on As her mother bakes. She utters sounds Only The Lord and her mother understand. And her mother nods, giving her lavash– The second piece always For Lala....

Like feathers falling from a torn pillow, Snow flakes tumble Onto streets and walks, Bare trees, withered grass, dead flowers; Onto roof tops, telephone wires, and the occasional clothesline. In the frosty cold, Quiet beauty shimmers everywhere, And I remember the lady in Gyumri. I never saw her face Nor heard her voice. Did she laugh or cry much? Did she dare to hope or even dream Amidst the poverty and shabbiness That had become a rite of passage For many in that far away place?...

Up Climbs the shepherd With his flock. “Hey, hey!” he calls, Tapping his stick on soil and rock Up The mountain Aragats. Higher, A shepherdess In a billowy dress With hair tucked under her scarf Sings as she stirs a pot Hanging above flickering flames Near a canvas tent And strips of wool dripping, drying on a rope In the summer wind Sweeping across the mountain, Through rocky fields, green pastures, and alpine flower meadows Of blue and white and pink and yellow....

SONG OF THE SHEPHERDS By Knarik O. Meneshian Up Climbs the shepherd With his flock. “Hey, hey!” he calls, Tapping his stick on soil and rock Up The mountain Aragats. Higher, A shepherdess In a billowy dress With hair tucked under her scarf Sings as she stirs a pot Hanging above flickering flames Near a canvas tent And strips of wool dripping, drying on a rope In the summer wind Sweeping across the mountain, Through rocky fields, green pastures, and alpine flower meadows Of blue and white and pink and yellow....

Translated by Knarik O. Meneshian It was a bright morning in spring When we met… You gave me a red rose And said, “A jewel for your breast.” The day was so clear, so light… I had nothing But my heart And said, “Here, a memento for you.” With my undying heart You rejoice and rejoice… But your fragrant red rose, Jewel for my breast, lived only for a day.

Up Climbs the shepherd With his flock. “Hey, hey!” he calls, Tapping his stick on soil and rock Up The mountain Aragats. Higher, A shepherdess In a billowy dress With hair tucked under her scarf Sings as she stirs a pot Hanging above flickering flames Near a canvas tent And strips of wool dripping, drying on a rope In the summer wind Sweeping across the mountain, Through rocky fields, green pastures, and alpine flower meadows Of blue and white and pink and yellow....

We climbed the hill, My brother and I, We climbed until we reached the top. In the distance stood the mountains called Verdugo. The California sky was bright, And the air was crisp As the March winds stirred On this first day of spring. Despite the winds, It was peaceful here, Among the rows and rows Of old and new Level-with-the-ground headstones. In the distance, Lay red flowers - another headstone to be placed....

The sun is brighter. The air is warmer. The grass is turning green And tiny buds can now be seen. Rising from A long winter’s sleep, We turn to ebullient thoughts Of the coming spring. A time to reflect Upon springs of yesterday. A time to dream of Springs of tomorrow. Spring - the anticipation Of life anew. Spring - the realization Of life’s enigma. February 2005

The old woman Takouhi Watches the fly Climb up the window screen. She blinks As wind blows strands Of white hair across her face. Pressing her crooked finger Against the screen, She points To pink roses spotted brown, Half-shriveled tomato plants Sprawled on the ground. And she remembers… Her mother and father Dead in the fields, Her baby brother Tossed in the river, And her big sister Dragged away by men - Long ago, When the heavens screamed As the earth flowed red On land where her people lived....

Grandmother, the city is cold, I’m coming home to you. Walking, walking on concrete, I have begun to feel like it. Grandmother, I’m coming home to you. To the smell of wood smoke in the air, And animal tracks in the snow. To the feel of earth at my feet, And pebbles in my hand. To the song of birds, And the rhythm of uncut grass Rustling in the wind....

Under the pine trees, Around the juniper shrubs, White bells hang silently From green domes. Each time I pass them, Each time I pick them, Sweet chimes of spring Fill the air. February 2005

Past the mountain Aragats, Beyond fields of cabbage and potatoes, The mooing of cows, and the call of roosters, Amidst rocks and stones and dusty roads, Past twisted scraps of metal and concrete chunks Heaped on a winding path Near rushing water, An ancient church - Marmashen, Blackened with candle smoke and time, Stands crumbling In the coolness of moss And tall grass Bowing in the wind near royal tombstones....

Days shall come and days shall go and like a leaf upon a tree we too shall fall and mingle with the soil. It seems that such thoughts occur more than once when Life takes on more shape and form, but like a storm it does pass until again we see another leaf fall from a tree. Once more, we wonder, What is Life? Just then, memories of long ago whirl by– “…it seems like only yesterday when we…”...

Though the weeds grow thorny, and spindly vines enmesh your tombstone, you are not forgotten. Today, we’ll pull the weeds and vines, toss them to the winds, then plant red roses to adorn your epitaph. We’ll sow a mantel of blue forget-me-nots to shade you from the sun, and trim it with orange marigolds– torches for a moonless night. And in the late, late autumn, when all has turned brittle and brown, you’ll not be forgotten....

(In memory of the one and half million Armenians who perished during the Genocide of 1915, perpetrated by Turkish Government.) It was April, and like angry waves upon the sea, they came! They stormed the ancient shores of Hayastan. When it was done, they slapped the rocks, returning to the sea. Though the shores were leveled with each sweeping wave, footprints in the sand appeared….

Flickering candles, burning bright, bowing with each breath of rite. Rising, falling, shedding tears so warm and soft that all too soon grow cold and hard as stone. Oh, ancient light of lights, bending with each whisper of beseeching prayers. To what avail are Sacred Rites, when like you, they melt into oblivion?

The sculptor dreams… then chisels at the marble stone. Beads of water from his brow drop on the mottled form. Leaning forward to wipe it dry, he blows gray dust from crevices and rubs smooth a jagged edge. Until… At last unveiled, the chiseled form becomes a theme and yet another dream. Knarik Meneshian was born in Austria, from an Armenian father and an Austrian mother. She’s married and is a writer and a teacher....

Allured once more to the breast of silent pageantries, his old, weary eyes become radiant and wide as he kneels before his icon of granite and chips away slivers of Time in quest of Man’s How? When? and Why? Digging– Reaching deep into the cool darkness, his fingers touch a spearhead. Digging more– Reaching deeper, he brushes clean a dotted shard of pottery, a coin of King Hetum, and smiles....

What is it that conjures up feelings of longing every time I hear a song, whether it be of a flower, a poplar, or the mountain Ararat, and extends beyond its realms of intermingled rocks and fields and lacy, rose-toned walls to penetrate my senses – not allowing me to bend and blend? Although not from its realms, I am of it. Knarik Meneshian was born in Austria, from an Armenian father and an Austrian mother....