(A Spoken Word Poem and Collaboration with guitarist Aram Bajakian, The Armenian Poetry Project, and The Hye-Phen)
Armenia, you are more than a piece of ass parade on the newsfeed.
Armenia, you are the split decision. Armenia, the schism.
The first tribe to be converted. Armenia is a country of a metaphor
tucked into the folds of breath and veil. In between forever
bordered and borderlust, In love with a mountain felt
in the pit of the groin. This aching, this naming,
this never having, thick with Eurovision’s beard, sick with genocide,
sucking the holy thumb and the Russian cloak spit on with angels,
miles with lambs, cathedrals, monasteries, characters in suits
working on tracks with impeccable shoes, pride cascading down
the runways, more than all of this, a lake cupping the delicious seeds
of history, which may or may not ever break the internet.
I want to write a poem for you, young Armenians from here to there.
I want my poetry to ring loud and clear like a song from a mountain
for all the girls and boys who eat dolma, for the marginalized
who eat dolma, for the wealthy, for all of us ate dolma once in our lives.
I want to make something that makes sense for you and all of them,
and because some poetry just doesn’t make sense with all its matter
of fact witty humor and subtle stabs and no big heart and big laugh,
I want to make a poem that slides off of William Saroyan’s mustache
and lands in a plate of fasulya. I want to write a poem that shines a flash-
light on the dark rooms of my grandfather’s house of art and your grandfather’s
and your great grandmother’s and her sister’s and their brothers’.
I want to make sure that my words don’t alienate but reverberate, make sure
that everyone in Kentucky even, near the beautiful Ohio River, in the Galt House
overlooking the pedestrians, the walkways and highways and in every way
can relate in the heart and in the head. If Tom Sawyer were Armenian,
he’d throw pomegranate seeds at the girl or boy he loved and use the tongue
to make sure each and every last one is tasted and swallowed. If Emily Dickinson
were Armenian, well, she already is – pause and hesitation equal longing,
and longing is what we know, young Armenian beauties, what we use
to mark the time, the great and indifferent calendar of the internal universe,
which is, after all, the only real universe for us or for anyone with a heart.
And if Neruda were, and if Anansi, and if Obama, and if Mother Teresa.
I want to make something, anything, that fills even a part of your void,
young Armenians from here to there, even if you think you’ve filled it up
with prayer, culture, or lahmajoun, friends, miles, or Facebook, modernity or
solemnity, genuflection, navigation, or irrigation for the new gardens
of the world. The void, which is everyone’s void, every nation, every person
forgiving and forgiven. I want to write a poem. And give it to you. Now.
“Primer” is the first version of a spoken word collaboration by Vancouver-based guitarist Aram Bajakian and NYC-based poet, songwriter, and educator Alan Semerdjian. This version, first published here in Hye-Phen and at The Armenian Poetry Project, led to the full-length collection The Serpent and The Crane (April, 2020).