December 2015
I recently relocated to San Antonio and am adjusting to life as a Texan. Some of my poems have appeared recently in such journals as The Broken Plate, The Comstock Review, Exit 7, Main Street Rag, and The Meadow. Amsterdam Press published a chapbook of my poems entitled The Arboriculturist in 2010. Check out my author's page on Facebook or go to my blog athttp://www.michaelminassian.com you-all!
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Author's Note: All four of my grandparents were survivors of the 1915 Armenian Genocide. Over a million and a half Armenians were killed in an official Turkish government action, a fact still denied by Turkey. As a boy, I often heard first person accounts from survivors of the atrocities committed as well as amazing stories of survival. The character in the poem “Sleeping with the Sheep” is a composite of my grandfather’s Uncle Minas and other surviving family members. “The Madwoman of Kharput” is based on eyewitness accounts of dismembered bodies and half-finished burials in Eastern Turkey. The madwoman in the poem is my take on a scenario after a mother has her child ripped from her and brutally murdered. “I Return from a Place…” is a poem I wrote in response to the disconnect I sometimes feel towards the country of my ancestors. In my mind, I have re-imagined Armenia, the land of Mt. Ararat and centuries of tradition and culture. Many artists of the Armenian Diaspora share these longings and imaginings. For me personally, it is a walk through family and history. For a long time, I’ve been writing about these events and the people caught up in the genocide and its aftermath. But every time I think I am done, another poem or story will make its way to the surface and onto my page. |
Sleeping with the Sheep
Uncle Minas told the story
only once after I was born;
how he used to tend sheep
in the hills above Sepas;
sleeping at night huddled
against the warm breathing curled coats,
when the wolves’
love songs wound down the valley;
Later, when Minas married
he took herds of sheep
down to Lake Van to wash
at the western shore;
the waters as clear & still
as a the mouth of a young lamb.
Until he returned home
one night to find that smoke
could eat fire, fingers devour
fists, and bread beg for mercy;
his wife and daughter dead
in the soldiers’ wake
carved like last night’s leftovers;
he cried so hard the moon
blinded him in one eye —
took his sight out of pity and spite.
In America, he sat chewing
his moustache, winking at me
& my sister with his left eye
when we played cards after dinner
before my grandmother
brought the coffee, whiskey, & hard candy.
Waiting until he could hear
her fussing in the kitchen
before he picked up his patch
to let us see the moon’s compassionate
kiss, & deep inside the socket
a hint of roasted flesh, dead sheep,
& skewers of small, outstretched fingers.
-originally published in Hawaii Pacific Review. 24 (2010): 41.
The Madwoman of Kharpout
After the Turks
came through the villages,
leaving behind a trail
of red dust and dirt,
the madwoman of Kharpout
wandered to the lakeshore,
her face smudged
with ashes of the dead;
there, along the water’s edge,
she found the old men
and young boys buried
up to their heads
in the rocky sand;
the tops of their heads
cleaved off like ripe melons
spilling their juice and seeds;
down the path
to the smoldering church,
she came across a pile
of small hands and feet
until she found
the fingers she recognized
and sat and chewed the nails
she had forgotten to trim.
-originally published in Xanadu. 2006-2207: 41
I Return from a Place I've Never Been
The return trip by sea
takes longer than I had expected —
forty nights a drop in the bucket;
on the ship I meet a woman
who tells me she has taken care of me
since birth: I have never seen her before.
She teaches me the name of the country
where I have never been;
grabbing and squeezing my cheeks,
sticking her fingers in my mouth,
holding down my tongue to force
the shape of the words.
Twice each day, the woman returns,
follows me around the deck,
and hands me flash cards
with pictures of new words
I flick overboard like wounded birds.
Once, she shows me a postcard
of a twin peaked mountain,
then invites me to suckle at her breast;
As the ship docks, she is there again
desperate to teach me the words
for mother, for father, for son, for daughter
for sword, for cross, for skull, for forgiveness
for revenge, for milk, for apricots, for figs,
for coffee, for brandy, for sweet cake,
for cranes, for eagles, for swallows, for crows;
then tells me a tale:
“Storks in the country and forests are people;
when harvest time comes, they put on feathers
and kill one of their own as a sacrifice to the fields.”
But I prefer books and paintings,
and scrape the bird droppings
from my shoe before disembarking;
“I have no time for fairy tales and lies;
bring me pen and ink,” I say,
“and tattoo the words, here, into my gums.”
Uncle Minas told the story
only once after I was born;
how he used to tend sheep
in the hills above Sepas;
sleeping at night huddled
against the warm breathing curled coats,
when the wolves’
love songs wound down the valley;
Later, when Minas married
he took herds of sheep
down to Lake Van to wash
at the western shore;
the waters as clear & still
as a the mouth of a young lamb.
Until he returned home
one night to find that smoke
could eat fire, fingers devour
fists, and bread beg for mercy;
his wife and daughter dead
in the soldiers’ wake
carved like last night’s leftovers;
he cried so hard the moon
blinded him in one eye —
took his sight out of pity and spite.
In America, he sat chewing
his moustache, winking at me
& my sister with his left eye
when we played cards after dinner
before my grandmother
brought the coffee, whiskey, & hard candy.
Waiting until he could hear
her fussing in the kitchen
before he picked up his patch
to let us see the moon’s compassionate
kiss, & deep inside the socket
a hint of roasted flesh, dead sheep,
& skewers of small, outstretched fingers.
-originally published in Hawaii Pacific Review. 24 (2010): 41.
The Madwoman of Kharpout
After the Turks
came through the villages,
leaving behind a trail
of red dust and dirt,
the madwoman of Kharpout
wandered to the lakeshore,
her face smudged
with ashes of the dead;
there, along the water’s edge,
she found the old men
and young boys buried
up to their heads
in the rocky sand;
the tops of their heads
cleaved off like ripe melons
spilling their juice and seeds;
down the path
to the smoldering church,
she came across a pile
of small hands and feet
until she found
the fingers she recognized
and sat and chewed the nails
she had forgotten to trim.
-originally published in Xanadu. 2006-2207: 41
I Return from a Place I've Never Been
The return trip by sea
takes longer than I had expected —
forty nights a drop in the bucket;
on the ship I meet a woman
who tells me she has taken care of me
since birth: I have never seen her before.
She teaches me the name of the country
where I have never been;
grabbing and squeezing my cheeks,
sticking her fingers in my mouth,
holding down my tongue to force
the shape of the words.
Twice each day, the woman returns,
follows me around the deck,
and hands me flash cards
with pictures of new words
I flick overboard like wounded birds.
Once, she shows me a postcard
of a twin peaked mountain,
then invites me to suckle at her breast;
As the ship docks, she is there again
desperate to teach me the words
for mother, for father, for son, for daughter
for sword, for cross, for skull, for forgiveness
for revenge, for milk, for apricots, for figs,
for coffee, for brandy, for sweet cake,
for cranes, for eagles, for swallows, for crows;
then tells me a tale:
“Storks in the country and forests are people;
when harvest time comes, they put on feathers
and kill one of their own as a sacrifice to the fields.”
But I prefer books and paintings,
and scrape the bird droppings
from my shoe before disembarking;
“I have no time for fairy tales and lies;
bring me pen and ink,” I say,
“and tattoo the words, here, into my gums.”
©2015 Michael Minassian