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Marineh Khachadour | Children of War

Marineh Khachadour | Children of War

My husband has purchased an old Zhiguli from a Yezidi young man for $400. It is white with golden velvet interior. “Fit for a lamb,” Charlie jokes as he straps Arpa, our almost two-year-old son, on the back seat. I sit next to him, so I may quickly reach for...
David Poghosyan | Delusion

David Poghosyan | Delusion

The best and the most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched – they must be felt with heart.                                 Helen Keller Part 1 Revelation My father is a pilot. I’m...
Souren Sarumyan | The Burner of Memories

Souren Sarumyan | The Burner of Memories

The boy was carefully hiding Grandpa’s photo under the mattress with his head on the pillow, pretending asleep. On the weather-stained photo Grandpa was still young – he was standing by a big round table and sadly smiling. Grandpa’s fists were big, almost in size with the table. Even in...
Mher Israelyan | Unimaginable Cheesies for Jeff Bronson

Mher Israelyan | Unimaginable Cheesies for Jeff Bronson

Dedicated to Brussels American School “The Earth is round and rotates not just around the sun, but also around its own axis,” I explain to five-year old Davit. “Round, like the khachapuri Mother bakes?” Davit’s eyes grow round. “Round like the sun, except that the sun does not move, it...
The Shepherd of the Mounts

The Shepherd of the Mounts

Mounts… high, emerald mounts… You, that are the land and throne of the gentle  breeze, sweet-scented flowers, sacred verdure and dews, of lively, cold springs, gloomy clouds, igneous lightnings, gush of waters… You, that are so close to the Almighty, the stars, the moon, to the celestial grants and mysteries,...
Silva Zanoyan Merjanian | Under my skin

Silva Zanoyan Merjanian | Under my skin

 Silva Zanoyan Merjanian is a widely published poet who grew up in Beirut, Lebanon. She moved to Geneva during the Lebanese civil war after personally experiencing the devastation of her beloved country. She later settled in California to raise her two sons with her husband. Her poetry reflects a little...
Nune Levonyan | I love fairy-tales

Nune Levonyan | I love fairy-tales

The tree and I get evenly old, but the tree does not make a tragedy of it and each Indian summer does not write poems of defoliation. The tree and I have similarities: we love to dress up and be beautiful to death: but I do not allow common passengers...
Aram Pachyan | Toronto

Aram Pachyan | Toronto

Whenever my father would upset my mother, I would always go to Toronto, where there was an old worn bed with a metal frame placed on top of bee hives, and by its headboard, a bookshelf that practically reached the sky, filled with countless books. In Toronto, I would sit...
Hamo Sahyan| Day Turned Dark

Hamo Sahyan| Day Turned Dark

Day Turned Dark To Sero Khanzadyan It is dark. It is time for The evening meal. My melancholy gradually Evolves into crying. They descended contemplating, bowing On the corner of the haystack, One heaven made of milk dough and One half-moon…
Aram Saroyan | NOTES AT SEVENTY

Aram Saroyan | NOTES AT SEVENTY

At the beginning of Desolation Angels, Jack Kerouac is all alone, a fire lookout on a mountain peak in the Pacific Northwest surrounded by mountain stillness on all sides. A practicing if erratic Buddhist—“I’m the Buddhknown as the quitter,” he quipped once to his friend Gary Snyder—he has an epiphany:...
Vrezh Israelyan | For Granny Aghavni

Vrezh Israelyan | For Granny Aghavni

Many years ago the Armenian author, Avetiq Isahakian, seized the saying, ‘Why don’t you get pulled down to the complete ruin, o you world?’ from the folk’s mouth and delivered it to Granny Aghavni. She was teaching the Armenian language to the village elementary schoolchildren at the time. And her...
Hovhannes Grigoryan | Never die

Hovhannes Grigoryan | Never die

“Never die”, appealed my father to me in the deathbed.
Hasmik Hakobyan | Linguistic realization of modern armenian poetry

Hasmik Hakobyan | Linguistic realization of modern armenian poetry

The diversity of world orders, the thematic-structural elements,the variety of solution of primary problems make the modern poetry significant. Each type of poetry puts its world order and the language of thinking. The words become conventional signs of reality. So what is the poetic reality? What is the function of...
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Zareh Khrakhuni | The unowned field

Zareh Khrakhuni | The unowned field

It is waiting. On this side of the dam The thirsty field is waiting To fulfill its thirst. On the other side The reservoir is swollen With water. It is waiting. On this side of the dam The field is waiting To be immersed. On the other side A river bleeds the water away Like...
Anna Maria Mattaar | Sun of the twins by Hrachya Saribekyan

Anna Maria Mattaar | Sun of the twins by Hrachya Saribekyan

Sergei Bulgakov: “That life is a supreme reality, it is evident and certain for all those who participate in it. Nevertheless, it is a spiritual life, hidden in the “secret man,” in the “inner chamber” of his heart; in this sense it is a mystery and a sacrament. It is above nature — in other...
Marineh Khachadour | Through the Rainbow

Marineh Khachadour | Through the Rainbow

“When you reach the rainbow, you will be transformed into a boy,” my grandmother told me when I was a young girl, and I tried many times. Not because I wanted to become a boy, but because I was determined to experience a miracle, the extraordinary. I stopped trying to reach the rainbow around the...
Ghukas Sirunyan | My mother is asleep

Ghukas Sirunyan | My mother is asleep

MY MOTHER IS ASLEEP My mother is asleep beneath the rows of red pepper, Beside the gourds relishing the sun like grandmothers— In the windy warmth of the autumn leaving the meadow. My mother is asleep beside clemency, worth, and fruit-trees, On the edge of vigor, jealousy, and precarious undertakings, Beside the smoldering hearths, vivacious...
Diana Hambardzumyan | Poor Cow—Its Belly Is Swollen

Diana Hambardzumyan | Poor Cow—Its Belly Is Swollen

I saw him for the first time when I was toothless in my mother’s belly. I was all scrunched up, moving around anxiously, and I thought it might be this man with a mustache. I wished that it was me in his place, munching on an apple. Right in my mother’s belly I dreamed that,...
Armenuhi Sisyan  | Sometimes

Armenuhi Sisyan | Sometimes

*** I’m walking on you
An interview with Elfik Zohrabyan

An interview with Elfik Zohrabyan

While Armenia has been described in a centuries-old poem as ‘the paradise land, the cradle of humankind,’ the Eurasian country – situated just outside the Fertile Crescent and Levant – might appear far enough off the beaten path to suggest a dearth of significant literature or a lack of notable literary figures. However, Armenia stands...
Hrachya Saribekyan | Eternal engine

Hrachya Saribekyan | Eternal engine

Perpetuum mobile-an imaginary machine that works without loss of energetic resources. Its existence contradicts the First Law of Thermodynamics. By the Law of Energy Conservation, all the attempts of making an eternal engine are condemned to failure. I was turning the pedals, but my bicycle was not moving. I was moving faster and faster, with...
Aram Pachyan | Journey by bicycle

Aram Pachyan | Journey by bicycle

She stroked my cheek with her fingers, put the sweet, tasty cotton candy in my hand, smiled, and talked a little with my mother… The sweet cotton candy did not reduce the magic of that moment… Big black nipples winked from her transparent white bra… I replied… Unfortunately, it was still too early for an...