TIGRAN PASKEVICHYAN | The seventh day
HANGOVER Lend me a hand, my dears and nears, I have run out of my wine in the cup of my three and thirty years. I get sober from the morning bolls; lend me a hand. Does the wind blow late, or Won’t your hand find me anymore? I depart unhurriedly in a slow pace,...
Slavik Chiloayn | Selected poems
DOGS Dogs waifs, kicked out of doors and other animals we are your walking memories on a spinning parchment. THE SONG OF NAMES In the 20th century or any century there are two types of names— proper and common. The proper names are those that turn into a promontory, a city, a street, a...
VAHÉ ARMEN | An elegy
AN ELEGY By the pathway stretching out to the infinite I meet the crowd that passes me by Uncaringly, even through me– Smashing the bones of my soul under its feet. The crowd did not spot me; It didn’t notice the lofty Waiting of the lovers In the waning of the flowers: Could it be...
Garun Aghajanyan | Non-orgasm
Their family was somewhat artistic. He was an elegant young man, with a thin moustache. He came to ask for Zabel’s hand. Everything turned out to be casual and rather absurd. First Manvel had fallen in love with her older sister, the neighbor’s widow. She rejected his dogged overtures, saying: “You’re wasting your time. Why...
Henrik Edoyan | Three days without the Lord
THE RUINS OF ACROPOLIS Time passes over me now like a blind bird leaving a feather with which I write on the gaping call of my memory the names of men things cities’ This is the image of a fina; assurance, these are the ruins of Acropolis among which entangles the stare of a casual...
Recent Comments