Armenian Poetry, for poetry and Armenian language lovers. armenian-poetry.blogspot.com
This project is curated and produced by Lola Koundakjian in New York. To contact APP, send an email to: ArmenianPoetryProject[at]gmail[dot]com.

by Lola Koundakjian
Armenian Poetry, for poetry and Armenian language lovers. armenian-poetry.blogspot.com This project is curated and produced by Lola Koundakjian in New York. To contact APP, send an email to: ArmenianPoetryProject[at]gmail[dot]com.
Language
🇭🇾
Publishing Since
9/4/2020
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July 29, 2026
<p>I never wrote a poem about war.<br>As a child every storm shook<br>the walls of my home.<br>I never wrote a poem about war.<br>In classrooms I read the scene of Juliek<br>playing his violin in the Giewitz snowfall.<br>I never wrote a poem about war.<br>At six, I was given thick-bound books filled with<br>pages of my decapitated poets.<br>I never wrote a poem about war.<br>All my dears are toiling, fervent<br>as they cry out the death tolls of children.<br>I never wrote a poem about war.<br>I haven’t the right. How can I ever know<br>those sorrows. I dare not try.<br>I never wrote a poem about war.<br>Not even today when a cellist played<br>K[h]atchaturian on a pile of wreckage in Beirut.<br>I’ll never write a poem about war.<br>What can I say that hasn’t been said,<br>when I’m silenced into prayer for the dead<br>and the dying.<br>Aida Zilelian lives in New York City. This poem appeared in <a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/28214564/610493890472839064#">Decelaration</a>.</p>

July 24, 2026
<p>She fed me oranges and my worries went away<br>on the road from the Bosphorus<br>I spit the seeds out the window<br>of the small white car<br>speeding down the mountain<br>at fifteen I planted my memory<br>there on the dirt road<br>and found the beginning of where<br>my skin was born<br>on the hands of all my grandmothers<br>waving to me on that dirt road;<br>shouting their stories in the wind<br>so I can hear their echo<br>even in the speeding car,<br>and carry voices in my pocket<br>eating oranges<br>laughing and telling jokes<br>in another language,<br>and smiling each time<br>I see an old woman reminding me<br>of all my grandmothers<br>and all their sad eyes staring<br>at me, watching me leave<br>the land where they were born;<br>hoping I take a piece of them<br>with me to remember when I am old.<br>1999</p>

June 11, 2026
<p>who used to draw<br>in the mud of the water bank<br>with a stick and weave marvelous<br>stories for her little boy<br>in a village called Tadem,<br>who used to decorate<br>the tops of pastry with cut outs<br>of fantastic figures;<br>this is for Zarif<br>who did needlework<br>passably well<br>and figures faster than any man.<br>This is for Zarif<br>who prayed with two hands<br>and who wrote to her son<br>that although she could not watch him<br>while he was away at school<br>she knew he would want to be<br>like the other good men in his family<br>who did not smoke.<br>This is for that simple woman<br>who did not teach her son<br>to be a revolutionary<br>but when revolution came, hid a gun for him<br>in the garden, against bad days.<br>This is for Zarif whom the Turks beat,<br>asking the whereabouts of that son;<br>for Zarif who said over and over again<br>I do no know,<br>although she did.<br>This is for Zarif whose arm was smashed<br>then made raw then broken to pieces<br>then cut off while she repeated when she waked<br>she did not know.<br>This is for one-armed Zarif<br>who lived through hell;<br>who lived to see her grandchildren<br>in another world,<br>this is for her<br>who once held my right hand in her left<br>and never told me what I must do with mine.<br></p>
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Armenian Poetry, for poetry and Armenian language lovers. armenian-poetry.blogspot.com
This project is curated and produced by Lola Koundakjian in New York. To contact APP, send an email to: ArmenianPoetryProject[at]gmail[dot]com.
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