Բերլա Գանթարճեան
Ծ.Խ. — Բանաստեղծութիւններու այս շարքը կը պարունակէ էջադրական հնարքներ, որոնք անկարելի է վերարտադրել առցանց տարբերակին վրայ։ Շարքը լաւագոյնս ըմբոշխնելու համար՝ զայն կարդալ թիւի PDF տարբերակին վրայ։
Բերլա Գանթարճեան լիբանանահայ երիտասարդ բանաստեղծուհի եւ լրագրող է, որուն բանաստեղծութիւններէն ընտրանի մը 2022-ին ղրկուած է Լուսին՝ NASA-ի Lunar Codex նախագիծին ծիրէն ներս: Բերլային բանաստեղծութիւններու առաջին ժողովածուն՝ «You Must Become Field»-ը, լոյս պիտի տեսնէ այս սեպտեմբերին՝ Բրիտանական Bad Betty Press հրատարակչատունէն։ Անոր բանաստեղծութիւնները ընդգրկուած են National Poetry Competition-ի ցանկին մէջ, բարձր գնահատանքի արժանացած են Charles Causley Poetry Competition-ին կողմէ, իսկ անոր ձեռագիրը կիսաեզրափակիչի հասած է Brittingham & Felix Pollak Prizes եւ St. Lawrence Book Award մրցանակներուն, ինչպէս նաեւ գտնուած է Magma Poetry Pamphlet Competition մրցոյթին ցանկին մէջ, ի շարս այլոց։ Անոր գործերը հրատարակուած են Wasafiri, Electric Literature, Black Warrior Review եւ այլ հրատարակութիւններու մէջ: Գանթարճեան կ՚ապրի Պէյրութ, նախնական եւ երկրորդական ուսումը ստացած է Լիբանանի Հայ Կաթողիկէ Ս. Խաչ-Հարպոյեան բարձրագոյն վարժարանին մէջ, համալսարանական ուսումը աւարտած է American University of Science and Technology-էն, ապա Sonny Mehta կրթաթոշակով Creative Writing-ի մագիստրոսի աստիճան ստացած է University of East Anglia-էն։
ՀԳ
i, motherland,
i, motherland,
i falter.
motherland, forgive me.
there are flowers that grow here
unfettered by another blackened sun
& i delight in their softness.
i pluck off their petals to gulp down
with my morning reads.
when i pluck & pluck i watch
how they still grow, soft & no bow & arrow
aimed at the world around.
how? will they teach me?
i have sifted through your palms
for long now, my arms are tired
from all the digging. there is no longer
fruit in your rummaging.
i have rowed myself away into the music
of elsewaters again– held your tales
as sailcloth to this parting.
yet in the sentences of this off-center,
i cannot but search for your name. i name you
& name you in the sentences of my bidding.
as i walk into rooms that do not know you,
i wrap your beauty & reckoning
around my neck like a wild agate from your
Mount Aragats. you are now again only a feeling.
a distant naming. a breath of word i keep casting
& casting so much so that i now look at the air
around me & find you in all that is moment
& meaning, all that is passing, & passing
Publication Note: Highly commended and published in the Binsted Poetry Prize (part of the South Downs Poetry Festival Competition) in 2022
the sacrificial dove
When the dead are not your own,
they appear to be sleeping
Երբ մեռելները ձերը չեն,
կը թուի թէ քնացած են
Armenian proverb
Աղաւնի – her name a mouthfeel of feather.
you watch as she marches
the altar of her forsaken,
her hands covering all the neglect
of her spent graces.
her bones have unbodied her now –
left her a thick-skinned loss
to spine. to weather.
waistlines can be insignias too,
of where the thrashing waves
come only to leave again.
what is beneath the shore
when searched.
is there another
more lasting womb
carrying the heart
of a home
instead of only
its borders
Publication Note: Published in AMBIT
when the wolves come thrashing
in my first language
նահանգ / nahang
is the word for state
in my first language
հանգոյց / hankuyts
is the word for knot
***
animosity — the word taints my palate
already, nesting this once-again rage.
i wake to tales of animosity, breaking
my fast of evening, my insides
churn into a blood batter
of the cortisol passed down
to my young body.
it’s an over a century-old fight,
yet ripening.
the enemy is kilometres away, the headlines warn,
whoever has Shushi, has Artsakh.
long and heavy, the words walk strident
upon our ears. i hear my father’s wired heart
pulsate with such wistful rhythm all the way from my room.
i can hear the layers being peeled off his skin.
i can feel him bruising.
***
at night,
i don’t sleep from the sounds
of the televisions of the neighbourhood Armenians
streaming the breaking
news the rising numbers the president’s
high morale doesn’t affect me
i just want to sit down
with the night and wet its hair
then brush it
braid it
shelter in it
Publication Note: Published in Wasafiri 120: Armenia(n)s
Ararat Mountain Removed from Armenian Passport Stamp
Two holy peaks beyond the border wire.
National symbol beside lion and eagle, on our coins,
our church walls, in our selfies at Khor Virap,
in black linework on a cousin’s wrist.
Treaties carved you into someone else’s map in 1921.
Still, you shimmer behind billboards on Mashtots Avenue,
behind cranes building new apartments, behind the laundry
flapping on every Yerevan balcony. You’re the first thing
I learned to draw in kindergarten with blue and white crayons.
The new passport stamp will display only: Հայաստան
and ARMENIA, the checkpoint name, a date, icons for air,
rail, road. “State symbols should not send dangerous messages.”
says the ruling party’s secretary. mountain and dangerous
side by side in official statements. Look at mount Aragats
instead, says the Prime Minister. Aragats is inside our borders.
Aragats is safe. Aragats won’t upset the neighbors (for now).
But when I book a window seat on my flight to Yerevan,
the plane will dip, the clouds open, and I, phone half-raised,
breath held, will smile at your white peaks spilling
through the haze. Exactly where you’ve always been.
eating fruit with you before you leave
persimmons never really meant much for me
until that sweet November morning—
in the body of daylight i watched you
gently thumb one clean under cold
running water that was not supposed to be
cold— our favorite Trois Gymnopédies
on a muffled loop in the near bedroom,
dwindling droplets of Beirut sun stroking
the kitchen door, the stray circling my ankles
cause I keep giving him food, your perfect
welcome of my endless footnotes on how
the farmer’s market felt sad yesterday
without chanterelles, imbibing your
real-life concerns for how the knife
needs sharpening, and the cat’s appetite
needs monitoring, and your beard
needs trimming, and the car
needs refuelling, and this country
needs root reforming, and all the while,
i could not help but realize that nothing
really needed anything, except for that
very moment to be plucked from the canvas
and recorded chronology of time and wrapped
in the skin of another persimmon, another
most perfect one you’ve ever seen, which
you would (all brave and man-like) split
into two (unequal) halves with your
revered knife from Yerevan, both (somehow)
ending up in my same stomach
because i never knew persimmons tasted
like this, this juicy, and of course you approach
to taste it too, off my soused tongue, and i
devour that nearness whole, as i would anything
from your palm, even if i were to live
off a handful of water you harvested
from the skies
Note: Shortlisted for the Lucent Dreaming 2022 Poetry Prize and published in the Lucent Dreaming ‘Hope is the Thing’ Anthology (2023)