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#armenian poet
marineashnalikyan · 1 year
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imaginarytalk · 6 months
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The Analysis of Yearning (Garod)
by Barouyr Sevag
from “Anthology of Armenian Poetry"
translated from the Armenian by Diana Der-Hovanessian
I know the dark need, the yearning, the want, in the same way the blind man knows the inside of his old home.
I don't see my own movements and the objects hide. But without error or stumbling I maneuver among them, live among them, move like the self-winding clock which even after losing its hands keeps ticking and turning but shows neither minute nor hour.
And dangling between darkness and loneliness I want to analyze this want like a chemist to understand its nature and profound mystery. And as I try there is laughter from some mysterious tunnel, laughter from an indescribable distance, from an unhearable distance.
A city sparrow with a liquid song changes its ungreen life into music from an unechoing distance, an unhuntable distance.
And words start hurting me as they mock, echo from the unhuntable distance, this merciless distance.
I walk from wall to wall and the sound of my steps seems to come from far away from that merciless distance, that impossible distance.
I am not blind but I see nothing around me, because vision has detached itself and reached that distance that is impossibly far, excessively far.
I run after myself, incapable of ever reaching or catching what I seek.
And this is what is called want and longing or "garod."
The Analysis of Yearning
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his-heart-hymns · 4 months
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Dedicating Faiz Ahmed Faiz's poem to all the oppressed people throughout the world,specially Palestinians.
A few more days, my love, only a few days more
It is our lot to live under the shadow of tyranny
To suffer this outrage, to bear this pain, to weep awhile
This legacy of our past is our cross to bear
Our bodies are confined, our emotions in shackles
Worry is a prisoner, Speech is proscribed
But there’s a courage within us that keeps us going
It’s as if our very life is a beggar's garment
That needs to be patched with pain, time after time
But now these cruel times have almost run their course
This impatient longing is almost over
In this burnt desolation that is the world and its time
We have to go on, but not this way
The unbearable torment of unseen hands
The futility of heartburn, the body's unheard lament
Has to be endured for now, but not forever
This dust of sorrow that veils your beauty
This bounty of defeats on our fleeting youth
This worthless throbbing under moonlit nights
A few more days, my love, only a few days more
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maribellablack · 2 months
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Exactly a month ago, we celebrated the birth of one of the most influential and outstanding people in the USSR, Sergei Parajanov.
Sergei Parajanov (January 9, 1924 – July 20, 1990) was an Armenian film director and screenwriter who invented his own cinematic style which was out of step with the guiding principles of socialist realism, the only sanctioned art style in the USSR. This, combined with his lifestyle and behaviour, led Soviet authorities to repeatedly persecute and imprison him and suppress his films.
He was born as Sarkis Hovsepi Parajaniants in Tbilisi, Georgia to artistically-gifted Armenian parents, Iosif Parajanov and Siranush Bejanova. He was an incredibly talented person who had the ability to show you the beautiful colors of the world, take something uninteresting and unattractive and transform it into something magnificent and breathtaking. Parajanov's films are full of allegories and metaphors, small important details that one might miss easily if they are not familiar with the eccentric worldview and borderless, unlimited imagination of Sergei. Some of my absolute favorite films directed by him include: "Ukrainian Rhapsody" (1961), "The Color of Pomegranates" (1969), "The Legend of Suram Fortress" (1985)...
He died on 20th of July, 1990 in Yerevan, Armenia at the age of 66 because of the lung cancer.
In a 1988 interview he stated that, "Everyone knows that I have three Motherlands. I was born in Georgia, worked in Ukraine and I'm going to die in Armenia."
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ibonoco · 4 months
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The zeitgeist
” Si tu veux que ton chant soit entendu, tu dois te faire le souffle de ton époque “ BOT – Samata Yéghiché Tcharents, de son vrai nom Soghomon Hovhannès Tcharents, était un éminent poète, écrivain et intellectuel arménien du XXe siècle. Il est né le 13 mars 1897 à Kars, dans l’Empire ottoman, et a grandi dans un contexte de bouleversements politiques et sociaux liés à la Première Guerre…
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Paruyr Sevak kissing the hands of Martiros Saryan.
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meirimerens · 2 years
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watch "Sayat-Nova/The Colors of Pomegranates/Tsvet Granata" (1968) btw changed my life. full on youtube.
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girlfictions · 5 months
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"Who Remembers the Armenians?" by Palestinian poet Najwan Darwish / "Who Remembers the Palestinians?" by Armenian writer Sophia Armen
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hreshdagtsi · 11 months
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marineashnalikyan · 2 years
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The Aftermath ✨pg 120 of #themoontaughtme 🌙 Available on Amazon 💖
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leroibobo · 4 months
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haghpat monastery in haghpat, armenia. the initial building was completed in 991 by medieval armenian king smbat II, and other structures were added later until the 13th century. its location was deliberately chosen to both be inconspicuous and overlook the nearby debed river.
this monastery was one of the locations featured in the 1969 film the color of pomegranates. the film follows the life of 18th century armenian poet sayat-nova, who at one point served in haghpat as a monk. he was also murdered there in 1795.
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metamorphesque · 1 year
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These images of circles and circling, revolving around a great center he names God, it makes me think of the cathedral labyrinths of Europe. Or the ancient spiral glyphs carved into rocks and cave faces. I see the circling pathway around some secret center. The road can be bewildering, twisting and turning, keeping us disoriented and uncertain of how near we are, but ever moving inward.
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And that courageous line –
I may not ever complete the last one, but I give myself to it.
We walk the winding path, not out of certainty, but because it is the only path worth walking. Walking that road, quietly, with attention, one foot in front of the other, becomes meditation. It becomes worship. Each ring, whether near or far, is a layer of our lives that is blessed by our passing through it.
Walking the circling path is not only the way to the center, it is actually part of the center. We learn to participate in the center by first walking the path. Obsession with the destination becomes an impediment to reaching it. Instead, by patiently inhabiting each step, we discover the center in ourselves... and our feet naturally end up there, as well.
We walk with our whole selves –
and I still don't know: am I a falcon, a storm, or a great song?
On this roundabout road to God, we question our own nature. We encounter the mystery of self. Who and what are we really? Ultimately, it is in that questioning of a self that eludes definition where we find the still center.
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The quieter we are, the more patient and open we are in our sadnesses, the more deeply and serenely the new presence can enter us, and the more we can make it our own, the more it becomes our fate; and later on, when it "happens" (that is, steps forth out of us to other people), we will feel related and close to it in our innermost being. And that is necessary. It is necessary - and toward this point our development will move, little by little - that nothing alien happen to us, but only what has long been our own. People have already had to rethink so many concepts of motion; and they will also gradually come to realize that what we call fate does not come into us from the outside, but emerges from us. It is only because so many people have not absorbed and transformed their fates while they were living in them that they have not realized what was emerging from them; it was so alien to them that, in their confusion and fear, they thought it must have entered them at the very moment they became aware of it, for they swore they had never before found anything like that inside them. Just as people for a long time had a wrong idea about the sun's motion, they are even now wrong about the motion of what is to come. The future stands still, dear Mr. Kappus, but we move in infinite space.
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Ich lebe mein Leben in wachsenden Ringen, die sich über die Dinge ziehn. Ich werde den letzten vielleicht nicht vollbringen, aber versuchen will ich ihn.
Ich kreise um Gott, um den uralten Turm, und ich kreise jahrtausendelang; und ich weiß noch nicht: bin ich ein Falke, ein Sturm oder ein großer Gesang.
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I live my life in widening circles (set me free)
Starry Night (Vincent van Gogh), Widening Circles by Rainer Maria Rilke (tr. Joanna Macy), Commentary by Ivan M. Granger, The Chartres Cathedral Labyrinth, Ouroboros, 1760  (a photograph by Granger), question mark symbol in Armenian, 지민 (Jimin) 'Set Me Free Pt.2', Letters to a Young Poet (by Rainer Maria Rilke), Ich lebe mein Leben in wachsenden Ringen (by Rainer Maria Rilke)
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possum-mom · 4 months
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"Who Remembers the Armenians?" by Palestinian poet Najwan Darwish
Who Remembers the Palestinians? by Armenian writer Sophia Armen
🇵🇸❤️🇦🇲
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poetrysmackdown · 3 months
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some informal thoughts
hello! hope the holiday season has been kind to all of you. and i hope all my jewish followers had a lovely hanukkah! anyways, since i said a few months ago that i’d pick poetry smackdown back up sometime around this time of year, i thought i should make a post. the gist of it is that i’m still quite busy, i have a break that’s about three weeks shorter than I was planning on, and i don’t currently have the mental bandwidth required to read, contemplate, and sort through poem submissions in a way that does justice to them, even if i were to recruit some friends to help out. since running a tournament format requires at least five weeks of continued engagement once it’s underway, and since i’m not at capacity to offer that right now due to the change in my schedule, i’m gonna have to bow out for now. sad bc i was looking forward to it!
my hope is that i’ll have some more time over the summer to hunker down with it, in which case you’ll be hearing from me. it’ll frankly depend on the kind of job i land in for the summer, but i find that my unemployed spirit can typically keep me doing stupid shit regardless of workload...to a point. i don’t want to make any promises because i don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up just to let them down again LOL. i do admit the amount of exposure the first tournament got has made me feel like more of a perfectionist this time around, doubly because i don’t feel that i’m very suited to being a public online presence (even a relatively quite small one)—i’m bad enough at responding to emails for my own real life responsibilities, let alone tumblr asks for the silly responsibilities i invent for myself lol. that’s not to say i no longer want to do it, or i don’t enjoy it, or even that i don’t feel capable of making a really interesting bracket—just that if i am working to put something new together, and if people are taking the time to submit poems they care about, then i don’t want to half-ass it.
my second admission is something like this. I made the original bracket as a celebration of poetry and our relationships to it. yes it was silly and competitive, and the poems were very tumblr, but still, celebration was the intention—I wanted to have conversations about poetry. I stand by the bracket format as a fun and valuable way to foster conversations about poetry, but truthfully, the poems i’m wanting to have conversations about right now—the poems that we should be talking about right now—are ones that i'm not comfortable putting in a bracket. I reblogged The Baffler’s Poems from Palestine collection on here earlier, and Najwan Darwish’s “Who Remembers The Armenians?”, which I still often find repeating through my head when I'm traveling from one place to another, walking home or riding the bus. I came across this beautiful thread recently where people have been translating Dr. Refaat Alareer’s “If I Must Die” into their own languages (this just makes my translator's heart sing!!!!!!). @havingapoemwithyou has been posting some great poems from and for Palestine as well—check out their tag here.
There's always more to add, and I'll be posting more on here as I come across it, but that's what I feel anyone should be focusing on right now when it comes to poetry. i think poetry can be an escape but it should never be a distraction. does that make sense? i wouldn't be against doing a one-off poll here or there, but it feels weird to be making a tournament for poetry right now, or anytime soon. i feel like what free time i have right now is still best utilized helping my friends with organizing in the real world. and god, a bit off-topic but while I'm talking, fuck poetry foundation—I have so much respect for all the poets keeping up the boycott, because while i think it's a simple decision, it's not always an easy one (Aurielle Lucier discussed that here).
anyways, if you read all of this, thank you for your time!! I could go on and on, but really this was just meant to be a message telling y'all that there won't be another tournament for a while lol. even so i'll be trying to use this small silly platform as best i can until palestine is free because that's the absolute least i can do.
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oh-gacha · 7 days
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Venti and the Lyre
Notes on Venti's Literary/Mythological Origins
The lyre has long been a symbol of poetry and is closely associated with the Greek mythological figures Hermes, Apollo, and Orpheus. Hermes, said to have either discovered or created the lyre, uses the instrument to calm his half-brother’s (Apollo) wrath and later offers it to him as an apology for stealing his cattle. As a symbol of unity between humanity and the divine, the lyre was a popular instrument in Greek society and was often played as accompaniment for poetry readings.
Venti’s use of the lyre to soothe Dvalin’s wrath is reminiscent of both Hermes and Orpheus, who won the favor of gods due to their musical prowess. Orpheus, who descended into the underworld to save his wife Eurydice, played the lyre so beautifully that he moved Hades himself into allowing the lovers to leave the underworld with the caveat that Orpheus could not look back at Eurydice. Ultimately failing to rescue his wife, Orpheus was destroyed by his grief. Venti, though not destroyed by his grief, has been defined by it. After his ascension to godhood, he took the form of his deceased friend, the nameless bard.
Orphism centers around the recitation of Orphic hymns which were said to have been penned by Orpheus himself. These hymns were meant to be recited or sung and were said to purify the souls of the faithful, freeing them from the cycle of reincarnation. During his story quest, Venti helps free the spirit of the real Stanley, who had “died in a windless land.” As mentioned at various points in the game, the winds carry memories of the far-flung past, further linking Venti to the themes of death and time.
Similarly to how Orpheus aided Jason in his quest to overthrow his uncle Pelias, Venti aids Vennessa in usurping the Lawrence clan’s power, freeing the people of Mondstadt from their tyrannical reign. Considered the greatest bard in all Mondstadt, Venti’s lyre has become a holy symbol and is immortalized in his constellation. The name Lyre der Himmel is literally translated as Lyre of the Sky. This is yet another parallel to Orpheus, whose lyre was carried into the sky on Zeus’s command.  
References below the cut
Poets, Heroes, and Their Dragons (2 Vols): Armenian and Iranian Studies 2 by James R. Russell
Symbolism in the Allegory: A Look at Apollo’s Lyre by Keri Meinert, Emily Keiner, and Anne Bak
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