i am burning, ervum em’
Year after year I forget more and more of the Armenian words I use to know. It is a pity, I love the language so but who can I speak it with in Grand Rapids, Michigan? I know no one. The most I can turn up are bizarre little stories that don't help a lot:
The popcorn truck was improvised by an Armenian cabinet maker who came here in 1914 to escape Turkish massacres. His popcorn wagon and popcorn trucks were familiar sights in downtown Grand Rapids for generations. For years, the word “popcorn” was virtually synonymous with “Armenian” in Grand Rapids. From the Public Museum.
Ah, Western Michigan, I recall people would ask me in Gyumri, Du Hey 'es? or "Are You Armenian?" But Du Popcorn 'es?, or "Are You Popcorn?" doesn't have the same ring.
However, when I do learn something worth knowing or remembering I try to put it into my poems. Of late I have been devouring Datevik Hovanesian's music from her CD, Listen to my Heart/ Lsir Sirts. The phrase in Armenian, "I am burning," ervum em', comes from a title track.
Skim by these holes, sink holes, a crust covered
in skin. A crust, the foulest of – dust. Skim
the long ladle pool. Dust from skin – the word
for skin I've forgotten. Teach me the hymn
of your grandmother. Teach me how to burn.
Blackened pools long dried. Cattle cars now grim
rust burnt from your hymns – bodies all iron,
all bone, now rust. The right tongue can teach you
to fight, moonlight. The right door can open
everything. Sing that hymn, “I am burning,”
ervum em'. Not this crust skin; hymn about
your tongues ripped out and no one would listen.
Door shuts; voices on a record, skipping,
skimming, hissing – No way out. No way out.