Myth of Arrival

Often it is difficult to measure success as an artist — if one is happy and satisfied with one's own work does recognition from the outer world matter? And if so, what sort of recognition? I know people who argue that art should be a purely ego-less activity, that fame at any level is a corrupting force; and there are people on the opposite end as well, who do things, it might appear, not because they enjoy it but because it is a way of getting noticed. I would like to think I fall somewhere in-between; yes, I think doing one's art because you love making art is the key to being brilliant but also having other people take a healthy interesting in your work is a great motivator as well.

Recently, a brilliant artist I know, Shelley M. House, had a November 9th art show in Atlanta, Georgia. Shelley, besides being a friend, is also the person who illustrated my Gracia Lorca book of translations and the up-coming benefit CD/ Book for the Gyumri orphanage. I don't use the word brilliant lightly, her skills are amazing — with a couple of simple lines she can create taunt energy, humor, raw sexuality — in ways I have never seen done in other artists. She falls into my definition of "up and coming," an artist worth investigating, someone who does some incredible art for all the right reasons; she appears to love every line that she makes. She wrote to me recently in an email:

"I found out yesterday one of my pieces got into the Grandview Gallery, the art group that I am a member of. It will hang there for a month. It's a juried show, so that makes it more exciting for me."

Good job, Shelley! I am very proud of you!

In Armenian my name is Zachar, Զակար — the "y" is dropped since it means (if memory serves me, I could be wrong here) "son of" …. Zachary = Son of Zachar. I have always wondered how the հայ-language would deal with a name that didn't allow itself to be changed. The Persian poet Rumi, Ռումի, sounds wrong calling him simply Rum. Luckily that is not my main concern here. Rumi shall always be Rumi, regardless of syntactics.

I started translating several of Rumi's shorter poems into Armenian. Working off the Coleman Barks' translations I began to try to change the English to fit what I was actually translating into Heyerin, though truth be told nothing is so altered as to be unrecognizable as Barks' handiwork.

As with all my Armenian translations, I am sure there are many, many mistakes. Someday I would love to meet someone with a better grasp of the language than I have (it can't be too hard, probably anyone who graduated from second grade has a better grasp) and find out where I went wrong. But, as the poet Marilyn Hacker once put it, "it is better to have a bad translation of something never translated before than none at all … perhaps someone with more grace will read it and make the poem sing." Amen, sister.

when i see your face, the stones start spinning!
քարերը սկսում են ոլորում երբ ես տեսնում եմ ձեր երեսը!

you appear – i am distracted.
դու ժամանում ես – ես շշմած եմ:

i lose my place.
ես կորցնում եմ իմ կարգը:

water turns to silver.
ջուրը հայտնվում է արծաթափայլ:

fires fade but do not die.
կրակները խամրում են բայց չեմ մահանում:

in your presence i don't want what i thought i wanted – three little lamps.
երբ ես եմ քեզ հետ ես չեմ ուզում առարկաներ ես մի անգամ ուզեցի – երեք փոքր լամպ:

inside your face ancient manuscripts are rusty mirrors.
քո երեսի ներսում հնադարյան ձեռագրեր ժանգոտ հայելիներ:

you breathe – new shapes appear,
դու շնչում ես – նոր ձևերը լույս են տեսնում,

and the passion-music begins moving
և կիրքն երաժշտությունը սկսում է շարժվել

like summer, like a great wagon.
ամռան նման, մեծ վագոնի նման:

go slow.
դանդաղիր:

some of us walking alongside are lame!
մեզնից ոմանք մոտակայքում քայլելը կաղ է!

~~~

there is a meadow, outside
կան մարգագետին , դուրս

our ideas of badness
մեր վատերի գաղափարներ

and goodness.
և բարություն:

i'll meet you there.
ես այնտեղ կհանդիպեմ քեզ:

~~~

the moment i heard my first love story i began seeking you,
պահի ես լսեցի իմ առաջին սիրային պատմվածքը ես սկսեցի փնտրում քեզ

unaware that the search was useless.
ես անիրազեկ էի որսն անօգուտ էր:

lovers don't meet midway along the path,
սիրուհիներն արահետի մեջտեղում չեն հանդիպում,

from the beginning, their lover's soul was already inside.
սկզբից, նրանց սիրուհու հոգին ներս է:

I am not sure if Քնջութի Փողոց translates faithfully into Sesame Street, another television childhood favorite, but it is the closest I can get (ah, the electric babysitter). There isn't a Հայ-language version of Sesame Street, though there is a Ulitsa Sezam (Russian), Iftah Ya Simsim (Arabic), Rechov Sumsum (Israel), Shara'a Simsim (Palestinian Territories), Zhima Jie (China) and Koche Sesame (Afghanistan) so I don't see why Armenia couldn't have their own version too.

Now, as world-famous poets go, I recall seeing Rita Dove, Րիթա Դօվ, once on Sesame Street but not two other of my favorites; Gwendolyn Brooks, Գվենդոլին Բրուկս and Lucille Clifton, Լյոսւիլ Կլիֆթօն. The translation that follows is by Clifton, song at midnight, կեսգիշերային երգ. Please enjoy, thank you.

brothers,
եղբայրներ,

this big woman
պարունակում է այս մեծ

carries much sweetness
կնոջը շատ քաղցրություն

in the folds of her flesh.
նրա մսի ծալքերի մեջ:

her hair
նրա մազ

is white with wonderful.
սպիտակ հրաշալի

she is
նա է

rounder than the moon
լայն շուրջը սիրիր լուսին

and far more faithful.
և ավելի անդավաճան:

brothers,
եղբայրներ,

who will hold her,
դու կգրկես նրան

who will find her beautiful
դու կգտնես նրան ճոխ

if you do not?
եթե դու ոչ ՞ անում ես

As a wee Zachary I was fascinated by a children's television show from the 1970s, The Electric Company; especially a segment staring Judy Graubert as Jennifer of the Jungle with her friend and Paul the Gorilla.

This poem wasn't based on that sketch, I had written it before I found the video, but once I saw Morgan Freeman singing I decided that even Jennifer must sing the blues once in a while and I have been wailing all day.

My messy black hair – if you were here – you could comb my hair – feed me a banana – sleeplessness – my messy thoughts – everyone learns sorrow – this lesson is long – and I am a poor student.

Իմ խառնաշփոթ սև մազ – Եթե դու այստեղ էիր – Դու կարող էիր իմ մազը սանրել – Կերակրիր ինձ ադամաթուզ – Անքնություն – Իմ խառնաշփոթ մտքեր – Ամեն մեկը էլ սովորում է վիշտ – Այս դասը տևական է – և ես վատ ուսանող եմ:

The New York City poet Frank O’Hara, Ֆրանկ Օ’Հարա, was considered, by some, a Beatnik, Բետնիկ, in the same way Charles Bukowski, Չարլոս Բուկովսկի, is considered a Beat — neither man would embrace the title but because they didn't belong to any easily identifiable group critics simply lump them in with the Beats. Allan Ginsberg, Ալան Գինսբերջ, is probably the most famous of the Beats and I spent a while looking on the web to see if anyone translated his epic poem Howl, Կաղկանձ, into Armenian, but so far no such luck. Again, all this work might exist somewhere … I just have yet to find it.

This poem about Lana Turner has always been one of my favorite. Bravo, Frank! Bravo!

Lana Turner has collapsed!
Լանա Թերներ տրաքացրեց!

I was trotting along and suddenly it started raining and snowing
Ես վարգարշավ էի և հանկարծ անձրևելով մեկնարկեց և ձյուն գալը

and you said it was hailing
և դու ձայնելով ասեցիր

but hailing hits you on the head hard
ախր պինդ կարկուտը հարվածում է ձեր գանգին

so it was really snowing and raining
այսպիսով անձրևում և ձյուն գալիս

and I was in such a hurry to meet you
և դիմավորելու քեզ ես էի հապճեպ

but the traffic was acting exactly like the sky
ախր ավտոմոբիլներ երկինքի նման

and suddenly I see a headline
և հանկարծ ես տեսնում եմ վերնագիր

LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED!
ԼԱՆԱ ԹԵՐՆԵՐ ՏՐԱՔԱՑՐԵՑ!

there is no snow in Hollywood
Հոլիվուդում չկա ձյուն

there is no rain in California
Կալիֆորնիայում չկա անձրև

I have been to lots of parties
Ես հաճախել եմ շատ խնջույքներին

and acted perfectly disgraceful
և խայտառակաբար վարվեցի

but I never actually collapsed
Ախր ես երբեք չտրաքացրեցի

oh Lana Turner we love you get up.
O, Լանա Թերներ, մենք սիրում ենք քեզ, կանգնում ես: