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The Armenian Weekly On-Line
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Watertown MA 02472 USA
(617) 926-3974
[email protected]
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The Armenian Weekly; Volume 73, No. 41; Oct. 13, 2007
Literature and Arts:
1. 'SAGHGHAKHANEH'
Nosrat Rahmani
Translated by Tatul Sonentz
2. W A K E S . . .
By Tatul Sonentz
***
'SAGHGHAKHANEH'*
The last one to pass by this street,
I trample my own shadow in haste,
My eyes set on the road's darkness,
I stroke each spoke of your rusty fence.
Your staring eyes fashioned of tin
Seemed to look at me in amazement,
Briefly laughter illumined your candles-
Now they are shedding warm tears.
Please tell, why your copper goblet
Is chained tight to your threshold?
Was it tempted with a sinful lust to get
To a tavern, or. who knows where!
Who, I wonder, set this rusty padlock
To your door's ring. is it my mother,
To have her son home early at night,
To avoid taverns-and listen to advice?
And who forced these rags on you?
Was it Akhtar that swarthy beauty,
Ever by the brook, doing the laundry,
Wrapped in her pretty azure chador?
Was it good, or bad luck for the girl?
The boy next door bid for Akhtar's hand,
Did Saghra Begum's advice help, or
It's a new knot linked with old ones.?
Who attached that cloth to your tap?
Who promised candles and offerings?
A mother saving a son from evil eyes -
No secret to you. how it came to pass!
Whose present is this dusty old lantern?
Is this the start or the end of this tale.?
Or this old mirror, yellowed and fading,
Whose sallow face is it reflecting.?
I'm the last one to pass by this road -
Trampling my shadow in my haste.
There's more to say. but enough told!
I'll drop by tomorrow, to see you again.
Nosrat Rahmani
Translated by Tatul Sonentz
>From A. MINASSIAN's Armenian rendition
* 'Saghghkhaneh': Literally, a place to drink water.
Nosrat Rahmani is a contemporary Iranian poet.
***
W A K E S . . .
His back to the bow
The lone migrant soul
Sits at the stern of the ship
As it plows forth backwards
Towards a foreign shore.
His eyes transfixed
On the churning wake
Sinking beneath the swell
Way before it touches base
With the dim distant edge
Where ocean and sky
Adhere into one
Straight line.
Beyond that horizon
Lies another shore
Where his past
Now mourns
At its own
Wake.
Tatul Sonentz
80 Bigelow Avenue
Watertown MA 02472 USA
(617) 926-3974
[email protected]
http://www.ar menianweekly.com
The Armenian Weekly; Volume 73, No. 41; Oct. 13, 2007
Literature and Arts:
1. 'SAGHGHAKHANEH'
Nosrat Rahmani
Translated by Tatul Sonentz
2. W A K E S . . .
By Tatul Sonentz
***
'SAGHGHAKHANEH'*
The last one to pass by this street,
I trample my own shadow in haste,
My eyes set on the road's darkness,
I stroke each spoke of your rusty fence.
Your staring eyes fashioned of tin
Seemed to look at me in amazement,
Briefly laughter illumined your candles-
Now they are shedding warm tears.
Please tell, why your copper goblet
Is chained tight to your threshold?
Was it tempted with a sinful lust to get
To a tavern, or. who knows where!
Who, I wonder, set this rusty padlock
To your door's ring. is it my mother,
To have her son home early at night,
To avoid taverns-and listen to advice?
And who forced these rags on you?
Was it Akhtar that swarthy beauty,
Ever by the brook, doing the laundry,
Wrapped in her pretty azure chador?
Was it good, or bad luck for the girl?
The boy next door bid for Akhtar's hand,
Did Saghra Begum's advice help, or
It's a new knot linked with old ones.?
Who attached that cloth to your tap?
Who promised candles and offerings?
A mother saving a son from evil eyes -
No secret to you. how it came to pass!
Whose present is this dusty old lantern?
Is this the start or the end of this tale.?
Or this old mirror, yellowed and fading,
Whose sallow face is it reflecting.?
I'm the last one to pass by this road -
Trampling my shadow in my haste.
There's more to say. but enough told!
I'll drop by tomorrow, to see you again.
Nosrat Rahmani
Translated by Tatul Sonentz
>From A. MINASSIAN's Armenian rendition
* 'Saghghkhaneh': Literally, a place to drink water.
Nosrat Rahmani is a contemporary Iranian poet.
***
W A K E S . . .
His back to the bow
The lone migrant soul
Sits at the stern of the ship
As it plows forth backwards
Towards a foreign shore.
His eyes transfixed
On the churning wake
Sinking beneath the swell
Way before it touches base
With the dim distant edge
Where ocean and sky
Adhere into one
Straight line.
Beyond that horizon
Lies another shore
Where his past
Now mourns
At its own
Wake.
Tatul Sonentz