charents

POEM FOR EVERYONE
*******************************
(Amenapoem)
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
By Yeghishe Charents,


PROLOGUE



I - poet of Hayastan -
Fogbound land
Haunted by death -
I now sing
To all!
I sing
Once more
But why must I sing alone?
I, alone, and not they -
Who lived through and overpowered
These rough stormy days.


Under the sun, in the dust.
On foggy days dripping wet.
They strive, combat, and toil
In the grime of the soil.

And like sweat they flow
On the face of the earth -
As the wind hurls them hither and thither
And joins and mingles one with the other.

You may not be aware
That every humble workman
that toils hard all day long -
Carries in his iron lungs
A hundred, a thousand songs.

If you weren't aware of this
Hearken to my voice then,
Open your ears wide!
- for this world of ours
They are the only true bards!

And do you know what they sing?
What they sing and fashion? -
Songs of steel they sing,
Songs of fire and ardor.

They sing -
And their song
Towers over time
Immense, secure -
Their song -
The world -
Behold!

Polytonal songs,
Fabulous,
Marvelous.
Miraculous songs.
Greetings, exalted companion!
Miner!
Digger!
Baker!...

yes!
Why should I sing alone?
Let all of them sing!
To all, to all, to all!

And why should he sing alone?
He alone - Nairi's Boghos -
Why not Ivan, Yousuf, Chung-Fu?
Who - brothers all under the skin -
Have known each other for years.

Haven't you heard? -
A Hun-yun from Tibet today
Can fly to Rashid, Petrograd. Tiflis
Or, like a windswept autumn leaf
A Garo - or Hugo for that matter -
Can fly and reach
Marseilles, Yerevan, Tifllis,
Peking, Chicago, Cairo.

O for some time now
The earth has changed
Into a short, tiny street
Yes, for some time now
From yellow-tinged Peking
A Chung-Fu can extend his hand
All the way to Nork and say:
Comrade Boghos, good day!

Why should he sing alone?
Let all men burst into song.
Let the whole world burst into song.
And chant!
And ring
And carol!


PART ONE
July 1914, Yerevan

Yerevan.
Astafian Street.
On the road.
Deep in thought
Boghos, a workman,
advances.

Under the broiling sun.
Weary and exhausted.
He walks along.
It is stifling hot.
Summer. High noon.
The oppressive air.
The dusty road.
Urged on by his thoughts
Boghos hurries along.

Heat and dust;
oppressive - as always.
Everywhere -
Icy, water,
Grapes,
Wine.
People. Carts. People.

And no one can guess
That on Astafian Street now,
A miracle will come to pass . . . .

And the miracle - it was very simple . . .
Suddenly a drop of sweat
From the workman's forehead

(As urged on by the heat he hurried along)
Fell in the dust on the road.

It fell and for an instant
Reflected the infinite space
And the sun - a distant spark.

And suddenly from that drop of sweat.
That had fallen in the dust -
Countless armies rose!
Immense, audacious, fearless . . . .

Soldiers by the million rose,
Warriors of iron and bronze -
Toilers all like Boghos
Without hope, without arms.

They suddenly rose
From the dust of the road -
Fearless warriors by the million

Mighty men at arms.

Swords blazed and sabres shone,
Brave voices burst into song,
Red flags and crimson flags
Flew and rippled with frenzy.

It happened on Astafian Street
Under the broiling hot sun
As workman Boghos advanced
His eyes fixed in the distance.

No one, but no one saw.
It happened in a single instant.
Then - the wheels of a cart crunched
On the dusty, oppressive road.

(Let me explain this miracle
By mentioning that ]
Boghos was on his way
To see an old friend
Who had spoken to him
Of events of enormous import
That were about to take place
And that the hour of the great struggle
Was . . . .)

Yerevan.
Astafian Street.
Dormant repose.
Dust in the eyes.
A quiet. peaceful town.
And "Ayi! Ayi! Ay!!"
The braying
Of an ass,
To an ass,
By an ass . . . .

Lazy.
Slow.
A drowsy ass.
Like a pleasant dream -
Hot,
Sun,
Summer dust -
Yerevan,
Yerevan,
Yerevan . . . .

------------------------------------------------

And innkeeper Hamo
Grumbled about the heat,
Longing for the light,
Sweet breeze of spring . . . .

The world was a dusty road
Where lived
A Hamo,
A Garo,
A Boghos.

As in a dream Hamo saw
In the sunny distant road
Himself - Hamo
Perched on the sun
Feet dangling
Humming a song . . . .
And mentally counting
- Eleven . . . . twelve . . . thirteen . . . .

The wine of the sun flows . . .
But business is slow . . .
Soon it will be evening -
And he will go home
To return
Once more
On the morrow . . . .

The sun will rise again,
The heat will be oppressive
And in that heavy torpor
Will anyone ask
For wine and liquor?

Such were the dreams
Of drowsy, weary Hamo;
The world - a hot dusty, road,
- Morning,
Noon,
And night . . . .

Innkeeper Hamo's soul was blind
To such things as miracles
And when they came and said "War!" -
He did not budge and inch.

He did not hear, or feel, or grasp.
Was it like a wedding perhaps? -
Where red wine would flow and flow
Without measure . . . . without end . . . .

And when evening came
And he rose to go home
He heard everyone shout:
- War. War! War!


PART TWO

Did you hear?
They rose -
Huge armies, ironclad.
Did you hear?
They rose-
In battlefields
Around the globe.
They rose
And they marched
From the Urals to the Carpathians
And from the Carpathians to Erzerum,
And from Erzerum - to Tripoli and Rome.

They came from all directions -
Turks,
Italians,
Indians,
Georgians,
Russians,
Shetlanders,
Armenians,
Tartars.
Circassians,
Chinese,
From New York they came,
From the islands of Tahiti
And from distant Baghdad -


They came -
And they came
Like windswept dust
From London - Peking.
Kars,
Sarikamash -
Like dust they came
In a raging storm.

And they roared -
"Vo-vo-vo - Vo-vo" -
Dry-throated cannon -
"Vo"
"Vo-vo" -
Morning,
Noon,
And night.

---------------------------------------


And it was thus
Soldiers by the million
Confronted one another -
From Baghdad to Berlin.
Paramushir,
And from Berlin to Calais
And Dover
Verdun
Lyon.

From many worlds
And many shores
From New York to Peking
From the Urals to Milan.

Thus it was
That the world mingled
From one end to the other
And entire cities of flesh
Confronted one another.

Under the broiling hot rays
of the nearby sun
The earth seemed to rot
Like a stinking carrion.

Thus it was
Didn't you hear?
Didn't you see in your dark heart
That thousands perished
In a single black night.

--------------------------------------

PART THREE

Yerevan.
Astafian Street.
Innkeeper Hamo in his chair.
Autumn.
Rain.
Fog.

The road - toothless mouth
Is now filled with refugees -
On the wet sidewalks,
Endless files of refugees.


Thus it was
That innkeeper Hamo
Longed for the light
Sweet breeze of spring.

And he thought:
The Russians by now
Must have reached Baghdad -
Why
Have these people
Escaped from Bitlis,
From Mush, from Baghdad?

Why are they here
And not in Bitlis. Bassen -
Has not
Invincible Antranik
Marched into Erzerum? . . . .

With these thoughts in his head
Hamo went home to relax
As an orphan lay dying
On the sidewalk by his inn.

Thus it was.
Innkeeper Hamo
Did not even see Boghos,
Now a soldier,
Reach Paramushir . . . .

And when business was slow
To keep himself awake
He sang again and again
"My beloved Hairenik . . . ."


-------------------------------------

PART FOUR

Yerevan.
That is to say - Nairi.

----------------------------------------

Crossroads of continents
Where East and West meet
Stands ancient Nairi -
A blood-stained
Question mark
Erect
Like a dream
Driven deep into past -
Is that not Nairi? . . . . .


The days are flying
Days of fire -
Flying fast . . . .

Shall I grasp your soul
And hurl it
like an iron disk -
Hurl it into the future . . . .
They are now
Re-building the world -
Re-building it
Street by street -
A Muscovite workman
By the name of Ivan,
A Chung-Fu,
A Hans,
A Boghos -

------------------------------------------

EPILOGUE

Now -
Everywhere -
Can you hear?
Bells ringing . . . .
Ringing with defiance!

I tell you the world has become
A street of universal joy
And a Chung-Fu from Peking
Drinks and shouts
-To your health, Boghos!


And if my bright hopes
Were to turn to ashes
I shall continue to sing
Hosannas to you
Mighty iron-brother!

And if these days of fire
Were to end in disaster
I shall continue to sing -
Sing your glorious deeds
I - a feeble
Final voice . . . .



(Translated by Ara Baliozian)