Tag Archives: love

Falcon Moon

Falcon Moon

Falcon moon.
That’s what happens sometimes
when you are moved to find words to fit a tune,
you come up with something like falcon moon,
then you study it like syrup balanced in a spoon
till falcon moon leads to raven sun, eagle earth,
and you ponder what each word might be worth.
A swan glides through reeds,
sparrows peck at sunflower seeds.
A pebble drops in a lake,
rings circle out,
as you strain to be satisfied with what you try to make.

Only the lion paces with no fear over the grass.
It does not matter who you see when you look in a glass,
all of it will pass.

Obsession with the body seems worst in the west.
When the spirit is forgotten you cannot be your best.

Time with the one you love is a summer long song,
every note clear, every chord strong,
means you can get right what you used to get wrong.
Yes, time with the one you love is a summer long song.

Falcon moon, raven sun, eagle earth.
Wonder what each word is worth.

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As Long As Our Song

As Long As Our Song

You told me you had to leave your sinking ship,
that when you were rescued from your lifeboat,
you had almost died of cold.
Now I sit beside you on this park bench in the autumn light,
watch leaves turn yellow, red, silver, brown and gold.
Your captain could not navigate,
his crew were rebellious,
and a mighty foreign power would not release its iron hold.

We see a sparrow by a tree root,
its wings too small to migrate,
so winter it must endure.
Like any other person,
we do not know our fate,
our future is unsure.

Poetry brought us together,
a truth we find wonderful to know.
This miracle planted our tree,
now we can smile and watch it grow.

Your eyes are dark,
your skin clear and warm.
Our boat will find a lighthouse
when our path is broken by a storm.

No, the sparrow cannot follow the swallow,
the stork and the crane,
its wings are too small
to fly that far south,
so it must endure the winter,
here it must remain.

Some people don’t want us to get it right.
They’d prefer it if we got it wrong,
but as long as our song is in the light,
the sap in our tree will flow on strong.

Deer herds in winter
somehow manage to survive.
The thorn will splinter,
but the red rose will revive.

Muratsan Hospital

Muratsan Hospital

Muratsan Hospital,
I smile to remember.
We went there on the bus,
half way through October.
Leaves yellow, pale lime, red and brown,
hung limply on the trees,
twirled as they fell gently down.
The bus was not crowded,
so we could sit together.
Buildings from the Soviet time,
you showed me through the window.
Things must have been unnatural then, I thought,
with no wind or weather,
only the threat of twisted wire,
the blank cold of Siberia,
but the Republic of Armenia
is still shadowed by the bear of Russia.
To an outer suburb of Yerevan,
the bus took us, a poor district you said.
We got off at our stop.
You asked for directions,
and we followed where they led.
Muratsan Hospital,
we finally saw the sign,
we entered the doorway,
began waiting in a line.
It was not romantic,
it was practical and plain.
We were there for your tuberculosis test
that you had to pass
so your visa you could gain.
It was when we waited outside the X-Ray Room
that I smiled, felt we ought to celebrate,
for it convinced me we were a real couple,
we had walked through true love’s gate,
for that is what real couples do,
they do everything together,
sit together in hospitals, doctor’s surgeries,
official buildings, like everyone else,
they have to wait in the queue.
No, real romance is not just about visits to cafes and cinemas,
it’s about going through the hard and cold,
so thank you Muratsan Hospital,
you established us as a real couple,
gave us more than my lines have told.

Worthy Of A Song

Worthy Of A Song

( A ballad for my wife, Anahit Arustamyan, poet of Armenia )

They say the bridge is broken, not safe to cross,
the girders are not strong,
and they worry that the roads were built too wide,
the time taken too long,
but our documents led to our wedding rings,
already our love is worthy of a song.

The winter wolf has woken, leaps from his lair,
leaves paw prints in the snow.
The voters are unhappy with their leaders,
but have nowhere to go,
still the ministry of justice have agreed
we are together, our love is free to grow.

Yes, already, already,
already our love is worthy of a song.
It will be a quiet ballad,
not a rowdy sing a long.
We can sing it in the bath tub,
tap its beat out on a gong.
We will craft the rhyme and rhythm,
and make sure no word is wrong.
Already our love is worthy of a song.
Yes, already, already,
already our love is worthy of a song.

Visit to Lake Sevan

Visit to Lake Sevan

We took the main road to Georgia,
left Yerevan behind,
on our way to Lake Sevan,
the blue plum shed of rind.
I knew it could not be like my dream vision,
for all the cranes had migrated south to Egypt.
Stone eagle statue stood on a bend in the road,
wings arched high, talons clutching the rock
it perched on, as if not long swooped down from the sky.
It told us we were entering wild mountain country,
home of the bird aristocracy who soar high.
Our driver was our guide.
Was a musician, played Classical violin.
Said it was impossible to live on a few drams in Yerevan,
so he was a tour guide, to help him turn the wheel and win.
He pointed up at a mountain,
as we swung round higher ground,
to show where he went skiing in winter, above Flower Valley.
He drove by a town he said was built in the Soviet time.
It stood in a dip in the land.
Tower blocks of dull grey and brown stone,
named Sevan after the lake.
Round and down the road led on.
Suddenly, we were there where we were bound.
To my right lay part of the lake,
big enough to be a bay of a sea,
a rippling mirror of blue October sky.
Mountains encircled, bare and brown.
My eyes grew large, my mind woke.
Only seagulls braved the chilly air.
Our guide stopped his white car at the foot of a hill.
Several levels above the shore of the lake,
he led us up a stone step way.
That it was narrow, steep and winding,
a difficult climb, an ordeal,
a spiritual trial made concrete, seemed appropriate,
for it led to a monastery that stood alone on the hill top,
as close to heaven as it could be.
In the name of Mary and Jesus, her son,
it was built, long ago, by the command of Princess Mariam.
On the way up, we were stalled by hawkers,
sellers of candles, paintings, trinkets, crosses.
Before we passed through the door,
our guide told us of Thaddeus and Bartholomew,
the two apostles who brought from the east
their master’s word to Armenia,
to break its pagan temple pattern,
to begin its Apostolic Church,
older than the church of Rome.
I was pleased it was Sunday,
for inside the monastery,
we witnessed a service.
Monks chanted holy hymns,
an old priest blessed those who had come to praise and pray,
some to be healed.
I could not describe what I will not forget.
It did not seem to matter how old the stone work was
for I sensed that it was ancient, timeless.
It stood outside history, the changes of the centuries.
Close to the root of Christianity it brought me.
Carvings in the embroidered stone tablets,
I admired for their intricate, skilful art.
Maybe one summer we can return to Lake Sevan
to make my dream vision come true.
I will see you, stood still by the edge of the lake,
your concentration on white cranes,
at rest from flight in shallow water, among reeds,
while others flap their wings, higher and higher,
on their way to mountains further south,
and to what may lie beyond.

On the Shores of Lake Sevan

On the Shores of Lake Sevan

( One of the poems I wrote in Yerevan, Armenia, to celebrate my marriage to Anahit Arustamyan, poet of Armenia. )

Eurasian black vulture,
now there’s a bird,
but I am moved less by wings
than the word.
That huge raptor
migrates from Asia
down to Africa,
while white cranes lift from the water,
my spirit rises with them,
my heart is stirred.

The Caucasian Mountains,
under the sky of October,
will be our stony shelter,
when we stand together
on the shores of Lake Sevan.
What we see in its mirror,
what we will remember,
we have still to discover.
The saint of love will dictate his plan.

Argishti, king of Urartu,
take us back to the letters on the stones,
when wind woke the blood and bones.

 

Aeroplanes

Aeroplanes

Aeroplanes, I never thought I’d fly in one.
Climbed on board and I was gone.

For the first time in my life,
I was lifted off the ground.
Outside, only muffled engine sound.

Nothing but air beneath the floor,
I was taken far higher than the paths
of the eagle and the condor.

Only the pilot and the crew knew
how it was done, how that winged contraption
flew me to you.

I looked at a stretch of clouds below,
my eyes followed the trail of a white vapour rod.
The serenity I was aware of, I could not describe,
sensed I was inside the mind of God.

Midnight long past, we landed in black air.
Lines of lights let me see the runway,
the windows of the airport halls.
At the arrivals gate, I was so relieved to meet you there.

Aeroplanes, we never thought we’d fly in one.
Up the steps and we are gone.