Once Again

They let it happen so that after they can name it, they can make endless speeches, forums, commemorations, remembrances, conclusions Ways of prevention… But while the whole damn killings are going on everybody prefers to bury the head ostrich style. Muslims unwilling to speak up hard and loud Invent plots theories never mind stepping forward and I dare say, fighting back. As for the rest of the world they brew the worst feelings that the unspeakable violence arises in human beings All the while, the killings, kidnappings, rapes and violence against innocent children go on. And before we know, in the peaceful west, enjoying our comforts, we will be engulfed in yet another endless terminology discussions. What is it going to be this time? Once again... The recognition of an ethnic cleansing? The deportation of population? A forced immigration? Or a Genocide? Long after Middle Eastern Christians will be done, gone! Flora.yeghoumians

On the granite wall

An old threadbare window
on a half destroyed granite wall
still strangely standing
in a dark corner of a died out, mysterious garden.
the stones move imperceptibly,
the wall has a beating pulse
slow, tired yet steady
it has a soul
warm, pale yet lively
though imprisoned in blackened stones
yet flowing out of that old threadbare window
whose edges keep out the invasive ivy.
It is impregnated with silence
yet it talks to those who can hear
and tells the story of a vanished alley
among walnut trees
where children used to play
hide and seek with jackals.
It tells the story of a loving grand-ma
holding tea parties for a crowd of grand children
all grown ups now
it tells the story of a cherrished time
fixed forever on a unique snapshot
which I've lost but always find back
in its pale, yellowish version
in my most repetitive, most beloved dream,
where I keep wishing that the snapshot
wasn't yellowish but new.
As new and as fresh as was life
each spring there and then
in that bygone fruit tree garden
whose only wall stands still and steady
as if it has, strong footing,
alas not anymore in the sweetnes of rain smelling earth
but in that powerful, existantial loneliness.

Then I reluctantly wake up
and still deeply impregnated with that dream
I go downstairs and am struck
by the beauty of a new day
laying over a lively beautiful garden
in a new land and a new time.
It's spring
it's Nowrooz, the Persian New Year
playing out against backdrop of news items
nuke bombs and tragedy of kids died violently
in coach crash and shootings at school gates in Toulouse
my pain is somehow mitigated
and I look out for standing walls
with bright windows
which shine into hope
into budding lives filled with love
I look out there in every nook and cranny
in that lively spring filled garden
where my beloved has planted flowers for joy
and nowhere see I, the slightest trace
neither of that granite wall nor its barethread window's
but I know that when the night falls again
the lively garden vanishes
and the ghosts are back.

Flora Yeghoumians

Tenderness Of Californian Days

Us, sitting there
in the still of Time.
A terrace hang in an ever changing light
grey ocean waters, sunny-cloudy skies,
in between, bay leaf trees
on a steep backyard
and here and there,
citrus trees bowing to the ocean,
loosing their decaying fruits
to the earth's deep brownish turf.


On brighter days, on yonder
bridges run through
the line of water and sky
like a trans-express
bound to a wordless territory.

Us, siting there
in the still of Time.
The air filled with tenderness
of unspoken words,
the day reclining back to the indigo of the night
and us,
still seated there
scumming the white froth of the day.
The velvety crimson of a Cabernet
in sparkling crystal glasses
nonchalance taking over.
A moment of void passes
and a slew of words,
like a tremor of flapping wings,
fill the space.

Us, sitting there
like wingless birds
in the deep furrow of Time
attuned to life.

Then comes the long road,
flat, dull and edged
by mustard colored fields.
Mountains and colorful fruit stalls
bursting with the sensory promise
of delightful tastes,
both memories and discoveries:
Pistachios, pomegranates,sweet and Meyer lemons
Oro Blanco, blood oranges,
persimmons, quinces,
dried sour cherries...
laughter and some more laughter,
continuous laughter in the meanderings
of parkings and lobbies and into mirrored lifts
unloading life's burdens,
unconspicuous tears held tight
in bellies hoarding endearing words.


When comes back the straying light
of the Californian day
bathing empty sidewalks
and crowdless inviting terraces
and us,
reclining back to uncollected poetry,
lemonade and ice tea
and Rilke's rocking lyrics:

"Long you must suffer, not knowing what,
until suddenly, from a nice piece of fruit hatefully bitten,
the taste of the suffering enters you.
And then already almost love what you savor. No one
will take it out of you again."



Flora Yeghoumians

Iran in the mourning month of Moharram

My mother and I are back! must admit that 17 days was way too much to spend in a country in official mourning of Hosseïn. Though Isfahan still holds its centuries old charms and beauties despite the terrible damages of newly build horrible buildings. The most damaged area is our beloved old NewJulfa!

More old Armenian houses are destroyed( including ours) and ugly boxes are raised fortunately not too high for the town is somehow protected by the Cultural Heritage office's.
Avenue Nazar in its western part (Gevik's family house) was covered in the black veil of mourning with its incredible motto's openly condemning any other religion than Islam, inviting people to be patient and see how the day of the last Imam, that hidden Mahdi, will come and how the world will kneel down before the light brought by Islam (sic) and how Islam 'll conquer at long last the whole world! frightening, I know!
My search of Gevik's house was unsuccessful as the whole avenue Nazar in its Western part was burried under the Hosseinieh flags.

Now you wouldn't believe this part. Nowadays Avenue Khaghani is known to locals as Isfahan's Champs-Elysées! All along the side walks you'll come upon little tastefully arranged fashion boutiques with fake branded items priced just like Europe. 40 € will get you a colorful, short sleeved, Versace sweater! don't laugh for it isn't as ugly as you think! there are now at the crossing point of Khaghani with Hakim Nezami a very modern shopping center, totally American style, with advertising of more stores openings, signs of 50% sales in English....this time quite distasteful. Not mentionning the fast foods (a good place to re-create all fast food brands of fried chicken, including Kentucky!)The funny part is that in the 12 days I was crossing the streets there was never ever any sign of a customer or any business going on. One day I caught one of the stores Clerc snoring with an open mouth! only some respect to people's privacy refrained me from shooting the odd sight.
The store owners have done some beautifying in that dusty weather and planted pansies and some other flowers in front of their stores on avenue Khaghani and spend most of the day watering them or spraying water to dust off dirts.
In this point I must mention that the streets were incredibly clean. The fashion ruling the backstreets of Isfahan's Champs-Élysées and around Vank church was raven black hairs styled in 60ths high buns (chignons), barely covered with a head scarf, 60thies eye make up and extended artificial eye lashes which looked like the wings of a black crow, lips highlighted by strawberry red lipsticks all hang over tight jeans under tight manteau's and stilettos. Store windows were a show case of the fashionable colors of the day: berry reds!
All of it barely a street away from the mourning black flags covering avenue Nazar! A captivating paradox in itself!

I enjoyed enormously my walks, all around town on both sides of the river. I even had tea all by myself ( only once) under 'siossehpol's khahvakhaneh' and loved the peaceful sight of the water and the bridge. The tea was so flavorful, so delicious.
Our most special time was spent in the old Armenian graveyard with its beautiful sober stones some dating back to 17th century and even older times. A part of the cemetery is covered disorderly with graves of Armenians converted forcefully to Islam, by the late Shah's father, Reza shah, and someone told me that they were forced into circumcision.. Our grandparents grave in the catholic side of the cemetry, under the shade of a dusty oleander, along side my father's sheltered by our old pomme granata tree, the very one that was in our yard and now protects the stones of our beloved graves. We walked to the graves of all the people we knew then and some more.

For Emma it was of course mostly days of lunch invitation ( they called it ' noon paneeree bokhorim, literally breaking cheese and bread!!!!!) meaning huge amounts of various khoreshs and polos. A show off of Persian cooking in a most lavish way (I'm not exaggerating!) and endless talks of past and present days.

Walked for hours and hours. there are now, new bridges and people are relaxing under them, in the shady, leafy parks, having a pic-nic or enjoying tea or just a walk. Many women walked alone exercising etc( There were exercise area with the usual health mottos)while lovers walked holding hands.

At this point I have two unique isfahani tales: One morning Bobken left home and twenty minutes later two young guys (Muslims) rang the bell. Mary, his wife opened and found out that the boys are bringing back Bobken's lost and found on the street's ground valet! they had opened and read the address on the ID and cared enough to bring it back with its contents. There was nothing missing. Money and papers were there. Couldn't help but think that how in any other country most probably they 'd ripped off the money and throw the valet in a trash can.
The other story goes over Emma's talkative ways with everybody including taxi drivers. The one day she went to the big bazar, on the way back she chatted as usual with the balck cladded taxi driver, who told her about his family cooking a meal in order to fullfill a vow (sofreh nazree) and that he must absolutely bring us votive food dedicated to Imam Hossein! Getting out of the car, Emma pointed out the door and the guy thanked him. The next morning at 8 AM sharp, Emma was under the shower when the doorbell rang. I opened and got three packaged meals of polo khoresh gheymeh, each covered with a piece of flat bread and a plastic spoon. It was our last day there but we managed to share one of the meals as according to Emma having the blessed food was a holy act.
Isfahan was beautiful at any time of the day and looking like a dream at sunset and a shiny jewel with the nightly lights artfully arranged on the bridges, reflecting them on the dark waters. There are new pedestrian bridges with areas to seat, chat or look at the water. People were seating over stone chairs, chatting, or relaxing in the Parks area below the bridges, playing chess and drinking tea.
Throughout their ordeals, Iranians remain friendly and smooth talking yet they complain that their traditional warmth and affectionate manners are gone and that nowadays brutality and modern ways are standard.

Tehran was all together another story. One could call it the Middle Eastern Los Angeles! The area of our hotel (Parsian Enghelab, on avenue Taleghani) in midd-town seemed to be steeped in religious totalitarianism. It's also the very location of the bygone US embassy, whose erased Great Seal is still stubbornly visible!
I walked all around visiting the Taleghani metro station and the leafy streets in the end of which on a clear day, one could see the white peaks of Alborz mountains.went to the Peetcheh Shemiran and till Ferdowsi's place. The sculpture is still in his place, overlooking the astonishing backward progress of the present time.
The upper Northern area of Tehran have a less polluted and more newly acquired money feel. We went to my friend's new appartment in Zaafaraniyeh and to another friend's family place in Velenjak. Both had such a different feel than the center of the city.
On the day before the last, I got arrested by a sinister looking motorcycle rider belonging to some "settadeh..." a kind of security police. He intended to confiscate my camera and blamed me for photographing streets etc ( I had shot ex American embassy and the new metro etc.) he also said that some muslims (in overtones of good law abiding informant citizens) had called to inform him of a lady busy shooting photos! to which I coolly replied that he could get lost cos it isn't illegal to shoot photos of public places and that I knew well where should I ask for permission. My only worry was Emma; whose health wasn't at the best that day and she was having a rest in the hotel before we go out to a friend's place. I thought my God what if he forces me to go to their headquarters and calls Emma to tell her that her daughter is being held. Sure she'd get a heart attack! Fortunately, after some show of force from both sides, the guy admitted that no it's not illegal to shoot photos in the street and let me go. I wanted to ask him to pause for a souvenir shot but of course refrained myself as it could be taken for provocation and subsequent consequences that I don't even dare to think of.
Afterward, I went back to the hotel walking nonchalantly and shooting some more photos just to make it clear to myself that I wasn't that shaken either!
But what happened is that I got a creepy paranoid feeling of being followed and it took me a huge amount of will power to not look back and remain "cool".
We went to another lunch invitation that day, in the velenjack area and met nice and interesting people living in Canada, joked a lot and told funny stories; however that creepy scary feeling stayed with me till the very last moment of boarding the homebound flight in IKIA(Imam Khomeiny International Airport) which, aside its name, is like any ordinary modern airport with its amenities and a losy security check at boarding.
For me what most characterized Tehran was the emptiness left by its absentees and the loneliness of a forlorn ugly place.

Boy how I loved the moment we landed in Amsterdam. Ah! the feel of freedom and security that Europe always gives me. The delightful sight of frozen winter greens, the orderly highways, the civilized driving...I could go on and on.
As I was sipping a wonderful strong road side coffee with Francis, I vowed to try hard and remain polite next time I'll come upon some Iranians complaining about Belgium.

Flora

Words Hang In The Guileful Time

If happiness can be a 'state', it can only be a state of excitement prodded by unfulfillment ... Bzygmunt Bauman, The Art of Life.




It's a frost sprayed day
In a dazzling, unforgiving
pee stained town
and guileful Time
plays a game
with cunning Fate
urban wingless birds
are wandering the grounds
Their eyes catching the game,
while winter
blow up falls last attempts.
The sky indigo-colored
fruit stalls offering cheer to the season
ruby red of a pomegranate
turned black when concentrated and bottled
sweet scents of pale yellow quinces
turned red while preserved
a sharp pocket knife cutting
the oddly sunny firm flesh of a persimmon
all tribute to the poetry of the season
to the beauty of the turn offered
To those privileged
to take the now and then
into eternity.
to ride unbridled horses
in the wilderness of the mind's eye
Fate and Time keeping on their games
crossing swords of words
sharply slaughtering
the caress of a breezy love
and the sad voice of a castrato,
Left Behind
in a century in Which
there is no stage for castrati voice
but a cold stony corner,
and no other choice
than trailing behind
indifferent passerbys
Hugo's ghost hovering over
The tiny cafe tables
where heavenly hot chocolates
are steaming,
and lovers are huddling and giggling.
For a split second
Time and Fate are humbled
thus, they lower swords
and a flight of words
immediately hang in the indigo sky
The castrato's voice is scissored
and thrown into naught
wingless urban birds
lift dying eyes
on the right contrasting colors
of pomegranates, quinces and persimmons
now altered into the domesticity
of jars and bottles
jam and preserves,
all shelfed artfully
and the instant
with its remanent of unfulfilled happiness
to grab and to take into eternity
is thrown into naught too.

Flora Yeghoumians

Painting A Libretto

Forget all rules, forget all restrictions, as to taste, as to what ought to be said, write for the pleasure of it...

William Carlos Williams


Walking alone
on the leafy paths
of Kempen woods
A whole slew of words
vain, thorny, mute
with neither an onset
nor an ending
cradled in mighty unsettling colours
scoff into my flesh
while I'm scoffing to their nonsense.

I bolt their way
but the beastly ones
have a ravishing power
to emerge from the abyss
into which I push them.
So I guzzle them up
voraciously
and they go in "All That Jazz"
joyful or mournful
on and on
in a wicked ballet
of jeering and sneering.

they get drunk
by their own beauty
their own wit and virtuosity
they burst into aesthetics
I feel restraint
they feel freedom
in wild words from a stranger
and they give in
to brilliant pyrotechnics.

They are sloe colored
like a shrub of blackthorn
portent, entrancing
dipped in purple, magenta, crimson
of vascular systems
all nuances off claret
those sensuous words
conceived in the stream
of conscious desire
frozen in ultra and aquamarine
of some northern sky.


When they give in to nostalgy
they are mute, sullen
Their thorn chiseling away
on my heart
as if it was a tombstone
in the lonely forgotten rest yard
of all my beloved ghosts
where I can't find their stone
cause through storms and Time
they have moved around
and I have lost them.

I go back home
lay down and let them get trapped
in the fibers of my mattress
their splashing colours lost
to my beloved departed

Infinite empty spaces
Infinite silence.
in my whole being.

Elusive forms
impossible to capture
ripened along the line
of the Time
fading colours
invisible shapes
coming close
to a silky greige
or an earthly ochre
or the undefinable colours
of rubbles in the bed
of a dried up forgotten river.
They give an uneasy feeling
to the daring
who ventures into their slew.


Conceived in the embrace
of a stillness
nearing death
they inflict wounds
to the living
and it's then that I realize
the power of written words
over all Art forms
it's then that I let loose
the crescendo fight between music and words
forgetting all rules, all restrictions,
I write for the pleasure of luring
untamed words from the souls
of Oh! Père Lachaise
into my one and only libretto.

Flora