Words in the Structure of Memory

The place I live
is full of blackberry bushes
and even the hottest summer
won't give them the taste and flavor
of a childhood purpule kiss
under a mulberry tree
in a storybook setting

The place I live now
has scents and savors
brittle and bright
unsubstantial, unfaithful
and when the light trickles
through branches of the trees
memory structure starts to plays its tricks

alleys in the woods
reminiscent of storybook orchard alleys
where a little girl
in a hand made summer dress
rode on her father's bike
his arms like walls of love
surrounding her
an irreplaceable safety feeling
wrapping up the little girl's being
if only the time of that bike ride.

Moistened earth
on summer irrigation day

Here, I have Johan's yellow earth
in which immerse hands
after a shallow digging
then press fingers
on the drawing paper
or moisten shucks of walnut
to curve the lines
of pulpous naked modeling bodies

the dark inky color
bringing back
enduring scents and flavors
tastes and savors
of walnut peel stained fingers
in the quince preserves
of my beloved grand-mother
How I'd liked
to draw her now
naked,
embodiment of an old body
Warm and welcoming
in the hugely deep wrinkles of which
I took refuge
when I didn't need
to spit out words
in the void left
That no yellow earth
no scent and no flavor
can fulfill ever
Flora

A Day Empty of Words

The morning light
aborted the pregnancy of last night
words were killed in the womb
and no grief or tear shed upon them
all those days past
when we waited the embrace of nights
to clasp bodies and enlace
like entertwined old vines
covering the walls of old buildings
Didn't you hear my scream my wailing
my moaning my complaining
didn't you see the immensity
of a desir storming like a stream
going to become a great river
flowing with words of poetry
words of love, passion
loss and grief
didn't you see the beauty
in all of it
don't you know the lyrics
of a song sang by the great Brel

"on a vu souvent
rejaillir le feu
d'un ancien volcan
qu'on croyait trop vieux"

All you did
was asking for words
to make you feel good and alive
did'nt you think ever
that I'm like an
empty platform
at dawn
when your train just left


Give me some of your poetry
the poetry of your youth
don't you know
that browsing memory
might destroy dawn's promise
of a bright day
such as the one
you wish me everyday
Flora

Maya Angelou kind of bodies

"My muses are words that I read in the books, or words that are in me grabbing my being into their sheer power and my lovers are writers that I long to translate"

words have been lonesome stars
fallen off heavily clouded skies
their mysterious unutterable power
shockingly unexpected
yet nurturing


and come what may
their dust are cherished
and their ravenous lust
sails the waves of dreams
stranding on our bodies
Maya Angelou kind of bodies
bodies stalked

by "

the loss of love and youth
and fire came raiding,
riding,
a horde of plunderers
on one caparisones steed,
sucking up the sun drops,
trampling the green shoots
of my carefully planted years."

but the words "carefully" and "planted years"
are mercilessly plundered
by the big surf of eroticism
that breaks through
the cruelties of time
upon those
Maya Angelou kind of bodies
when time comes to meet up
there will be no word at all
but skin and bodies
free of their dust
treading on eroticism
on a stage
set alive
by the librettos
out of untranslated books.
Flora

Love of Poetry

"My words are pure poetry and isn't poetry the language of God? the language of love, of passion of life itself?"
Jim Yates, Oh! Père Lachaise






words runing on the skin
under the tarpaulin
of a silvery lighted
bitter cold night of January
Callas singing...
and time swinging
with lyrics of "vestale"
"Les Héroines Tragiques"

words quarried from a mine called heart
honest words, words of truth,
to be kept in the dungeon of a fortress
where a fierce dragon fires toward intruders
words having no room to live out their life
words of Giulia, O Nume tutelar degli Infelici,
O! Goddess divinity of those unhappy
words that are the language of rapture under the moon
the language of love, of passion,
of life itself.
Words to be buried on the threshold of daybreak
just before the whirlwind of real life sets off
while the bliss of last night
is still lingering on our skin,
on our bodies
bodies meant to bear separation
experts in farewells
heart beats asking

you are not saying the last one, are you?
no, my love I'm not saying farewell at all
all I'm saying
is sometime between not now and never
I'll be writing you for ever

Flora

Last day of 2008

life is not a wish fulfillment fantasy.
we walk on sidewalks that ends somewhere
but never in dead ends.
And in the mornings
through drops of dew
and pieces of sky
framed by frosty windows
splashed with layers of colors
red, turquoise, blue
yielding to the grey of the starting day
and stillness disturbed only
by the barking of a dog.

then fragrance of coffee and freshly baked cranberry bread raises
while the bouquet of an old wine
drunk the night before
and aimless in the freshness of a new day
continue loitering the space
mixing the warmth of old friendships
with the rythm of breathing.

The alleys of the garden swept clean just yesterday
covered now with early morning's ice
the screen of a computer glowing
with the love of beloved people
from remote places
or the beautiful poem that comes always
with Wies's end of the year wishes
and even though a Parisian babahoo
stands in the way of my wish
in this last day of December 2008

The mighty pulse of Life
pushes on
to pick up the shatterd pieces of last night's dream
to wash the tired eyes
and to walk
with a broad beautiful smile
all bumpy walks of Life
Flora

A Day Among The Buried

"The poem comes in the form of a blessing_'like rapture breaking on the mind,' as I tried to phrase it in my youth. Through the years I have found this gift of poetry to be life-sustaining. Life-enhancing, and absolutely unpredictable. Does one live, therefore, for the sake of poetry? No, the reverse is true: poetry is for the sake of the life."
Stanley Kunitz





We treaded through the graves, on the cracking leaves
of a cold november day
on the otherwise silent paths
till we lost all measure of present and past


As we reached the monumental stone
a girl started smearing red on her lips
while the dark delectable chocolate
melted down in our mouth
And the girl kissed Oscar's stone
some things are never clear
even on such a bright day
a subtle, soft colored chimera
hanged there in the air
We took it in
our earthly souls wandering among the buried ones
Life's pulse playing a clarinet concerto
Music of words wandering into the vastness of death

the way came to an end
as it always does
in real life
careless of unborn things
longing to live their time of beauty
and to die
before maturity robs its dreamlike quality.
Flora

Nobody stays forever buitenlander, even in Zoersel

First flakes of snow, the green of nature tucked away, coffee grounds on a ruffled note, Robert Frost's words subsiding to words and no embraces of fire. What's there so special about an hour, a day, a lifetime in a place like Zoersel.
What is there special to you they asked me,the buitenlander.
On a day in the spring there will be "The Global Fiesta" they said.
and one theme will be a photo exhibition showing what is special about Zoersel in the eyes of buitenlanders/wat niet-Belgen special vinden aan onze gemeente?
Wherever I lived I thought the place was special, bijzonder, as they say.
To me all the daily motions of life are precious as life itself. There are the simplest of things that are the most special. Het is De Gewon dingen dat zijn de meeste bijzonder
Zoersel is a hideaway where time runs on a zen schedule in a setting of mysterious beauty.

When I first came here, I went to walk in the woods and the leafy paths made me think that if things become unbearable into their quiet I can come, there, trying to hold Rusty's unrest, I knew that the place, the gloom of the trees, the edge of a clearing, the water running in a ditch, all looked like a rendering of Robert Frost's poetry. It was then that I felt brave enough to take in the learning of a new and difficult language and to settle into the uncanny feeling of an apparently unwelcoming place.
I wandered further in the woods and came upon the Boshuisje, where I could read on a plate that it was the setting of Hendrick Conscience's "De Loteling" and though I'd never read a line of him I knew him as the towering figure in the middle of the namesake quiet plaza in Antwerp and the one who put the Flemish language on the map of novels. To me the little house and its bistro looked like the kind of place the Grimm Brothers would stop to drink a beer and discuss their next sprookje.
On the way back that day, I got lost and the little numbered plates on the trees were no help at all as they obstinately pointed out, from everywhere to the same direction: Boshuisje. Fortunately the late summer light lingered long enough for me to come out of the woods before the nightfall.
On the first day of our moving, while opening frantically the boxes to settle in for the night, our very first day "home" after two months of hotel living, we suddenly realized, along with noticing Rusty's absence, that a commotion was going on in the street. Both my children, Lou-Davina and Leonardo, run out and almost immediately jumped back in, livid. The neighbour across the street was about to kill Rusty. As I made a dash outside, I saw the man brandishing a spade and running after the mischievous dog. The second he set his eyes on me he came forward directing the threat of the spade to me while yelling in a funny French "C'est votrrrre chien çà, je vais la touer hein!" I turned my back to him caught the repenting dog's collar and got in closing the entrance door. So much so for a sprookje life style! Where were the welcoming committees of yesteryear? Catherine's moving day lasagna, Gevik turning bare spaces into full furnished home, leaving hot croissants by the door, Frank arriving medical kit in one hand, to rescue Leonardo from a ravaging virus and 'Boston Chicken' meal in another hand to save the day. Here in Zoersel, the wish of a welcoming committee became true the very same night Rusty escaped narrowly the knock of the spade. At 9PM two friendly police officers rang our bell and courteously made it clear that the spade equipped neighbour complained about our "dangerous" dog running loose. They were sorry to bother us so late in the evening but they couldn't help and had to file a report. They played with Rusty, chatted a bit with the kids, suggested that Rusty, while outside, be permanently kept on a leash and left wishing us a nice stay in Zoersel.
I guess, in the begining, being in Zoersel felt like playing gooseberry!
Time passed and one day I ventured out in the prairie across our street the Gagelhoflaan, literally the Myrtle Garden, and stepped in Charles and Dinora's garden. Theirs is a single house surrounded by corm fields, and in autumn's late afternoons, the mist lingers just above the ground, making their place look like seating on the clouds. Charles guided me through his Art gallery, the paintings, the sculptures, curious metallic structures, I attended a while his drawing workshop where we had always the same model, a beautiful thin girl, with not much flesh on to draw great curved lines, rather befitted for miniature painting. There was always a cheerful atmosphere there, and I met my dear friend Wies, the water colorist, who always took time to explain the jokes being told so that I could take part in the laughter though not at a synchronized time. A short time after Charles stopped teaching but we stayed in touch through their Art Group, De Artfanner. going sometimes to exhibits, or taking short trips.
My Flemish is still a work in progress but the circle of nice people is widening. Wies and I are carpooling to our drawing workshops, attending together Yohan Truyen's animal drawing and watercoloring. Or going to see Yohan's beautiful, sober drawings exhibited in the Oude Sint-Martinuspastorij.
Nowadays, my daughter left to attend university in Middelburg, she and Francis, my husband were forever nagging about missing out on the urban life...but my son and I just love this place. He rides his Brommer or his bike through the streets and the woods to get to his friends houses or to fuifjes (DJ parties) I love the quiet and the zen mood floating on the whole place, so tucked away from the tumults of our world and giving me a sense of balance and concentration to read, to write and to translate. From time to time I go on short trips, to Brussels or Paris, and coming back I feel that Zoersel is now home to me, that the language is opening up, showing its beauty, its possibilities, through the patient teaching of Lieve Amssoms. Somehow it's our state of mind and our own will that makes any place bijzonder and the people and their warmth, which is all the same in the whole world. As an Armenian born in Isfahan, Iran, and living in Zoersel, Belgium, I feel that at the core of one's existence is a personal identity that can embrace and blend in anywhere, and that everywhere the air is infected with human possibilities, in which change is a constant part of it, and the mind moves everywhere, along the past's rememberings and beyond today's blended cultures, in which keeping alive the vernacular languages such as Armenian or Flemish is like hugging the solid trunk of the trees, to stay rooted while admiring the delicacy of the ever changing leaves of tomorrows.
Flora