A POEM ABOUT RAGE

By Lilly Torosyan

Rage is consummate

Sometimes, it’s the only weapon we have Bare hands will latch onto anything

Like a barnacle in a shipwreck

Sifting through the wreckage

The Armenian lifts a corpse of A body the Turkish ethos repels

A body it could not bury fast enough

I watch Garo Paylan, Turkey’s Armenian MP

Circle around the Armenian rescue team

Reassuring his Turkish followers of their goodwill

Why the onus is always on us

To see humanity in the monster who thirsts for our veins

Which hide in the soil

They’re not safe where the light strikes

Time and again

Across every landscape

This story

A sick fable

To always ignore the wound - rooted, festered, Maggots have made pie of our meat

And yet, we bake

For our butchers

We bake

Sifting flour in the air

Gathering water in bleeding palms

We bake

The lines

Severed

We are branches without a past, yet engorged on history

I oppugn this myth

Garo’s in a Syriac church now, showing us its desecration

Սիրարփի Աթիքեան ... ← 10

I remember when he stood on the podium of St. Leon, an Armenian church in New Jersey and spoke to us about his hopes for a better Turkey one that centered humanity

But how can young Armenians, Turks, and Kurds forge a new path forward - together?

He answered me with a question, “Where are you from?”

My American accent told him, “here, of course,” But my branches screamed in colors unfamiliar to these lands. His eyes saw right through it. Those sad, Armenian eyes.

Armenian eyes, lovely eyes, For centuries, a black cloud has covered you, Black grief has worn you down, tormented you, And stolen your smile.

Sarmen’s poem rang out, rustling the leaves on our scattered branches.

“I’m Sassountsi”

The hall roared. It was my first time at this church. I didn’t realize that I had entered an arboretum. We all were searching for our trees.

“I will take you there, one day,” he smiled. Now, all eyes were on this hopeful charmer.

“There is a Kurdish saying. The Turks devoured Armenians for breakfast, now they are having us for lunch. Who will be their dinner? ”

Gluttony is a sin

The irony, that I learned this in Turkey Fasting at Ramadan, grudgingly, because nothing was open during the day

Long walks in summer heat, with no food and limited water - one might say should be familiar to us

Our bones know what was, once Nips of our past - even the strongest whiskey can’t make us forget.

My mind rewinds to grad school, when British journalist Robert Fisk gives a talk on the 100th anniversary of the Armenian Genocide I remember only fragments - but his concluding words are seared onto the wall of my memory…

A genocide survivor watched his family disintegrate in the desert then lost his eyesight in the refugee camps in Aleppo

Years of rage consumed the boy until one day he saw the light within himself

When the 1999 earthquake struck Izmit, he said, “I pray for those poor Turkish souls.”

Some say that the soul is too pure, too naive And must be shielded in thin strips of black After all, every monk must train his body To know how to defend it.

But our elder wiped the crust clean and, even in blindness, saw what Garo speaks of What rests within the palms, lifting cheap concrete off shrouded bodies.

Rage is eternal Black cloud of grief hovers over the land Tonight, I choose to pray հաստատութիւններու պիտի տրամադրուի։ Երբ կու գար, հետը կը բերէր մեզի համար տունէն պատրաստուած համով խմորեղէններ, թարմ պտուղներ եւ նոյնիսկ հայկական սուրճ թերմոս ապրեցաւ հայօրէն, հայու դրական բնաւորութեամբ, տուաւ իր կարելին, հպարտացաւ իր ժողովուրդի քաջութեամբ, ցաւեցաւ հայութեան կորուստներով։ Ան քաջաբար, առանց գանգատի դիմադրեց կեանքի դժուար, անել եւ տխուր անցուդարձները Հիմա կ’ըսենք սիրելի ընկերուհի Սիրարփիին,

For light to enter through the cracks Beneath the rubble and return a smile to those poor Kurdish, Turkish, and Syrian souls.

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