Poem
Vahe Arsen
IN THE ROOM
In the room there is only smokefrom a bullet. Rooms
are never complete. One room is
always hiding another room
and suggesting yet another.
A door being locked with a key
is flooded with happiness
and the rule of the rooms is over . . .
the rule is over . . .
is over . . .
That day people were running
after the bus,
dreaming about a good seat . . .
We moved to the morning lake
to soak our rage.
Exhaling creates ghosts;
breathing point-blank
can intersect a body
we are chilled . . .
people racing after the bus
and dreaming
as the familiar landscape retreats
and familiar faces become strangers,
become the same ghost escaping
and retreating . . .
those still running to catch the bus
and finding
the abandoned bridge changed
into an abandoned building flowered with grass.
The word burst its banks becoming
breath
a ghost
a movement
people running after the bus . . .
ice is our sickness,
chronic and incurable
a fever in the summer noon
a stone arch scuffed by wind
and the wind is the same ghost scoffing
severe
obscure
as people rush
to get the best seat
someday, somehow
In the room there is only the smoke of the bullet
hole. Rooms are never complete.
One room always hides another room.
© Translation: 2012, Diana Der-Hovanessian and Vahe Arsen
IN DE KAMER
In de kamer is niets dan rook uit een kogelgatkamers zijn nooit ofte nimmer voltooid
elke kamer bergt in zich een andere kamer
offreert . . .
geluk is een deur die op slot kan
hier eindigt de heerschappij der kamers . . .
hier eindigt de heerschappij . . .
hier eindigt . . .
de mensen renden achter de bus aan
en droomden van een zitplaats . . .
wij gingen op weg naar het matineus meer
om onze woede te lessen
elke ademhaling schept een geest
onze adem doorpriemt tegenliggers
wij hebben het koud . . .
de mensen renden achter de bus aan
en droomden . . .
de bekende plekken trekken zich terug,
veranderen, en de straat van altijd is plotseling vreemd
wordt die geest, die wegvlucht,
zich terugtrekt . . .
de mensen renden achter de bus aan
en . . .
het spook transformeerde tot verlaten brug
met groen overdekt verlaten bouwsel
het woord treedt buiten zijn oevers en wordt
ademhaling
geestverschijning
beweging
de mensen renden achter de bus aan . . .
ijs is de ziekte waaraan wij lijden
chronisch en ongeneeslijk
koorts op ’t heetst van een zomerdag
een steengewelf, aan wind gewend
en de wind is die geest, ironisch
boosaardig
onduidelijk
de mensen renden . . .
en bereikten na dagen hun zitplaats . . .
in de kamer is niets dan rook uit een kogelgat
kamers zijn nooit ofte nimmer voltooid
elke kamer bergt in zich een andere kamer . . .
© Vertaling: 2012, Anna Maria Martirosjan-Mattaar
© 2012, Vahe Arsen
Poems
Poems of Vahe Arsen
Close
IN THE ROOM
In the room there is only smokefrom a bullet. Rooms
are never complete. One room is
always hiding another room
and suggesting yet another.
A door being locked with a key
is flooded with happiness
and the rule of the rooms is over . . .
the rule is over . . .
is over . . .
That day people were running
after the bus,
dreaming about a good seat . . .
We moved to the morning lake
to soak our rage.
Exhaling creates ghosts;
breathing point-blank
can intersect a body
we are chilled . . .
people racing after the bus
and dreaming
as the familiar landscape retreats
and familiar faces become strangers,
become the same ghost escaping
and retreating . . .
those still running to catch the bus
and finding
the abandoned bridge changed
into an abandoned building flowered with grass.
The word burst its banks becoming
breath
a ghost
a movement
people running after the bus . . .
ice is our sickness,
chronic and incurable
a fever in the summer noon
a stone arch scuffed by wind
and the wind is the same ghost scoffing
severe
obscure
as people rush
to get the best seat
someday, somehow
In the room there is only the smoke of the bullet
hole. Rooms are never complete.
One room always hides another room.
© 2012, Diana Der-Hovanessian and Vahe Arsen
IN THE ROOM
In the room there is only smokefrom a bullet. Rooms
are never complete. One room is
always hiding another room
and suggesting yet another.
A door being locked with a key
is flooded with happiness
and the rule of the rooms is over . . .
the rule is over . . .
is over . . .
That day people were running
after the bus,
dreaming about a good seat . . .
We moved to the morning lake
to soak our rage.
Exhaling creates ghosts;
breathing point-blank
can intersect a body
we are chilled . . .
people racing after the bus
and dreaming
as the familiar landscape retreats
and familiar faces become strangers,
become the same ghost escaping
and retreating . . .
those still running to catch the bus
and finding
the abandoned bridge changed
into an abandoned building flowered with grass.
The word burst its banks becoming
breath
a ghost
a movement
people running after the bus . . .
ice is our sickness,
chronic and incurable
a fever in the summer noon
a stone arch scuffed by wind
and the wind is the same ghost scoffing
severe
obscure
as people rush
to get the best seat
someday, somehow
In the room there is only the smoke of the bullet
hole. Rooms are never complete.
One room always hides another room.
© 2012, Diana Der-Hovanessian and Vahe Arsen
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