Tag: poem

Have a Cigar: Casa Turrent Serie 1901 Robusto

Chris Khatsch5 Comments

Name: Casa Turrent Serie 1901 Robusto

Country: Mexico

Shape: Parejo

Size: (5 1/4 inches x 50)

Strength: Medium to Full

I could smell
the leather armchair of a philosopher
misplaced and forgotten in a chocolate factory.

I could taste
the sweetened pain of a man biting on a leather belt
in a torture chamber.

Where does the sadism come from?

I could taste earth, wood, and chickpeas
dissolved in coffee —
muddy, Arabic coffee.

I was smoking a cigar
and nursing a twelve-year-old whisky.

“This is a good cigar,” I said to my wife
who was busy witnessing the synthesis of
people, music, and alcohol
in a failed state.

The music was loud,
the lights were dim,
the people were
cocktail-drinking, popcorn-eating zombies
wasting their lives.

Or… Were they trapped in this city
and the best they could do was
party?

And was I not like them? There,
burning valuable time.
Waiting, maybe, for something.

I was there smoking
time
like I could smoke eternity
without ever feeling bored.

I was there blurring reality
with smoke.


“Repentance” by Bedros Tourian

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Bedros Tourian (1851-1872) was an Armenian poet and playwright. This is my translation of “Repentance” from Armenian to English. It was written in 1871, a short time before his death.

Repentance

The end of a day
Yesterday when in cold sweats
I was taking a somber nap,
And two faded roses
Were burning on my cheeks,
Undoubtedly a deathlike pallor
Was glimmering on my forehead
And I experienced a moment of death,
I heard my mother’s sob…
I opened my drowsy eyes,
I saw my mother’s tears…
Oh, true compassion
Pearls false and fake…
My mother had a bottomless pain,
I was that pain…
Ah, a storm formed in my head…
I let this dark torrent out…
Oh, forgive me, my God,
I saw my mother’s tears…

Oliva Serie G cigar paired with Johnnie Walker Black Label

Have a Cigar: Oliva Serie G Churchill

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Name: Oliva Serie G Churchill

Country: Nicaragua

Shape: Parejo

Size: Churchill (7 inches x 50)

Strength: Mild to Medium

I wake up tired, dreams leaking, mouth dry.
I kiss my wife, “Good morning, love.”
Then I jump out of bed like a cat out of a trash can
and go downstairs to make coffee.

Another day. More work. Isn’t that my life?
But it’s Friday, so I work half day,
and it’s a sunny day.
Can’t let this go to waste.

“Me, you, and barbecue,” I tell my wife.
“How romantic of you,” she says as she smiles.
“I’m serious,” I say.
“Let’s do it,” she says.

Fire,
meat,
a bottle of premium Scotch whisky,
and a good cigar.

The sun is shining like there are no misfortunes in the world,
like work isn’t stressful and anxiety attacks are unheard of,
like death doesn’t exist,
like life is devoid of suffering,
like Lucifer is still God’s favorite angel.

The sun is shining,
and my loved one is sitting next to me.
Maybe I can call myself happy.
Right now. Happy.