Tag: poem

“Death” by Misak Metsarents

Chris KhatschLeave a comment

Misak Metsarents (1886-1908) was a Western Armenian neo-romantic poet. This is my translation of “Death” from Armenian to English.

Death

(The children are talking)

“Now they have passed the source.”
“Now they have gone through the garden, too.”
“Now they are at the cemetery.”
“Now they buried him…”
“Now they are reading. Does he hear?”
“Now he no longer hears.”
“Now he no longer sees.”
“Now he cannot swallow his saliva.”
“Now he cannot scream.”
“Now it’s over…”
“Now they’re returning.”
“Now he’s all alone…”
“Now he won’t come back.”
“Now he won’t come back.”
“Now he won’t come back.”
“Now he won’t come back…”

Chris Khatschadourian smoking an Oliva V Melanio Figurado cigar at Fidel Cigars.

Have a Cigar: Oliva Serie V Melanio Figurado

Chris Khatsch7 Comments

Name: Oliva Serie V Melanio Figurado

Country: Nicaragua

Size: (6 1/2 inches x 52)

Strength: Medium to Full

A bearded man with an aquiline nose,
with blue eyes turned grey from the cold,
sinks in a leather armchair after a long day.

He exhales the world slowly
and inhales solitude.
At last! he finds himself in a lounge
where thoughts don’t leak from mouths,
where ideas don’t turn to noise.

He calls the waiter and says,
“Please bring me an Islay whisky.
I would like to taste earth and fire.”

As he waits for his drink,
he pulls out a cigar
from the inside pocket of his jacket
and smells it.
Then he cuts it, licks it, lights it,
and leans back in his chair.

The whisky comes.
The smoke rises.

The man enters his cave.

*****
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La Aroma del Caribe Edicion Especial No. 1 Corona

Have a Cigar: La Aroma del Caribe Edicion Especial No. 1 Corona

Chris Khatsch1 Comment

Name: La Aroma del Caribe Edicion Especial No. 1 Corona

Country: Nicaragua

Shape: Parejo

Size: Corona (5 1/2 inches x 46)

Strength: Medium

Cold, windy night.
Winding down on the balcony
in a trench coat.
Listening to the rain
that sounds like fire
devouring crunchy stone pine branches.

I comb my thick beard with my fingers.
I feel the cold resting on my face.
I try to brush it off — the cold —
unsuccessfully.

Yesterday was a good day.
Today is a good day, too.
There’s work, yes, but also time to rest.

It’s really cold, though.
My fingers want to snuggle into my pockets
and cuddle with the cutter and the lighter.
But they have work to do.

In thirty minutes,
when I’m done drinking and smoking,
I’ll go inside and sit by the fireplace.
I’ll give my fingers their well-deserved rest.
Maybe I’ll turn on the TV and have a cup of tea.