Tag: Short Stories and Poems

“Come” by Misak Metsarents

Chris KhatschLeave a comment

Misak Metsarents (1886-1908) was a Western Armenian neo-romantic poet. This is my translation of “Come” from Armenian to English. It is a love poem written sometime between 1901 and 1903.

Come

Come! Make my boring life pleasurable.
Make me feel tenderness and hope.
There will come a day when your soul will mourn
the fast escape of this beautiful dream.

Come! Tomorrow, you may perish,
and I may die from a fever.
Do not extinguish the fire of my worship.

Let me imbibe the flames in your eyes.
Come close, gentle flower of my life!
Let me forget everything in a kiss.

Ah, how slow is this beautiful life!
Come! Melt the boredom of my soul.
Bury me in a beautiful dream.
Bring me your heart’s virgin caress.

Smoking an Ashton VSG Pegasus

Have a Cigar: Ashton VSG Pegasus

Chris Khatsch1 Comment

Name: Ashton VSG Pegasus

Country: Dominican Republic

Shape: Parejo

Size: (5 inches x 54)

Strength: Medium to Full

The morning came.
The hangover came with it
again
like a great song that has become annoying
because it was forgotten on repeat.

Why do I constantly
“drain the dregs of pleasure’s bowl”
when I’m aware that regret
will crow like a rooster at dawn?

Maybe because
the cigars that I smoke
and the whiskies that I drink
intensify my pleasure
and help me summarize
the events of the world
and the sweet and salty moments
of life
in a way that nothing else can.

And maybe not.

But the question must be asked aloud.
Is a hangover a good price to pay?
I think it is
if you plan on getting wasted
occasionally.

Smoking a cigar and drinking vodka at Tony's. The cigar is Plasencia Reserva Original.

Have a Cigar: Plasencia Reserva Original Robusto

Chris KhatschLeave a comment

Name: Plasencia Reserva Original Robusto

Country: Nicaragua

Shape: Parejo

Size: (4 3/4 inches x 52)

Strength: Mild

Words preserved in pages
like torshi seer in mason jars
don’t mean
what they used to mean.
But they are much more meaningful now.

Not all cigars are burning poems.
Some of them are hourglasses.
Others are daydreams.

Their purpose changes.

Who has a raison d’être? Show me.
Isn’t the meaning constantly changing?
Are you here for the same reason
you were here yesterday?
Even if you think so, you’re not.
You don’t have a purpose,
you have many;
therefore, none at all.