This is Verselove, a place for educators to nurture their writing lives and to advocate for writing poetry in community. We gather every day in April to experience all that writing poetry can do for hearts and minds. Write with care for yourself and your readers. When responding to others, mirror to them your readerly experiences — beautiful lines, phrases that resonate, ideas stirred. Enjoy. (Learn more here; Volunteer to host a day in 2026 here.)
Our Host
Dr. Sarah J. Donovan is the founder of Ethical ELA, a community for teacher-writers, and a 2024 Fellow for the Genocide Education Project. A former middle school English teacher and author, she advocates for humanizing literacy practices, genocide education, and poetry as witness. Her work bridges pedagogy, justice, and storytelling.
Inspiration
On April 24, the world remembers the Armenian Genocide—a systematic attempt to erase a people, a culture, and a history. But remembrance is not only about loss; it is also about survival, resilience, and honoring those who carried their stories forward. Today’s prompt gives us, as educators, time to engage with this history and create something to bring to our students on April 24.
Through poetry, we hold memory, bear witness, and celebrate life. Today, we write in recognition of the past and in celebration of the Armenian people, their voices, and their enduring culture.
Process
You have two paths for today’s poem:
1. The Witness Poem (Golden Shovel Form)
- Select a line from an Armenian memoir or historical account (from sources like On Being Armenian, Zilelian from Zile, or Compulsory Service).
- Use each word in the line as the last word of each line in your poem, allowing the story and weight of history to guide your voice.
- Reflect on themes of survival, resilience, and remembrance.
OR
2. The Celebration Poem
- Research something about Armenian culture—music, food, art, dance, poetry, traditions (e.g., Vardavar), wine, emerging young writers, sport
- Write a poem that celebrates Armenian life and heritage.
- Consider writing in free verse or trying a form like the cinquain or pantoum to mirror layered histories.
If you’d like to go deeper, you can integrate both approaches—juxtaposing historical witness with cultural celebration in your piece.
Check out these incredible resources from The Genocide Education Project:
- Bird Letters Art Activity
- Stages of Genocide Tool Kit
- Survivor Objects
- 2-Day Lesson Plan
- The Armenian Museum-Institute
Sarah’s Poem
Love Torn Apart, a Golden Shovel for Yerablur
by Sarah Donovan with S & The Genocide Project
Here is my research and writing process to trace my witnessing and writing process.
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may choose to use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers.
Tato Teaches Me About the World
We are in a crowded campus bar and I
I lean forward across fried pickles and Moscow Mules to learn
more about different languages and experiences from
someone new. Tato
speaks to me about her parents, her language, her love of her homeland, my
ignorance shows. I’m American and know nothing about world history, Armenian
genocide she says. I know nothing except I have a lot of learning to do and a brave new friend.
Sarah, I loved your heartfelt poem. This was a great prompt, and it taught me a lot about the Armenian Genocide that I had not known. I ended up finding a beautiful poem by an ancient poet and pulled from it.
“How long must we in patience wait/and bear unmurmuringly our fate?”
It is awesome how
the shadow of death is long:
It falls like a waterfall and I must
scroll tirelessly to see the end of the list we
created ourselves: deaths upon deaths, from Carthage in
146 BC to…well, have some more patience:
This history is not yet writ and done – wait
for tomorrow’s news…next year’s…and
next century’s… and try to bear
in mind, unmurmuringly
that this is our
human fate.
(from “Reproaches” by “Frik” [died 1330]
Armenian Legends and Poems
https://www.gutenberg.org/files/54036/54036-h/54036-h.htm)
Thank you Wendy for sharing Frik with all of us and capturing his angst in your poem. I especially love how you make his words take on new power: ” – wait for . . . ” instead of “in patience wait;” “try to bear in mind unmurmuringly” instead of “bear unmurmuringly.”
Frik is known as one of the boldest writers of his time, partially because of being the first to write in Middle Armenian (the people’s common language) instead of the learned Ancient Armenian of his age. Your poem seems bold too, in its historical breadth and look forward. Our times call for new boldness and directness.
It is difficult to remember,
even more to speak.
You witness, you tell,
but your voice is not wanted.
Denial
Refusal
Obstinate blindness-
Stories must be powerful to garner such silence.
Rachel,
Your last line made me pause, and it is so profound!
Rachel, loved this! Compact, with powerful choice of words.
Cinquains for Ani
Ani
UNESCO Site
Open Air Museum
Armenian City
Near Kars
Ancient
Secluded spot
On Arpaçay River
Once one of world’s biggest cities
Ruined
Wealthy
Trading center
One branch of the Silk Road
Crossroads for merchant caravans
Vibrant
Honored
Not forgotten
Capital for kingdoms
Churches and mosques everywhere
Holy
Ruins call
All welcome here
Jews, Parsees, Christians, Kurds,
Armenians, and Turks
Come all!
Martha, This poem is a masterful synthesis of ideas frame toward hope, an imagining healing for “all.”
Wow! Absolutely beautiful!
My favorite part –
“Churches and mosques everywhere
Holy
Ruins call
All welcome here
Martha, I love the references in this poem, They spurred me to some research about them. Loved the structure of your stanzas!
Genocide follows a blueprint
Cockroach, terrorist,
rat, savage–stealing humanity
sanctions the horror
At first there’s pictures–
Captors pose with prisoners, then
trophies hid in closets
The post screams don’t look
away, pieces of a man plead
for us to witness
What does it say when
We know, we hear the knock but
Don’t open the door
Murder kills a person
Genocide kills a people
Smoke rises, gone now…
Sarah, I’ve been mulling over this prompt all day long. I wanted to do justice to such a heavy and ever present topic. The echoes of the Armenian genocide are more present than ever, it seems. I remember being appalled when the Clinton administration refused to acknowledge the genocide in Rwanda, and now our country is seemingly supporting genocide, and taking some very scary steps towards acts that seem to fit in that pattern. Your poem holds up the rupture and the denial of the Armenian genocide and a reminder that the embers of that initial atrocity are always there to reignite.
Dave,
Superb title. There does seem to be a playbook for these atrocities. And as your note explains, we are moving in the direction of echoing past horrors. When we visited Dachau in 2019 the most surprising detail to me was learning townspeople didn’t know what was happening in the camp. Many now have no clue what’s happening. The most poignant lines in your poem are
“Murder kills a person
Genocide kills a people”
Dave, thank you for contemplating this topic to craft a poem of commentary. Your title resonates the stages of genocide, and your stanzas trace the unfolding and complicity and evidence.There is political strategy in naming and denying genocide. The ellipses in the final line symbolize the neverending implications.
Dave, I really appreciated your haiku chain and did feel that it was apt to your topic. Sadly, I thought of human nature and how reflective of it this poem is, with its normally nature-centered form, one that usually dwells on beauty. Heightened, for me, the sadness of it.
I’m ashamed-I didn’t know about it
There’s so much pain, so much I would
Never know if I didn’t look outside it all
How harrowing it is, ignorance a plague
Life and history is so much bigger than me
Borrowed line from “On Being Armenian” by Aida Zilelian
Ashley,
Today I tried to remember whether or not I studied the Armenian genocide in school. I remember learning about the Ottoman Empire, but… Anyway, for me the money line in your poem is “ignorance a plague.” That is truth.
Ashley, there is such power in the economy of your words woven among Aida’s as the poem’s speaker uncovers the need for intentional looking; being in places and among people to learn is how we disrupt ignorance. So powerful.
One Person of Integrity can Make a Difference
When you listen to a witness, you become a witness.
Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim.
Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.
There may be times when we are powerless
to prevent injustice, but there must never
be a time when we fail to protest.
©️Jennifer Kowaczek April 2025
Sarah, thank you for challenging me to learn about a period of world history I was ignorant about. Because I am coming to this late, I embraced ChatGPT — it’s becoming a thing in my school now.
my initial question was about the Armenian Genocide, specifically focusing on April 24. I then focused on the Witness/Celebration part of this prompt. The resources I received were encouraging of the AI experience and I used that information to do some additional searching.
My poem takes the form of the Cherita and uses quotes from Ellie Wiesel. So really, this is a found poem written in the Cherita poetic form. The title is also a quote from Wiesel.
Jennifer, I so appreciate your uncovering of process. In order to write about something, we need knowledge, and in the Writing, we deepen our understand and surface new questions. Time for inquiry is so important in teaching. This is the beauty of the reading-writing connection. And in your finding and cherita form, I also understand witnessing through you. Thank you.
Jennifer,
Your first line speaks to why we all love literature, especially poetry in April. It is our way of bearing witness through the witness of others.
Jennifer,
I also had the idea of witnessing as a first act of preventing injustice. As you stated, echoing our great moral guides before us “Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim./ Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.”
Thank you for the Elie Wiesel quotes, the Cherita form, and mostly for your call to action,
As an Armenian American, I thank you personally for remembering and resisting Armenian erasure through poetry.
My entire life my grandfather would re-tell me his story,
as if asking me to memorize it so that I would not forget.
I grew up surrounded by these stories…
people without documents,
without birth certificates,
even without birthdays…
people whose language was illegal,
whose religion was illegal, and
whose suffering was only recognized by some nations over 100 hundred years later.
It was an honor to be taught and loved by survivors.
On my way to an Armenian dance, my grandfather made me late…
I needed to eat first… because…
you never know…
Choose love he said as he drifted in and out of the three languages that circled his head. Here is to love,
peace,
and
remembering.
Meg hokis- one soul.
What a message, Michelle- choose love. Why does it seem so important that people don’t have birthdays? That seems like the most basic of human rights.
Michelle, so powerful. The repetition of “without” and “illegal” is disrupted in your words and the the “honor to be taught and loved” so that you remember and we now can witness this love through your poetry. We carry your story with us. And that cannot be erased.
Michelle, this is beautiful! I love your grandfather’s message: “Choose love.” Thank you for sharing him with us today!
Michelle,
It’s powerful that your poem is grounded in the telling and retelling of stories. The idea that we can never forget, that it is our duty to never forget. And the artifacts in your poem speak to injustice–language and religion being illegal, people denied the most basic of rights. And the part at the end where your grandfather made you late to feed you because “you never know” is pregnant with emotions.
Thank you for sharing your wonderful grandfather with us and precious details of his life and yours.
Thank you for sharing your experience. What a beautiful testimony of survival and legacy throughout the generations.
Sarah,
Thank you for your poem, for these lines:
”Let’s gather to
become witnesses, to name the denial for a better future.”
This is the idyllic purpose for poetry I value most.
Spines
imagine a pink wedge eraser, the
crumbs blown like shorn grass’s
clippings disbursed on lawns. mutilated
unidentified remnants of severed spine
with each spring’s lilac blossoms
dormant as voiceless souls gather on
fallow fields of scattered debris. an
incalculable symbolic omission: unknown
histories buried in our lost planet.
—Glenda Funk
4-13-25
Strike line: “the grass’s mutilated spine blossoms on an unknown planet,”
from the poem “You”
Written by Lusine Yeghyan and translated by Anouche Agnerian
*While reading the poem, I noticed connections to Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. At the end of the poem there’s a note indicating Whitman’s influence on the author, so I included several nods to Whitman’s poetry in my verse.
‘I slit the sky with a razor:’ 6 contemporary Armenian poems on passion and politics — New East Digital Archive
The contrasts in this poem made me gasp, Glenda. The things you left unsaid are so powerful.
Glenda, I am so grateful for your golden shovel, in the words you filled between the ends and the sharing of a poet new to me and their words. I love every image and the meaning of parts and whole. Incredible. Truly beautiful.
Glenda, the open imagery of erasure is striking and adds another layer to the histories of all the lives ended by genocide. Your word choice is phenomenal, and literally writhes with emotion. I especially liked mutilated and severed which evoked the image of a book spine being destroyed. Your poem is provocative, compelling, and poignant and that last line is heart wrenching. Kudos!
Glenda, whoa, this is so powerful. In the “remnants of severed spine” and the “incalculable” loss that our world lives with, this just being one of them. Thank you for the link to “You” and your notes about Whitman. Masterful.
Sarah, sorry.I didn’t allot time for creating today, but pride myself on posting adult during VERSELOVE. So today, I’ve added to the poetic conversations a poem written in the group in April 2022. So often holocausts are spurred by hatred for others, so I believe that this poem fits the topic today.
The Two Way Door
Hatred is a door
That can work both ways
Hatred can let in hurt
Causing pain to the heart
Hatred is a door.
That goes both ways
Hatred can let out hurt
Causing pain. Let’s just not start
Let’s shut that door and bolt it
Create another way to revolt
We’ve all been hurt and it makes us feel
Like turning around and doing the same
It sends us spinning and wanting to squeal.
Hatred is a door
That doesn’t have to be used
Like the Bard has said, you know the score,
Anything can be used and abused
So, let’s not use that door anymore.
blob:https://www.ethicalela.com/6681b935-6765-442d-8fe9-3c3b5ef47822
Thank you for the prompt and your mentor poem, Sarah. This is such a needed and relevant topic for today. The history repeats itself over and over again. The lines I chose from On Being Armenian: “The world had looked on silently and done nothing.” The speaker is an Armenian learning the history of her people.
The World Needs a Wake-Up Call
I traced forgotten names, screamed to the
Abyss for answers. How could the world
Keep turning while my ancestors had
To vanish into dust? Eyes looked
Away from burning homes and vacant lots on
Maps that no longer laughed or spoke. Silently,
Villages emptied—graves unnamed—and
Deep sorrow settled. My people had done
So much to survive, yet the world learned nothing.
This is so moving, Leilya. Maps that no longer laughed or spoke speaks volumes. Deep sorrow indeed.
Oh Leilya – how do those who have seen the burning homes and vacant lots ever heal? That line will stay with me for a long time… a beautiful poem – and heartbreaking.
Leilya,
Thinking about the Armenian genocide as I’m reading poems and as I wrote my own, my mind kept turning to the sentiment in your last line: “and the world learned nothing.” You chose a haunting, gut punch line for inspiration.
Leilya, your poem is full of anguish. I feel the emotion in every line. Your ending is heartbreaking because one has to wonder if people will stop killing each other. I found the silence especially chilling! Magnificent poem!
Leilya, thank you for this poem, for speaking in the voice of one who lost so much. The details are haunting and sad. The maps that “no longer laughed or spoke” and the unnamed graves. Yes, “deep sorrow settled” Such a rich poem.
Deep pain and sorrow. Sending you all of my love. It saddens me that our world learns NOTHING.
Deep pain and sorrow. Sending you all my love.
It saddens me that our world learns nothing.
I read some Armenian poetry at Project Gutenberg and came across a poem callen “Ye Mountain Bluebells” by Avetis Isahakian. I used it for inspiration and added some of the symbolism for the flower like we did a few days ago.
Spring in Tavush
By Mo Daley 4/13/25
Thousands of bluebells in the ancient, enchanted woodlands
Beckon fairies, both good and evil,
With their outlandish display of sapphire waves,
Daring them to try on their magical headdresses.
They return each year to the mystical copses
Heads bowed in humility
Offering constancy
If you will only accept it.
Here’s a link to the original poem: Ye Mountain Bluebells by Avetik Isahakian – Famous poems, famous poets. – All Poetry
Thanks for introducing me to this poet. Wonderful. That final line of “if you will only accept it” resonates and has layers of meaning.
Thank you for this beautiful poem, Mo! I am deeply touched by these lines:
“They return each year to the mystical copses
Heads bowed in humility
Offering constancy
If you will only accept it.”
Sad and beautiful!
Mo,
I have a sense of our poems in conversation w/ one another today. I, too, love the flower symbolism, the way nature speaks to us, reminders of the good and the bad. We must listen and accept.
Thank you Sara for telling me about this. I had no idea of the Armenian Genocide. When I was in school, all these atrocities were hidden in my history class.
It’s been a hard two days with hearing from an Asian community about the data gathered in the 1970 and 2020 census and then learning this. Wow what a world! Hard to be poetic today.
I used a quote from Elie Wiesel.
A Palm Sunday Prayer
I pray
for the acceptance and acknowledgement that
the Armenian Genocide existed with thousands
dead among ethnic minorities before WWI
and continuing today among marginalize groups, some
living in America today.
We have a responsibility and
must speak out against injustices and
bear truth about things we
witness.
Susan, I wish I planned this prompt to land on Palm Sunday for the solemn day. Your poem, drawing on Wiesel, is apt in naming that our naming and remembering a speaking out (as this poem does speak) is foe the dead and the living. I feel you stirring courage.
Was thinking of the powerful books I read during Holocaust studies, Night included, when working through this prompt. Transparency is so important and I so appreciate this poem and quote. Thanks for sharing.
Thank you for the prayer, Susan! Unfortunately, genocide is happening again today. I love the ending of your poem. We
“must speak out against injustices and
bear truth about things we
witness.”
Susan, your poem flows flawlessly, and I love how you capture the importance of bearing witness and revealing injustices.
Susan, thank you for your honesty and prayer. Yes, to that prayer, and to taking responsibility.
Admittedly I don’t have much knowledge about world history and definitely not the horrors of genocide. But I think that’s part of my point- what narratives are we taught, what history “shows up” in our books? A few tankas and a haiku in connection to my current students. Thanks for the push with this prompt.
taken, preserved
Remember sixth grade-
“How could they keep this from us?”
Innocence taken
while studying Holocaust
texts, Number the Stars brought tears.
Now, I teach students
English as their next language.
Fifth grade, from Turkey-
Will he learn of genocide?
or is innocence preserved?
Ignorance is bliss
for impressionable kids-
but kids deserve truth.
C.O. these are such important questions! And I love your final stanza: “Ignorance is bliss / for impressionable kids- / but kids deserve truth.” Thank you for this!
Oh, yes, this poem speaks to the decisions we and schools make about content, which is not neutral. As ELA teachers, we can draw on humanities and art in uncovering truth without harming students. A poem can teach and heal.
C.O., yes, kids deserve truth, and everyone else too. Thank you for sharing. I love Number the Stars, an important story kids need to know.
These are such alive questions. They require us, as educators, to be brave and honest, and sometimes subversive. Your last stanza is perfect. Kids deserve the truth.
Thank you, Sarah, for this prompt and the resources to continue learning. I attempted the golden shovel form, finding my striking line from the piece, “On Being Armenian.”
Genocide and Other Secrets
Each day, a cacophony of outrage while the
the earth continues its orbit despite wars running the world
and the fathers who go missing. One father, who had
lived justly and kept all the right paperwork, looked
both ways before crossing the street on
a day that began like any other, then silently
disappeared. They said it was a mistake, but really? And
if that’s true, then why hasn’t anything been done
to return him to his family. Instead of justice or mercy… nothing.
I used the same line- you capture so much of the rage I feel right now. All the impotence that is coursing my heart. Thank you. I feel witnessed in your poem.
Shelly, thank you for bringing this disappearance to light here. “Instead of justice or mercy…nothing” So sad. Thank you.
Your title alone made me catch my breath. So much pain that goes on and on; “a day that began like any other, then silently/disappeared. ” – this is a fellow Marylander for me. A horrific reality, no justice, no mercy.
Shelly, you are offering a bridge in this poem that connects while not comparing. We see patterns in systems that perpetuate atrocities, and this is why remembering is so important. Aida, as part of the diaspora, can help this generation make those connections through you and how you share this with your students.
Shelly, I am late to the party today, but I also used the same line. Apparently, it is striking and carries so much weight. This is what I think about every single day for over three years: “the earth continues its orbit despite wars running the world.” You capture that anger and desire to find “justice or mercy.” Thank you for sharing!
Thank you for the opportunity to learn, to grow in empathy and compassion. This space is an endless blessing that I hope ripples out to the rest of the world.
History Lessons
The confusing pain when learning
world history that
had been purposefully left out- I
looked at pictures of massacres close by and genocides
on the other side of the world,
silently staring at bones drying heaped in desert heat
and I impotently grieved my ignorance at what had been
done and I asked what HAD to be done to make sure it amounted to
nothing worth noting in history class?
Kasey, wow. That haunting question: “I asked what HAD to be done to make sure it amounted to / nothing worth noting in history class?” That is a terribly fraught question. What else could have warranted a mention? I agree, so much we never learned. Thankfully we know better now, and we can do something. I love what you wrote in your intro: hope that this space ripples out to the world.
Powerful question to end on and parallels my thinking for this prompt today, too. Thanks for putting this into words today.
This line stood out to me as well – and Shelly, perhaps others. It is so stark, and so clear that history keeps repeating itself with silence in the face of injustice. “silently staring at bones drying heaped in desert heat” – my own impotence makes me so depressed.
What a powerful line! I chose it too, Kasey! You ask such a crucial question at the end of your poem?
Still a work in progress…
As many as 1.2 million Armenians slaughtered.
Numb
ers.
Numb
ers.
Numb
ers
march across the desert:
massacred.
deported.
stolen.
Numb
ers.
Numb.
ers
Large numbers make me numb.
Tell me instead,
did you like to sing?
Did you love to dance?
Did you have a favorite scarf?
Shed your number
and the world wakes up in mourning.
The pain of the play between numb and numbers is striking. There is so much to unpack- how a number is necessary and dehumanizing and how can we hold it all without becoming numb?
Excellent poem.
Oh, Ann, that first numb
ers was so jarring. Such great wordplay to make an important number. And then those questions, so intimate and human. Those last two lines. Wow. Thank you for writing this. So much truth. I hope this is read on April 24 for Armenian Genocide Remembrance Day.
Wow. The humanizing with scarves and music and dance is such a powerful contrast to being labeled as a number, as just another. Thank you for this tough piece.
If we can put a face on these, share that special bit of knowledge…yes, they would not be “Numb
ers.”
Ann, that number, 1.2 million, is unfathomable. It’s entirely beyond my comprehension how this could happen, be allowed to happen. Your positioning of the syllables–numb and ers– gives both the sense of marching and draws our focus to the numbness those experiencing it must feel (and to those many who are numb to the misery of others). Thank you for personalizing those who become numbers, reminding us they like to sing and dance.
Yes, Ann. This is it. At once counting the evidence and disrupting the dehumanizing measurement discourse for the lives and culture and beautiful questions of life that our diaspora friends want to share.
Ann — Ooof, this play on words is powerful. The cadence mirroring the steps in desert…oh man. Really effective and poignant. Thank you. Susie
Ann, I just want to cry reading your poem. Reading more about Armenian genocide and witnessing genocide against Ukraine today seems unbearable. I knew about Armenia and its tragic history. They still have a raw conflict with a neighboring country today. Thank you for writing and sharing!
Man,
This is poignant. Splitting
“Numb
ers”
repeatedly replicates marching. The last two lines are a gut punch:
”Shed your number
and the world wakes up in mourning.”
Sarah, thank you for this prompt. I know you were there in Armenia to bear witness to the genocide. Thank you for bringing us there with you and for inviting us to bring the injustice into our classrooms, for we cannot be silent and stop teaching history. We are teachers, the brave and the free to teach truth.
I read a lot today, so much heartbreak. So much to witness and grieve over. I couldn’t stop thinking of Peggy, one of my dearest friends in Bahrain. Her family fled Armenia for Lebanon during the genocide.
Delicious tiny zucchini carefully scooped
Of their insides and filled with meat and rice.
Lebanese or Armenian? I think both, like you.
Made with love in your Bahrain kitchen.
Always you are in my heart. Today Armenia is too.
Denise, I recognize “dolma” from the piece that inspired my own poem. What I love about yours is that it feels like a celebration, despite the loss and grief. Well done!
This is a beautiful tribute to Armenian culture and a dear friend.
Denise, you have honored your friend with your words today. I wish it were easier to recognize how we are all a blending of our family, our pasts, where we live and have lived. You tell of this so beautifully. I love that last line!
There is something so very, very dear about this poem, Denise. The third line just melts my heart – such a special memory of a special friend “Lebanese or Armenian? I think both, like you.” May she find some peace, despite this heartbreaking world.
Denise, this is a lovely tribute to the food and friendship you share. It helps me think about real people and real food. I would like to use it as a model for students to write about their own cultures.
A beautiful acrostic to honor your beloved friend, Denise. The dolma zucchini dish sounds fantastic – nothing exemplifies culture and connection quite like food! “Made with love” indeed – as is this poem. I can imagine how much Peggy is in your heart today, along with Armenia.
Denise, truly, dolma unites not only Lebanese and Armenian. Itis cooked in Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Crimea, and many other countries. What a great way to see something good among the tragedy. I keep Armenians close to my heart too. I have quite a few friends. Thank you for sharing a note and a poem!
Denise,
This is a lovely reminder of humanity’s interconnectedness.
Denise, what a lovely poem. I appreciate how you show your love and passion and your concern. Beautiful!
Thank you Denise for making me smile!
[Sarah, I couldn’t really write a proper poem today, the research, the realities so grim. I couldn’t get to the survivors, so lost in the lost. Susie]
THE TRAJECTORY
Regardless of the players,
fascism
rises out of
racism, anyone not like me,
poverty, without work, without basic needs,
revenge,
hatred, of anyone a step down the seeming hierarchy,
fear of someone else getting your perceived share,
fear of what you don’t understand,
anger, unbridled,
nationalism.
Systemic in execution of The Plan, the “cleansing,”
puppets on the stage,
executioners hidden behind the curtains,
heinous,
greedy,
amoral.
Propaganda spewing like a firehose,
chaos to confuse and frighten,
marginalization of “they” whoever the target,
fascism always needs a “they,”
erasing, scraping the history books,
controlling, the airwaves,
dividing, driving spikes, wedging people, cleaving communities.
In 1915 Armenians.
In 1975 Cambodians.
In 1978 Mayans.
In 1992 Bosnian Muslims
In 1994 it was Tutsis and moderate Hutus.
and on and on and on.
Today, Latinos shipped to CECOT in El Salvador
no due process,
no criminal record…
tomorrow?
by Susie Morice, April 13, 2025©
Susie, thank you. Art and honest history are on the right side of history. Thank you for speaking up in defense of those we currently other. Such powerful images throughout, like
Susie, you have captured how I feel most days – at least for a little while – just skimming the news. And today after a shallow dive into the rich resources Sarah provided. There is so much here, in the language and cadence of this poem. From hour first stanza to phrases like “executioners hidden behind curtains” and “propaganda spewing like a firehose” — really, this entire poem is powerful.
Susie, the use of the firehose for propaganda points a finger back at the firehoses used during the Civil Rights movement. The image of water spraying coupled with the “cleansing” is masterful, especially alongside the word execution. I am so sickened over the treatment of people. You’ve captured my thoughts so clearly.
Thank you for this. Yes, fascism, genocide, injustice in general is all arising from”anyone not like me,” a hateful othering. Such an ominous final question, “tomorrow?”
Susie, I wrote a not-yet shared poem the other day titled, “Now It’s My Turn.” In in, I shared the perspective of a society that had gotten rid of all the undesirables (as determined by their oligarch) and have decided to start letting people who are old, just die in “retirement camps” where they were fed only a bit of gruel and no meds to save money and get rid of them because they were no longer producing and only costing. Your poem is much better!
Susie,
Chilling reminders of the evil people do and the tools they use:
”Propaganda spewing like a firehose,
chaos to confuse and frighten,
marginalization of “they” whoever the target,”
President Zelensky was on “60 Minutes” this evening, and the discussion turned to the ways the orange one is rewriting the script in Ukraine. Armenia happened over 100 years ago, and we’re still dealing with/ the same evil, multiplied.
Susie, oh my, your poem is weighty. I feel the horror of these atrocities. Your question at the end is what troubles me the most. Your poem haunts me with foreboding! The greed and evil hiding behind the curtain is terrifying in its truth. Incredible poem!
Susie, I struggled to write yesterday too, or the same reason: “Propaganda spewing like a firehouse,” and fascism growing today, after so many tragic history lessons. You are right, the list of affected is longer. I am losing hope. Thank you for your words today!
What if their story is our story?
Little known fact:
I was on the folkdance team in college.
Not the tour team that got to wear the REALLY cool costumes,
But I did get to wear a real Lithuanian costume for Christmas around the World
(Wool under hot stage lights– not fun.)
But the heart of the group was recreational folkdancing.
Every Wednesday evening, 7:30-8:30,
We gathered to dance.
Real folkdance, not performance choreography
We joined hands and grapevined our way across the floor,
Snaking around wherever the leader holding the handkerchief went.
I loved the music, the 5/7 (or was it 7/5?) rhythms,
But most of all I loved that we were all together, all moving, all celebrating.
I wish I’d known about the Armenian genocide
I wish I’d been dancing those dances to celebrate survival
I wish I’d known the history.
I watch Youtube videos of Armenian dances and I wonder:
What has been lost?
Whose dances, whose languages, whose memories and lives
Are gone forever?
What’s erased?
Can we get it back?
A few years ago, I listened to a speaker recounting the need for compassion,
The need to reach out and help refugees wherever they are, whatever they need.
She asked one simple question:
What if their story is our story?
Can we sit back in complacency and assume that we in a first-world nation
Will never face conditions that drive us from our homes?
My own religious history says otherwise
Look up the Missouri Extermination Order of 1838
Compassionate citizens of Quincy, Illinois took refugees into their homes.
Refugees who would eventually found Nauvoo, Illinois.
Refugees who would be driven out of Nauvoo across the plains to Utah.
That’s just one example that hits close to home for me.
What if their story is our story?
Can we survive? Even keep dancing?
Will we reach out to help?
In Poland, people left baby strollers in the train station for Ukrainian refugees
I wept when I saw the pictures, thought of the compassion to think of that need.
I yearn for a world where not only are we kind to refugees,
But that we no longer have the conflicts that drive people from their homes.
Sheila, I’m crying tears of hope and possibility through your poem. I yearn for this world that you describe. This is just beautiful. Thank you, especially for those last two lines.
Sheila,
This is so beautiful as well as emotion-stirring. This poem needs to be seen by everyone in all corners of the world, but especially here in the US where we feel so protected and isolated from such happenings. And, we have to be more aware of not only our history, but the history of other peoples around the world. I am currently reading Fever in the Hearland: The Ku Klux Klan’s Plot to Take Over America, and the Woman Who Stopped Them and I find myself shaking my head in disbelief and wondering how we could forget so easily. I know I knew of the KKK’s violence toward Blacks in the South, but I was unaware of their actions toward Catholics in my home state, which is what this book focuses on. These lines are crucial:
Sheila — Your poem demonstrates that compassion…just awareness is gigantic. A shout-out to Sarah and all the other Sarahs who are asking us to pay attention to celebrate what all peoples can bring to the lightness of our loads. Your dancing is lovely and that you brought it back in last stanzas is another example of resilience that I hope can persist. Most importantly, is the question you pose: what if their story is our story. I fear we will find out it is. Really wonderful poem. Thank you. Susie
Powerful poem that reminds that we are more alike than different. Thank you for making these connections for us and writing this beautiful piece.
I have tears welling as I too remember the image of strollers in the train station and the need to take care of those who need our help. Today’s poems are reminders of atrocities so many have endured and the kind and generous souls who have helped.
Yizkor is Hebrew for “May [G-d] Remember”
Yerevan shines as a beacon of light.
In Mother Armenia do we find strength.
Zenith of Mount Ararat behind low clouds.
Knowledge of the past in light of Denial.
Oaths taken to remember Artsakh.
Remember.
Thank you, Jason, for remembering Artsakh here in your poem. I hope a lot of students will learn about this and other atrocities in Armenian history this April 24. Thank you for the details and the repetition of “remember” in the first and last lines.
Jason — YES! “knowledge of the past in light of Denial.” When I encountered students who deny the Holocaust, I could hardly speak I was so stunned at the lack of compassion, awareness…denial and truths …oh we have a lifetime of work to do. Thank you for this fine poem. Susie
Jason, all the places in your poem are so familiar, and I just love seeing them in your poem. These are so important to remember: “Knowledge of the past in light of Denial. /
Oaths taken to remember Artsakh.”
Sarah, thank you for opening my eyes to this horror. I have written a golden shovel, using a line from your suggested reading “On Being Armenian.”
Thoughts on learning about the Armenian genocide
P oetry as resistance, that is the
A biding wisdom I have for this world
L isten closely, imagine more, question “had”
E mpires rewrite history, erase what looked
S ubversive to their power, deny the truth, kill, on and on
T o write a poem is to protest widely though silently
I am replete with powerlessness, hopelessness, and
N eed to feel that something just is being done
E ven these small words are more than nothing
Ohhh, Maureen! I love the way you used the word’s letters to start the lines! I am with you! Well done, my friend!
“To write a poem is to protest widely though silently”– I love this line so much.
Maureen, wow. This is masterful–a golden shovel and an acrostic. And yes, this is much more than nothing. In our “powerlessness, hopelessness” we can write poetry! Thank you for this. We need this mirror to hold up and see what we are doing again a century later.
Maureen — Your poem is extremely important. Writing poetry, writing articles, letters…these are all acts of much needed voice. “To write a poem is to protest” — it is exactly! YES! Thank you for writing this. Susie
Maureen, I chose the same striking line for my golden shovel! I was just not as clever to include PALESTINE at the start of each line. Great title that connects an on-going pattern of power to current events. But your poem gives me hope in the resistance and power of poetry.
Even these small words are more than nothing, I so hope you are right and am holding onto your words in a world that never seems to learn that no one should be erased…poetry as resistance…love it.
Your FIRST line imagining poetry as resistance is one that resonates as I read and reflect on this Sunday night awaiting the smaller yet very significant attempts to rewrite history in the morning. You are right that our words are something,
Maureen,
Palestine has been on my mind all day. There are so many powerful lines here, but your last line “even these small words are more than nothing” offer hope and a call to action.
Sarah, I read your post first in the early morning and have thought about it all day. I have thought about the fact that many/the majority of Americans have not heard about the genocide.I have also thought about recent attempts to wash America’s own less-than-perfect-story free of bloodshed. I thank you for sharing the resources and the prompt that have me, and others, thinking.
I believe it is impossible to eliminate the seeds of the human spirit.
They tried to eradicate the resistance
Leaving a trail of blood, tears.
They ended, upended lives
Destroyed families, culture.
They tried to say it never happened
There was no targeted deportation.
There was no genocide.
They did not know that history
Would remember and condemn their hate.
The seeds of the human spirit remain
In the souls of all those with Armenian blood
In the hearts of all those with empathy
In the spirit of all those who stop to remember.
“They tried to say it never happened” – it is terrifying to me how much this happens in history, how much it is happening now.
Anita, I feel this deep in my bones. Along with all the other erasures we see today, I wonder if those in power will ever face their much deserved condemnation. I love the hope in …
May we all someday be embrace in a world filled with empathy and care. Thank you, Anita.
May we always remember and learn. I am glad that history is telling the story even though many say it never happened.
Anita,
Your parallel structures (last three lines) are so important as reminders of why we must not forget.
Thank you, Anita, for this hope-filled poem. Thinking is a good start for the seeds to grow. The “In the…” lines to finish your poem give me hope.
Sarah,
Thank you so much for using this platform to teach us and lead us to sources to help us learn. I spent the morning going down rabbit hole after rabbit hole in regard to Armenian history and culture. I took many notes of things I wanted to write about today. Then, I went to mass . . .Palm Sunday . . . and I couldn’t help but become pre-occupied with the fact that Armenians were the first people to accept Christianity as their religion. And how that religion was what often led to the slaughter of millions of them across centuries. The things that are done in the name of religion . . .
I think I will post again today taking a different slant, but right now I have to post so I can climb out of my rabbit hole and move on to other things that have to get done today (and so I can focus on watching the Masters).
I pulled a line of scripture from the gospel of Luke read today. Spoken by Jesus, it was quite pertinent to the Armenians in the wake of the Genocide there and is unfortunately pertinent today.
Believe and Question
“If I tell you, you will not believe, and If I question, you will not respond.” Luke 22:67-68
If we say we are full of love,
then I have to wonder how
people can still tell
of the lack of You in many places,
of ignoring many things You
told us, of doing things against your will
The things to not
do, and the ideas we should believe
and follow and live out daily.
If history tells me one thing, should I
always believe it or should I question
and make it my duty to shed light on the truth for You?
Because truth can be buried and the “winners” will spin things
to their advantage, making some things seem better, some worse, and not
listening for understanding, but instead listening to respond.
Susan, I had the same thoughts as you as I listened to Pam Sunday services. Man’s inhumanity towards man is just such a universal theme hitting me on so many levels today. I also feel very sad that American schools have scant if any focus on the genocide. If we do not learn from history, we are destined to repeat it.
I admire how you used this line of scripture as a ‘flexible’ golden shovel – a very clever poetic move, I think.
These words – I can really relate…
My head has been in a similar place, since going down the rabbit hole of learning about the Armenian genocide…what do I not know? what’s being rewritten/sanitized?
Ooh, I like this, Susan! I love how you used a scripture verse from today’s sermon to think even more deeply.
Both countries claim the territory and have dug their armies in along its borders.
A Pantoum
Both counties, I realize, looking at the class, books on the desks, anger on the faces,
claim the territory. They have marked the lines, staked the claims, and closed off the space
where they might hear. Genocides, war, politics. They have chosen sides
and have dug the trenches and battlements. No quarter. No quiet. No…all to
claim the territory. They have marked the lines, staked the claims, and closed off the space.
Their armies stand, fight, die in dust and dirt and blood and battles. The students, too, fight
and have dug the trenches and battlements. No quarter. No quiet. No…all to claim pyrrhic victories
along its borders. Which war, I wonder, do we fight here in this space?
Their armies stand, fight, die in dust and dirt and blood and battles. The students, too, fight
to figure that out? A book discussion about the Armenian genocide has a different battle happening
along its borders. Which war, I wonder, do we fight here in this space?
It is hard to know as politics bleed into classrooms and discussions get labeled as culture wars. How
to figure that out? A book discussion about the Armenian genocide has a different battle happening.
Both counties, I realize, looking at the class, books on the desks, anger on the faces,
along its borders. Which war, I wonder, do we fight here in this space?
Where might they hear? Genocides, war, politics. They have chosen sides.
Melanie, you use of repeating these lines like this (and bolden) is a powerful use of this form. Ending with “they have chosen sides” is also dark and powerful. Thank you for sharing today.
The echoing of the pantoum form is haunting with this topic, and very effective. I like all the questions you weave within these lines, pointing, I think, to the need for not one singular story – no erasures, no rewrites, but holding questions in our hearts.
Melanie, wow, you nailed the pantoum! I love pantoums but mine always feel forced. Yours hits hard and brings the message with a force it deserves.
I notice the “vibrant fields”
first, a tight weave of threads
knit together, connecting
verdant patches of land
disappearing into the
horizon and then the
title of the piece,
“Patchwork of Fields”
by Eduard Nersesyan
and then only then the
blue, blue mountains
in the distance, the
color of a beautiful sky.
_______________________________________
Thank you, Sarah, for your mentor poem, your prompt, and the many links that opened a whole (formerly unknown) world to me. I spent some time this morning enjoying Armenian Art and wrote an Ekphrastic poem of sorts about “Patchwork of Fields” by Eduard Nersesyan.
Scott, your words, “connecitng verdant patches of land” does visual/verbal justice to this piece. Thank you for linking to the image and sharing today.
This is beautiful, Scott.
What a lovely tribute to a lovely piece of art. It has a sort of haiku feel to it– very meditative.
I love the ambiguity of your poem today, the verdant fields and blue sky could be anywhere, but the background for today gives it a voice of unity across cultures and space. Thank you for sharing!
Sarah, thank you for teaching and sharing all of these important resources. I read On Being Armenian and selected two lines for my Golden Shovel poem. I need to spend more time learning this history. My daughter received an Armenian scholarship when she was a sophomore in college because she was the top Armenian language learner in the class. GO FIGURE!
We were a clan, orphaned by tragedy.
We didn’t just survive. We live.
In Remembrance of the Armenian Genocide
Understanding the ease with which we
destroy humankind as if it were
a small atrocity, the spraying of a
trail of ants on a kitchen sink, a dying clan,
no consideration for precious souls orphaned
and searching for safe havens. Seeking sanctuary by
eyes and arms that pour love, rebuke their families’ tragedy.
Understanding the challenge to love all, We
learn to accept because we have no right to exclude those who didn’t
think as we do, live as we do, just
imagine the possibilities if we all were allowed to survive.
Imagine if here in our world We
valued humanity and honored our rights to live.
© Stacey L. Joy, 4/13/25
I am imagining with you…. “just imagine the possibilities”
What a connection to your daughter. Yes, there is a strong Armenian diaspora in LA. The imagining possibility is just the anchor here toward remembering and change.
The contradictions and humanity in the poem are heartbreaking. I am imagining the possibility of a world where life is valued.
Hi Stacey! I always appreciate the images you create and really like that you added the lines before the poem. Your ending: “Imagine if here in our world We valued humanity and honored our rights to live.” is a powerful shot to the gut and a great reminder. Thank you for sharing today.
I’m glad you appreciated the same lines that I did, I felt that they were some of the most powerful in Zilelians writing. Your metaphor about ants on a sink has so much depth and perspective, beautiful poem.
Stacey — As I got caught up in so much research on the godawful genocides that have scarred the earth, I came to so many of the exact points that your poem lays out. The orphaned is especially chilling. “…we have no right to exclude…” seems such a straightforward and basic concept, and yet… I like the “…imagine…” it takes me to John Lennon’s song… so apt. Wonderful compassionate poem. Love, Susie
“Imagine if we valued humanity and honored our right to live” SUCH a strong line and such as powerful wish. I love the format but more importantly your wish.
My poem today is a Golden Shovel, taken from Zilelean’s On Being Armenian. The Armenian Genocide is cruelly unspoken about, thank you Sarah for drawing attention to it and all of the work that you do. The title of my poem is taken from research I did off of Zilelean’s work, the oldest cathedral was built in Armenia, supposedly in 303. The rich history of the country stood out to me, and our lack of awareness as a country usually so obsessed with world history equally fascinates and frustrates me.
303 Anno Domini 4/13/2025
303 anno domini, the oldest cathedral in existence. But we
don’t see the speck on the map, dwarfed by manifest destiny. Were
we more patient, dissecting the individual beauty of culture from a
lump of -istans and -ias, we could see more than a clan,
more than soviets, more than foreigners orphaned
in systematic, still denied genocide by blind ears and by
sovereign nations. An impossibly cruel, apathetically perpetuated tragedy.
The heavy weight of the words in the last line–heavy in meaning, heavy in syllables. It is a stunning way to make the weight of the poem, the weight of the meaning visible for the reader. We see it and feel it.
Thank you for your research and in writing this poem your teaching fpr us. I was happy to visit Armenia last summer, and our guide Rima spoke passionately about this history. You thread in details about contested land that is still and anchor for the diaspora holding on to the artifacts and structure that carry the longest memory of belonging.
I, too, was drawn to this line from “On Being Armenian.” I’m impressed with what you created, especially
Sarah, thank you for bringing attention to this haunting reminder of unresolved trauma. I will have to spend some time understanding the Armenian Genocide. While I know of it,
I want to spend the day knowing more…
Sarah,
Thank you for hosting and prompting me to think deeply about a beautiful book I read earlier this year, Elif Shafak’s There are Rivers in the Sky.
Thank you for your lines of witnessing and of hope.
————————————————————
I’ve ridden my bike
to Barton Springs
to write this poem
and to swim away from a hard week
I think of the Yazidis
descended from Adam
but not Eve
who I learned of
in Elif Shafak’s
There are Rivers in the Sky
As the Ottoman Empire
systematically
murdered
raped
enslaved
the Armenians
in 1915
the Yazidis
fought alongside
the Armenians
hid them in their homes
adopted their children
helped them to flee
to the Sinjar Mountains
In 2014
the Yazidi
othered as devil worshippers
hid in the Sinjar Mountains
as ISIS
systematically
murdered
raped
enslaved
the Yazidi people
I think of Elif Shafak’s
Narin, a young girl of ten
and her beloved grandmother
who told her
Whatever happens
tell it to the water
It will take away all of the pain
and fear
And even if you cannot
find a flowing stream
Remember it is in you
You are made of water
Grandma told Narin
her heart
this as they fled their life
on the Tigris River
where Grandma gathered herbs
and shared her wisdom
of the clocktime of conquerers versus
the storytime of survivors
which understands the fragility of peace
I think of Dr. Zaleekhah Clarke
Turkish orphan
living in the same novel as Narin
living in London
studying water
rescuing Narin from enslavement
as the novel’s braided storylines converge
Shafak almost delivering a tentative happy ending
then
the fact
that within our century
both the Tigris and Euphrates
will disappear
I ease into Barton Springs
and tell it to the water
Sharon, what a magnificent narrative poem! I love how you show the grandmother’s words and advice. I appreciate how you connect your opening and ending, and the importance of telling it to the water. Wow! Your rich details show the history of cruelty and how it repeats itself. I like how your poem also emphasizes the fragility of life and water.
Wow, the repetition of “tell it to the water”
I’ll have to check this book out. I’ve only read 10 Minutes 38 Seconds in This Strange World of Shafak’s and really appreciated it. Thanks for sharing!
Wow…this poem is extraordinary…the clock time of conquerers vs. the story of survivors…how is it we never learn?
Thank you for this poem, blending voices in italic and pronoun. I have not heard of this book, so I look forward to reading. Thank you.
Beautiful, Sharon. And so logical to take it to Barton Springs to wash away the week that was, and to find yourself, make of water, remembering those drained by hate. Thank you for following the advice of Narin’s grandmother (those words, so incredible).
Sarah, thank you for sharing such a rich collection of information and links. Your powerful poem captures the reason these atrocities need to be witnessed. Never forget!
Garabad’s Family from Zile
Genocide’s only desire is to annihilate a family
longing to thrive, extend its fruitful tree
catalogued in photographs, carefully preserved, that
reflect sibling’s faces—if only they would
have had time to flourish and blossom
but they were exterminated, set on fire—its
mortifying, at six-years-old, to witness loved ones’ limbs
bound, as you hide in the woods, escape to France, extending
a life line of Armenians who tragically disappeared—magically
searching for possible familial links like
DNA strands that only disappoint an
American Armenian woman whose hands unfurling
hopes to connect a family, offer a fertile plant to seed
Barb Edler
13 April 2025
Oh Barb,
thank you for this unflinching look
Your last image made me gasp and filled me with such hope. Thank you.
Tragically mixed with magically is so powerful in your poem, along with all the movement – “blossom” “unfurling” “extend” it’s so life giving amongst what was done to them. Great poem!
Barb, you capture the role of hope here in doing the unfurling that does connect in the work of uncovering DNA and reclaiming stories. Powerful.
Barb, the images today of such tragedies and the cruelty with which they were killed are deeply disturbing, but the need to share the truth of the stories is urgent. I like your golden shovel with the striking line at the end – – it is a moving tribute.
Barb,
I pulled that line to be a golden shovel then went in a different direction (for now) so I’m so glad you did this.
I love that you brought in
You have done well to connect this to a fruitful tree being stunted. Your lines of a six year old seeing this while hiding in the woods makes my heart break. I can’t imagine an Armenian woman trying to make familial connections now. Yes, a bit of hope in your ending.
Barb – the focus here on “genocide’s only desire” to destroy family, indeed, whole family trees – how true. Your poem draws me to put myself in the shoes of the American Armenian women, and many others, trying to trace DNA and the stories of their existence, to feel the unspeakable horror, loss, and pain. Then the hope of connecting those broken pieces…to be dashed again and again by the dead ends and disappointments…thank you for painting this portrait of Garabed’s descendants. What he witnessed – no words – unthinkable, inhumane. His granddaughter is a brilliant example of resilience and overcoming, imparting her strength to others. Amazing tribute, your poem!
Barb,
By personifying genocide and magnifying what it does, you have named the guilty and reminded us how children suffer yet still “unfurl hope.” This is a beautiful testimony of remembrance.
Barb, what a sad summary of Garabad’s family. “magically searching for possible familial links” really captures the essay by Aida and the disappointment in not finding a family member. What a heartbreaking history to have to live through. I’m glad we have this prompt today.
Sarah, I admire the continued work you do around this and how lovely you bring it to us for witnessing and celebrating. Golden Shovels always have me thinking, oh, it will be simple, but really are a tough puzzle to draft and work out. I’ve used a line from Mkrtich Karapetian’s testimony, 1910 @ http://www.genocide-museum.am/eng/mkrtich-karapetian-eng.php.
Our digitized testimony, the memory of our
Mother, is shared beyond epistemology, knowing we
Came from death, survival, witnessing
For a century beyond the attack on our being
The breaths are still meaningful, remembered
Last moments are memorialized with technology
Time and advocacy and advancement
And yet, genocides continue, not learning from history
Kissed death and power–no growth in goodwill from
Us and our pain, my words are here, valiantly
Madly pleading for peace and humanity
Stefani, your golden shovel is phenomenal. I really love how your poem starts out with a matter-of-fact tone of voice and shares the power of technology in the line: “Last moments are memorialized with technology”. I appreciate how you then increase the emotions which are emphasized at the end with the line “Madly pleading for peace and humanity”. Not learning from history is another key issue that continues to haunt my psyche. Incredible poem!
Stephani,
Thank you for making me think about the cost of having to share family memories to bear witness.
”[S]hared beyond epistemology” hit me hard.
You convey so well the frustrating truth of
leaving us
Thank you, Stefani, for sharing this testimony here. That you found and watched and witnessed and then rendered primary source language into this poem for us shows how their words and yours make remembering possible. Archival work, the digital, has made our collective remembering possible. Thank you.
How impressive that you culled such a sentence from testimony and in turn create such magic!
Thank you, Sarah, for the Sunday challenge…the remembrance…the importance. With your prompt, we are all gathering…witnessing. I followed your lead and took a line from Peter Balakian’s “After the Survivors Are Gone.”
As I Try to Teach
b.r.crandall
Let me go there, I tell a room full of bushy-eyed undergrads. Right now, all of
us together. These kids returning from spring break, sandy beaches where they
remember stories of IPods no longer working and laptops that didn’t allow
the midterm assignment to be turned in on time. Yes, I say, I want to focus on the
child who lost parents to war, brothers of famine who spent childhood
naked, hungry, in fear of bombs bursting in air, homes burned, pervasive
waiting for hope to be defined, to bring meaning to life, an opportunity
to open a book & receive an education…to be given an explanation…to
be granted a human chance to breathe and feel free. Here is not there. I took a
shot at helping them exit a cave (they pay so much money after all). It was
on a Monday. They were tan and excited about global opportunities, beaches,
a time to drink and have fun with friends in designer bikinis…their futures
bright with promising careers that trusts buy them. I tell them about the
day a student shared the laceration on the back of his head, one received
with love from a war-torn nation while defending his mother and sister…
tulips in red offered by barbaric soldiers where colonial history continues the
blooming of territorial blood…first come the militaries, then the missionaries,
around and around and around it goes, these stories, these truths of the world,
the you wouldn’t believe what happened in Belize, Cancun, Aruba last week. We dig a
ditch amongst ourselves, surviving with our destinations, instagram, & wallets.
Phew, Bryan. I’ve never imagined the digging of ditches in a trench-war survival game as “destinations, instagram, and wallets” before but it is despairingly true. Having to balance how much truth students are made aware of with tendering to emotional balance has become more challenging–they seem to arrive with more and more anxiety each year–a benefit of the trenches, I imagine. Your writing here is exacting, honest, brilliant.
Bryan, your golden shovel line choice is tragic and indelible. I appreciate the way you set the stage with your title, which feels like a nod to Faulkner, and then moves into the current setting of your classroom, the trivial student worries, and then towards the horrific details of genocide and back again. The movement you’ve created is clever and sharp especially when showing the way history repeats itself in the lines, “tulips in red offered by barbaric soldiers where colonial history continues the
blooming of territorial blood…first come the militaries, then the missionaries,”
I also loved the detail of the student who shared the laceration. It reminds me of my own experiences when a student shares a particularly gruesome detail of survival from a life I cannot begin to imagine.
Your ending is a perfect editorial of our society’s selfishness and keen ability to insulate ourselves with the line “We dig a
ditch amongst ourselves, surviving with our destinations, instagram, & wallets.” Wow! There’s just so much to love about this incredibly crafted poem. I hope you try to get this published!
Bryan,
I had to orient myself to the layers of past and present and place intersecting on your poem. All that goes on on the “truths” and across the “ditch” we dig. And yet look what a poem can do, what a poet, you, can do? Threaded destinations.
Sarah
I read your poem aloud and I find myself sitting in silence. The last line echoes in my head, in my heart. The contrasts…lacerations, Instagram…sigh. Such a painful truth and such depth there.
That striking line is heartbreaking – – and the tulips just add to the cruelty of the barbaric soldiers. It puts a magnifying lens on the depths of pain and heartache that would be hard to fathom sitting here in our places.
Bryan – that golden shovel striking line strikes deep, so deep. The horrific incongruity of a child waiting for death on a beautiful day with tulips blooming all around – red tulips, you tell us, connected to the continuous “blooming of territorial blood.” The image you paint is just as searingly incongruous as the indolent “bushy-eyed undergrads” pursuing pleasures in the light of bright futures and the means to get there while around the world, the child waits to be shot, to have his/her head lacerated while defending the family in war. The designer bikini life contrasted with living naked and hungry and in fear of bombs bursting in air (I caught this-) with homes burned…no judgment on being born with such privileges, of course, but as your title tells us…awareness is the beginning of making a difference, and as a guide, you (we) must help them exit the cave (Plato, anyone?) to see realities. The militaries the missionaries, going on and on while we dig our (comfortable?) ditches and remain intact…just profound all the way around, Bryan. Every single bit. Poetry as a call to SEE.
Bryan,the line you chose is devastating. And you weave a narrative that speaks to what you do–what we all hope to do–in the classroom. Break through to deliver a hard reality to students who have indeed built a bubble, a moat, a ditch around themselves. You describe that mission perfectly.
Hi Sarah! Wow – I didn’t know I was going to do Armenian research this morning. I learned so much. I concentrated on celebration, and since I love birds – I researched the creation of the Armenian language. Thank you for nudging all of us to learn and connect to this important culture. Here’s the poem.
Creating the Word
I
Long, long ago Mashtots
went on a mission
to translate all religious works
into one unified language
to save Armenia from assimilation
and preserve Armenia ethnicity.
He created the Armenian language –
Thirty-nine letters with thirty-six sounds
He wrote, “to recognize wisdom and guidance,
to know the words of the genius.”
He loved his country and people so,
he created a language to keep them whole
and translated the Bible to keep
their spirits soaring high.
.
II
Centuries after Mashtot was died
his language lives on,
changing and growing,
uniting the people of his land.
Others followed, writing religious texts
in glorious golden celebration.
Trchnakir – Armenia Bird Letters
decorated the pages of holy texts
along with intricate knots, birds,
animals, people, and mythical creatures,
creating a rich written heritage.
Could Mashtot have imagined such a thing –
his sounds, his letters, lasting lifetimes,
his words setting spirits soaring high?
Joanne, I am fascinated by the bird letters and must find out more about them. I feel the need to write about what I imagine them to be before delving in, however, since you so beautifully describe how they decorate pages. I’m reminded that words weave as much as threads in creating a historical record.
Joanne, wow, you’ve crafted a poem that shares Mashtots’ lovely mission and his impact in two stanzas. I adore the ending as it shows the power of language and its ability to set spirits soaring. Your poem has inspired me to research Trchnakir.
Joanne, thank you taking this opportunity to learn and share with us bird letters. I was able to do some, one letter, crafting in Armenia last summer. Indeed, the workshop and now you are keeping Mashtot’s work soaring high. Look what you’ve done. Wonderful.
Joanne, I am enjoying the focus on language and the way Mashtots predicted a need, took action, and accomplished what he set out to do. This is a lovely focus to think of how language was a thread that was needed but was the conduit for the preservation of other areas of culture through it.
The bird letter calligraphy pulled at me, too, Joanne – I had to include a reference in my poem this morning. What a wondrous poem you’ve wrought here, to share the history of this beautiful art and to pay homage to the people. This, I love so much:
He loved his country and people so,
he created a language to keep them whole
and translated the Bible to keep
their spirits soaring high.
.
-Language does keep us whole, and faith says keep on believing. Mashtot’s contribution to his people – and to us, today, through you – is priceless. Amazing work, Joanne!
Sarah, I have to admit my own ignorance about Armenia and its genocide. I went to the article by Aida Zilelian and found a poem.
On Being Armenian
Speak up, Aida.
A mythical land
endures imagination,
a speck of land, a fingernail.
Don’t forget this crime
against humanity.
Deprived of joys,
out of place–
suffocating
ashamed
not fragile,
Reigning.
We live.
Margaret, how clever to take the article’s writer and call her by first name to speak up. It’s like saying Preach it to someone we hear talking but who needs to say it louder for the people in the back. Endures imagination is the line I’m hanging on today…..and We live. Beautiful!
Margaret – I love the poem you found – the spec of land – a fingernail, deprived of joys – then Reigning. We live. I love how you turned the tragedy into remembrance, renewal, and hope. Thank you!
Margaret, the image of the fingernail strikes me today. The size of it (small, on the tip), the strength of it (hardened, enduring, cut over and over yet still growing), the malleability of the shape of it (jagged or rounded, sharp or smooth).
Margaret, the word choices in your poem strike a powerful chord. I admire the lines “a speck of land, a fingernail” and “Deprived of joys”. Your poem adds emphasis to the importance of being a witness and being fortunate to survive incredible atrocities.
Margaret,
You are amplifying Aida’s work in your poem and honoring of her story. She has written a couple books and just launched a podcast.we live is a great closing line and a message my new Armenian friends wanted me to carry to the US. Your poem is an extension of Aida’s story that now lives with you and us. Thank you.
Your closing line in particular resonated with me, short and punchy but so profoundly declaritive. “We live” is a mantra for every culture faced with strife, and feels perfectly relevant to the prompt today. Thank you for sharing!
Magnificent found poem, Margaret. The land as mythical, “a speck, a fingernail” is both alluring and haunting. The poem is a dual call to action: to remember the genocide for what it is, a crime against humanity, and to the Armenian people, to not lose hope, to stand strong “unashamed, not fragile, reigning.” A glorious tribute.
Margaret, when I taught a Holocaust unit, we had this on our reading list. It was an eye opener for us all!
Not Even My Name By Thea Halo
https://www.amazon.com/Not-Even-Name-Thea-Halo/dp/0312274165
Good morning, Sarah, and thank you for this prompt that expands our knowledge of a rich culture. I like your golden shovel! I liked seeing your process from source to notes to poem and the final finished verse. I remember watching your video of your visit to Armenia last summer and seeing you do the dance where you all were in a circle, and you may have been wearing your Taos sandals that day – the green ones, I think. What a rich culture, and a trip that I’m sure is filled with everlasting memories. My process was reading several sources about Armenian culture and writing the snippets for a pantoum, the form that has me in its grip lately.
Armenian Culture Pantoum
elders are respected
children are revered
Hellenistic temples
intricate khachkars
children are revered
strong family values
intricate khachkars
lavash and harissa
strong family values
Yarkhushta marriage dance
lavash and harissa
Artsakh carpets
Yarkhushta marriage dance
Hellenistic temples
Artsakh carpets
elders are respected
Hi Kim! The pantoum form works so well here – the circular lines creating a dance – a celebration. You are inspiring me to try this form. I find it a little intimidating. Thank you!
Kim, the movement in this poem, the shifting of lines, reminds me of how the traditions in a culture move throughout history. Families carry these values and dances and foods and carpets, etc giving to one another, holding and keeping for a short time before offering to the next in line (much line the pantoum). I remember Sarah’s video too and am grateful to learn more about Armenia.
Kim, your pantoum flows beautifully and captures a wonderful slice of Armenian culture. Your poem inspires me to research “Yarkhushta marriage dance”.
Oh, I am so glad to see a pantoum. I really think it is a meaningful form for this topic, and your poem captures the layers and resonance of remembering so beautifully.
I understand the grip of the pantoum, Kim; it is a form that I love. So musical. Perfect for a marriage dance. Your snippets wrap ’round us like a beautiful shawl in a marriage celebration.
Sarah, thank you for calling attention to the day with the invitation to remember Armenia.Your golden shovel is both a beautiful tribute to your colleague who grieves the devastation of her homeland, and a call to action, naming the denial of a better future and basic human rights, with great hope the nation can unite in love and peace. In joining that hope of resilience and a better future, I am choosing to celebrate the culture and the endurance of these beautiful, artistic people. This sent me off on a good bit of research…I will do more. Here is my small, still-rough offering:
Hayrens for Armenian Genocide Remembrance Day
The golden eagle rises
weeping blood-red tears as it flies
remembering, remembering
its slaughter, its human cries
Their letters turned into birds
their rugs, woven with eagles’ wings
their nets transformed to needlelace
—this nation of faith still sings
*******
Notes:
– The hayren is an old form of Armenian folk poetry. Basically: Hayrens have four lines, each having seven or eight syllables so that each set of two has fifteen syllables.
Again, mine is very rough…see the link for authentic hayrens.
-The national animal of Armenia is the golden eagle.
-References to “bird letters,” or Armenian calligraphy known as Trchnakir, and the rugs and lacemaking are to honor the Armenian culture and antiquity.
-The Kingdom of Armenia was the first state in history to adopt Christianity as its official religion.
See also the beautiful Armenian Legends and Poems, part of the Start of the Project Gutenberg e-Book.
Fran, we are going to learn so much today. You offer us a beautiful selection of knowing in the hayren (I’m off to explore more of these), the national bird (I wrote of birds too, ironically in a similar way, and now I need to find out more about Trchnakir–someone must have been whispering in my ear as I wrote today), and the antiquity honorings through rugs and lace. It is important for a people to be seen as more than just their genocide and you lift Armenia up today in your words.
Fran, you’ve done your research and extracted from it a poem to share, a verse to craft, a story to weave, a culture to share. The poem rises like the golden eagle and yes, I can hear the people sing.
Fran, Thanks for leaving links. A new form always thrills me. I love the words you’ve chosen to highlight in this poem, needlelace, sings, remembering, rises. Beautiful tribute.
Fran, I love “the letters turned into birds…their nets transformed to needlelace.”
Fran – I love that you took the “hayren” form and created your own. Brilliant idea! I love how you weaved your knowledge into this poem and made it sing! Thank you!
Fran, thanks for sharing the reference notes following your beautifully crafted poem. The imagery is striking, especially the “weeping blood-red tears”. Your poem has a wonderful cadence that literally flies. I love the triumphant tone with your last line and appreciate learning about Armenian folk poetry.
Fran, thank you so much for the Gutenberg link. That is a treasure to take me into future days. Thank you for trying the hayren, and for adding the special details you learned of Armenian culture. So very special and honoring.
Sarah, somehow, somewhere, I have read On Being Armenian before. I did not realize it until phrases began calling to me, reminding me of their familiarity (I wish I knew where I’d encountered this essay before–maybe through you?). This prompt is necessary. This genocide work is necessary. These stories and eyewitnessing is necessary. I am latching onto your words “hope might blossom” as it is what carries us forward through all.
Odar*
The day we were forced to leave our
world, the sky held a bruised eye.
Had we known we’d never return? Had we
looked over our shoulders as we walked
on through the desert, our steps falling
silently like sand in a glass marking hours?
I am a part of that world. I
felt the words of my ancestors
as they called to me in my leaving as
if their words were birds
I had never really heard before
did not know soared overhead, did
not realize they kept their eyes on me.
Exist, they called. Exist.
*Armenian word for unfamiliar
Jennifer, your poem resonated with me to the core. It spoke to me the horrors a people and culture experience when hate attempts to eradicate their very existence. My Native American ancestors experienced the trauma of displacement that has trickled down its poison to the generations that survived. Thank you for the salve you have applied to a hurting people.
Jennifer, so many lines to hang on here today – –
the sky had a bruised eye.
Exist, they called. Exist.
Your making this first person truly changes the whole perspective and creates such a different feeling of pain than writing about it from a point outside of a victim as an onlooker. I like what you have done here to feel the experience.
Jennifer, such a brilliant work of craft around the words. I love “the sky held a bruised eye”. And how you placed the ancestors who keep watch and beg for existence.
Exist, indeed, Jennifer. “The sky held a bruised eye.” Phew.
Jennifer – what a beautiful and powerful poem. Your images are unforgettable: the sky held a bruised eye, our steps falling sildently like sand in a glass marking hours, as if their words were birds, And your last line hits square in the jaw: Exist, they called. Exist. Incredible construction. Thank you!
Jennifer,
I’m haunted by the beauty and tragedy of your words, by your linking the discovery of new birds’ songs with the witnessing eyes lf ancestors. So powerful.
Ooof, Jennifer, your title and golden shovel poem have captured a brutal moment within history. I love the phrase “the sky held a bruised eye”. The poignant question “Had we known we’d never return?” is heartbreaking. The passion within the last two lines showcases the strength and vitality of a nation resisting their oppressors. Incredible poem!
is simply beautiful; I’m in awe.
To sense ancestors calling as “as if their words words were birds were I have never really heard before…” and to sense their presence near and watching, urging one to “Exist”…incredibly beautiful. Yes, they would surely do just this, when their descendants are forced out of their homeland. Exquisite in every way, Jennifer – ad masterful use of the form! The golden shovel is a challenge but you make it work like a charm.
Jennifer — This is so poignantly written… I could feel the steps in the sand…and hear the birds, those voices calling “exist.” Oh wow, just stunning. “the sky held a bruised eye” — oooo, yes. Marvelous account of the tragedy…you’ve humanized the hurt and loss so tenderly. Thank you. Susie
Jennifer. I concur with your comment that genocide work is necessary. So many in US only learn about the one in Germany and environs that occurred during WW II. While teaching in California which has a significant Armenian population, we heard more about that genocide and others than ever before. Our students visited the Holocaust MUSEUM in LA county. I urge those here ,who have an opportunity to do, to include that Museum on your important places to experience.
Thanks, Sarah, for opening this door to our hearts and minds.
Jennifer, you have made this personal and put you, and consequently your reader, into the leaving. “a bruised eye” and that last line, so good because of the context and the way Aida felt.
Sarah, something about the breaking apart of the Zeytun Gospels stuck with me.
Kevin
Some things
stay whole;
others, break
apart; the heart,
like paper, folded
into intricate pieces,
as worded creases
displace the center,
faded lines, forever:
this is how we
remember
Kevin, the comparison to the heart as paper with worded creases displacing reminds us of their permanency and fragility simultaneously. My mind keeps folding and unfolding this image. Beautiful honoring.
Kevin, your poem has tilted my world. Each single word is obviously handpicked making them powerful. The structure you chose showcases the message you are conveying to the reader. You have touched my heart.
Kevin, I see that creased paper and the rhyming words stick and stay to echo on through the day.
I, too, love the metaphor of paper folding and creasing. The ending word remember is where we land and feel that tug of the heart.
Beautiful, Kevin…”like paper, folded / into intricate pieces.”
Kevin – you took a complex thing and broke it down to the essentials. I was trying to do that – and I just could wrap my head around it. You did what I had wanted to do – spare words with an important complex message. I love the lines: the heart, like paper, folded into intricate pieces. Thank you!
Kevin,
I love how you’ve captured the seemingly simple yet powerful act of remembering through writing.
The simple truth of your poem astonishes me. Thank you.
Beautiful and thought provoking, Kevin. I marvel at how you do so much with so few words.
Kevin, I’m with everyone else; I love the simile of “the heart, / like paper, folded / into intricate pieces” that you’ve crafted here! Thank you!