Armenian mystic poets

Sayat Nova (1712-1795)
Down from yon distant mountain
The streamlet finds its way,
And through the quiet village
It flows in eddying play.
A dark youth left his doorway,
And sought the water-side,
And, laving there his hands and brow,
"O streamlet sweet!" he cried,
"Say, from what mountain com'st thou?"
"From yonder mountain cold
Where snow on snow lies sleeping,
The new snow on the old."
"Unto what river, tell me,
Fair streamlet, dost thou flow?"
"I flow unto that river
Where clustering violets grow."
"Sweet streamlet, to what vineyard,
Say, dost thou take thy way?"
"The vineyard where the vine-dresser
Is at his work to-day."
"What plant where wilt thou water?"
"The plant upon whose roots
The lambs feed, where the wind-flower blooms,
And orchards bear sweet fruits."
"What garden wilt thou visit,
O water cool and fleet?"
"The garden where the nightingale
Sings tenderly and sweet."
"Into what fountain flow'st thou?"
"The fountain to whose brink
Thy love comes down at morn and eve,
And bends her face to drink.
"There shall I meet the maiden
Who is to be thy bride,
And kiss her chin, and with her love
My soul be satisfied."
The Nightingale of Avarayr
Whence dost thou come, O moon, so calmly and softly,
Spreading o'er mountain, valley, and plain thy light,
And over me the Patriarch, wandering sadly,
With wandering thoughts, in Avarayr to-night?
Here where our matchless, brave Armenian fathers
Fell as giants, as angels rise anew,
Com'st thou to spread o'er the bones of the saints a cover
Of golden thread, from thy cloud of snowy hue?
O dost thou think, though thy brow be bright already,
Adornment of heroes' blood would become it well?
Or dost thou still, in silence and secret, wonder
To think how the great and terrible Vartan fell,
Giving his enemies' lives to the shades of darkness,
And giving his spirit into the hands of God?
And thou, O River Dghmood, thou flowest lamenting
Amid thy reeds, sad river bestained with blood.
And thou, O wind from Mankuran's upland blowing,
Or Ararat's sacred summit, gray-haired and hoar,
Thou, too, like me, uncertain and trembling movest,
On faint wings passing the mountains and valleys o'er.
From forest to forest, from leaf to leaf, lamenting,
Thou comest upon the plains, in pale moonshine,
To carry unto Armenian hearts the echo
Of the last sighs of this worn heart of mine.
Nightingale, voice of the night, little soul of the roses,
Friend of all mournful hearts that with sorrow are sighing!
Sing, little nightingale, sing me a song from that hillock,
Sing with my soul of Armenia's heroes undying!
Thy voice in the cloister of Thaddeus reached me and thrilled me;
My heart, that was close to the cross, in a reverie grave,
Suddenly bounded and throbbed; from the cross I hastened to seek thee -
Came forth and found thee here, on the field of Vartan the brave.
Nightingale, this is the tale that of thee our fathers have told us:
That Avarayr's nightingale, singing so sweetly at daylight's dim close,
Is not a bird, but a soul, - it is Yeghishe's sweet-voiced spirit,
That sees the image of Vartan for aye in the red-blooming rose.
In winter he walks alone, and mourns in the midst of the desert;
In spring comes to Avarayr, to the bush with roses aflame,
To sing and call aloud, with Yeghishe's voice, upon Vartan,
To see whether Vartan perchance will answer when called by his name.
If like the voice of a nightingale faint and weary,
Songs of Togarmah, my voice shall reach your ears,-
Sons of the great, whose valiant and virtuous fathers
Filled plains, books, and the heavens, in former years,-
If one small drop of blood from Armenia's fountain,
The fount of Bahlav, flow into your bosoms' sea,-
If you would that your country's glories for you be written,
Come forth to Ardaz with your Patriarch, come with me!
NB. Yeghishe was an Armenian historian of the fifth century AD, a contemporary of Vartan, who died in the battle of Avarayr in 451. In his history of the Persian invasion he compares Vartan drenched in blood, to the red rose. Hence the allusions in the poem. Fr. Alishan actually wrote the poem in ancient Armenian of roughly the same period. This poem (from the seventh stanza onwards) is also a famous and rather beautiful song - there are at least two different musical versions of it. In fact Vartan, and the other Leontines, as they are known, are now saints!
Moon in the Armenian Cemetery
O moon, fair lamp divinely lit!
God set you in the sky
To lead night's hosts, for darkness blind
And for my heart an eye.
When o'er my head you swing, your lamp
A glittering chain doth hold;
Your string of heavenly silver is,
Your wick of burning gold;
And, as a diamond flashes light,
You shed your rays abroad.
How bright you were, that second night,
Fresh from the hand of God!
How bright you were when first was heard
The heavenly nightingale!
The wind, that seemed like you alive,
Played soft from vale to vale;
With that calm breeze, the limpid brook
Plashed in an undertone;
There was no human ear to hear,
The angels heard alone.
The angels swung you in their hands,
And silently and slow
You traversed heaven's cloudless arch,
And sank the waves below,
What time the sun with feet of fire
Was soon to mount the blue,
While o'er the silent world were spread
Twilight and hoary dew.
Stay, stay, O sun! awile delay;
Rise not in the blue sky,
But let the little moon still walk
The cloudless realm on high!
Stay, little moon! Oh, linger yet
Upon the heights and hills;
Pass slowly, calmly, where your light
The sleeping valleys fills!
For I have words to utter yet,
To you I would complain.
Oh, many are my bitter griefs,
My heart is cleft in twain.
Bright moon, haste not away because
You hear a mourner's cry!
As comforter of broken hearts
You shine there in the sky.
You come to Eden's land, but not
As on that far first night,
When man was happy, knowing naught
Save life and love's delight.
Then your white radiance was warm
To waves and flowerets fair,
And wheresoe'er your soft light fell,
Immortal life bloomed there.
Turn and look down on me, O moon!
Gaze at our mountains' foot,
And see the ruined temples there,
And tombs so sad and mute, -
Tombs of Armenians who long since
From earth have passed away.
There sleep the ashes of our sires,
In darkness and decay.
Armenians they, the earliest born
Of all the human race,
Who had their home within the land
Once Adam's dwelling-place.
[Here follows a long list of Armenian kings.]
But you are setting fast, O moon!
Your lustre fades away,
And like a silver plate you sink
In cloud-banks dense and gray.
Stay yet a moment's space, O moon,
Stay for the love of me!
There in the valley is one stone
Unknown to history.
Go, let your last light linger there,
And lift it out of gloom,
For that obscure and nameless stone
Will mark the poet's tomb!
Siamanto (1878-1915)
I was alone with my pure-winged dream in the valleys my sires had trod;
My steps were light as the fair gazelle's, and my heart with joy was thrilled;
I ran, all drunk with the deep blue sky, with the light of the glorious days;
Mine eyes were filled with gold and hopes, my soul with the gods was filled.
Basket on basket, the Summer rich presented her fruit to me
From my garden's trees - each kind of fruit that to our clime belongs;
And then from a willow's body slim, melodious, beautiful,
A branch for my magic flute I cut in silence, to make my songs.
I sang; and the brook all diamond bright, and the birds of my ancient home,
And the music pure from heavenly wells that fills the nights and days,
And the gentle breezes and airs of dawn, like my sister's soft embrace,
United their voices sweet with mine, and joined in my joyous lays.
To-night in a dream, sweet flute, once more I took you in my hand;
You felt to my lips like a kiss - a kiss from the days of long ago.
But when those memories of old revived, then straightway failed my breath,
And instead of songs, my tears began drop after drop to flow.
The swans, in discouragement, have migrated from the poisonous lakes this evening,
And sad sisters dream of brothers under the prison walls.
Battles have ended on the blossoming fields of lilies,
And fair women follow coffins from underground passages,
And sing, with heads bowed down towards the ground.
Oh, make haste! Our aching bodies are frozen in these pitiless glooms.
Make haste towards the chapel, where life will be more merciful,
The chapel of the graveyard where our brother sleeps!
An orphan swan is suffering within my soul,
And there, over newly-buried bodies,
It rains blood - it pours from mine eyes.
A crowd of cripples pass along the paths of my heart,
And with them pass barefooted blind men,
In the divine hope of meeting some one in prayer.
And the red dogs of the desert howled all one night,
After hopelessly moaning over the sands
For some unknown, incomprehensible grief.
And the storm of my thoughts ceased with the rain;
The waves were cruelly imprisoned under the frozen waters;
The leaves of huge oaks, like wounded birds,
Dropped with cries of anguish.
And the dark night was deserted, like the vast infinite;
And, with the lonely and bloody moon,
Like a myriad motionless marble statues,
All the dead bodies of our earth arose to pray for one another.