Ardziv
Green mountain fields turned into gold
as wheatgrass curled and ripened.
Harvest songs rose from the fields
as sickles slashed the stalks.
The Kurdish
beys
took in their tithe.
The peasants kept the rest.
Turks and Kurds hauled in their crops
and left the mill with haste.
They would not chat
with those whom they called
gavour
s.
Armenian farmers lingered.
Hot summer nights, the roof became
the summer dining room.
Mountain winds swept away
the heat of the day
and music filled the air.
Papa hobbled up the stairs,
his left leg dragged behind.
But both his hands,
they worked just right,
pressing the neck,
plucking the strings,
the quill tip tucked
between thumb and first finger,
the plume end flowing
out from under
his curved palm.
One August dusk, as the sun hung low
and colors filled the sky,
Mama and Sosi spread a rich red cloth
across the roof floor,
with platters of food upon the cloth:
rice wrapped tight with leaves from grapevines,
cheese fibers pulled so thin they might line a nest,
flat baked bread from fresh-ground wheat,
the black pot filled with green-pepper
dolma
,
apricots, olives, and skewers of lamb,
juice of the meat still running red.
Misak and Kevorg
splashed in the stream
to clear their hair of wheat dust.
Shahen carried Mariam
on his shoulders,
holding her round knees
as he darted down the path
to greet the guests.
Mariam flapped her arms
above him
like a baby bird,
unbending her knees
and rising
at the sight of Anahid,
who quickened her step
when she saw them.
I flew in quite close,
not believing my eyes
at the sight of her husband
and his parents, behind her.
They wore head scarves
and prayer shawls.
This was a family of Kurds!
Kurds who pray with the drum caps,
bowing south five times each day.
Young Asan, the husband of Anahid,
his parents, Kaban and Palewan.
In his arms Kaban carried
two pipe instruments:
a long, straight
duduk
and a
zurna
with a bell at its base,
both made from the wood
of an apricot tree,
hollowed and holed,
blown through double reeds.
I’ve heard them both before.
The
zurna
’s reed
is a thin wheat leaf
rolled tight.
Its sound pierces the air.
But the
duduk
,
with its flat, loose reed,
makes a sad, sweet sound,
like a call to a loved one
about to take flight
to a distant land.
Shahen set Mariam down on the ground.
He kissed each guest
in turn on both cheeks.
Palewan placed a fine plate of sweets
in his hands, twenty tiny nests,
four by five, in neat rows,
made of fine-cut dough
filled with ground green nuts
swimming in sticky syrup.
“
Digin
Palewan,” Shahen said.
“I dream about your
kadayif
.”
“There’s no
kadayif
like this in America,
I’m sure,” she replied.
“Then I will have to eat my dreams when I go.”
Back toward the house, Mariam walked
and then flew, suspended
between the hands of Anahid and Palewan.
Such hugging and laughter
up on the roof, sharing the meal
like one family.
Imagine!
Kurds and Armenians together,
as if falcons and eagles
had just become one.
Last light faded
from the sky as they ate,
but surprises did not end.
Another lone man
came up the path,
with a curious slanted walk.
He pressed and pushed to arrive,
leading with his heart,
a
dumbek
drum, its sides inlaid
with mother-of-pearl,
held tight against his body.
His arm squeezed the drum’s waist,
the goatskin taut
across its top.
But something pulled him
from the backs of his legs
as he moved forward.
A round drum cap
on his head said
no mistaking it:
this Mustafa
was a Turk!
Imagine!
Like falcons and hawks
right inside my nest.
It was one of them,
a falcon or a hawk,
it had to have been,
who came to my nest
after the drum cap
shot my mate.
Tucked into rock
high on a ledge,
the nest could be reached
only by one with wings.
I had left them alone,
the young ones.
I had no choice.
Their mouths
were always open,
open shut,
open shut,
their flight feathers
not yet full.
I had waited in the nest
till I spied
a plump gray rabbit.
Within minutes
I was back,
my beak full
of flesh
for them.
But the nest
was already
empty.
Hidden by night now,
I dropped down
to low branches
as the music began.
Soothing music,
music soothing my sore heart.
My quill plucked
sweet sounds
from the strings
of the
oud
,
drawing me in.
Shahen too.
Mustafa’s steady hand
beat his
dumbek
.
Kaban’s cheeks
emptied, then filled,
the
duduk
sound unceasing
with his constant breath.
Lydian melodies like oil flowed.
Mother tongues in unison blending
thick umber of Turkish coffee,
Armenian apricots, ginger ripe,
blue Kurdish moonlight above us.
Misak and Kevorg stood
arms out, hands on shoulders,
catching the beat of the song,
the
tamzara
, with their step.
One
—
two
—
three,
stomp, stomp.
One
—
two
—
three,
stomp, stomp.
Asan joined the line, now an arc,
Mama and Palewan, between them.
One
—
two
—
three,
stomp, stomp.
Shahen did not dance.
He had eyes only for my quill.
His lips turned up
as Papa pulled
my quill across the string.
But as the song ended,
Shahen jumped up.
Sosi, too.
They pulled Anahid
to her feet
to make her dance
with Asan next.
The young couple
wound around each other
like eagles courting,
though one of them had falcon blood,
talons locked,
cartwheeling through the sky,
the line between their eyes never breaking.
The melody of the slow, sweet song
twisted and turned around itself,
our eyes all on them:
Mustafa, tender and sweet,
Kaban and Papa proud,
Misak and Kevorg dreaming.
Mothers blushed.
Children shushed.
Sounds of the stream
on the stone
and the wood
filled the air,
till Papa rose to stand,
his hand across his heart.
“My wife’s brother is a faraway fool
to hold back his blessing for Anahid and Asan.
Here it is clear. You men are my brothers.
Our holy books differ by one prophet only.
“The sun does not shine
on one man and his family
keeping others in the dark,
even in New York.”
When falcons or hawks came to my nest,
I must confess, I sang a different song.