Showing posts from February, 2016

My Story with Writing

I don’t remember a lot about my grandfather, except for my running towards him and trying to say a couple of words in Armenian, and I would usually stand by his chair and repeat the words my mother would have taught me, and he would smile at me and I barely understood what he used to say. However, one of the few times he spoke in Arabic to me, he said, “You never feel what’s something is worth until you lose it.” I courteously smiled and nodded as if I had understood anything, but my mind had to wait for about eight more years to explain this simple saying.

By the time I finished junior high school and turned fourteen, the memory of my dead grandfather had long gone and I would spend my whole free time reading information about the world. I wanted to know about everyone whose name earned its place in history books or encyclopedias, and to an extent, I was looking for a way to earn my place too. “I don’t want to live on the margin of life,” I told my best friend once. By that time, I h…

Love Me Without Conditions

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday’s Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints!---I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life!---and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. Love Me Without Conditions Love me like Elizabeth said she loved, and the earth will be yours even if I am not God to give you all that, but I will give you a warm home in my heart if you just love me with all the passion and intensity of love like the one in this poem. Love me with a need for me as the need of every day and even when you are on the move to whatever comes…


They darted towards the door of my father’s room in the hospital to show how they are afraid for his health and how they are careful not to miss this chance of coming and consoling the patient and his family in the time of need, which makes a friend, indeed, as they say. But the moment they stepped in, they suddenly turned into statistics experts and ones who really understood the power of numbers, equations, and percentages; they quickly recollected the percentages of success and failure for this specific operation my father was about to undergo, they explained what some of these numbers mean to the simple stupid people that didn’t understand how grave the situation was, and they came up with results and recommendations for more reading like those we find in books. In short, they gave him a little more than no chance of survival according to their research.
The same happened when my friend was preparing to get married when he knew all and everything about divorce rates, when my cous…

Should We Be With Them

Laugh, and the world laughs with you; Weep, and you weep alone. For the sad old earth must borrow it’s mirth, But has trouble enough of its own. Sing, and the hills will answer; Sigh, it is lost on the air. The echoes bound to a joyful sound, But shrink from voicing care. Should We Be with Them Should we laugh all the way to make them laugh, or should we go to our empty rooms and cry without anybody seeing us cry? Then we curse them for not being there for us when we cry. Should we be happy for others and hide our sadness inside because nobody wants to hear about it and nobody cares? Should we live endlessly in a sea of lies where one lives and dies without knowing their real colors for it is always what other people want and their happiness always comes before ours? Maybe, we should be happy or sad for the right reasons; for ourselves.
If we start with ourselves, our happiness spreads to the whole world around us; and without meaning so, we make everybody around us happy. If we want…

The Same Road

Let’s walk the road to the end and see where it leads for if you are in doubt as you say and you want to see, let’s go. There, at the far end of the path, I see the tree where we can all enjoy the shade and comfort after the long tiring journey. Out of the many different possible roads, I choose this snakey way for it is the one I know it is.
But then knowing all this about the road I know that I walked this road before, and had I been satisfied the first time, I wouldn’t be here desiring to reach the same tree another time, but why seeking the same road; we know what’s waiting in there, we know exactly where it leads; falling in the same pit too many times will not fill it up, it will just make it deeper and more difficult to get out from, so let’s stop for a while and, for once, think.
The last time we took the same road, we lost many on the way; many died of thirst and hunger, many were lost to the traps on the way, and many were gone and forgotten. This tree we were seeking at th…

Underpaid, Underrated and Underestimated

Everybody feels the same all around wherever you go, whoever you see, whichever occasion it may be, they have the same feeling all the time: They feel underpaid, underrated, and underestimated. Well, I just feel the same most of the time. Working for some people who just care about seeing one aspect of you, usually the aspect you take for granted, and they claim this is but a temporary place for you, where you have been for ages, is not easy.
People after sometime lose all their enthusiasm and tend to trick the time to pass, just pass without them doing anything useful for the tasks they were assigned to do, or some others whose tasks are too easy for them and so they can finish all their assignments too quickly to linger for the rest of the day they have to spend in their working places staring at nothingness, drowning in oblivion, cursing their luck and finally accepting their destinies. These people, for sure, live, and they may even live longer than others who just give their stu…

Hope Is Our Bird

“Hope” is the thing with feathers— That perches in the soul— And sings the tune without the words— And never stops—at all— And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard— And sore must be the storm— That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm— I’ve heard it in the hilliest land— And on the strangest Sea— Yet, never, in Extremity, It asked a crumb—of Me. Hope is Our Bird Hope is so generous that it gives and gives and never stops, but never asks for anything in return from us and never wants us to do anything about it, and even when we feel it has left us, it stays there for us to keep us warm and protected. Oh yes! Hope is a bird, but how can we make it fly, have wings and its chirping fills the whole wide sky?

Hope is a bird, a creature that needs to be fed. We can count on it when we need it the most, but we cannot rely on it much if we starve it to death. We cannot blame it for not lifting us up when our hands are so clutched down to earth. And how can we fly with it if we refuse to…

The Way There

There must have been a thousand ways in front of me when I finally chose one. Not saying that I knew them all, or that all were available, but I took the one and I marched along. Walking a little, singing a little, feeling tired a little, even frustrated sometimes, meditating a little, hoping a little and making the finish line sprint, the way was always covered, and the destination reached. However, I never felt that I got there; I could never rest.
After the fleeting moment of glory for crossing the finish line is over, I always look ahead again and see another path, another race, and another finish line. The moment I say to myself: “I am there,” I feel the road is still long ahead, I am far from ever seeing there, and there seems to be like a mirage that you keep seeing, but you can never really grasp. It is like a feeling with no scientific proof to justify its existence, but it is you who feel it, who enjoy it, and who savor it like the sun in your heart. I have always sought th…

To a Stranger

To a stranger, to a reader, I write—
The honor of not being known,
Yet heard like the roaring thunder
clipping the face of truth with pure
unknown tunes loved before sung;
mere words on paper have long
covered an iron bar with rust— you keep reaching up outside your door waiting for a keen eye to see beyond the smeared surface right into the core.

All it takes to sow a field is one seed;
one from me and one from you—
voices doubling like horns and bassoons
reaching the ether beyond the cozy air;
to walk the mile that nobody walked,
never a second worry if you’ll be there;
you are already ahead of everyone,
you are already ahead of yourself—
the finish line is the reach of your arm,
and every day a new race, one more time.
They say that words are dead
the very moment they are said,
but to be dead, first, you have to be alive;
not waiting in fear in a dark cocoon
for the world to tell you who you are—
you are conducting this very orchestra;
a symphony that beats the very heart
of people’s gears and numbers …

To All of Us

GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may, Old time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles to-day To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he’s a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he’s to setting.
That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may go marry: For having lost but once your prime You may for ever tarry. To All of Us Dear Robert,
Every time I read your poem, I wonder why you named it to the virgins when the message is sent to all of us. We all have rosebuds of youth that are going to be there only once, and for this reason, they are so beautiful because nothing lasts forever and everything is going to decay and die in the end as you said:
“And this same flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dying.” This may be the most bitter fact about human life and yet the sweetest. Nobody…

To Live or to Die

I have been a human for quite a long time now, and I have read and heard all the stories of heroes and cowards, of kings and beggars, of leaders and soldiers and it shocked me to figure out that in all those stories I heard and read, the heroes die and the cowards live; beggars die and kings live, and soldiers die for leaders to live. Bullets do not usually hit the mind and eyes, but the hands and limbs which do all the work and answer all the calls without seeing exactly where they are going.
I have heard the stories about the too many reasons a man, for which, should die. You must die for your country; you must die for your family; you must die for your friends; you must die has become a story that never ends until I stopped a while and thought to myself: After this long time I have been a human, I can die now knowing that I have learned all the reasons I can die for, but none for which I can live, so I had better die now because I only know the reasons for which I had better die.


like life unwilling to bend to the wind breaking wings bringing journeys to an end.
Unbreakable— a rose would rise not seeing what plans are hidden for tomorrow, but rises anyway; the waves, they know, they break every time, but they know they will always come back; the sun, we think it goes behind the horizon; it just allows us to see the dark side in us; the river flowing generously all itself into the ocean without guarantees it will ever get back yet it does as everything, consumed by the moment enjoying the flock when they pass, not closing their eyes to pretend they’re in the middle of the sky, diving, gliding without wings not lurking behind some trees hiding waiting to take the best shot and kill them all; they do kill every moment, they watch them all die too slowly that they own of which none.

like mother nature, the rock always rolls down the mountain; it takes will and effort to go up;
what dies and what lives does not define or change what they hav…

Friend or Foe

Yesterday I was your friend, but today in the morning you just told me that I was your fiercest and most hated enemies. After the long laugh I gave for thinking you were joking, I realized you were serious about this joke. All I could do was turn around and leave and my words on the door as I was leaving should, or, at least, I thought, bring you back to reason. I just said I was not; I didn’t have anything more meaningful to say for you caught me off guard and out of my love for philosophy, I couldn’t find words that were more meaningful than “I am not your enemy.”
Then I left the room and nearly left your life without having a reason good enough for my having left, yet I knew that I would get there and know what this was all about.
Yesterday I saw your world and I enjoyed living in every single corner, studied on every single desk, traveled to all your boundaries, and always, to your home, came back. Yesterday I saw the world through your eyes and I let myself fly wide and high as …

Captain Abraham Lincoln

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done; The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring: But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. Where Are You, Captain? Every moment the ship moved closer to shore, its body weakened as if it had been designed to take this trip only, but what a giant trip it took! Every single cheer for this victory that was so near was sucking the life out of its captain and every breeze to carry it closer to shore used the last breaths of the ship’s captain until they were all utterly spent; the ship got home, its captain made sure it would, but then he wasn’t going to lead it nowhere else. He dropped down and drowned in his blood. I honor you captain, and I remember what history argued about you doesn’t matter to me as I know you were truly a captain…

Poetic Riddle 02

Through the harshest of battles I fought, But my victory did not keep my chair. And every detail about my life I wrote; Away from the lights to hide, I could not bear.
I held a firm handshake with the East and the West. Yet this fragile bond was destined to swift doom; For my empire, after me, will have to finally rest- As the buds of Sam and Ivan were about to bloom.

Writer's Block: Nobody Cares

One of the biggest blocks we have as writers nowadays is not running low on ideas, not finding the time to write, or getting stuck with the same words and expressions we have always used. While this can be a little hiccup from time to time, it’s nothing more than a temporary block all serious writers find a way around. The actual enemy to any writer today is that many people do not care anymore.
We can deny how much we care about who or how many people care about our work, but the truth is we are writing for someone to read and appreciate what we are writing; nobody can write only for themselves. We might take that road and say that we would not care about anybody else’s opinion other than ours, but is this satisfying enough? Is this enough fuel for a lifetime full of writing? It might be for some writers, but I think being the only fan of yourself is not going to drive your writing career any further. To be honest, even when you look at it from a different perspective, if writing is…


Stumbling around upon some friends of late and ones once lived in the distant past
watching them go by like ghosts or angels, mere heart-chewing animals and fiery demons
no one can touch mine; I’ve too much preserved who it is—the world cannot touch what’s mine
I walk and watch, snarling dogs and hungry hyenas gathered around the dying stock— no more lions to rule a jungle; a true jungle of man has always been run by itself; the ones who die wait for the quarrel upon their body and the last drop of blood to end till they smell their own flesh going foul like a fruit left rotten dying on top of a tree scarecrows all around, for none that flies can come near, and hell to those in the undergrowth.

Stumbling upon the rotten bodies of my friends, I have finally found my way to the top;
I have never killed anyone, but death just passed like wind under my boots,
if like some fresh air, I stalled the choke a little more for it to come too late
or if like a hurricane, I stepped away from a body th…

An Alien from Mars

The crowd, the street was full,
all gathered around that green man
like a Christmas Turkey,
seemingly weak,
they were all ready
to stab him with their knives,
and victory to the human race—
survived another alien attack;
the rest were in the books,
this one was so real.
I pushed on to get a better view—
police surrounded that poor alien;
each stood brave and true
to keep the peace
and take some rare shots of fame.
What might he look like?
What language does he speak?
Is he a messenger,
or is he a spy?
What promise has he brought?
Why were all so obsessed
to welcome an alien from Mars?
one man asked what they drank,
gave him a Budweiser export discount;
people down from Shell
wanted to send a probe;
the old smiling man of KFC
whose man’s already prepared a franchise contract;
some stood in line to squeeze dry
all the commercial opportunities
before anyone else did.
The poor alien was shocked,
people kept pouring in with offers—
humanization deals—
he could not understand,
especially when came forth two men
in black, w…