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The Literary Groong - 04/07/2007

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	By Helene Pilibosian

	They ask me to be involved.
	       I send 50 blankets,
	       100 bars of unscented soap
	       and 1000 pencils for schoolchildren.
	       I can't send my shock.
	They ask me to shed tears.
	       My river overflows.
	       My dry eyes sigh.
	       My morning juice sours.
	       I see double sometimes.
	They ask me to spread the word.
	       I type too fast.
	       My images are pasted on the past.
	       My daily trek is vexed.
	       Memory still consults my mind.
	They want a monument.
	       Spitak and Leninakan are still floss
	       on the mill of no response.
	       I hew names on the marble of thoughts.
	       This is too heavy to send.
	They wish remembrance.
	       I name my poems for them.
	       I light 50,000 beeswax candles
	       in the church of national history.
	       My ideas are edged with commemoration.
	They say I should listen.
	       The announcer of 1988 gave the news
	       loud enough for a century
	       of survivors and sympathizers.
	       I heard and continue to understand.

Helene Pilibosian is the author of two volumes of poetry: Carvings
from an Heirloom: Oral History Poems and At Quarter Past Reality: New
and Selected Poems, the latter a Writer's Digest prizewinner.  She is
head of Ohan Press, which has a bilingual web site at  Her poems have been published in
many literary journals, sometimes winning prizes.

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