Sometimes the tip of my bow
catches a little on the strings
and sometimes
the shift to a
celestial position
is a half-step or so off,
but sometimes
cacophony itches
the pesky little spot
that can never be reached
and silence is the most
chilling music.
He, Jabiru, jabs her with his elbow
trying to quiet the young girl’s nonsense.
She jabbers incessant jabberwocky.
One minute the jabiru
is resting in the jaborandi grove
wearing jacinth robes while Jack and his jackal
lead a jackass with a jackdaw astride-
the next minute she cranks
the jack-in-the-box holding a jackknife,
poised and ready to slit the clowns
throat, grinning like a jack-o’-lantern
all the time ranting like a Jacobin.
He is worried that her jactitation
may be jaded from the jaggery
she and her pet jaguarondi
lapped for an afternoon delight.
She is jailbait living in a jalopy.
She is in a jam between two jambs.
She toils as a janitor, speaks jargon,
smells of jasmine and glows like a jasper necklace.
Her skin is slightly jaundice like a watered down spicy mustard.
He knows she needs help.
He wonders if there exists Jaws of Life
big and strong enough to
pry her from Jekyll and Hyde.
He jettisons his jewels
buys a Jew’s-harp
jibes his life, jigs a jitterbug
attempts to rid her of the jive
that joggles her mind.
Joie de vivre drives her to join
in the jollity, jolting her out
of the journey that has plagued
her since some jowly bastard
squashed joy as he joy rode
her tiny body.
Author bio and translation from the original Russian by Alex Simand.
Bardan Bagdassarian, nee Fedotov, was born in 1936 to an Armenian woman and a Russian man in a small village one hour west of Ijivan, in the North of Armenia—then a part of the USSR. His mother Luda Bagdassarian came from many generations of hill dwellers, mostly goat herders and textile manufacturers. Her hands were notoriously callused from hours spent stitching ornamental carpets for high-ranking communist party members. Writes Bardan in his as-yet-unpublished memoir, “Mother’s fingers scraped like birch bark on my cheeks when she tucked me in. There was a comfort to this, too, like the snug warmth of a wool blanket on a cold night.” His father, Sergey Alexeyivich Fedotov, was an intellectual, hailing from the Russian capital of Moscow. He studied and taught Discrete Mathematics at the University of Moscow for many years before disappearing from academic circles in the early 1930’s. How it is that Bardan’s father found himself in rural hills of Armenia remains a mystery, as does the unlikely courtship that followed of Bardan’s mother.
Bardan is an accomplished mathematician in his own rite. He spent the bulk of his childhood learning from his father; the nearest school was over an hour away by mule, so Sergey took up the task of his son’s education in their small cottage. By fifteen, Bardan had proven two of Descartes’ more obscure theorems. He never submitted them for peer review. From his mother he learned to speak fluent Armenian. From his father he learned fluent Russian. In 1952, at the age of sixteen and with the blessings of his parents, Bardan left home.
Since 1952, Bardan has adopted dozens of vocations. Paramedic. Train engineer. Magician. Mathematician. Flautist. Au pair. He studied Russian Formalism, Deconstructionism, the Bauhaus School of Art, anthropology, archeology, and many other fields. He even had a brief stint as a porn writer and director. His films never took off, but Bardan said that he sought in them, “[…] a way to transcend the carnal absurdity of the friction of genitalia, to create a physical manifestation of true love.” Bardan currently resides in Patagonia, where he acts as Head of Agricultural Studies at the University of Argentina Patagonia. He remains unmarried.
Bardan developed a fascination with Japanese poetry when he visited Japan as the president of the International Mycological Society in 1972. He embarked on a journey to seek foraging locations for the famed, and eminently sought-after, Matsutake mushroom. He discovered—through the quiet intimation of locals—that he had inadvertently followed the pilgrim’s path of Matsuo Basho, as Basho describes in his poetry and prose collection, “Road to the Narrow Interior.” Bardan has been a poet ever since. He changed his name in 1973 from Bardan Fedotov to his nom de plume, his mother’s maiden name, Bagdassarian.
Bagdassarian’s poetry bears the unusual characteristic of being written in all caps. It is unclear when this began, but those who know Bardan claim that this is the most natural of things. Martin Amis, with whom Bardan was acquainted during a short London stint in the 1980’s, writes in an interview with The Paris Review, “The use of capital letters in Bagdassarian’s work is a reflection of his physical voice. It’s not that he speaks loudly, exactly, but one might describe it as a bellow nonetheless. His voice is that of a lesser deity—not an Odin or a Zeus but, perhaps, Orpheus. He carries fire in his words.” Bardan’s work has been described as at once primal and tender, forceful and gentle.
The following is a small collection of Bardan Bagdassarian’s haikus. He wrote them during his accidental pilgrimage in Japan.
FATHER AND MOTHER
ON THE WIND, RUSTLING THE LEAVES.
I TASTE LAMB GRISTLE!
RED-CAPPED BOLETUS,
YOUR FUNGAL EMBER SMOLDERS
UNDER PILGRIM TOES.
THERE, CRICKETS YELLING,
INVISIBLE, FURIOUS,
I JOIN YOUR CHORUS.
SWEET SLICK NAMEKO.
MIRACULOUS, TAWNY, TINY,
PICKLED FOR BREAKFAST.
THE LAKE’S VAPORS RISE
CLEAR, TASTELESS, STITCHED TOGETHER
LIKE A TAPESTRY.
TINY EYEBALLS GLARE
FROM THE GLOOM OF FOLLIAGE,
DARK, GREEN, UNBLINKING.
MATSU, GIVE ME GOLD!
UNDER PINE BOUGHS THEY MUST GROW.
LAY OPEN YOUR GIFTS!
IF I HAD BUT FOUR
INSTEAD OF FIVE LONG FINGERS,
WOULD THE SUN STILL RISE?
Shadows on the road grow long,
become shadows of themselves
within the fans of headlights
when the sun is gone.
Moving west through some state,
right-angled to the new moon,
the concrete snakes through forest
like a lover heading for a mistress.
Six weeks on the road with six to go.
He’s tired of sleeping in strange towns.
He lies in bed, looking at her picture,
the one she sent two nights ago.
She is leaning against their headboard,
wearing a camisole with one strap
slipping off her shoulder. He dares
imagine boy shorts below the photo.
The paisley cloth is a Rorschach to him.
He sees her breasts, one boldly bare,
the other peeking timidly through hair,
a country river flowing down it.
August 29, 2013
Dear Professor,
Thank you for your submission, “Collaborative college
playwriting and performance: A core course ‘trespassing’
onto the dramatic arts.” In future correspondence
please refer to your manuscript as #714. Your manuscript
will move through the review process, which can take up to six months.
Thanks for your interest in the International Journal of Education and the Arts.
Sincerely, Christine T.
September 23, 2014
Thanks for your submission. I do not have any information
to share with you. I have forwarded your email to all the editors.
Thank you for your patience.
Best, Christine T.
November 2, 2014
I’m looking into this now, Professor.
Best wishes, Alex B.
May 27, 2015
Dear Professor,
Thank you for your message, and I am sorry
about the long delay in this process.
This matter just came to our attention and will be now
resolved with extra speed and care.
On behalf of the editorial board, Eva F.
May 27, 2015
Dear Professor,
I will check on this when I return from vacation next week.
Your manuscript would have been sent to Bill for review,
the co-editor of manuscripts at that time;
Bill (and I) are no longer with the journal
but I can trace the review process with his help.
I am sorry for the delay. Christine T.
What is that rumble I’m hearing
pounding the earth?
A train in Indiana, sound
blown over ruffled water.
Train whistle, tracks vibrate–
an underling bustling energy
as though it’s Monday morning
a week’s worth of work to be done.
Poem 24, June 24
When all emotions
When all emotions surge thru me,
keeping me awake in a lonely room,
I close my eyes to find you.
I listen for your voice
until I hear it,
unmistakable
as the first whip-poor-will
in May.
My life no longer drains away
like Old Seventy Creek flowing downhill,
& my sleepless, closed eyes are able
to write words on eyelids, poet
that I am by want, need, by choice.
I have a bottle of Amaretto for you,
its taste a little bitter & there is one bloom
in a blue vase. Slowly,
I open my eyes to avoid apologizing
to you for plucking a bearded daylily.
