BLOG OF THE WEEK ~ AYALA ZARFJIAN

This week, my friends, we are visiting with Ayala Zarfjian, who leads A Sun-Kissed Life, in Florida.  Ayala’s book, Second Chances, came out recently, so we wanted to help her spread the word. Let’s not wait another minute. I am eager to hear about the new book!

                       

Sherry: We last spoke with you in 2017, when you were celebrating the birth of your grandson, Aiden. He must bring your family so much joy!

Ayala and Aiden

Ayala: Aiden brings us light and immeasurable joy. When he walks through the door, I forget whatever it is that I am struggling with in that moment. I love to see things through his eyes. It's magic. 

Sherry: It is magical, to see the world brand new through a child’s eyes. It’s the best!

A little bird told me you have something new to celebrate now. Tell us about your new book, published recently by Golden Dragonfly Press.

Ayala: My book is a collection of poems, new and old. It is a meaningful collection for me, and all the proceeds of the sale of the book are being donated to charity.

Sherry: That is lovely, Ayala. Congratulations on your publication. Let’s take a peek at the video launching your book. It is beautiful.

Sherry: This is such a beautiful poem, and video. Wow.

I remember from our first interview, that you began writing poetry at age eight, and that your father was a poet. I remember, too, you saying “I didn’t choose poetry; poetry chose me.”  It must feel wonderful to hold that book in your hands! Tell us about that feeling, and about the process of putting it together.

Available Here

Ayala: The process of putting together the book was a thoughtful one and one with many details. For example, the book cover is a photograph that I took one day when I was walking with my son, Daniel. I noticed the root of a tree in a heart shape. My poems are all about family, roots and love, so I found it a perfect choice for my cover.

There were many details, and I was very hands on because it means so much to me. I have to admit that I was beyond excited when I held my book for the first time. It's a wonderful feeling to hold your own book that you poured your soul into. So Sherry, yes, poetry chose me. I was a thoughtful little girl that carried the world on her shoulders. There was always poetry brewing up in my thoughts, no matter what path I traveled on.

Sherry: A journey made with poetry is such a gift! Would you like to share three poems with us today and tell us a little about each?

What If I Forget?

The city I was born in, 

my mother’s maiden name, 

the street I lived on. 

Questions,

answers that do not warrant hesitation, 

contemplation, 

black and white,

nice and easy. 

But what if I forget one day, 

my first pet’s name, 

my high school boyfriend,

and finding the love of my life. 

What if it slips away, 

like an oar in the river, 

like water through my fingers,

like all the yesterdays 

built by moments of you and me. 

Holding hands, 

speaking with our loud voices

at the spark of anger, 

dancing in the kitchen,

our laughter echoes in our home.

Silent, 

side by side at dawn, 

our feet tangled 

in a mess of love,

what if I forget?

I wrote this poem one day when I answered security questions for a financial institution. I remember choosing questions that I assumed I would not forget. Prior to that day I spoke to someone that was a caregiver to someone with dementia. I was saddened at how this illness robs their patients of their memories.  

The next poem I wrote about my husband and his grandpa to commentate one hundred years since the Armenian genocide. It's important to remember because the genocide is still being denied by Turkey.

On both our sides we share a sense of loss and pride for our families. Mine survived the Holocaust and my husband's grandfather survived the Armenian genocide. He also saved a train of children. At the time, he was a child himself.  

In 1987, Chancellor Helmut Kohl told Israeli President Chaim Herzog that the Nazi extermination of six million Jews will never be purged from history. He said the German people accept responsibility for the Holocaust. The Armenian people are still waiting for Turkey to take responsibility for the Armenian genocide. 1.5 million Armenians were murdered.

This poem is called “One Hundred Years” and it's dedicated to Grandpa Antranik. 

One Hundred Years

Coal black sky,

awakens repressed memories.

Whispers of angels silenced.

You are not forgotten,

the moon watched 

while humanity looked away,

one hundred years of denial.

Grandpa,

I stood beside you as a boy,

and as a man I carry you in my heart.

Your kind but dark eyes,

pieced my consciousness with

stories of your plight,

living in a cave,

marching in the desert,

eating weeds and plants.

You were a baby boy orphaned,

grief held your hand.

You were too young to remember

your mother's love

your mother's embrace.

The emptiness,

and the sadness lingered.

The oppressors sought to destroy,

they sought deportation,

humiliation,

death.

The oppressors wished

to erase you

and our bloodline.

One hundred years of denial,

echo like whispers,

reverberate from the earth

of those that perished.

You survived

to flourish

you survived 

to tell your story

the darkness always in the shadows

 of each day.

Grandpa,

I remember.

Grandpa,

your words are not forgotten,

I retell my children of those dark days,

of their legacy,

of survival rich with

honor of your life.

Grandpa,

I stood beside you as a child,

as a man I carry you in my heart.

On a lighter note, the next poem is called “Woman”. 

Woman

I discovered the crows feet

nestled by my eyes.

I forgave them and accepted

them to be mine.

I love that they exhibit

a piece of my struggle.

Days I squinted in delight,

dark nights when weeping

left me drained and numb.

I questioned the veins in my hands,

pronounced and deep,

then I accepted them

for all the hard labor they had done.

Hands weathered by love given,

days from dawn to dusk,

babies they had washed,

foreheads caressed.

I watched my white strands 

residing in my dark hair. 

I accepted them for their resilience

and beauty.

I challenged my mind to battle the known

and seek the wonder of the unknown.

I challenged my soul to rise up

and embrace the woman

I have become

and love the life I have been given.

This poem is about acceptance of oneself. My women friends, my girl tribe, has always been judgmental of their looks, their choices and getting older. I urge them to accept themselves, to love themselves, to be proud of all that they have achieved as strong women. Some are mothers, partners, sisters, daughters, friends, and they have lifted humanity by being exactly who they were meant to be. 

Sherry: These are wonderful poems. I am especially moved by the one to your husband’s grandfather, the thought of that small orphan crossing the desert, eating weeds and plants. And the pain that such journeys are still going on, in so many places, today. Your poem shows the power of poetry to inform, and to move hearts and minds.

What do you love about poetry, Ayala?

Ayala: Poetry is life. 

Poetry is life

Sherry: “Poetry is life”. I love that! What other interests do you explore when you aren’t writing?

Ayala: I love to spend time with my family. I love to travel, read, meditate, fish. When I travel, I love to explore museums. Art evokes a sense of joy and peace. As a child I spent endless days in museums with my parents.  Museums feel like home to me and being in them gives me a sense of connection to something bigger.

Sherry: Is there anything you’d like to say to Poets United?

Ayala: Thank you for your community, thank you for your support. Over the years I have connected with some of you, the connection grew into friendships that I will treasure always.

Sherry: Thank you for this update, Ayala. It is fun watching Aiden grow up in these visits with you (and on facebook!) Congratulations once again on the publication of your book.

Well, my friends, isn't it wonderful to watch our poet friends making their poetic journeys through the years? Do come back and see who we talk to next. I will give you a clue: it is one of our very first members, chatting with us about how to write a poem when you're blocked. I can't wait!

POEMS FOR PITTSBURGH

These days, it feels like our hearts break every day. Never did we think things could get this bad. The angry rhetoric is loud and divisive. But we know the good hearts are many, and the haters are fewer - (if more numerous than we thought). So when Pearl Ketover Prilik, who blogs at Imagine,  and Ayala  Zarfjian, of  a sun  kissed life,  wrote poems reminding us that light always follows darkness, I knew I had to share it. It is an important message. May our souls hold onto this comforting reminder.

Jeff Swensen photo / Getty Images

I have no poetry tonight for the life blood
spilled of the eleven souls at prayer -
I have no poetry tonight for the shopping
grandfather shot in the back of his head,
no poetry tonight for the murdered
grandmother in a parking lot -
All massacred for their "audacity" to draw
free and safe breath in the gust of fetid
toxic, lethal lunacy -
I have no poetry tonight for the hate-hand
that shook
the locked church door
I have no poetry tonight for envelopes of
destruction mailed to free thinkers
No, I have no poetry tonight for hatred, nor
intractable ignorance - Pretty words will
not warm the bodies now cold.
An explosion of poetic lyricism will not
bring forth another song, or shout, or sigh
from the dead.
Tonight, I save poetry for the spark of
humanity that flickers in the darkest
night and flames in brilliant conflagration
when united in common cause.
Tonight I save poetry for that bright
shining arc bending toward justice
....smelted in the white heat of our
collective outrage.
Tonight as tears choke -
I hold fast onto
the poetry of possibility...
Always and forever - light shall follow
darkness.
It is our mandate to shine.
Now.

                                                                              WPRI.com image


Sherry: And shine we do, after every act of inhumanity against our fellow beings. Our light must outshine this darkness, if we are to survive.

Pearl: I spent a good part of the past few particularly horrific days online posting and responding to unfolding, unsurprising yet still murderous hate-driven events. We live in a nation, a representative democracy, that has always survived as spun sugar atop an underbelly of hatred and violence. Throughout the years, from our inception as an insurgent nation displacing an indigenous people, importing others as slaves, we have bumbled along, a lynching here, a granting of freedom there. We are, and always have been, far from perfect. 

Yet....Yet......Yet, in times of crisis, we have always felt that the President would turn to the vision of the amended Constitution, or, perhaps more accurately, to the vision of the nation we wished to be, and speak to all of us, one nation, indivisible, resilient and committed to freedom for ourselves and others. 

We are now living in a time of a 'reality show entertainment' presidency, who has successfully stoked, unleashed and normalized the worst impulses of far too many, to suspect differences of faith, face, or opinion as fearsome.

This President did not create hatred, intolerance or prejudice - however, he, as other autocrats of the past, is energizing the disaffected with scapegoats and bogeymen and women.

We are facing a difficult time. With an election imminent, we could restore some balances and checks, as our government intended, upon the executive office. However, I believe we are attempting to vote away demagoguery. I believe we are grappling with the trajectory of the very soul of our nation. We have moved far beyond party politics to a place where we must believe in the innate goodness of people, and a Universal leaning towards justice and freedom.....

Not only because, in my humble opinion,   because that is the "right way" to proceed, but because I believe that our survival as a nation and a world  depends upon that flicker of light within us all.

Sherry: I agree, Pearl. We are at a turning point, dark versus light, the soul of a nation.

Pearl: This dark pall that has fallen upon us cannot be the cause for despair, but must be seen as this age's clarion call to shine a bright light and move forward together, never being silent or hopeless in the face of the spectre of hatred's manifesto or manifestation. 

The words of this poorly thrown together poem were my attempt at solidarity of spirit for the story of our nation and world, that we can and must not cede to destroyers and naysayers. We can and shall overcome. 

In peace and love and commitment to continue to do better and be better - I write.

Sherry: Those words are not poorly thrown together, Pearl. They flowed straight from your heart. Thank you for saying what we are feeling so clearly. Haters will not turn us into haters. We stand united.

Ayala posted a poem for Pittsburgh, too, that i am happy to include here. Ayala's family came to the U.S. anticipating welcome. I can only imagine how they are feeling now.

PITTSBURGH

The shape of my eyes,

The sound of my voice,

The shade of my skin.

My sexuality.

The color of my blood

the same

as yours.

If you saw the light in my eyes

if you saw my mother's tears,

if you felt her fears,

grief engraved on her skin.

Would you have yanked me

like a weed from the   

garden of life.

Would you have shattered

me in pieces

leaving me

to bleed out in the dark.

Ideologies differ,

dreams unalike,

my diversity

makes me

unique,

beautiful,

majestic,

a beacon in the fiber

of humanity.

The shape of my eyes,

the sound of my voice,

the shade of my skin,

my sexuality.

The color of my blood

same as yours.

Ayala: i wrote 'The color of My Blood' for the victims of the Pulse nightclub. I feel it is fitting, after another senseless act of violence. My thoughts are with the people of Pittsburgh. The victims woke up Saturday morning and all they wanted was to practice their faith, to observe the sabbath. I have no words.

Sherry: Your poem says it all, my friend. Each of us just wants to live in peace, to strive toward our dreams. The colour of our blood: the same for every human heart. Thank you for adding your clear, true voice to this conversation. I hope your family knows that most of us celebrate diversity and see a fellow human being, when we look at each other. Those who do not may be very loud right now. But many are rising in opposition. 

I pray for a kinder world, soon. But we have to do more than pray. We must extend our hands in friendship, help others to feel seen and welcome and safe. Smile at the guarded faces of those who feel threatened in this tense atmosphere. Let people know there are more lovers than haters in this world.

I found the following poem by Naomi Shihab Nye, who often writes words that inspire, when one most needs to read them.  I wanted to share it, especially for the message in its closing lines. We can respond to divisiveness with inclusion and warmth. Politically, the gulf is wide. But person to person, we can reach out, join hands, believe this aberration will end, and life will be good again. We live in hope, even when hope falters.

source

SHOULDERS
by Naomi Shihab Nye

A man crosses the street in rain,
stepping gently, looking two times north and south,
because his son is asleep on his shoulder.

No car must splash him.
No car drive too near to his shadow.

This man carries the world's most sensitive cargo
but he's not marked.
Nowhere does his jacket say FRAGILE,
HANDLE WITH CARE.

His ears fill up with breathing.
He hears the hum of a boy's dream
deep inside him.

We're not going to be able 
to live in this world
if we're not willing to do what he's doing
with one another.

The road will only be wide.
The rain will never stop falling.

                   *****

My friends, take heart. Have courage. Inevitably justice and what is right must triumph. I hope these poems have helped in some small way to light a flicker of hope and resolve. Events come so thick and fast, one can feel overwhelmed. That is when we need to be most aware and plugged in. And united! Vote America kind again. 

Thank you, Pearl and Ayala, for your inspiring words.  They were what I needed to read just when I needed to read them.

Do come back to see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!

Poems of the Week: On Love, Loss and Gifts by Ayala and Karin

Recently Ayala Zarfjian, at A Sun-Kissed Life, and Karin Gustafson, of   Manicddaily, wrote poems that I thought would go well together, speaking to the losses life brings us as our dear ones grow older, as well as the gifts they have brought to our lives. Let's dive in.

My prized Tarpon catch

(It was catch and release)

FISHING IS LIFE

The stars followed you.

The sun kissed your lips.

The wind embraced you,

and the tides listened to you weep.

You lived the mysteries of life

with sacred awe,

to the drops of happiness and sorrow.

The words are constricted

in my heart.

We laughed and

we wept

by your bedside,

as you floated 

through two worlds.

We reminisced of days

with life.

The life that wakes you up

and shakes you up

as you feel it in your marrow.

Days of endless ocean,

sea life,

love and pain.

Days when your lion heart

was wild with wonder,

fierce with quest.

You loved,

you lived,

your chalice always full,

your roar loud,

your brave heart gentle.

Ayala: On Monday, June 11, my father in law passed away. He was a man that lived his life fully and a man that was loved by many. I loved him and I will miss him dearly. I pray that he finds the peace that he wished for.

Sherry: Oh, Ayala, he looks and sounds like such a beautiful man, who lived his life fully, and with wonder. What a beautiful tribute this is to his spirit, so full of life. Gone too soon.

Around this time, Karin wrote a very moving poem about her father, suffering with Parkinson's. Let's take a look.

Parkinson's (Father)

My brain, see, now has to consciously
tell my feet to move.
I mean, he tries a laugh, your brain
always tells your feet to move
on some level, but now
I have to remind them how.

I do see what he means soon enough, as

my father, the opener of all

that needs to be opened, the keeper

of all that needs to be kept safe, targets a key towards a door

as one might aim a dart,

his forearm moving back and forth as if to throw it,

though he pushes–here–here–trying spots about the knob

as one might poke a needle into fabric

backing a button, pricking one’s way to its eyes,

or as one might thread the eye

of the needle itself, poignantly.

But the disease progresses, as territorial

as Genghis Khan, and soon all

the buttons in his world are blocked, refuse

to be battened, will not be pushed,

until finally, his own eyes seem locked

behind the placket of stiff lids.

I see the strain of forehead, the

conscious manipulation of muscle, nerve,

above his pushed chest, until at last

the marled blue of his pupils targets

our own. I love you, he says, the opener

of all that needs to be opened, the keeper

of all things safe.

Sherry: This poem is so touching, Karin, "the keeper of all things safe", facing such challenges. You have written him so we can see him, and admire his attempt at humour, his perseverance. His "I love you" - "the opener of all that needs to be opened", is just so moving. What a wonderful man!

Karin: Thanks so much for re-posting my poems.  I really appreciate your openness to them. 

“Parkinson’s (Father)” is an older poem that is, quite simply, about my father, who suffered from Parkinson’s Disease.  It’s a rather self-explanatory poem; I had a wonderful dad. 

Sherry: Indeed you did! You wrote on the theme of loss so beautifully in another recent poem. Let's take a look:


THE EVENING PORCH

I went out to an evening porch
because a bur bit at my heart.
I could not tell if it was you
or your loss that stung so smart.

The crickets rubbed a murmur synched
to a wholeness I could barely hear;
my forehead had to listen hard
harder even than my ears.

The breeze that rose from somewhere North
felt a bit like fingertips;
you too were raised in a place of cold
but rarely touched my face, my lips.

And yet this sweep of ending day
whose deep’s deep blue except where green
speaks to me of you, of you,
and means what I would have it mean:

that you loved me and I loved back,
that foreheads can be made to hear
(as now beneath the crickets’ arc
the stream’s rush cushions far and near)

so that on the planks I walk
beside a door that leads to light,
beside that blue that you’re blurred in,
I find a seat that bears with night

and try to write there till it’s dark,
write there even in the dark,
letters that feel their way along
this burdened page, unburred heart.

Sherry: This is such a beautiful poem, Karin. Let's follow these poems with the note of hope and new life in your poem "The Grass Said To Me." Let's take a peek:

copyright Karin Gustafson

THE GRASS SAID TO ME ( As I Thought of Whitman)

The grass said to me
”what is a child?”
I did not know how to answer the grass for I do not speak
in shush or spring-back
or any of the many tongues
of green.
I do not feel that I know
how to regroup,
or how to take a death at my roots
and smile it almost equally
into sun and rain–

But this much I do know:
that when a child crawls across me and grass alike,
we all three
grow more alive.
What grounds us cups us gently (even as
laughs tumble)
while what lies beneath that ground strains hard to listen,
and does, in fact, hear,
for the cup that holds us fits too
about its dark grained ear,
oh yes.

Sherry: I so love the idea of speaking in "the many tongues of green"! There is such life and affirmation in this poem.

Karin: “The Grass Said to Me (as I thought of Whitman)” is an homage to one of my favorite passages from Walt Whitman, who is also one of my favorite poets.  The lines it relates to a part of “Song of Myself,” in which Whitman asks, through the voice of a child, “what is the grass?” and goes on to describe it in both very physical and metaphoric terms, moving to speak about the grass both as a remembrancer of the lord and also the dead. Whitman, who titled his collected poems, as “Leaves of Grass,” obviously had a fairly complex relationship with grass. I was taught by a professor in college (a long long time ago, so I may not have this right) that his use of grass partly stemmed from the passage from Isaiah in the Bible, which talks of flesh as grass. I think Whitman’s grass was also profoundly affected by his knowledge of the many grassy battlefields of the Civil War. 

My poem responds to only a part of Whitman’s passage, the child fetching the grass up in both hands, asking about it.  Here, I imagine the grass’s point of view--what is the child?  (I am also responding to time spent with a little grandson, crawling about the grass!)  

At any rate, I’m glad you like the poem! 

Sherry: I do indeed love it. And I can see that small grandchild crawling on the grass. So lovely. Life, continuing on.

I understand you have a new book out, about the death of your mother, titled "Momoir, Maybe. That is a clever title. Tell us a bit about it, won't you?

Karin: Momoir, Maybe is a memoir of my mother, essentially, written in short snippets shortly after her death. It is a memoir of a mother told in micro fiction and fact; an A-Z of grief, love, and aging. 

It is available at Amazon here.

Sherry: It is wonderful you wrote about your mother, and your loss. That is my favourite type of memoir. Congratulations on its publication!

Thank you, Ayala and Karin, for your wonderful poems, which celebrate life and love so well.

We hope you take something away with you today about the gifts that come with living and loving. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!