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Bloody News from My Friend: Poems by Siamanto
Siamanto (1875-1915), one of the most important Armenian poets of the twentieth-century, was among the Armenian intellectuals executed by the Turkish government at the onset of the genocide during the first decade of the century. Available for the first time in English translation, his Bloody News from My Friend depicts the atrocities committed by the Ottoman Turkish government against its Armenian population.
The cycle of twelve poems bears the imprint of genocide in a language that is raw and blunt; it often eschews metaphor and symbol for more stark representation. Siamanto confronts pain, destruction, sadism, and torture as few modern poets have. Peter Balakian's critical introduction places Siamanto's poems in literary and historical context. The translation by Balakian and Nevart Yaghlian allows readers to hear Siamanto's startling and arresting voice in a fresh, vernacular language.
The cycle of twelve poems bears the imprint of genocide in a language that is raw and blunt; it often eschews metaphor and symbol for more stark representation. Siamanto confronts pain, destruction, sadism, and torture as few modern poets have. Peter Balakian's critical introduction places Siamanto's poems in literary and historical context. The translation by Balakian and Nevart Yaghlian allows readers to hear Siamanto's startling and arresting voice in a fresh, vernacular language.
- GenresPoetry
80 pages, Paperback
First published December 1, 1996
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Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews
July 29, 2020
Throughout human history, poetry has expressed emotion and borne witness in a way prose never can. In the case of the Armenian Genocide, the suffering of the Armenian people was recorded by many writers, including Siamanto. Siamanto was a member of the intellectual class in what was then Constantinople, and this collection of poems was written from testimonies recorded throughout the country. In the end, Siamanto himself would fall prey, as the Turkish government rounded up Aremnian writers and journalists, detaining and ultimately killing him.
The sheer breadth and width of brutality committed by the Turkish government approaches a place beyond horror. In "The Mulberry Tree", we hear the voice of a grandmother whose son was killed before her:
"They've cut my mulberry tree.
Woe to his memory. It grew tall before my eyes just like him—
It was seven years old, and I was sitting in its shade with my grandson in my arms singing.
Look, they sawed it at the roots.
Where is the cart with its corpses? I still hear it squeak.
I want to be thrown into it next to my grandson.
There's still a place on the cart."
And yet, in the United States, we know so little about the Armenian Genocide. Not since 1981 has a US President called what happened in Turkey during World War 1, the murder and displacement of 1.5 million people, genocide. And the neutrality and inaction of Woodrow Wilson's administration, who knew what was happening, whose ambassador to the Ottoman Empire gave detailed reports of the atrocities, remains an unforgivable failure.
The Armenian people often refer to this time as the Medz Yeghern, literally the "Great Crime". And what's so often overlooked is that almost every genocide ever perpetrated was entirely legalized by the governments committing them.
More than a historical document, Siamanto's poems remind us that history is about human lives. What happened in Armenia was repeated in Germany, Cambodia, and in my own lifetime, Bosnia, Rwanda, Darfur and Myanmar. When we forget how genocides start, when we begin to "other" a group of people because of their religion or ethnic background, we have failed. Hope lives in our collective memory, in the understanding that we will do everything in our power to keep it from ever happening again.
The sheer breadth and width of brutality committed by the Turkish government approaches a place beyond horror. In "The Mulberry Tree", we hear the voice of a grandmother whose son was killed before her:
"They've cut my mulberry tree.
Woe to his memory. It grew tall before my eyes just like him—
It was seven years old, and I was sitting in its shade with my grandson in my arms singing.
Look, they sawed it at the roots.
Where is the cart with its corpses? I still hear it squeak.
I want to be thrown into it next to my grandson.
There's still a place on the cart."
And yet, in the United States, we know so little about the Armenian Genocide. Not since 1981 has a US President called what happened in Turkey during World War 1, the murder and displacement of 1.5 million people, genocide. And the neutrality and inaction of Woodrow Wilson's administration, who knew what was happening, whose ambassador to the Ottoman Empire gave detailed reports of the atrocities, remains an unforgivable failure.
The Armenian people often refer to this time as the Medz Yeghern, literally the "Great Crime". And what's so often overlooked is that almost every genocide ever perpetrated was entirely legalized by the governments committing them.
More than a historical document, Siamanto's poems remind us that history is about human lives. What happened in Armenia was repeated in Germany, Cambodia, and in my own lifetime, Bosnia, Rwanda, Darfur and Myanmar. When we forget how genocides start, when we begin to "other" a group of people because of their religion or ethnic background, we have failed. Hope lives in our collective memory, in the understanding that we will do everything in our power to keep it from ever happening again.
March 7, 2023
I'm not much of a poetry reader, but when I heard writer, actor, and historian Eric Bogosian read Siamanto's "The Dance" (from this book) at a 2015 PEN America panel on the Armenian Genocide, I knew I had to read this book. I'm not disappointed I did.
As a historian of prejudice and oppression, and the things people do in order to get out of those kinds of situations, I am not unfamiliar with what Siamanto refers to as "the crimes men do to men," but even that familiarity did not prepare me for just how devastating, how disturbing and disgusting and downright heartbreaking this book was. I was also surprised by how beautiful Siamanto's words were despite the devastation they relayed. Through this collection of poems, Siamanto shows his readers in the best way he knew how the kinds of things he saw and heard about.
Siamanto was not afraid to tell his readers what was happening, and for that, he was killed, and though that happened after the publication of this book, I think it's still important to point out because it shows that Siamanto was not safe from the horrors he was trying to make people aware of, but that didn't stop him. It's terribly sad, but it's also inspiring.
In their introduction, the translators and editors of this book explain that they chose to use modern vernacular to convey the reality of Siamanto's words and meanings to a modern Western audience, and I think that was a good choice, but will inevitably lead to a need for a retranslation at some point in the future. And that is not a bad thing. In order to maintain the book's accessibility, authors, translators, historians, and literateurs will need to constantly revisit and reassess the primary source, and in that way, Siamanto's story and the stories of the Armenian people he tried to tell will not be forgotten.
This is an excellent book. It is not for the faint of heart, but it is excellent nonetheless, and it is very important that we don't forget the crimes and the tragedies which inspired Siamanto to write this book. There will always be a lot to learn from history.
As a historian of prejudice and oppression, and the things people do in order to get out of those kinds of situations, I am not unfamiliar with what Siamanto refers to as "the crimes men do to men," but even that familiarity did not prepare me for just how devastating, how disturbing and disgusting and downright heartbreaking this book was. I was also surprised by how beautiful Siamanto's words were despite the devastation they relayed. Through this collection of poems, Siamanto shows his readers in the best way he knew how the kinds of things he saw and heard about.
Siamanto was not afraid to tell his readers what was happening, and for that, he was killed, and though that happened after the publication of this book, I think it's still important to point out because it shows that Siamanto was not safe from the horrors he was trying to make people aware of, but that didn't stop him. It's terribly sad, but it's also inspiring.
In their introduction, the translators and editors of this book explain that they chose to use modern vernacular to convey the reality of Siamanto's words and meanings to a modern Western audience, and I think that was a good choice, but will inevitably lead to a need for a retranslation at some point in the future. And that is not a bad thing. In order to maintain the book's accessibility, authors, translators, historians, and literateurs will need to constantly revisit and reassess the primary source, and in that way, Siamanto's story and the stories of the Armenian people he tried to tell will not be forgotten.
This is an excellent book. It is not for the faint of heart, but it is excellent nonetheless, and it is very important that we don't forget the crimes and the tragedies which inspired Siamanto to write this book. There will always be a lot to learn from history.
February 15, 2022
A short but profound collection poetry surrounding the brutal realities of its time. Whether in the Taurus mountains or Mount Ararat or Syria, tales of both sides are illuminated.
Memorable quotes:
“If genocide, as the extrapolation of torture, is the emblem of power the totalitarian government creates to wipe out out its victims, these poems can be seen as heroic resistance: a refusal to let the victims go voiceless into the dust.” (27)
“In a minute the men came running out of the vestibule with a blood-soaked dress. ‘Isn’t this your dress? Doesn’t it smell familiar? What kind of mother are you? Smell it, go ahead! Don’t be mad; we sacrificed your son on the altar with white cloths and candles. Now we’ll paint your cross,.. bring the nails and the hammers before the dress dries.’ Then one of the Turks took the bloody dress and painted a cross on the chapel wall. Beneath the tents the widows buried their heads. In the church that Turk pointed to the cross, ‘Kneel down and pray. Well do it to you like you did it to Christ. Hey mother, pray for your son. Have you no faith in the resurrection?’” (55).
“From sunrise to sunrise, we were like gravestones, and hungry. We tried to kill our rage and homesickness, and the silence was endless space filling our eyes.” (71)
“In the dark, the mother offered her throat, then her son’s… then like snakes, two arms found the infant, and the silence in the cellar was a storm. I thought we had all died. Then we heard the men above cursing and the killers left. Was this salvation? Can slaves be saved? Every day that mother, half-naked, stands by the road delirious, hanging in the skirt of the stranger, the enemy, the passerby. ‘I strangled my baby. It’s true. Have pity on me; I’m a coward. You could wring my neck in a second. Have you no heart?” (73)
Memorable quotes:
“If genocide, as the extrapolation of torture, is the emblem of power the totalitarian government creates to wipe out out its victims, these poems can be seen as heroic resistance: a refusal to let the victims go voiceless into the dust.” (27)
“In a minute the men came running out of the vestibule with a blood-soaked dress. ‘Isn’t this your dress? Doesn’t it smell familiar? What kind of mother are you? Smell it, go ahead! Don’t be mad; we sacrificed your son on the altar with white cloths and candles. Now we’ll paint your cross,.. bring the nails and the hammers before the dress dries.’ Then one of the Turks took the bloody dress and painted a cross on the chapel wall. Beneath the tents the widows buried their heads. In the church that Turk pointed to the cross, ‘Kneel down and pray. Well do it to you like you did it to Christ. Hey mother, pray for your son. Have you no faith in the resurrection?’” (55).
“From sunrise to sunrise, we were like gravestones, and hungry. We tried to kill our rage and homesickness, and the silence was endless space filling our eyes.” (71)
“In the dark, the mother offered her throat, then her son’s… then like snakes, two arms found the infant, and the silence in the cellar was a storm. I thought we had all died. Then we heard the men above cursing and the killers left. Was this salvation? Can slaves be saved? Every day that mother, half-naked, stands by the road delirious, hanging in the skirt of the stranger, the enemy, the passerby. ‘I strangled my baby. It’s true. Have pity on me; I’m a coward. You could wring my neck in a second. Have you no heart?” (73)
April 25, 2018
This collection of poems by Siamanto (one of the writers who was abducted and murdered on the night of Apri 24 1915, which marks the beginning of the Armenian genocide) is moving, impactful and impossible to ignore. Siamanto describes the massacres of Adana, of which he received first hand news and reports from a friend of his who was serving there as a doctor. The poems are very striking, and present images of brutality and violence seldom found in poetry, from Armenian virgins being burnt alive, to mutilations and mothers having to sacrifice their children. It's all quite bleak, of course, except for the final poem, A Victory, where Siamanto urges the Armenians to continue fighting with whatever weapons available, over the corpses of the fallen, until the enemy is repelled. Because, as he says, "if you are chased down by pure Evil / don't forget that you are born / to bring forth the fruitful Good".
June 30, 2011
So powerful and very VERY disturbing and graphic.
Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews