Eduard Harents, born in 1981, is a famous poet. He live in Yerevan, Armenia. He has graduated from Yerevan State University, the faculty of Oriental Studies and Cairo University Center of Arabic Language and Culture. Harents is an author of 10 poem collections. He has been published in numerous Armenian and foreign periodicals and anthologies. His poems has been translated into different languages. The International literary prize «PjeterBogdani» (2015, Kosovo),- prize for poetry-2015. The International literary prize «Dardanica» (2019, Belgium).Eduard Harents poems were translated into more than 50 languages.

Eduard Harents is the most translated Armenian writer of all times.

In 2016, his book «The life lives me» was published in Belgium («Jetajetonmëmua»; Bruxelles, “Bogdani” publishing house).

 

Poems

 

 

***

Life lives me with all my details,

and I turn around it

as a color of another brush.

My canvases have holes in them

as a Japanese coin,

through which one by one

all my loves free themselves

from me, always outwards

their parting

ringing about my wonderful loss…

And my claps

weigh heavier than I do.

So I have collected them

in my hand

as smashed paper money

and keep them

for the last – the death

to revamp its masks,

that will be hole one day,

as my canvases are.

And I’ll ring out forever,

and life will go on to live me

with all my details…

 

 

 

 

YEARNING

The shadow of color
is scaling
the scars of day;
walking the serenity
of an encountered dream…

The flower is the secret
of pain;
an introspective smile.
The scion names the sin.

Beyond personal bandages
of prayer,
the self-denial of a tree
is as much bright
as warm are the hands
of night.

I am freezing… your name.

 

 

 

***

I am plucking now

the eyelashes of silence one by one

to mend my prayer,

which has been torn by nuances of word…

Now the nuance is more than the voice…

And now I enter

the church of Hope barefooted,

so that my steps will not paint voices on my fortune.

How many footprints have been split apart by whispers…

While my footprint

is my prayer of love,

which never ends,

as it never colors itself in words…

And now

the main color is the truth,

that love is the poem of the feeling…

That muses don’t turn into women…

 

 

 

 

 

***

I know, I will wake up someday
from the mystical dinner,
will wear my father’s
damaged footsteps
as little pockets
filled with immeasurable love…
Can my days – I wonder –
scale that much unbearable
lightness?

 

 

***
After so much pious,
loveless nights,
I have no idea from which
            muscle of time,
but storms are ringing from myself
apparently sweeping away all my
morns, which
remained punched like that
up till now
like the shoes
of a gold medalist student…

Interesting:
that much rich, so sonorous,
to which gates
will my evening – one day –
tinkle?