For Teta's & Roses
I have been trying to stimulate my creative spirit more lately. The other night, I was inspired in my sleeplessness to write after my first joure rose (damascus rose) bloomed. This particular rose was gifted to my by an Armenian-Syrian grandmother who is a friend of my mother's here in LA. She brought it herself all the way from Halab (Aleppo) when she migrated here a couple decades ago, and so everytime I tend this rose or sit with it or admire its beauty, I am honored to remember that I am experiencing a piece of Halab's earth in my diasporic home. Of Halab's healing, Halab's medicine, Halab's life. This poem is inspired by/dedicated to the Grandmother who gifted it to me, for Halab, and for my own grandmothers who love roses and my 2 great grandmothers Rose and Warde, whose stories are alive in our hands and hearts and prayers alive in our spirits. To my Teta Renee who loves to tend her earth and ESPECIALLY her roses, and my Teta Hind whose prayers are like the balm of roses on the heart of our family. To all the tetas and roses who I love so much. Thank you for drawing constellations of meaning and memory into our hearts, no matter where on this earth we may find ourselves, to filling our spirits with the healing balm of your medicine.
your fragrance
hum of ancient
souk
stone walls the luminous beige of
desert sand
3abayeh and masbaha of carnelian and jade
symphony of tetas buzzing through village kitchens
rattle of gold bangles and rakwe
boiling over
tawle and gossip
prayer vibrating in the dusk streets and
sweetest of all sweets
.
your fragrance the memory of
homelands still breathing in bones
like
oracles in the finjan of your soil
Armenian grandmother
still beating in rhythms of daf and derbakeh
the braids of embroidery and carpet
capturing stories like us
.
together we sow seeds of diaspora
wild zaatar gifted from home
the sunshine in your eyes
smuggled cutting of joure rose
now a dense suburban forest
bearing the bittersweet weight of home
an oasis
a north star
2 times displaced
but never once lost
.
what to say of refuge, of homes
the color pink when you left them
full like babies cheeks and the
melody of oud and kanoon
singing pulse into hearts
multiple times broken
but never once stopped completely
she lay her hands over earth to sow life again
as grandmothers do
helping roots reach water
so flowers can bloom
the blessings of roses
.
your fragrance the balm of
home
a balm of hope
psalm of love on
cities dismembered
except in our bones
aromas alive in reptilian places
unstoppable and ancient
like the coolness of a root finding water
comforted by the eternal blessing of your gentle face
the possibility of your pink at dawn
of venus when she returns
.
grandmothers persist in the work of making life
they find family
sow memory
weave home in foreign earth
map stars in garden footprints
etch mysteries
roadmaps
by their very nature
.
-warde joure (damascus rose)
………………..
Okay, I will be kind enough to translate for the non-arabic speakers and especially the non-arabic speaking SWANA folks who come across this and don’t understand some of the words (because Diaspora is real like that)…
souk – bazaar/old market
3abayeh – long loose traditional gown/clothing worn by men and women
masbaha – prayer beads
tetas – teta is grandmother (this was arab-english diaspora talk clearly, adding an “s” at the end to make it plural.)
rakwe- a special little pot for making Arabic/Armenian/Turkish style coffee in
tawle- badgammon
finjan – a small cup especially for drinking Arabic/Armenian/Turkish style coffee
daf & derbakeh – traditional types of drums in the region
oud & kanoon – traditional string instruments in the region