The Phenomenon Of Sona Van’s Poetry

THE PHENOMENON OF SONA VAN’S POETRY
By Ani Tadevosyan

A Libretto for the Desert is a collection of previously published and unpublished poems by Sona Van, which in their polyphonic arrangement appear to the reader in a completely new narrative—woman against war—a narrative that until this point has been “buried in silence / greater than God / here— / wasted in the sand / . . . waiting for its hour of bloom.”

This leitmotif recurs throughout the book, though it reaches the reader “through the different tonalities of utterance” (poet, playwright Vahan Vardanyan), “the lightness of the watercolors” (poet laureate Inna Lisnyanskaya), “as a whisper, an imparted secret” (literary critic, Charents scholar Davit Gasparyan), “through the intonations of our ancient historians and Goghtan songs” (poet Hovik Hoveyan), “with a staccato and yet flowing timbre” (professor of literature, Ruzan Aristakesyan), and sometimes rather directly, in a pathos not so typical to the author: “War! / I am a woman / and / from now on / I declare you / my personal enemy.”

Sona Van converses with the reader in a sincere, straightforward manner, forcing the reader to experience something new. As the editor of this volume Samvel Smbatyan notes, “The senses record not only through the visual and linguistic faculties, but also through the means of classical music—death-invoking and yet life-sustaining rhythms, a form of requiem that leads to catharsis—in the manner of Bach’s polyphonic style that distills the energy of repetition.” The poet, translator and literary critic Ilya Falikov describes Van’s style as having “a real sensation of time, which is deeper and even more primordial than historical time.” The poet’s ability to attain such an effect of force through the economy of the word and poetic technique has been addressed by many writers and critics in over seventy articles, which testifies to the fact that Van’s poetic line moves the reader to reflection and dialogue. Straying away from the dense colors and realistic scenes of war and genocide that trigger shock and horror, Van constructs powerful images that, according to the literary critic and poet Norayr Ghazaryan, “. . . complete the mother’s hands, that Arshile Gorky had left unpainted.” Her poetic line insinuates gently but unremittingly, as in Inna Lisnyanskaya’s words, “when reality itself is grotesque, and the historical memory contains more images from hell than poetic imagination could ever contain, the writer’s task becomes saving human imagination by turning the stench of hell into an alluring scent. Sona Van’s talented and empathic pen resolves this issue through the lightness of the watercolors of a great painter. Her works must be seen, without a doubt, among the most powerful and expressive works that evolve around this subject.”

As a descendant of a Genocide survivor, Van embodies the continuing trauma of the catastrophe and renews the Armenian collective memory, though her approach is quite unique. In her own words, “History is a double-edged sword. It dwells upon the recognition of the crime and its punishment, whereas evil is continuously changing its form. Memory keeps pulling us back and yet it cannot protect us from recurring evils. The continuing wars and genocides in the civilized world are a proof of this. If memory is essential, then only for the purpose of man’s recognition of his potential for bestiality and substitution of this genetic memory of destructive behavior with an ethical system that will help man catch the impulse for evil and neutralize it quickly, so that one can only manage to feel shame for having such an impulse. So that the hand stops in mid air, and the eyes are lowered as a mark of shame. The word “war” must be erased from humanity’s memory, so that it creates a feeling of absurdity when uttered, otherwise the wars and genocides will go on. But the word “war” is not condemned to oblivion; it even appears in phrases alongside other words that evoke associations of kindness and beauty in our minds, perpetuating evil. We say, for example, the “Wars of the Roses,” “sacred wars,” or “friendly missiles.” War, however, is an abnormality, and placing something abnormal next to something beautiful and sublime confuses us and disables our ability to automatically reject the evilness and ugliness in man, and defiles our ethical memory. This is a distortion, a profanation of the Word that was God and the beginning of everything. It is the poet’s task to preserve the Word, as a divine beginning, and not let it be whisked out of the poetic Eden and moved into the realm of interest, gain, and politics.” 

These reflections have found their way into Van’s poetry. She writes, for example, in “American News Report”: “a soldier dies every day / a veteran shoots himself / every hour / which amounts to eight thousand / people per year,” after which she immedialy adds: “says the anchorwoman on TV / otherwise I am weak at math / illiterate when it comes to war / I don’t comprehend it at all.” Van further clarifies this idea in our conversation, “I really don’t understand war. It seems that there are no more Cyclopes, Devils, and Dragons, but for some reason our boys are still not returning. I am simply dreaming of a world where nobody will grasp the phenomenon of war, where occupying land would seem as absurd as the idea of occupying the sun or the moon. Perhaps I am most frightened of getting used to suffering and savagery and to the lack of beauty and joy, in other words—turning evil into something pedestrian, which is advantageous to the present-day Dragons and Cyclopes. Our mothers still worship them as demigods and sacrifice their children to them. Fenelon, in the meantime, wrote that they are not demigods, they are not even human . . .”

In a world of continuing wars and genocides, A Libretto for the Desert poses new and important questions around the new hero(ine), echoes of memory, women’s identity, and the affective world. These themes have been condemned to “silence” in Armenian poetry and become revived in Van’s poems in the often mystical, venerated and, at the same time, visible, familiar, and tender personifications of the mother, lover, and wife. Parallel to the feminine instinct of creating a peaceful family, Van’s heroines are also responsible for the peace and justice on Earth. 

The swiftness of Van’s thought, the uniqueness of her perspective and progressivity of her poise have been appreciated by her critics, as is evident from Davit Gasparyan’s words: “The velocity of Sona Van’s thought is greater than the velocity of lightning . . . She arrives as the new Sappho of our time . . . Sona Van represents the 21st century of Armenian poetry.” Her poetic line is prized by the reader not only due to the metaphoric axes and freshness of her thought, but also due to the love, frankness, and empathy with which Van approaches humanity and the universe. It is her quest for aesthetic and spiritual balance in the trinity of Universe-God-Man. According to the poet and professor of world literature Artem Harutyunyan, “Van’s poems speak of man’s fate as Van Gogh’s shoes do . . .” This parallel articulates the mechanism of reparation and balance present in Van’s poetry—when reality seems to be disordered, hopeless, and apocalyptic, her images become more vibrant, lively, and brilliant, her voice sounds hopeful and empathic. And it is not accidental that her work was greeted by several human rights activists, one of whom, the Turkish intellectual Ragıp Zarakolu, who is currently publishing this volume in Istanbul (trans. Hakob Chakryan), has described Van’s poetry as “extremely compelling—a miracle.”

And finally, I conclude with the Israeli historian, scholar and expert specializing in genocide studies, Yair Auron, who has written to Sona Van: “Your moving poems made me understand and identify with my Armenian brothers and sisters, with your trauma of the genocide and the trauma of denial.”

Post scriptum. History is written by victors and it is filled with dry facts and numbers. We learn about real human tragedy and infernally difficult situations from the verses of true poets. In Heinrich Heine’s brilliant words, “A true poet’s heart is the center of the universe—and the tragic rupture of the world passes through his heart.” Only the great minds can continue to witness those catastrophic, agonizing, paralyzing stories, which require decades for representation, and A Libretto for the Desert is a testimony of unmatched force.