Copyright © Vincent Hunanyan, 2017.
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ANY PERCEIVED SLIGHTS OF SPECIFIC PEOPLE OR ORGANIZATIONS
Dear friend, let me begin this book by thanking you for your interest in
reading my work, I am very humbled. As a preface to these poems, I would
like to say a few words about what poetry means to me.
I believe that good poetry resonates with people on a metaphysical level;
you can read a poem without quite being able to put into words why you
enjoyed it. It could have been the shivers that ran down your spine or the
elevating of your heartbeat. Or, it made you smile, or even cry; made you
A key component of good poetry is honesty; much of the poetry in the
world doesn’t speak to people because it is forced and pretentious. If what
you write is true and honest, and you put some actual effort into it, I believe
people will respond to it.
I write only that which I know, that which I can feel and try to transcend to
the reader through a few lines. Nothing else concerns me.
I think that most people don’t read or appreciate poetry because they have
been exposed to too much poor poetry, and been told by their professors
to interpret them in a certain way, like th; ere is a science to interpreting a
There isn’t; poetry, just like any other piece of artistic creation, is subjective.
You cannot ruin someone's interpretation of a poem by explaining it. But if
the poem doesn't speak for itself, ultimately, it is a failure.
So, please don't ask me what my poems mean, I really couldn't tell you. I
can only tell you what they mean to me. But by doing so, I would ruin your
own interpretation of it.
Whether this turns out to be a work that resonates with you, I have no way of
knowing, but I would like to thank a few people, nonetheless.
I would like to first and foremost express my deepest gratitude to my family,
who has supported me in all of my endeavors, even when I suggested
something so ludicrous as being a writer.
I would also like to thank a few professors from my past; Michelle Huneven
and Karen Kevorkian for working with me and pointing me in the right
direction, Professor Nersessian for being a great teacher and for
introducing me to the world of William Blake, and Professor Torres, for her
enthusiasm and passion in teaching English literature.
And lastly, I would like to thank Maggie McGill for inspiring many of these
poems. Once again, thank you for your interest, and I hope that you enjoy
War bells toll, red raindrops fall
Achilles bolts to catch the wind
To clench the rage that lurks within
Spartan soldiers blow their horns
To warn the foe of a gruesome war
And all the while fair Helen groans
Tears up her veins and goes insane
And begs the gods to stop the rain
The Prophet cries you’re all condemned
And gives his life for a greater end
Simon’s Son smiles in despair
And sobs and sighs and plucks his eyes
And lights another cigarette
To comprehend that he is dead
To no result and all in vain
For he forgets about the rain
Dear Dylan sings of times to change
And thousand years go by the same
So Father deems the death of Caine
Yet Caine escapes his frightful fate
And runs astray in a drunken state
To help suppress his dreadful shame
To never be afraid again
And find a shelter from the rain
Another father leaves his home
To be a ------------, rolling stone
And all the children smile in pain
Mother cries and begs and moans
And years go by and all is lost
For the creature cared for most
Is but a picture in their brains
When she went dancing in the rain
The wind grew weak and winced away
And artists came with acts to play
And all were given time to mourn
The distant memories at dawn
The village prayed and children hushed
And all farewells were swiftly rushed
The trees stood tall and insects crawled
And there was no more rain to fall.
To broken hearts, to broken dreams
To me and you, to you and me
To all the friends and all the foes,
To those who love and those who don't
To those who have and those without
To parent's scorn, deprived of doubt
To those who give, to those who save
To those afraid, and all the brave
To all the seconds, unforgiving
To the departed and all the living
To those who dare, to those who care
To those in bliss and in despair
To all the smiles and all the laughs,
To all we love, on love's behalf
To all the pain and single cry
To happiness and every high!
Ballad of a Broken Man
Embrace your loneliness; repent,
For all are lonely in the end.
Embrace it, child, and don’t let go,
On tales of bliss do not depend.
For in a life of quid pro quo,
Within the current, puppet show,
In solitude you will but cry,
Until your heart can bear no more.
And as your tears fade out and die,
Leaving marks of frail goodbyes,
Bright blue sky will not shed light,
On precious days of sweet July.
The only thing remain will night,
Reveal itself nor wrong nor right.
Sporadically, and out of sight,
Sporadically, and out of sight.
In solitude in bed I lie
And all the while the sirens cry
A homeless bastard passes by
The smell of urine rises high
And hides away, above the sky
Forsaken dogs bark in the park
Fireworks in distance spark
And I wake up, and still it’s dark.
The desolate degenerates of cyber generation
Are singing songs in reference to all of God’s creations
While popping pills of preference and other medication
And raising spirits of content in blissful celebrations!
If I Were Standing At The Gate
I'd let you in undoubtedly
So you could spread your joy with me
And we would sing and we would swell
As the inevitable farewell
Would slink upon relentlessly
And we would part in grave dismay
And in our graves like statues lay
Until the day, we both await
When we are standing at the gate.
If only I had a brilliant mind
I’d waste away my days, for days
As of this day, I am at waste,
And still I lack a brilliant mind.
Up In The Air
When I was a child of seven,
I dreamt of God and heaven.
When I was only eight,
I was told to wait.
When later I turned nine,
I saw an act that was divine.
A year passed by and I was ten,
I prayed in pain, he hushed again.
Later still when I was twelve,
I saw a book upon my shelf.
I read it ‘till I was thirteen,
As I envisioned fields of green.
Years went by, I turned fifteen;
To become more foul and mean.
By and by, I came of age,
As I reached the final page.
But Perished From The Earth
Fie upon your holy scrolls!
Your bodies burned and turned to mud!
Shame upon your timid souls!
Your kin enslaved, betrayed by blood.
Your voices veiled and damned by birth;
Your bliss, your hopes, your joys, your mirth!
And what is left, my distant friend?
A spot, a piece of sand, your land;
That’s all but perished from the earth.
Yesterday I smiled so brightly
Yet you could not help but cry
All the nights must seemed so frightening
When the dark betrays the sky
And the birds begin their screeching
In a dying wish to fly
I truly tried, but couldn’t reach you,
For my love for you had died.
More’s The Pity
More’s the pity, youngster
More’s the pity, my young friend
Why in cells of rue thy cluster
Until you for your sins repent?
My Dreams (Written for the guitar)
I think I’m fine but I’m suppressing;
These feelings, I can’t explain.
This play I’m in is quite depressing,
And acting’s never been my trade.
Pretentiousness is our foundation,
To hide our weaknesses and pain.
Our eyes reveal our desperation,
And the attention that we crave.
I want to hide and disappear,
For even though I’m not alone;
With hundreds souls inside my home,
I find no inner peace at all.
Hate is easy, love is hard,
You may linger, time will not.
The last string strums; your hours are up,
The time has come to raise your cup,
And bid farewell to all time bought,
The countless lessons never taught,
All the treasures never sought,
And all the battles never fought.
Tick tack, you have arrived,
And no one here gets out alive.
Little child, why do you cry?
Am I to sing your lullaby?
Am I to stroke your silver hair,
To soothe your soul in your despair?
Am I to hold you to my breast,
Until your sorrows are at rest?
Little child, rest now and smile,
And I’ll be with you all the while.
Do not lose heart and cry in fright,
For I will sing all day and night.
Mommy Keeps On Crying
Mommy keeps on crying;
There seems to be no money.
Daddy’s gone to find support,
The food supply is growing short.
The winter wind is blowing cold,
The fire in the oven glows.
Brother’s sick and sister’s smiling,
Every breath is growing soft.
Mommy’s eyes are running;
There seems to be no money.
And daddy’s back but broke,
Stomachs turn and prayers choke.
The wind is growing violent,
The fire in the oven wafts.
Brother’s sick and sister’s silent,
Every breath is turning soft.
Mommy grows delirious;
The food is all but gone.
Daddy’s eyes are serious;
For he seems quite withdrawn.
The wind is pounding on the door,
The fire in the oven gnaws.
Brother’s still, forevermore,
And there are no more breaths to draw.
Bring me closer to the unknown,
We’ll live forever; they tyrant’s overthrown.
Revolution was our only solution,
Since evolution led to prostitution.
Mommy’s in the kitchen crying
Daddy’s drunken on champagne
Shattered dreams of futures dying
Children hold their breath again
Mommy’s sobbing in contempt;
For every promise never kept.
For all the anger, endless pain;
Things will never be the same.
Daddy beats her like a beast,
Until one day she is deceased,
And the children left bereaved,
Of all the love and care received.
Forgive Me Lord
Forgive me Lord, for I am flawed,
I pity those who pity me.
Suffering torments my heart,
And I grow numb the more I see.
Lay your mines under my feet,
I’ll spread my limbs upon your street.
And you can honor my demise,
With tales of truth and other lies.
I am the cause of my decay,
I am the end of my desires,
I am the legs that walked this way,
I am the hands, that lit this fire.
I am the mind that thinks I’m fine,
I am the reason that is absurd,
I am the diamond that rarely shines,
I am a sea of empty words.
I am the anger that wants to scream,
I am the pain that wants to cry,
I am the climax of my dreams,
And I will live, and I will die.
Remember love, how we used to play?
Indulging in day-dreams far away,
While all the singing nightingales,
Would chirp in sync, behind the dales.
Until the sunrise stretched its rays,
On our bare bodies in the day.
And we would smile and laugh and rise,
With happiness inside our eyes.
Remember love, when we used to say,
We’d dance to the second suite one day?
The villainy you teach, I will execute,
In soft disdain, and silent vile,
I will revenge with but a smile.
And bait your flesh to fish withal;
For all to see your downfall.
Henceforth to stand on top your tomb,
With tears of joy upon your doom.
Another Child Conceived
My mother bore me in late May,
And I was peaking out the day,
Or the night; she can’t recall,
Daddy’s sitting home, appalled.
Another child, another pain,
Another mouth to feed, again.
Dad ran away, did not look back,
Perhaps to cut himself some slack.
He couldn’t stand the dread received;
Of yet another child, conceived.
All The Children
All the children run away
Parents have forsaken them
And left them in dismay
So the children run astray
To exotic lands to play
To forget the dire past
And to find new bliss and joy
So their smiles can glow and blast
And their hearts pure love employ
And all the time that will have passed
Will soothe their memories, at last
And they will all live happy lives
And have children of their own
A loving husband, loving wife,
And leave all miseries behind.
Your heart is pounding sharp and loud,
Drops of sweat run down your brows.
The blood is rushing down beneath,
You gulp for air, but cannot breathe.
His eyes are dark as depths of hell,
His smile is cruel, and nothing tell.
His tongue is sharp, his eyes ablaze,
His thoughts; obscene and lack in grace.
Your eyes decline down,
You lower your head.
Your smile is a frown,
Your face’s turning red.
You hear your heart bursting,
And howling for help.
But your body is thirsting,
For what lies ahead.
I Drove You Back To Leave The West
I drove you back to leave the West
You pressed your face into my breast
Our parting smiles, so sad and soft
And my heart burst as I drove off.
Sun Deprived People
The sun deprived people,
Are falling down steeper.
And no one ever dares to tread,
Upon the dead that lie ahead.
And the city reeks of fear,
The antagonists draw near.
But the people laugh and cheer,
To disguise their weakened hearts,
And indulge in pompous art,
And to each play out their part,
To appear mature and smart,
Until the city falls apart.
And no one ever dares to tread,
Upon the dead that lie ahead.
Red Brick House
The red brick house on the hill,
Stands by the well and the blue mill.
And everyday the old man plows;
The sweet, rich earth, and milks the cows.
When all is done, he laughs and grins,
And lets the wind caress his skin.
And life is easy, undismayed,
The old man sings under the shade.
Until the sun descends afar,
Surrendering to all the stars.
Ode to Vietnam
The Vietnamese are peaceful people.
With spirits full of life and joy.
Their hearts so kind and smiles so gleeful,
And every little girl and boy;
Run ‘round with bare feet in the streets,
With laughing faces, bright and sweet,
Then they invite me to their feast,
To offer me all that they own
And so I write this piece to thee
So your warmth won’t pass unknown.
The little boy and all his peers
Are playing games in blissful cheers
When cries of joy turn into tears
And smiling faces into sneers
The sirens squeal and planes appear
And little children run in fear
Bombs are dropped all through the year
With every shower more severe
Until the city’s turned to dust
And there is no one left to trust
And children’s limbs are torn apart
Under the weight of purple hearts
Life goes on with new souls born
Until there’s no one left to mourn
Another life, another birth
The little boy lay in the earth.
The music ends, in strides Macbeth
He drinks to life awaiting death
In runs her Majesty the Queen
But does not tell of where she’s been
Hamlet cries and leaves the scene,
Captain Black kneels for the Queen
The Queen embraces Mr. Beam
In marches proudly, Ho Chi Minh
He looks around in disgust
And talks of all he feels he must
Mr. Daniels’ close by
He drinks martini, looking shy
Lenin looks up at the moon
And howls “the end is very soon”
The Man of Steel thanking the snow
Finds his foe in Mexico
Napoleon yells for Fouché
To write a speech full of clichés
Robespierre corrects his errors
To quickly start the Reign of Terror
Jesus preaches of remorse
Nietzsche’s talking to a horse
Mr. Mojo crawls the stage
MLK waits for a change
Rosencrantz and all his friends
Hang themselves for greater ends
Godot at last reveals his face
But leaves again in loud disgrace
Mr. Blake runs on the green
Singing songs of all he’s seen
Oedipus plucks out his eyes
Welcoming his self-demise
Iago takes the center stage
And locks the Queen into a cage
Othello enters in distress
And turns his wife into a mess
Mr. Shelley aids his wife
To draft the best book of her life
And life is good and full of glee
Until he drowns himself at sea
Swift employs relentless wit
Finding a solution for the Brits
Socrates dies for the truth
Despite corrupting all the youth
In an act of retribution
Martin drafts a resolution
To prevent an institution
From subtly selling absolutions
Shylock standing ‘front the court
Begs the juror for support
After turning down in gold
Three times more that he is owed
Hamlet enters one last time
But forgets all of his lines
Ophelia runs to his aid
Crying that she has been made
The curtains close, the lights grow dim
All the people clap and scream.
The Little Boy Is MIA
The little boy is M I A
Presuméd slain, amidst foul play
A letter’s sent to mom and dad;
“Your son is dead, do not be mad”.
Ode To A Best Friend
I am not sure how to begin
I fear my wit’s betraying me
But to convey the way I feel
I must insist for all to see
That even poetry at times
In perfect symmetry and rhymes
Cannot do justice to a friend
That even words cannot transcend
But at this moment, let me try
To do my best and dignify
The one, to whom I write this piece
Through these feelings, now released:
I thank you, friend, from all my heart;
The one you shaped, gently and smart.
For all you’ve seen
And all you've been
For every fight and every pain,
And every tear that fell in vain
For every how, and every why,
For all the times you had to cry
For everything that you have taught
And all the battles you have fought.
Without your grace, without you calm,
I know not what I would become.
A beast at best, at worst a thug,
Insecure, frightened and smug.
You filled the void the best you could
And really, who could ask for more?
And though, at times, misunderstood;
You’ve come out stronger than before.
As such, this piece has been to date,
The toughest thing I had to write.
But out of every rhyme I’ve made,
I hope this brings you most delight.
And I hope that you do laugh,
And when you cry, it is of joy,
And I hope that you do smile,
For your laughter and your bliss,
Has always calmed my worried mind.
This poem is for you, mom,
I truly tried to do it justice.
I Know The Words You Want To Hear
I know the words you want to hear,
You want my whisper in your ear.
But when I do, you’ll disappear,
For things are never what they seem.
The Trail of Desolation
One hundred years went out of mind,
And out of sight it set.
But the torment still won’t subside,
Nor can our hearts forget;
That million’s lives have been denied,
And million’s more upset.
Yet a nation lies and bluffs,
And blindly fails to see.
That hundred years are not enough,
Nor will a thousand be.
There is a sting in your heart reminding you of the cigarette you smoked six
months ago. The second sting dries your throat and pressures your memory
to reveal that it was actually four and not six months ago that you smoked
that cigarette. And if the third sting hits you within the next five minutes, you
assure God that you will give away all of your belongings and fight world
hunger if only you don’t die within the next sixty seconds. Most of the time
you don’t die, and to honor your vow, you give a dollar to a homeless guy.
To celebrate the fact that you are alive you buy an Xbox and mass murder.
While looking for clean underwear, you stumble upon the American Spirits
that you now remember were actually bought two weeks ago. In a moment
of hesitation you remember someone saying at some party that American
Spirits are “like, not bad for you at all.” You buy the homeless guy a
cheeseburger and light up.
There is a sting in your heart and you squash the remaining two cigarettes,
throwing the packet violently into the trash, cursing Phillip Morris and that
fucking idiot at the party. There is a second sting. You pack the Xbox and
the twenty-two games to give away, first thing in the morning. While
cleaning your apartment with Rosetta Stone, you are struck with a third
sting. Falling to your knees, you beg you heart to stop the symphony and
God to forgive your broken promises, promising to never break another
The next morning you buy six packets of nicotine gum, two packets of
nicotine patches, and a Tony Robbins book. You volunteer diligently at the
homeless shelter for three days straight, and you even shave every morning.
You have not had a drink in three weeks, and you finally gave away the
Xbox. You’ve been a good sport. But you forgot the trash.
Close Cover Before Striking
She looked good in the coffin. Better than ever, actually. The funeral folks
had done a fine job making her look more alive than she had ever been.
She had never had the slightest hint of femininity in her. For his
confirmation, she had come dressed in a white t-shirt that said, ALL PRIESTS
ARE PEDOPHILES, and once her fourth beloved had left her, she stopped
wearing any cosmetics altogether.
The funeral parlor was empty. Sitting in complete serenity, Melvin
wondered why he couldn’t cry. Deep down, he had to feel something. He
knew that nobody had the right to judge him for not crying, and though it
felt natural to cry, he could not.
All his life, he tried to love her. He drew her landscapes and made her gifts
out of anything he could find. He wrote her poetry and he wrote her songs
and played his guitar with much skill and effort and… she proved unlovable.
Melvin’s father was not around- war had demonstrated the brute nature of
men leaving him in a state of chemical imbalance and he didn’t spend much
time with his son but preferred the company of his long time friends, Mr.
Daniels and Mr. Beam until the two claimed his life on his son’s sevenths
Melvin’s scars were mostly physical, and by her doing. She had once
poured boiling water over him for his lack of vigilance after he had gotten
robbed getting her pills. He had begun boxing to blame the bruises on the
sport and reassure the troubled adults that everything was all right. When
he was old enough to strike her back, he did not.
Melvin hurried to the bus station after the ceremony, with her remains in
hand. He was running late, threatening to ruin his perfect record of twentytwo knockouts. In his ten years a boxer he had never been late to a fight.
He dug the right pocket of his threadbare coat and reappeared with a white
matchbook he had been given at the parlor. “Think outside the box, plan
your funeral- Kleinfeld & Sons Mortuary” was written in black. He flipped the
matches, “CLOSE COVER BEFORE STRIKING. KEEP AWAY FROM
The blue bus arrived at last and Melvin got on. A sudden jerk of the wheels
forced the urn from Melvin’s grip onto the floor and it burst, and so did
Melvin’s heart as he fell to his knees, hopelessly trying to gather the remains
of his mother, desperately thrusting the dust into the torn side pockets of
And then Melvin cried.
A stout toddler arched beside Melvin and stretched out the brown paper
bag of his Happy Meal without uttering a word, but Melvin would not
accept it. Instead, he stood up, emptied the side pockets where the
remaining of the dust had stuck onto the cloth of his coat and exited the
He entered the ring where his opponent, a scrawny Irishman was waiting in
the corner and began with a jab, moved his head to the left and followed
with a violent uppercut, another jab, feet swiftly to the left, right, then a
hook to the ribs, and another to the head, and another one, and another
one, and another one...
Dear friend, now that you have finished this book, I would like to thank you
yet again and I hope that you liked it. If you did like it, I am pleased to
announce that I am working on a full-length novel that I will be released
soon, along with more poetry. As a last thing, would you please, please,
please, leave an honest review on amazon? Even a short review helps and
it’ll mean a lot to me. Click here: https://www.amazon.com/review/createreview/ref=cm_cr_dp_d_wr_but_top?ie=UTF8&channel=glancedetail&asin=1521345465#
Add me on Instagram for more poetry, @vincenthunanyan and tag any of
my poems that you enjoyed, #blackbookofpoems
Thank you, and have a blessed day.