Time is as objective as the whole world is objective. When you put the figure of the beginning of the century next to the figure of today, it turns out that time is tangible, like this tree, this field, this homeland, from which you can leave, which you can approach.
Sahyan and his generation brought our present mess on their own hands. It was a tragically beautiful generation, it was the generation that held the gun like a spade and crushed and crushed fascism, which it might have called "fascism". That generation, in complete solitude, buttoned its pants, ashamed of itself, sat down on bread ashamed of its own kind, because in the field they had grown up together, he had made him a man, he made him bread, and after that substitution it was now treason to eat his friend in the field. With the same hammer of the forge, that generation would beat the shield of the atomic reactor, not knowing what and for what it was fighting. Today's times, yes, have brought a generation bent on the old slab of morality, but a person's action always precedes both his heart and mind. Rutherford had cracked the nucleus of an atom, stood in the midst of the enormous energy emanating from that nucleus, and considered the mere recording of that fact delirious. Sahyan and his generation divided time like this.
Time was split not in the Hamletian heart of the poet, but indeed it was split, and the graceful character of Sahyan's poem emerges from that abyss. He is a tendency, he wants, he strives to fill that gap with himself, because one cannot be the father of a family between a grandfather and a grandson and allow the grandfather and grandson to live in such turmoil under the same roof, because... When talking about poetry, what is the "why"? she is beautiful, she is, and the fact of being and being like that weighs a deep respect in a person against that unmasked, not dressed in the latest clothes, not substantiated, whose existence is not proved by the presence of some armies, against the open confession - "I am here, but my heart is in the Scottish mountains".
This seems to be a fragile creed. In any case, with this confession, the poet exposes himself to the risk of being challenged, at best, of being ignored. It seems that it was necessary to enter into a dialogue with time with the lexicon of time, it seems that it is necessary to pull the wave of friendly-national-social emotions under your short poetic height and appear... on the top of Masis, but then the wave passes and the rift opens that has called so many one-day giants.
In order not to be like this, it is necessary not to fall in line with someone else, whether that other person is a great poetic personality or a "many voice". In order not to be like that, it is necessary not to be a citizen and not to become a voice of citizenship. And although civility is the most devouring and devours hatred equally with love, pantheism equally with urbanism, also the "philosophy of poverty", also the "philosophy of opulence", also the work "Cities" written against itself, and it will also devour your personal grievances of the poet who have nothing to do with his demands, but they are already him - responding to his demand and your poet's self. forcing - are completely different things. In the second case, one can hope for the humanization of the city.
Hamo Sahyan forced himself. It seems that he shouldn't have been able to, because the complex of symbols that he brought and which is generally an intermediary language between the polar script of the poet's soul and the poet himself, that complex was old and he already felt the need for decoding, but Sahyan forced himself.
He forced, because what matters is not so much and not how new or how old that complex of symbols is, but only how much that complex is one's own, how much one's image words are one's own, which pull the poems like strings, which turn the verse into a poem. The ox, the rainbow, the boy, the longing, the anxiety, the yearning, the carapace, the care are, of course, old, but they are old in the same way, in grammatical or even spoken language, they are old even in a good poem of a mediocre poet, because they are introduced into the poem by the same. A bell without a bell sure doesn't ring well. Those old words should get the new meaning given by the poet, become a character again, be the poet's messengers with the poet's mission, and in that case:
...the song is really a song
What is the old and the new?
Many people write a poem, even a good poem, but few enter poetry: those who come with their own complex of symbols, images, words, accent, their own alphabet, and among these few, those unique ones become great in poetry and are called great, whose complex, whose alphabet revives their own soul with the possible accuracy and possible completeness, yes, the polar script itself. On the other hand, there are so many people who are rich in spirit, poets inside, who never become poets, because they cannot approach themselves, the black ram takes them sometimes to Tumanyan's kingdom, sometimes to Lorca's, sometimes to Charents or Narekatsi. They are beautiful kingdoms, but in this case they are called the dark world, because poetry is a journey to oneself, the poet's self-discovery, with self-discovery, the discovery of a new world, in the above-mentioned cases, what happened was not a discovery, but a fact of destruction, the reason for which is the lack of one's own means of travel and the adoption of someone else's means, which is equivalent to jumping on a black ram to reach the world. As far as the comparison suggests, let me say that Sahyan every time, constantly, so constantly that it seems that he once and for all jumped on the back of a white ram and every time and always came to his kingdom of light. Since "Songs and Wounds" our poetry has rarely had such a fountain as "Swans". Also like Before Sunset, also Sesame Street.
His unified image of the poem and the creator is in some sense very similar to the image of his own glorious "Pope", the worker who does his work, everything himself from the beginning to the end -
My grandfather drove
My grandfather sowed
And during the harvest?
Sickle in hand
The wrist hurt...
If it were not for this wonderful question (for a thousand reasons, it could not be), for the sake of understanding, I would make the poet's figure parallel to the tree, the tree itself relying on the power of its root in the larg aparage, which calls the dead inanimate to vibrant life by its power alone. It turns out that only in this way, through mysterious effort and suffering, a tree, a bush, a grass, a spike, in a word, a plant, does not become, but there is also the ambition, which sticks to the already living body of the tree and feeds on already prepared lymph. In the world of plants, it is one of the rare cases, in the world of poetry, it is very common. Botanists call them parasites, literary critics, unfortunately, only epigones, only epigones, that is, poets, but epigones when the first and only condition for being called a poet is how lifeless you have called life, what new plantations you have taken from the jungle of reality for poetry, how much you have added to the "national wealth" of poetry, more specifically, have you added to the existing one on the face of the earth? amount of gold.
Hamo Sahyan has entered the Mejlis and is making his extravagant speech with only his "SAHYAN" ringing gold, which was dug, refined, cast and sealed by himself.
Sahyan is a great poet, although, with a strange logic, it is difficult to use that adjective to describe someone who "doesn't speak big things", but considers himself called to "spear the advice of election experts", which seems to have nothing to do with patriotism, but is as high patriotism as Tumanyan's biography, which seems to be out of date, but is out of date just like Metsarents.
There was blood in the world. - There was a riot and a fight.
Enormous forces rose up against each other.
In a village far from the world, a reed flute cut,
The sun sang and this sick, genius young man sang spring.
In other words, it is the most sensitive time responder.
Sahyan is the poet of tomorrow more than today.