The short content of one of our folk tales is this. while carrying bread to her betrothed, the girl falls into the hands of robbers on the sunny road of the fields, but is saved by swearing. she has sworn that she will come to them even from the wedding veil, but now she will bring her purity to the betrothed boy. then it's already night, the bridegroom's lights and songs are left in a distant village, and the girl comes through the dark forest to those before whom she had vowed. before his light, his innocent purity, even among robbers the filth, of course, retreats into his darkness, and the fair bride becomes her fair master.
I am sure that I should not have remembered this conversation of useless and at the same time powerful purity when writing about any of our worthy ones alive - only for today's anniversary. There is an alarming and alarming vibration in each poem of Maro Margaryan and in the entire poetic process, which makes me remember that girl's night train. The anxieties of this poet of uniquely sharp feelings are, of course, the anxieties of her time and her homeland, but the reader's anxiety for the poem itself is also added to them. every time it seems that the poem as such will not be born, will not breathe, will not scream, will not scream, but every time or almost every time it is born and breathes.
William Saroyan used to say: it is necessary to write in order to write on a stone, it is necessary to see a hard stone of closed volumes and write by cutting the words, choosing and correcting the words. And even if the fifty-year-old pen of the poetess did not create exactly few values that can be transferred to the stone, and no matter how many times you review the familiar and familiar and authentic images that are a part of your mental wealth, that anxiety of the effort of your existence still does not leave you. The words of the poetess are always and only about the most precious, most important, most inconspicuous things that are seen purely by herself, and you want the artisticization of speech, in other words, immortality - this is where the lasting identification of her as a poet and you as a reader comes from.
Poetry is a rigorous science, perhaps the most rigorous of all sciences. The thousand-year march of architecture brings only a pyramid and a Hrypsime, and poetry too - it marches thousands, even entire generations and peoples, but only the selected unique ones manage to see how strict and uncompromising the face of poetry is, which seemed so promising and charming at the beginning of the march. One of those lucky few is Maro, a "blind monk" of his kind, who by stumbling, stumbling, falling, falling and always pushing himself, reached the pilgrimage of poetry.