WHERE does Georgian poetry stand today? The question of the same context, logically, is to be asked about Georgia, the country, located at the intersection of Europe and Asia, especially in the ongoing turbulent political situation, when its 20% is occupied by Russia, now in an ongoing war against Ukraine. Still, the question is absolutely legitimate about contemporary Georgian poetry, in the country of such big names like Shota Rustaveli, Nikoloz Baratashvili, Galaktion Tabidze, etc., but not at all few for such a small nation. Georgian poetry today is neither behind, nor at the border of the map of the poetry world, but truly at the crossroads where the national Georgian poetic tradition merges conceptual and stylistic aesthetics of European, American and Oriental poetic mindset. Through translation, words of poetry travel beyond borders, consequently, Georgian authors have never missed the opportunity to read and reflect on what others think and write. Accordingly, the translation and publication of Georgian poetic works internationally is unreservedly imperative. The insights and concerns of modern Georgian poetry are suffused with deeply philosophical, sophisticated and mature voices, questioning the achievability of any logical assumptions, conclusions and explanations of the human role in the universe in which the future is “obscure and insecure”:
“Did you know that
a human invents a thousand things
to avoid loathing the self
and pursue life
as if there were no inane deaths of children,
as if adults don’t get their brains whitewashed,
and as if the future didn’t seem so obscure and insecure.”
(Paata Shamugia, The Midnight Catechism)
The same Paata Shamugia masterfully applies utterly profound humor to wade through the cruelty and injustice of existence, in order to survive and go on:
“And the one who lives to die for poetry,
will be killed by the prose of life.
The one who dies, will rise
or be resurrected (depending on the dictionary used).
The one who shoots birds,
will die a dog’s death,
accompanied by weird twittering
from the other side of the walls,
but not the twittering of birds.
The one who flies away,
will fail to fly back,
though, let’s face the truth-
the one will never get the chance to fly,
so regrettable.
But this is how the dialectic of life works-
without any likelihood of desire
or joy to alter it.“
(Paata Shamugia, Elementary Binaries; Translated by Inga Zhghenti)
The outstanding Georgian poet Lia Sturua, through the shockingly unexpected pattern of words and style, travels deep down into the human psyche, declaring alienation to be the unavoidable human condition, in which
“Age translates life’s misadventures
into a bed of roses.
Every day
we go out into the streets
to build the same roads-
They cross one another
in a bed of iron and concrete.
I feel like a stranger in my city-
Children never recognize me.”
(Lia Sturua, Alienation)
Of course, Georgian poetic voices do stand against war and cruelty. An established Georgian Poet Diana Anthiamidou describes the tragedy of lost and unborn lives in Mariupol:
- My mum?
- Yes.
- My dad?
- The body not found yet.
- The city?
- Still standing, though in smoke.
- And your children?
- Will never be born.
Zurab Rtveliashvili, a distinguished Georgian futurist and exponent of sound poetry, whose untimely demise occurred in 2021, innovatively pioneered a distinct artistic-aesthetic amalgamation. His pioneering aesthetic pursuits, guided by the principle of new syncretism, sought to redefine the expressive potential of language, endeavoring to transmute experimental linguistic elements into poetic narratives presented to the audience through the medium of theatrical and dramatic declamation. An exemplar of this technique can be witnessed in his prophetic poem about war in Israel titled ”Who Knows What Fate Awaits Us”.
So, Georgian poets, like many recognized American names (e.g. John Updike, whose poetry is often assessed as focused on “small things”) have concerns about the death of big things while small things happen, e.g. Giorgi Lobzhanidze, orientalist, translator, and poet, exposes the routine of everyday marriage life in which the eternity of love has to cope with the challenges of doubts and survival:
“We are filthy, I said and lit a pipe.
My lady was baking a cheese pie,
She was hot and horny around the oven,
Sweat was running down from her armpits.
I loved her the way she was,
Around the oven, with daily chores,
Still satisfied with her fate.
I sucked her nipples as I kindled a fire in my time-honored pipe.
I loved her. She was dumb,
Silence and filth covered her from head to toe.
(Giorgi Lobzhanidze, Bathhouse)
And let’s get back to the initial question - where does Georgian poetry stand today? Maybe this is the same as asking where Georgian poets, poets from the country of wine and poetry, stand with their vision and focus. They stand with poetry itself, they stand where poetry is at stake and needs to be defended, they stand at that critical point, where, as Shota Iatashvili states, words of poetry have reached their “critical countdown”:
“Words abound more and more.
It happens due to a huge increase in commodities, scientific-technical Terminology and demand for description and identification of everything.
Once in one language they are born, then, with the restless motion, they
Continuously walk into other languages.
New words are mostly rough.
They clash with old and subtle ones.
This produced an engaging effect previously.
But they gradually reached the critical countdown.”
(Shota Iatashvili, The End of Poetry)
Nevertheless, whatever dangers poets envisage for poetry, Georgian poetry is free and limitless, capable of crossing any border:
“So easy to call out Manhattan
from here, in the dooryard of a forgotten village
of this lost country,
when the end of fall
is so sunny and warm.
Take a chair outdoors to sit,
open a magazine to read,
read poems by a certain Hans Promwell,
yep, by Promwell, but there used to be Cromwell as well
with some rats in the attic in a different way,
but we’ve lost interest in him, indeed.”
The extract above is from the poem Manhattan in a Dooryard by Temur Chkhetiani.
As genuine and powerful poetry does, the poem unites the feelings and emotions of any human anywhere, whether “in a forgotten village”, or in buoyant and hectic Manhattan. So, where does Georgian poetry stand today? Here is the explicit answer:
It stands with the spirit of the world poetry as it breathes the spirit of the world!
Translation: Manana Matiashvili
Glory to the war, glory to steel!
Glory to the hailing bullets in the background of suns,
Glory to the rivers followed by
the symphony of cannons.
Glory to death and the dead
buried in the earth or lost on the way,
Glory to all who believe
the angels of sheds will arrive!
Translation: Manana Matiashvili
A hit in the air of hi-nation!
A raid in the scarlet air of hi-nation!
In that tight air!
In that burning air!
In that sky-high air!
A targeted raid in the air of hi-nation!
Who knows what fate awaits us No one knows what awaits us
– Whatever fate awaits us – who knows what awaits us
Nobody knows what god’s plan is, nobody knows our fate
Whatever fate whatever fate whatever fate awaits us
Who knows what fate awaits us No one knows what awaits us
Nobody knows what god’s plan is… we’re unaware of our fate
A hit in the air!
In the burning air!
In the tight air!
Ma-haaa nation
Airrrrr nation
Heiiiii nation
Airrrr nation
Whoknowswhatfateawaitsus, Nooneknowswhatawaitsus
– whatfateawaitsus – whoknowswhatawaitsus
Nobodyknowswhatgod’splanis, nobodyknowsourfate
Whateverfate whateverfate whateverfate awaitsus
Whoknowswhatfateawaitsusnobodyknowswhatawaitsus
Nobodyknowswhatgod’splanis… we’reunawareofourfate
Translation: Inga Zhghenti
The lemon gives its creepers
to the tea sugared abundantly.
Age translates life’s misadventures
into a bed of roses.
Every day
we go out into the streets
to build the same roads -
They cross one another
in a bed of iron and concrete.
I feel like a stranger in my city-
Children never recognize me.
I avert my eyes from the acquaintances,
to whom I owe smiles and regards
and listens to their meaningless talk
on weather and health.
Dog Latin scratches my ears-
will it ever be mistaken for music?
I see the conservatory building,
standing far away, in winter,
pointing its throat, polished vocally,
to people, panting, like me.
The business of used cars
has accidentally swallowed
such delicate nuances
like spring and autumn…
But when the man,
who taught me the secret of the moon, lemons,
and painted limitless emotions with appropriate blood,
was alive-
I had my ups and downs,
But creepers were permanent…
I felt good…
Translation: Manana Matiashvili
It’s impossible not to notice these trees,
Oh, these trees.
It’s impossible to swallow all this green without tasting its beauty.
It’s impossible to walk along and
not to be surprised at them,
Impossible to look at trees without
being mesmerized.
Is it possible to reflect all this green brightness,
blooming in your eyes,
and think the world is still so trivial?
Like these trees, you’d planted in front of our house,
I grew and, like them,
I want to keep looking up at the sky all day long.
I want to look amazing with green on my shoulders
and light brown on my feet.
I want to wear the clods on foot,
both escaping from Earth and staying here at the same time.
I want to make friends with the grassy lands around
and talk to them about the love, that raised me up,
talk with my mouth full of earth.
Translation: Manana Matiashvili
Here is my beloved from a village,
His words have a strong accent.
All he knows, remembers, or has heard for now
is the following: My sweetie. My life. Ma’ girl.
He has large hands with the smell of the soil,
his head is hollow and empty,
it’s easy to communicate with him, though not interesting.
Not necessary to inform him about it. I’ve tasted him – that’s all.
Here’s another of my beloved: he looks like a prince from a fairy tale
with his fire-like golden hair. August is burning on his chest.
Looking into his eyes one can think he has captured a wolf as well as a demon in his body.
Sometimes he hides his body in the cassock. At nights
he dreams as if chrism has been disposed of from his skin out of his excessive imagination.
The next one among my men is full of pride and dignity,
His body is all stretched, and his feet are fine.
Sleeping with him is like the arrival of unexpected guests at night
and laying a table and tidying up for them.
He knows everything about us but will never admit it.
I really loved him.
My beloved is a pedant and intellectual person.
From time to time he touches his glasses with his finger to maintain balance.
Before he decides to make love with me (if he ever does)
it’s usual for him to pray
while I’m waiting and looking at the ceiling full of stars.
Then he takes off his clothes and calls me only after getting into the bed.
The other one is poor, not good-looking.
Being with him gives the same sensation of a part-time job –
less tiredness, less salary.
He is indifferent towards our unity and forgets all immediately.
I… him…. No, not worth mentioning.
One of my men is a rich one – a Very Important Person.
He is swinging a key around his finger (what key? – I don’t know, but
a more important fact about him is the act of swinging itself).
My beloved is sensible and cynic,
his body has encountered dozens of women, but he still stays innocent.
Though tired, his soul is free, written and re-written many times.
Another of my beloved looks like a map. I am following the lines with a finger on his body
and when I stop my finger at his organ, it comes to life.
It always happens when I touch him
with a knee
or a belly,
shortly,
it always happens when I touch.
Being with him is like licking an ice-cream while lying in a hammock,
Being with him is like lying under him
while he’s sure he reigns. Let him think he rules,
that fully coincides with my wish.
Being with him taught me how to love properly.
Today all my men are coming to pay the final tribute.
Today all my sweethearts belong to others.
Feel free to do whatever you wish with them.
I love freedom, I really feel free.
Translation: Manana Matiashvili & Inga Zhghenti
– My primary school teacher?
– Yes
– A florist from the next street?
– Yes
– A cellist girl with an injured shoulder?
– Yes
– My first boyfriend?
– Yes
– Our neighbor’s three kids?
– Survived.
– A baker I used to buy Vatrushki from for breakfast?
– Wounded.
– A boy from the neighborhood always
listening to loud music?
– Was mined.
– A green-eyed girl secretly writing poems?
– …Who is that… screaming under the ruins?
– My mum?
– Yes.
– My dad?
– The body not found yet.
– The city?
– Still standing, though in smoke.
– And your children?
– Will never be born.
Translation: Manana Matiashvili
We are filthy, I said and lit a pipe.
My lady was baking a cheese pie,
She was hot and horny around the oven,
Sweat was running down from her armpits.
I loved her the way she was,
around the oven, with daily chores,
still satisfied with her fate.
I sucked her nipples as I kindled a fire in my time-honored pipe.
I loved her. She was dumb,
Silence and filth covered her from head to toe.
I watched her finish baking and put a hot cheese pie
on a clay plate.
Then she stared into my eyes.
I was hungry. Maybe, that’s why I felt suddenly horny
And decided to seize her peace.
I touched her lips and sucked her tongue
to take out the words she couldn’t utter
right from the tip of her tongue.
She held her breath
and stared into my eyes.
Then, as if she were an abandoned well,
Shocked by the nakedness of my words,
Turned deep into herself
and answered back with those words
I had called down.
She was dumb. I loved her,
Her way of performing daily chores
and being satisfied with her fate.
Crows were cawing outside in the snow,
The shreds of soot were flying down from the fireplace.
I don’t even remember what I thought
(probably kindling my time-honored pipe),
when my lady suddenly started to speak:
Don’t be afraid of words,
This long silence has taught me everything I am about to say
and my dumbness given me precision,
so, I claim now:
We’ve been in filth so far.
Do stand up!
We’re going to the bathhouse!
Translation: Manana Matiashvili
The genesis was fine:
the overflowing crowd of people has engulfed
all groups of rulers with the power of fluent speech
and their people within authorities of civil and armed forces too.
The rain of tourism has not stopped yet.
A lot of serpents drowned in the fight with it,
a lot of monsters wished to die in the dungeon
while we were moving towards the myth of Mount.
Hey, you, ritually clean countries,
bring your sacrifice to the altar of the Lord.
Let ritually unclean ones make noise –
their economics has no value.
Some are really monogamous,
but those are birds of prey and they cannot masticate.
Some are not birds of prey and they are able to masticate,
though everybody knows they are ferociously polygamous.
Some others have promised to be castrated,
but rain has been falling for so long
one cannot even open the door.
Why is the eagle on edge?
It can forsake a whole family of ravens (including grown-ups and babies)
though space for eagles here is quite lessened.
The swan had no characteristics to be the first –
it’s neither a bird of prey nor a treacherous one
(it’s faithful to its partner till death).
The pelican was not bothered to fly forward and then back.
As for the pigeon, it was most appropriate –
not being a bird of prey and monogamous by nature.
Be sure it will fly to land
and will return with olive leaves.
Don’t quarrel, please,
nobody wants wine more than me!
Translation: Inga Zhghenti
So easy to call out Manhattan
from here, in the dooryard of a forgotten village
of this lost country,
when the end of fall
is so sunny and warm.
Take a chair outdoors to sit,
open a magazine to read,
read poems by a certain Hans Promwell,
yep, by Promwell, but there used to be Cromwell as well
with some rats in the attic in a different way,
but we’ve lost interest in him, indeed.
Do read Promwell’s poems
and feel how the huge and hectic Manhattan
steps into your silent dooryard,
how you move into the fuss and solitude of Manhattan
and how you get lost.
Then you’ll realize
how close your filthy room is
to the brilliancy of Manhattan;
how openly your dooryard accommodates
all the turmoil, attempts and disappointments
of Manhattan.
“Fall is boring in Manhattan without love”,
and not only in Manhattan…
But now it’s sunny and warm here,
boredom temporarily goes away somewhere…
I’m strolling down in Manhattan, smiling,
till it returns.
It’s autumn –
It’s sunny and warm…
What’s going on there, Hans?
What’s the weather like there in Manhattan?..
Translated by Inga Zhghenti
Did you know that
a human invents a thousand things
to avoid loathing the self
and pursue life
as if there were no inane deaths of children,
as if adults don’t get their brains whitewashed,
and as if the future did not seem so obscure and insecure.
Did you know that
the only justification for art is that
it helps us labor under the temporary illusion
of making sense of life,
and, as for death, not secret at all,
it’s postponed for an indefinite period.
Did you know that
the only people talking about death
have never ever experienced it,
and the ones who have,
keeps suspiciously silent.
Let the alive talk about
their alive ones-
who wrote this? - no idea
as the author was killed
by Roland Barthes
and Roland Barthes himself
was killed by a driver
in a car accident in 1980
and the driver himself was killed by our Savior
who also killed 400 thousand people
in Syria
and 15 thousand people in Abkhazia,
and, just anyway,
he also killed several thousand
in Samachablo.
Did you know that
before his death
Charles II had apologized
for dying at such an unsuitable moment.
Did you know that,
in general, there is no suitable moment for death.
Did Charles II know about it?
Did you know that
death does not exist at all.
This is a linguistic case,
a program error
crept into reality by mistake.
Actually, death statistics
proves absolutely the opposite,
but this must be a kinda hoax-
just social engineering to divert attention.
Did you know that
like death,
no rainbow exists either,
it’s not a rainbow you look at,
you look at your mind
visualizing a rainbow,
still beautiful, isn’t it?
Did you know that
some deaths might be
beautiful.
Moreover, there must be some beauty in death-
a friend of mine said so.
He couldn’t tolerate hideous deaths,
those unintended and accidental ones -
as if you would stumbled over a child
who fell in the street.
He himself had a beautiful death-
people were satisfied.
Did you know that
satisfaction is a patent of happiness,
palmed onto us in this world,
like something initial and genuine.
The instructions for being happy shall be rewritten.
Reality shall be made chaotic.
Do you think we really stood for all this in the wind and rain?
Did you know that
some might be born
and then disapprove of things we’ve mixed,
but a folklore expression
already has a reply for those.
Moderate writers usually replace it
by ellipses.
Did you know that
any full stop has the right
to be an ellipses
and through a pause, as resilient as a snake,
to secure a gap between the speaker and the message …
Is this really enough to saving us from awkwardness,
from silences filled with messages,
but, still fine -
it’ll scatter the sense of the absurd
like an election commercial does in the middle
of a film-
conveying nothing,
but spoiling nothing, either.
Did you know that
if you wash your hands with ’Safeguard’,
your skin will be tender
like a baby’s tushy,
and ’No-spa forte’ will assist you to release spasms
(read the label before you take one).
Did you know that
Seneca wrote to Lucilius about an outdoor advertisement.
He was outraged at the squawking of vendors
walking from street to street,
screaming loudly the names
of goods they sold.
Marketing in the classical era!
Absolutely unimaginable!
Did you know that
I’m selling a collection
of poems for 99 Gel and 99 Tetris,
you’ll get an anthology of Georgian poetry as a bonus.
The birth of poetry from a collective spirit.
Did you know that
now, the very moment I’m writing this line-
it’s my birthday- March 20th.
And it’s also Otar Chiladze’s,
Henrik Ibsen’s
Daniel Cormier‘s
and Guja Mekvabidze’s
birthday
(has failed to become a character
of one of my poems so far,
so I’ll give up on him.)
And, furthermore,
there is a coronavirus pandemic in the world and
quarantine and
self-isolation and
economic crisis
and there surely is personal crises
to the very extent unsuitable for March 20th.
The time has stopped, the seconds have curdled-
now you can touch and shape them
and get into that happy illusion of grasping time.
Did you know that
from time to time happiness becomes ambitious to impede us,
capture and tame us,
but we do not easily let it do so.
You do agree, don’t you?
Happy people are boring,
I’d once experience that boredom, though, why not!
By God!
Did you know that
we, Georgians, also have some boring writers
but still have failed to get the Nobel.
Maybe something else is needed. No idea.
Did you know that
a problem, well-stressed in a good creative work,
can achieve absolute materialization-
while reading Hamsun’s Hunger, I ate three cheesy breads,
a pot of beans,
two Kakhetian Shotis
and I still felt hungry.
Did you know that
up to a milliard of people suffer from famine.
I’m not against banning hunger,
quite a useless phenomenon.
Did you know that
the prohibition of everything was
the problem in the Soviet Union
and the Post-Soviet problem is that
everything is compulsory.
E.g. voting in the elections,
civic responsibility,
seizing the moral high ground
and looking askance at others.
Even being a hero is compulsory,
at least once a week or so-
a bit tiring, but you gradually get used to it.
Did you know that
there are ex-heroes,
no longer in need,
there are even ex-girlfriends-
absolutely sure of that.
Did you know that
a navel is our ex-mouth
we used to eat from while in the womb
but we don’t appreciate it at all,
neither does anybody or anything ex-.
Writers would never say a word for them and
Zurab Tsereteli would neither raise a grandiose navel monument
in an avenue named after one of the poets.
Did you know that
an ex-poet got into the mood of
settling pauses between words,
and exactly the moment when he recharged metaphors
and was about to gun down readers,
words betrayed him.
There is no one to trust.
Did you know that
in the 90-ies a famous Georgian writer
was caught with her lover by her husband
while conducting a special operation of saving species
and since then the one has only managed
to conduct this noble act
while waiting for her embittered husband.
The man is miserable
and when being miserable,
the man is innocent
Misera plebs. Friends, truly, Misera plebs,
a fortiori that
’You do not know when the owner of the house will come back—
Whether in the evening, or at midnight,
Or when the rooster crows, or at dawn.’ [Mark, Chapter 13]
This makes the story so sad that
it’s even a little bit hilarious.
Did you know that
if a man realizes the hilariousness of himself
he’d be deliberate when mocking others.
For this reason, try to be as compassionate as God,
but let no one idolize you-
results in crucifixion.
Did you know that
the habit of idolizing someone is as unconscious a habit
as a fizzy drink during a hangover-
changes nothing, but you still have one.
Did you know that
if you shake Coke and pour it into a bath,
it won’t remove yellow grime-
this is a piece of empirical evidence.
Did you know that
there is empirical evidence that
the man is capable of enduring thirst, hunger, and even love for a long time.
Did you know that
love lasts for three years.
It lasts even longer, but there is a novel saying so.
And a novel itself is a genre-
invented in the fifteenth century, surviving to date
but did only appear in Georgia in the twentieth century-
not well-done, though, not at all.
Maybe it was hindered by the masons, wasn’t it?
Do we have any right to talk about it?
Did you know that
the yellow press said I was financed by the masons?
Did you know that
I used to be furious about it
as I’ve been living in a university dorm ghetto so far
where even the elevator is out of order
(sometimes it works, I do have to admit,
especially, at New Year.
Consider that we do have two days for New Year-
much better for the elevator).
Did you know that
writing about the self in this manner is an old-fashioned method,
only mediocre poets use this trick-
aiming to move the audience
and extort social capital from them.
This is called capitalizing on poverty.
Did you know that
you can dearly sell your poverty. Oxymoron -
do you know this word?
You do know suspiciously much!
Who are you ?!
Did you know that
Who am I?- is the only philosophical question-
etceteras are just manipulations.
But even this question has been unanswered for so long.
Perhaps we aren’t ready for it.
Perhaps philosophy conceals itself from us,
favoring us gently, as they say.
Did you know that
New Year is celebrated twice in Georgia,
(therefore, I also mention it twice)
but in case you are not that lucky to be born Georgian,
you can try another method:
Celebrate New Year in Sydney,
then fly to Honolulu-
12 hours behind Sydney.
This is how one can celebrate New Year twice.
One New Year is enough,
for a standard person, though.
Did you know that
a standard person has 46 chromosomes,
whilst a standard potato has 48.
No need to hurry to make evolutionary conclusions,
though potato is always good -
medium baked,
flavored with basil and mint,
seasoned with stewed onions and cherry plum sauce.
But a man is not always good-
whatever medium he is.
Did you know that
the significance of moderateness is overestimated,
I do think the word is lobbied by lexicographers.
Do you really think it’s good to be a moderately talented writer?!
Far it be from me!
Or a moderately dead man,
Or a moderately alive one?!
Did you know that
Santa Clause does not exist.
You must know.
Sure of that.
Did you know that
“Only when the last tree has died
And the last river been poisoned,
The last bird been caught,
Will we realize we cannot eat money.’ -Tatanka Iyotake.
Did you know that
my homeland-
expectant of the European Union subsidies,
expectant of the World Bank subsidies,
expectant of the US Congress subsidies,-
abounding in hungry children,
in belly-pinched poets
looking down through their empty pockets,
also abounds in Toyota Priuses
and human sorrows,
but imposes 199 Gel as the cost of living-
figuratively speaking,
of course, not even enough for a decent dog.
Did you know that
some metaphors
have lived through never appearing in any poem,
so, they deserve a separate dictionary
to train our tongues.
Did you know that
any tongue print is unique,
exactly like a fingerprint.
This might mean that each word,
after it steps from the mouth,
is unique and worth respect.
Perhaps, it means nothing like this at all-
no one knows
where writing logic leads us.
Did you know that
the manner of thought while writing by hand
is different from the manner of thought while typing.
Absolutely identical thoughts
bend absolutely differently on paper
and absolutely differently on screen.
(Dictatorship of the medium!)
Did you know that
the most annoying question for a poet is: why do you write?
Are people with cancer really asked why they have cancer?
Did you know that
poetry is not a profession,
it’s a disease, a pathology, virtually,
(comes as pathology, buster)
and is no less bitchy
than Covid -19,
a religious bigot
or an electric chair.
Did you know that
an electric chair was invented by a dentist,
and a toothache itself was invented by our Saviour,
who also invented a headache,
a liver-ache,
a heart-ache,
coccyx tale and
supinator muscle diseases,
and, at the same time, a pain caused by a metabolic disorder
and, surely, pain in the kidney.
Did you know that
if there was no God,
we had to invent one,
and as we did invent,
I.E. there is no God.
Did you know that
we’ve become mini Gods-
going to colonize Mars
and, in parallel, someone ate a bat in one of the Chinese villages,
so we had to close down the earth.
Did you know that
the man is miserable,
unable even to nominate the own self,
so, the one who asks - who we are,
should only be welcomed with silence
or Sorrowful laughter.
Did you know that
laughter
brings more oxygen into the body
than normal breathing.
Therefore, let’s laugh:
Hahahahahahahahahaha,
Hehehey
Hey
Hey, you, the Aragvelians,
Did you know that
Chrysippus – a Greek stoic philosopher,
as it’s fabled,
laughed at his own joke in a way that he died of … laughter.
What a non-stoic behavior!
Did you know that
the one who laughs is the one who laughs in the end.
And
it is God
who laughs
in the end.
He is laughing,
Laughing,
Dying of laughter.
Translation: Inga Zhghenti & Manana Matiashvili
Words abound more and more.
It happened due to a huge increase in commodities, scientific-technical terminology and demand for description and identification of everything.
Once in a language they are born, then, with a restless motion, they
continuously step into other languages.
New words are mostly rough.
They clash with old and subtle ones.
This produced an engaging effect previously.
But they gradually reached the critical countdown.
The intensity of accidents is resulting in the collapse of poetry now.
Writing only with old words is shameful and ridiculous,
and writing only with new ones is impossible.
So, operating with both of them is needed.
New and rough words shall clash with old and subtle ones,
the more the better.
Even if you’re against it
These new ones are aggressive
and even a few are injected in poems,
The whole stream will follow.
Now their fierce clashes with one another overwhelms.
It well befit poetry, doesn’t it?
All this is so disastrous, though –
with this risk of accidents, even poets with supreme mastery
fail to achieve proper esthetics.
Even good poets will die from poor management of words.
Poems will turn into piles of clashed words.
And this will be the end of poetry!
