სტატიების კატალოგი

Wrapped in second-hand rags,
Smiling with a king's pride,
You love, but not enough to be loved,
You hate, but not enough to be hated.

Can You scream now?
Why not!
No?
I can even wear my second-hand rags with a Leer's pride.
And mourn about nothing.
I have done it once
Long, long ago.

Tariel Chanturia 

Infectious Poem

In Commemoration of Nodar Dumbadze

Life is contagious! - Plague is contagious!
Tears are contagious - I got infected and I am crying!
April is contagious - violet-lilac color!
Smile is contagious! - And a woman,
And the will, to make a fool of the world!
The story of my life will soon be over.
And the earth, which I used to eat, will fill up my mouth!
Measles are contagious and a bitter sorrow too!
Full moon is contagious in late May!
Venom of mistrust and suspects is contagious!
Night's dreams are poisoned with a day's mess…
Glimmer of suspect will set a huge fire,
Grief, and passion, and those tears…
Sorrow for homeland Mountains is contagious!
Death is contagious - I am infected.
And I am dying.

A Disappointed Thought

A poem needs a heart. A poem needs a liver.
A poem needs a tear, and plenty of your blood.
A poem needs a leg. A poem needs a hand.
A poem needs a brain and a forehead as well.
A poem needs dollars. Rubles are also needed.
True poetry needs sex. And a poem comes next.
A poem needs fury. A poem needs a fist.
A poem needs Barbie for a granddaughter’s smile,
A poem needs wine, fruits and vitamins as well.
Plenty of sleepless nights and time to time a nap.
A poem needs anger. A poem needs poison.
Centuries (a lot), and a couple of seconds.
Surely, at night - surely, at noon,
Devotion of somebody's, devotion of yours.
A poem needs poetry. A poem needs candies.
A poem needs honesty.
A poem needs cedar. A poem needs oak.
A poem needs a heart and a bullet in that heart.
A poem needs a mountain. A poem needs valley.
A poem needs a wife (sometimes a second wife).
A poem needs a breast and a dagger through that breast.
A long and quiet sleep. A dead mom's lullaby - so sweet.
A poem needs sheep and a shepherd for that sheep.

I do know what a poem needs
Have no idea, who needs a poem?

Mamuka Salukvadze

A Dream

I was on my way to somewhere,
Having no idea why and where,
And another road crossed my way
Biting my feet,
Scaring me for a minute,
And I stopped and saw a stone
With a inscription:
Left you go - you fail,
Right you go - you succeed.
Straight you go – There is your dream.
And I went straight
And there was a dream.
I couldn't believe, it was a God's gift.
There was a small spring,
I drank that stream-water but couldn't slake thirst,
I got scared, stopped for a minute
And passed that spring by,
And came to a riverbank,
And saw a beech tree,
And a colorful bird
Singing a strange song.
I wish, I had never seen that tree
Or heard that singing.
Then, I would never regret.
I couldn't believe, it was a God's gift.
A chased the bird but couldn't catch it.
Couldn’t even say, was it a crane or something else,
Or was it my fate,
And I got scared again,
Stopped that hunting,
I had a long way to go
And I did so.
Then I looked forward,
And saw a Golden Fleece
With shining, diamond horns,
A face of Armazi,
Gati and Gatsi
With cat-like eyes,
Or man-like eyes,
Raised with an oxen blood,
Not with a cow’s milk.
And I haunted the animal
But couldn't catch it.
I wish I had been struck with lightning
And the place got hot under my feet.
I lost my way and took a wrong road, trespassing,
And a beauty approached and kissed me,
Got shy and run away,
Stumbled over the stone on the crossroad.
And I was awoken,
I saw the sun coming in through the window.
The autumn sun.
And I looked out.
And I saw the Caucasus Mountain tips
Glimmering in the sun beams
Yes, I saw it, beautiful Georgia,
My motherland,
My gorgeous people.

A Stream

Say, tiny stream
Why I am so sad
I feel I’m getting wasted
Like a picked valley flower.
Neither a canary song,
Nor glimmering stars
Make my heart rejoice.
Say, tiny stream
What’s happening to me?

And the stream says:
As the saying goes
There is a secret - very old,
Seek for a smile in joy,
And joy in happiness,
Happiness in freedom,
Freedom in yourself,
Yourself in others,
Others on the earth,
The earth between seas,
And the seas on your planet,
And your planet among other planets,
Other planets in eternity, and the eternity in a song,
Sing your song and rejoice,
And never feel wasted away
Like a picked valley flower.
Say, tiny stream,
A singing tiny stream,
Are you happy indeed?

Iza Orjonikidze

 Anti-feminist Song

Fight for me my love,
Please, fight!
He, who is lazy to fight for a woman,
Will never fight for his country.
Fight for me my love,
Please, fight!
Give me a brake from that masculine burden,
And let me live - Just Be Alive,
Fight for me my love,
Please, fight!
Make me feel that pleasure - Being Born a Woman.
Endow me with that harrowing joy...
Fight for me my love,
Please do so!

Rene Kalandia

***
And every following day
Begets a pain
Like Gypsy woman delivers babies...
If I could only know,
I’d never write a line,
But go to a long sleep, or lie dying.
If I could only guess, I’d never utter a word,
But swallow my tongue and become a dumb fish.

If I could only feel,
I’d get deaf
Admiring Beethoven.
I’d get blind,
And walk along with Homer’s divine book
Where are you, my dreams?
Why is your river drained?

Lali Gulisashvili

I Was Killed

I was killed,
I was abounded,
Life was a waist.
You found me
And buried me,
You took care of a waif.

Life is a mystery,
A big discontent.
I was killed
And you were there,
You covered my bare bones
With a pale cloth,
And God saw you -
Merciful God.

Our Kitchen

We lived on a big, dusty road
We met on our way home.
Sitting alone,
Having nothing to eat…
Stove is a mother,
And tap - a father,
The clock is my grandma's stiff voice,
Window is a brother,
And the candle is a baby -
Hungry as a wolf,
But cannot help him.

Michail Kvlividze

The Excursion at the Georgian Poet's Memorial House:

 Here is a poet's desk 
And the bad and the wardrobe
With the hidden letters from a jealous wife.
Died in the armchair
Not drunk, almost sober.
Here is the rifle.
He was about sixty.
And this is his last self-portrait.
A circus clown.
Please don’t be surprised,
Even Mr. Culture Minister has noted that for several times.
Please, this way now
And keep away from glass.
On this shelf you can see love letters.
The number of them proves that
He was beloved by females.
Nothing to laugh at!
Here are the manuscripts of his best poems:
"The Moon of Mtatsminda”,
"Judas’s Monologue”, etc.
Bibliographical documents are presented here
And the entire corner of repression period materials,
The adventures of a Georgian poet.
The picture from Siberia.
Among the exiles.
And the security wires all around.
Cabins, the monument of Stalin.
And the red banner on the top of a guarding post.
Here are the periodicals of those years:
"Party’s Enemies are Peoples Enemies!” or
"We Must Destroy Party’s Enemies!”
And the signature of friends and Celebrities.
Here, he is at home.
So much changed, hard to recognize.
That old woman, sitting beside – his second wife,
Russian – from the same camp.
In this picture he is in the coffin.
Dead.
And here the excursion is over.
Thanks for coming, have a nice day.

Family

Makvala Gonashvily

Tell me, who are our children?
The bridge between us?
The chain, linking us to the family?
The whip, driving us to work?
The golden bank of our genes?
Passion, for ever eternal?
Or our dearest grave-diggers?
Is that true?

We value children by, how respectfully they bury their parents.
Parents mention about their children when they want to show off, or vise-versa,
They want to make changes in their children’s innocent smile.
We often fail to notice our imperfection even before the mirror.
And hate to see our imperfection in our children,
We often punish them to spite each other:
"You’re, absent minded like your mother!
"You’re, growling like your father!
"You care only about words like your mother!
"You are a spitfire and merciless like your father!

And the child cries like a helpless, abandoned creature.
And the child is shivering all over – our hearts are bleeding.
I embrace our child and your scent intoxicates me.
You embrace our child and my scent intoxicates you.
And you start kissing our child’s moist eyes.
The child calms down immediately,
The child smiles and all our wounds are cured, pains – killed.
The child’s smile lights up the world.
"Tell me, where is your soul?”
"My soul is in my children!”
"Tell me, where is your soul?
"My soul is in my children!

I press my shoulder to yours
And two huge wings grow from our shoulders,
They keep our family from an evil eye.
What is eternity compared to our children's smile?