Two Poems

Maia Giorgadze

(with Martin Smith)

In sadness wrapped, I strolled along where the waters hum and fret;

I longed to rest in solitude and all my cares forget.

And there beside the flowing stream, in utter weariness,

I sank upon the soft green grass and wept in bitterness.

Borne on the sigh that silence heaves the Mtkvari's murmur rose,

And in its lucid beds the azure skies found sweet repose;

And here beyond the strife of life, beyond all sordid noise,

The mountains brooded over the land in calm unvarying poise.

I listened to the river's hum, I saw the heavens bend

And kiss the mounts that with my soul and sorrow seemed to blend.

Meditations By The River Mtkvari - Nikoloz Baratashvili

In Spring

Tender, frail, blue-eyed small violets:

The wind is blowing and the rain drops

Fragrance of a woman, fragrance of the rose,

Imperfect, wind-blown fragrance and blue flowers

Present... future... imperfect Invented hopes

They thirst after you, my tireless thoughts

Day dreaming and at night dreaming

Wind is, blows, and is whispering

That it also is full of darkness:

The night darkness, all round with groom.

Bright moonlight, king of the stars

Passage to the stars.

Silence all around is looking for a queen:

I wish it lasted it not so far

Something odd, a strange heavenly light,

Inappropriate moon

And its silence is somehow dreaming of you

The secret feelings... the passions and the wishes

(I managed to forgive you)

*

Tender, blue-eyed, frail violets

The wind is blowing and, as the rain drops,

Fragrance of woman, a woman; fragrance of rose.

Imperfect, wind-blown fragrance of blue flowers

Present... future... imperfect Invented hopes

They tire after you, my never quenched thoughts,

They tire after you.

On The Tomb of Edgar Allen Poe

Behind the shutters, somebodys sobbing,

Rending the heart of a severe morning.

Even the sun has lost its shine,

Is out-of-the-way in the sky.

And only one who knew the secret.

Who heard his shout, who heard her cry

Remorselessly the Paris traffic moves on.

It was a heart of a pretty mistress.

Don du pote

(by Martin Smith)

With you, Im like a seven-years child

Unwrapping a birthday present.

My heart: raging and wild

But the package itself so neat;

The stamp on the outside, for a start

Postmarked, The Solomon Islands

Was so sweet. Blue, ochre and dusky

Gold, warm colours for when Im cold.

The postmark itself having that insecure

Firmness of purple, somewhat attached

Summer strings. Or betimes, magenta.

Girls know about such things.

Ecstasy of knife unclenching the grasp

Of protective scotch tape hemming in

Sweet treasures; and against textual bubble wrap it is

That my hand doth graze.

Such packed rigour will even so yield in coming

months By movements of my hands and arms

Unpacked and finally dissolved - it will be knowledge:

My knowledge of your charms.