Etching

Here all is beautiful:
The perfect forms of wonder,
The bliss of being,
And nature — a reflection of our dreams.
Oh, Lord — sheer multiplication,And the goal, implying procreation,
Forgotten.

I’m in awe — but should I not be angry?
Or is it all a dream that wanders through me?
But why, then, can’t I sleep at night?
And why do Cupids visit in their flight —
Perhaps to hint at peace that’s drawing near?
That people will be free,
And bloom in prosperity?

And I will meet you — suddenly, one day...
Which means — in some mysterious way — twice.
The words pour out —
I know they weaken all I try to say,
I suffer from this wordplay every day.
But what to do —
When paper is admired far and wide,
Safe in warm places, honored with such pride,
While people live outside,
Unseen, recorded only in the file.
And all that’s left is etching — word by word — in exile.

Review of “Etching” by Marina Kuzhman
“Etching” by Марина Кужман is a contemplative and emotionally layered poem that meditates on beauty, creation, language, and the uneasy distance between art and lived human reality. True to its title, the poem feels carved rather than written — each line incised with careful pressure, leaving behind a mark that is both delicate and permanent.
The opening stanza establishes a world of harmony and aesthetic perfection: “The perfect forms of wonder, / The bliss of being.” Nature is presented not as raw wilderness but as an idealized mirror of human longing — “a reflection of our dreams.” Yet this serenity is immediately complicated by the striking phrase “sheer multiplication,” followed by the word “Forgotten.” The suggestion that procreation — or perhaps purpose itself — has been reduced to mechanical repetition introduces a subtle critique. Beauty exists, but something essential has slipped from memory.
This tension deepens in the second stanza, where awe is challenged by moral unrest. The speaker questions whether admiration is appropriate in a world that also provokes anger. The insomniac unease — “why can’t I sleep at night?” — signals a conscience that refuses simple consolation. The image of Cupids in flight introduces classical symbolism: love as a messenger, possibly heralding peace and freedom. Yet even here, hope is tentative, phrased as a possibility rather than a certainty.
The third movement of the poem shifts toward personal encounter — “I will meet you — suddenly, one day.” The idea of meeting “twice” suggests recognition beyond time or memory, as though love transcends linear experience. However, language itself becomes suspect. The speaker confesses that words “weaken all I try to say,” revealing a meta-poetic anxiety: expression simultaneously reveals and diminishes truth. This awareness of wordplay as both gift and affliction adds intellectual depth to the emotional landscape.
The final stanza delivers the poem’s most pointed social commentary. Paper — art, text, record — is “admired far and wide,” protected and honored, while real people remain “outside, / Unseen.” The contrast between preserved artifacts and neglected lives evokes bureaucratic indifference (“recorded only in the file”) and the cold permanence of documentation. In this context, “etching” becomes a powerful metaphor: writing as exile, inscription as survival, art as both witness and separation. What remains is the act of carving words into absence — a lonely but necessary resistance against erasure.
Stylistically, the poem balances lyrical abstraction with sharp ethical observation. Its rhetorical questions create an internal dialogue that feels sincere rather than ornamental. The tone moves fluidly between reverence, doubt, hope, and quiet despair. The imagery is restrained yet resonant, allowing philosophical reflection to emerge naturally from emotional experience.
Overall, “Etching” is a thoughtful and quietly haunting meditation on the paradox of art: it preserves beauty and truth, yet risks distancing us from immediate human suffering. Kuzhman suggests that even in exile — whether literal, emotional, or linguistic — the act of etching words remains an assertion of presence.