Guram Kikabidze selected poems

GURAM KIKABIDZE
SELECTED POEMS
Guram Kikabidze

Table of Contents
The Hill of the Spyglass
The Law of Eternity
Water Flows from the Tap
Bakuriani
Winter
Salvador Dal;’s Sunny Table
Voices
Fair Wind

The Hill of the Spyglass
The frigate drives its prow into the swell.
The wind roars like a forest in revolt.
Under full sail,
aligned with the curve of the cape,
you move forward—
for there are no more barriers.
And you seek no reward—
for the reward is already the answer.
The sun, bronze with light,
lays its warmth upon your skin.

Smoke
of Cuban cigars.
A wheeling flock of gulls.
Brandy from a small cask.
The steady tack
of a swift wave.
The cocked trigger
of a musket.
The rise—
of the spyglass hill.

The Law of Eternity
Silence descends
like snow upon the mind.
Time folds inward,
like sails at dusk.
What remains
is not the noise of living
but the breath behind it.
Eternity does not shout.
It waits.
In the pulse between two thoughts,
in the space between two waves,
it opens.
And whoever steps into it
no longer fears the storm.
Water Flows from the Tap
Water flows from the tap.
From courtyard windows—yellow light.
From a vanished past
a melody flows
into a future not yet formed.

The magic of a saxophone.
Croutons sizzle in the kitchen.
Nothing tastes better than black bread.
Nothing is freer than the whole sky—
and its mortal fragments.
When an organic motif unfolds
and enchants
the single listener
in the entire universe—
the world becomes intimate
and infinite at once.

Bakuriani
At night,
when the stars ignite
above impenetrable forests,
snow wraps the trees
in white silence.
Through the thickness of summer
you still hear the wolves
howling high
in the mountains of Didi Tsemi.
And in summer—
unforgettable—
a vast red field
of poppies blazing
beside the abandoned observatory,
in the stern heights
of Bakuriani.
Winter

Winter.
Snow falls.
They whirl—
white horses of air,
billions of silent lights.
The souls of people
rise higher and higher.
Winter.
Cold in Moscow.
Cold in the Siberian taiga.
Is there love?
Inform the railway ministry:
the track is clear.
Let the train proceed—
breathing smoke,
carrying warmth.
The world begins to spin,
overrun
by billions of white horses.

Salvador Dal;’s Sunny Table
In blinding white light,
in a seaside caf;
across from childhood,
there stands a sunny table
with three scoops of chocolate ice cream
in a Soviet iron bowl.
I am a boy
gazing at that table
and sinking into the sea of what has been lived.
A sunbeam moves across the bed,
glancing off three surreal glasses
with spoons.
Morning pierces
the old embankment
of the new city.
Years later
I see that same table
and slowly
forget the cold.
Voices
I love you
where the skies swell like sails—
skies upon skies.
I love you
where miracles are born
from earthly voices.
In fields and forests
the colossi of wild grasses rise.
After the rains
we bloom again—
like spring awakening
from winter sleep.
You are free as sky,
pure as dew,
beautiful as a bird,
sad as a wave.
In the summer stillness
only the stars—
like scales—
sway evenly
above the horizon.
So near
they whisper of sand,
of hours.
Into the elements—
their miracles,
their voices,
their skies.
Into paper—
into rows—
into poems.
Into words.
Fair Wind
All day

I wandered the bay
and climbed the rocks.
So many years have passed
that time no longer matters.
The doubloons have rusted.
The corals have faded.
No one remembers
where the old pier stood.
The road to Bristol
is gone.
Only the inscription remains:
“Fair wind.”
If a single coin still rings in your pocket
before fever claims you in some distant port—
if you are shaped by rough waters
and mistrust the safety of banks—
repair the weather vane.
Become a captain
before the bells strike.
From the West Indies
you will bring shells and stories—
if you survive
when cannons
and unexploded shot
are swept overboard.
Nothing is more precious
than a gold ingot
wrapped in coarse linen.
From the ocean
comes the scent of gunpowder
and tobacco—
touched with grog.