Selected Poems 5 Guram Kikabidze

Selected Poems 5
Guram Kikabidze
One Day

One day
along a diamond staircase into the sky
we — so different in this life —
on the very last step somewhere
will turn around
and hang upon the railing.
It will seem to us we have flown
so high —
so very high.
The angels once placed us
upon a swing
and lost sight of us.
And we set that swing in motion,
knowing she would die the last,
and that her clothing was in mourning —
whether autumnal
or summer-light.

On the Surrealism of the World

In the surrealism of our world there is a certain mystery that I have tried to decipher all my life — and I know that many others have tried and still try to unravel it. Yogis consider this world an illusion, a kind of hallucination. For my part, I attempt to convey this world in words — as far as words can bring us to the threshold beyond which something transcendent begins: something barely perceptible, accessible only to the heart.

Time Rolled into a Tube of Yellow Newspaper

You will wake when the sun is already blinding your eyes,
when the morning city is already humming beyond the windows,
when the sea sculpts white pines from its waves
and carries from the opposite embankment
the resinous scent of coffee.
It is only a cup filled with sugar and water,
after which mystical patterns remain along the rim,
with the airy foam of days behind your back,
with sunlight seeping through the pores.
It is only time catching us off guard,
our faces fixed by a familiar photographer
in black-and-white.
It is only time, climbing with its web
onto the ceiling,
braided by a Swiss chronograph —
by Mistress Clotho.

In Memory of Joseph Brodsky

“Only fish know the price of freedom.”
You were right.
You loved to speak of Russia,
America,
Greece.
You smoked a lot.
You loved wandering through Venice.
Though perhaps that no longer matters.
You loved Petersburg.
Remain there then.
Swear freely.
Multiply life by two.
Walk half-naked.
With a sky burned by clay.
With the naked sky of Rome.
Sealing its ruins into a word.
Your truth, Joseph, was not affordable for everyone.
It irritates the eyes,
lodges like a fishbone in the throat.
You were another singer of trifles —
with whom has this not happened?
You were the one, Joseph,
to whom one could forgive
an obsession with Empire,
with knees,
with breasts,
the hobby of crossing space with time
and drinking
expensive wine,
chasing it with mercury.
Joseph,
I love your speeches about days
that smell of fleeting Christmas.
Your words about snowflakes,
camels,
dreams.
Life, Joseph —
is its endless dream.
And it (you sensed this early)
sometimes makes us weep at night.
And a tear runs down the cheek
at the speed of light,
burning you, orphan,
burning me, orphan,
blinding him —
with Moscow skyscrapers
like wax candles.

The Door to God

Good afternoon.
Listen —
I would like to see God.
Stand in line.
Don’t you see?
The reception room
is still closed.
What is He doing in there?
That, comrade,
is classified.
No one knows.
Don’t worry.
You’ll be called.
May I warm myself here
by the stove?
Yes.
You may also eat some buckwheat
and halva
in the cafeteria.
Alas, you’ll have to wait a long time.
Just for a minute.
I am like a needle.
I’ve been waiting two hundred years,
trying to slip through the cracks here.
Nothing страшного.
You’ll wait another three hundred.
What did you expect?
God may, at any moment,
even in the middle of the night,
raise you from your bed
and, frankly speaking,
freely —
even if you did not wish it —
have a conversation.
Just to ask a couple of questions.
Nothing special.
How are things? All well?
From such questions no one suffers afterward.
But from time to time
people change.
I do not know in which direction —
this way or that.
Many return.
Some leave the planet forever.
How much longer must I wait?
I heard the reception is open on weekends.
Hard to say.
You never know how things will turn.
But your gravestone
has already been cast
by our skilled craftsmen.
Really?
And what does it say?
It says you lived only two days.
Two days?
That’s not true!
You died an infant
in your mother’s arms.
The doctors certified it.
Incredible.
Well, then don’t believe
everything you see.
That is why this reception
does not exist.
How so?
Where am I now?
It is one in the morning.
You are asleep.
Or rather — living and sleeping.
And sleeping and living.
In essence it is the same thing.
For when you live — you sleep.
Only when you sleep —
do you truly live.
My God, what is this?
Life succeeded.
That is the trick.
The reception exists only when you sleep.
I don’t believe anything you say.
Very well.
Shall I show you the door?
An ordinary plywood door.
You could break it down with your foot.
On it — one word: Believe.
Call it a game if you wish.
There are several buildings in the world
from which you may enter
that door.
And what is behind it?
Behind it — earth overgrown with grass.
Open it and you step directly into a wild field.
This is surrealism.
More than that:
there are several doors
leading to the same field.
They mix space and time.
Merely an optical trap.
Take a mug, for example.
You may fill it with milk.
With mercury.
With any murky substance.
Or take a girl.
Who is she to you?
Wife? Lover? Friend? Bitch?
I want her to be my wife.
Then she will be —
in the next life.
When?
When you wake.
How many years?
Two minutes.
I am so grateful.
May I shake your hand?
Unfortunately, I have no hand.
Then your foot.
The foot remained stuck
in the door.
So you also tried?
Yes.
Where is this door?
That
I will never tell you.
13 July 2009
The Clocks Tick in Silence
The clocks tick in silence
like a bomb measured in TNT —
in ten minutes the street will explode,
left to itself,
curling like a colored ribbon,
drawing the pedestrian in
for a cup of coffee
in a familiar caf;
with an unfamiliar profile.
No matter how hard you stare
you will not discern
an angel in yellow boots,
in a chess-colored cloak,
in white corduroy trousers —
not even in paintings
let alone in life.
But life is sharper, more joyful than legend.
As quickly as a stone sinks to the bottom
your road curls into the sky
from that colored ribbon.

Fair Wind

For days I wandered along the bay
and climbed the cliffs.
So many years have passed
that time no longer matters.
Doubloons have rusted,
corals faded.
No one can tell
where the old pier is now.
The new caftan turned to rags.
No road leads to Bristol anymore.
Only the sign: “Fair Wind!”
If a guinea still rings in your pocket
before Yellow Jack finishes you in a ditch
somewhere in Guinea,
if you are used to rough life,
have breathed in the ocean
and do not like keeping money in a bank —
repair the old weather vane.
Become a captain
before the watch bells strike.
From the West Indies
you will bring exotic shells,
and all the girls will be yours —
if you survive
when the guns and unexploded cannonballs
are washed overboard with everything else.
Nothing is more valuable
than a gold ingot
wrapped in coarse linen.
God bless King George!
From the ocean blows the scent of gunpowder and tobacco,
slightly mixed
with the aroma of grog.
2007