воскресенье, 3 мая 2009 г.

Poetry - Janri Gogeshvili / Georgia (country)

Janri Gogeshvili,_ prosaist, poet, playwright, essayist, publicist…


From Dream into Reality


The globe… the world visible and invisible… faith, homeland, Love, devotion, treachery and deceit, duty and obligation, love for the humankind… each writer has an opinion of his own about such and similar everlasting values…Expression, love intrigue, irony, satire and pathos developed as intuition, attract and delight a true reader… and the narrative rich in parables resembles peculiar treatment and interpretation…

(Translated from Georgian...)


Go ahead, and call upon the new hopes,
Slake their thirst with the nectar.
Who needs woman’s eyes,
Full of malice and vice?

Wear your mourning attire
At the gates of your wishes…
Send out roots in your relish.
Tender is the day and wordless…
In the sky the knight vanishes…

Go ahead and call upon a tiny bird,
In its voice, reproach is heard…
I follow invisible notes,
The chased soul upon me calls…

I hear the moon breathe
In the rustle of leaves.
The thought – the steed of desire
Flies up to heavens…
Your absence does not make me blind,
Your absence is no weight on my mind…

I sank as a verse in the pool of mist,
I was born in the darkness of the Present,
I beheld the light in the soul,
I was born anew… I turned into one whole…

Woman’s eyes inflame my heart,
Woman is my love and enchantment…
Others’ rain has often soaked me through,
I’ve seized by the mane others’ currents.

The great feeling has abandoned you,
You failed to see the frescoes of relish.
I remain faithful… I’ll stay with you,
You just take care not to perish…



The breeze blows, blows carelessly,
Bringing the aroma of wine,
And the wind of love and passion, too,
Blows in the soul and mind…
It blows in the soul of a middle-aged man,
And assaults the sails of desire.
“Oh, what if… oh, what if…” he thinks,
And his heart is filled with fire.
The middle-aged man cooled down his heart,
Plunged into thoughts, lowered his eyes:
“Oh, you grey, you grey-headed fool,
Come to the ground from the skies.”
The woman seemed to read his thoughts,
She smiled at him as if saying:
“Why have you locked up yourself, man?
You are not so old, not so grey.”
Perhaps she wanted to speak to him…
No, no, of earnings she thought…
And the man, too, thought just of profit,
So hard and cruel was their lot…
The middle-aged man’s wife was pregnant,
The seventh child is no laughing matter…
The market was lit up by roses,
By violets and glowing petals.
Just for a moment, he ventured to dream,
Just for a moment, he hoisted the sails.
Then he tore them down, and the passion
Was gone away with the gales…
The woman left, the fragrant woman…
The horse gnawed the bit at the plow…
And it seemed to the middle-aged man
That someone had stolen up to him,
And given him a kick – a hard blow…
The man looked about, he was all eyes,
Like a robber, like a dizzy outlaw.



A drama with lyrical affection

The cold draft bursts into the house,
It freezes, winter bangs on the doors,
A single tear hangs on the eyelash,
Like the yearning - of mine and yours…

If you are hopeful and trusting,
Your soul is full of passion…
But somewhere whines the dog,
Somewhere vanish constellations.

The hope never dies, the hope
Is our glamour and our sweetness,
Your tear resembles the yearning,
That seeks its nest in the heavens.

A hungry man darns his dreams,
He has to support his kids,
But his wife thinks of the guy,
Who’ll turn her grief into bliss…

But the kids – the heavenly gifts,
By their warbling put out the fire…
The cat grieves at the fireplace,
Reading the woman’s desires.

But no! She remains a faithful wife,
She must help her spouse. She must!
The cat resembles a tax collector,
Eyeing ashes with a hidden lust.



Go ahead! Assault the space,
Tear up the tangles of your fate.
Your diligence will bear fruit,
If you’re kind to the untrue mate…

So what if he betrays you,
So what if he sets a trap!
You just soothe and console him,
Think him your “devoted friend.”

Come on! Assault the space,
Cheer up a coward and a weakling.
So what if he disappoints you,
And to your wounded shoulder he clings!

Go ahead! Assault the space… tell the sneak
You see his point… Be wise.
Tell him you know he was crushed by force
When they made him tell lies.

What so if he tells on you once more,
If he again lays fault at your door!
Some day he may be sorry, of course,
He may suffer the pangs of remorse…

Go ahead! Some day, all the treason
Shall be justified… mercy wins…
Each alibi will seem transparent,
“Forgive” will spread its wings…

Come on, and pierce the space,
And your grief will go sluggish…
The heart is still frank and sincere…
The respect for “fists” will flourish…



Mr. X went out and spat,
He thought himself clean and nice.
His dog, too, passed water…
That spittle turned into a puddle,
Not without the help of other guys.

A man splashed into that puddle,
His wife turned him out: “You smell bad! ”
She thought of Mr. X: “how tidy he is…
-You remind me of a lilac bush-
He whispers, and bows his head…”



A worthless man demands justice,
Complains of his misery to God,
Of those who, cause him trouble…
He forgets that he is a fraud.

A worthless man demands justice,
Reproaches others for being grim,
He says that he is robbed of money,
That a woman has deceived him.

A rascal weaves worthless thoughts,
Tries to deceive even the All-Wise,
He keeps on mourning over himself,
Pretends to be honest and nice.

When he finds himself out of danger,
His prey he devours and tortures.
He gnaws away thousands of hearts,
And then, mourns over his fortune.




The malady can be healed by madness…
He plays a fool, but he is a sage.
The time of such wisdom has come,
He preaches the wisdom of age.

The nail is hammered into the wall,
The woman hangs on it flowers –
A bunch of violets of the dale.
Her eyes resemble your eyes…
The violets light up the nail.

Just a wise man can reject wisdom.
He carries out his task, he’s preaching.
All hail to the fool in Christ,
All hail to his blessed thinking!



All hail to the purple race
That flutters from heaven
And the space beyond.
It is to bestow mercy
On us, on our kinsmen,
But it will descend
With tears and lament.

All hail to the purple race.
The scent of violets makes
Dizzy and drunk any lass,
And Love – the sacred feeling
Beautifies all
That is heavenly and thrilling…

All hail to the purple race.
“What nonsense! ”
May someone say.
That race annoys many,
Even the sages,
But is anyone told
About the ABC of the world?

All hail to the purple race
Favored buy the heavenly gift.
In our bodies that race will wait,
And take an earthly breath,
Then it will be
Altered and changed…

All hail to the purple race!
First of all, let’s be honest…
The life we strive for
Is the heavenly scent,
And the breath of the earth…



To the unknown brother-in arms

You fight against your own body,
You crave for training your will,
For being more versatile and resourceful,
For soothing your tortured soul…

You fight against your own body,
You try to be diligent and hardy.
Stoicism itself in such endurance
Uses all its experience and force…

You are not alone, there are seven of you,
Maybe a thousand and one, maybe more…
And it is a great pity, my friend,
If you don’t feel it, if you don’t know…

You fight against your own body,
Human mind is smart and bright.
You remain a winner and a hero,
Though you seem lonesome at first sight!



It is revealed at last
That the downright
Have a helper,
That a needy and poor man
Is not always a beggar,
That God helps
The artless and upright,
Promising them
Radiance and light.

It is revealed at last
That a single warrior
Is helped by the forces –
The threats to the foe,
And that the unclad
But attired in grace
Are able to assault
The whole space…

It is revealed in the end
That the enemy
Turns into a friend –
Into a brother proud
Of his descent,
That God is
With the artless
And upright,
Promising them
Radiance and light.



The lust for search lay in ambush,
Awaiting the space-time,
And snatched the boundless love
From the second – from the while.
The greedy son avoided
His father’s glance.
And trusted his thoughts to the sky…

The wind dozed on the branch,
Then hurried to the bottom of the sea
The son waited at the gates of pain,
The parent couldn’t say his say…



Raise the anchor, hoist the sails,
Do greet with sails the cosmic winds.
I leave for the poetic planet,
Not parting with my native fields.

Worthy men will meet me there,
And fair lasses – the servants of Christ.
They feel the sacred life through verses,
By them, they heal all the vice.

The kids grow up praising the Maker,
Giving honor and glory to Lord…
Do greet the cosmic winds with sails.
Lust for the word builds the world.



He is born exhausted and tired,
He wishes to go back, to retire.
He is born with a shadow of vague sadness.
And appears a space – empty and helpless…

Don’t be lazy about breathing, my child…
Just a while and you’ll discern the world.
If your mother regrets, if your father quips,
You just listen to the bird, – the bird chirps…

Look at the butterfly, – it flutters…
The brook helps the flower to bloom,
When the bee amuses it with his sting,
The tiny bird sings to the moon…

If the heart throbs and snow melts away,
You feel that Life is your fate,
And, having left the womb of your parent,
You adorn Darkness with your lament.



Nothing seems to happen… at all!
Neither humiliation nor rows!
The day is tender, and the sun
Makes dizzy the rock-rose…

The fruit of our labor seems trifling,
But we’ve devoted to that labor ourselves…
Yes! Each man knits his own net.
Some spin a cocoon, some make traps…

Some set the traps – for themselves…



The tiny bird has to feign death,
She’s lucky if she isn’t caught…
I’ve heard that a kite, too,
Is afraid of such lot…
The kite, too, pretends that way.
Even the bird of prey
Fears to become a prey…



Teasing oneself

Fall in, take places in the rank,
Graze… and let others graze in the field.
The deceitful well-wishers remind you:
“To Rome all the roads lead! ”

Sing to the stars with a wild passion,
Go with the stream, don’t blame others.
A stubborn man is punished… as a rule,
And those who yield are never bothered.

Fall in, take places in the rank,
Graze, and let others graze…



The bonfire of amours is burning…
Pun, emotion, and fire…
A stranger is winged by virtual kisses,
And by the distant desire.

The reckless aim clings to the lines,
From line into line flows the passion.
Some wish to be tempted by others,
Some, simply, adore temptation.
And they, excited and inspired,
Set the keyboard on fire…

Talent is revealed with flirtation,
The praise for the passion flows.
The girl is amused, suspicion arises,
Someone roams about in others’ souls…

The virtual world storms and rages,
The field of emotions is mined…
The dream sweeps in the dream,
And for the victim waits that 'mine…'



The sacred fruit of the fancy
Flowed down,
Temped the heart,
Made it rebel…
He abandoned all and everything,
He was lost, he disappeared, he left.
But in his bosom he kept
Just his country, his native land…
He located it where he settled –
There, in that very place.
And, at last, he slaked his thirst:
He fondled his country and praised…




He ponders over so many things…
The world is sweating with despair,
And the town X – one of the towns
Meets the dawn with a great fear.
The cloud has already devoured
The deep feeling – the passion that bore
The woman’s inbred hunger,
The hunger – native and inborn.
The landing forces were transferred,
Swept away by the winds and waters,
The thunderstorm assaulted that town,
That town and its quarters…
The lust clinging to that feeling
Started to bark in the sky -
In the sky that belonged to someone else -
With evil ardor and pretence…



He seeks all those who were lost,
All those, who had left him.
Many remained just toastmasters,
Some fell down from the hill…

He seeks all those who were lost,
All those having lost the sense of beauty,
Who fled hard times, ran away…
But linger about and stop on their way…



A travesty with a grotesque indication

It’s time we stripped off our garments,
And attired in our own sins…
It’s time to take off our clothes,
To throw away the queer fig leaves.
We must feel the flavor of our nudity.
Many of us: Ben, John or Pete
Spy into other people’s affairs,
And, at times, even boast of it.
It’s high time for Brenda or Betty
To trust and to believe us.
Let’s stop gloating over our shame,
Our aimless regret and remorse.
Let’s alter things, and wipe out
The suspicion sown in the Garden.
It’s high time we took off our clothes,
High time to take off those garments…
Let’s take off our clothes,
And attire in our own sins.
Time to leave in the past
The suspicious fig leaves!



He lost his way, and finding it,
Finds no abode… life’s cruel…
He again wants to find the way,
And he rebels against the rule…

The mankind labors and learns,
It’s so hard to overcome the turns.
The blackbird sings in the branches,
Impressive and clear are his tunes.

The experience – the right way of life,
No room for doubt, does you credit,
But only those who resemble Phoenix,
Gain wisdom, together with merit.



Hold in high respect… with ardor
The inward customs and order,
The virtue bestowed on you –
The dear and sacred gift…
And let no one, even your son
To neglect your main foothold,
To ignore it!

Some have snatched away the emotions,
They’ve spent their life licking others boots…
The utter fool is proud of his folly,
And the mischievous sneak hangs about…

You are able to repulse
That assault of flattery
With well-known and noble means…
You just don’t forget, and believe
Such order takes roots in the heavens…




“It’s so trying to live without you…
Love is such a painful thing,
That my life is wasted away, ”
This way the little birdie sings.

The wind has carried away her nest,
The torrent erased the pure streams,
Her food is covered with snow,
Heavy clouds hide the sunbeams.

The little birdie mourns over her love,
But expectation inspires her body.
The very expectation, and not hunger,
Has worn away the little birdie.



I’ve lost one verse
With tinkling lines,
I’ve lost a verse,
It’s somewhere else…
I sought the leaf,
But couldn’t find,
Even from the disc
It vanished.
I cried and cried
For that little verse,
In my soul it lay
Like a winged word,
It lay there
Like grief and anguish.

That bright and sincere thought –
That verse remained in the past.
I’m tired of grief and sorrow,
Sorrow has seized me at last…



When the pain
Wipes itself out,
When it is estranged
And alienated,
When you can’t recognize it,
You aren’t dead,
You’re still animated.
You must mind
That your happiness
Is turned into adultery and fall,
And that you’re perishing and rotting
In the cemetery of your own soul…



The root of earthly wishes
Is so deeply buried in the passion,
That the poetical dreams
Don’t turn into sacred wings…
The dreams neither new nor ancient.
And I fail to reach the skies…
Though the prayers tempered me,
On the wings of the entreaty
I couldn’t settle…
The childish lust
And the stubborn wish
Fought with me a battle…
The poetical dreams
Couldn’t turn into wings…
The dreams neither new nor battered…
And I failed to reach the skies…




The breeze escaped the tumult,
Ran away from winds and rumor…
It hides its innocent look in the fan,
And merrily chats with the charmer…

How nice is the society life,
How thrilling – lust and passion…
Some coffee, whisky, even tea,
A woman – tempting and capricious…

A true male chops up the firewood,
And kindles the fire at dawn.
Fate has betrayed him long ago,
And driven him to those lawns…

The witch snatches away his hat,
The short-witted guy scolds him,
But all this to him seems
Just “lullaby”, joy and bliss…

A male observes the law of males,
The flames of love burn him and blaze…
And a woman, too, pities him,
From him she’ll never turn away…
She’ll spend beside him her days…

The breeze escaped the tumult,
Ran away from winds and rumor…
It hides its innocent look in the fan,
And merrily chats with the charmer…



The taste of the common day,
In your soul lost its flavor,
And the woman’s love you’ve lost,
Melted somewhere else… forever.

And someone inherited the kingdom,
That tired you out – didn’t spare…
Someone mourns over the old times,
And loads you with his despair.

Someone keeps frowning at the future,
And freezes the grapes of the phrase,
But the worthless world, nevertheless,
Praises a man to be praised…




Many have dedicated frank verses
To mother… to the Virgin,
But few have passed the night
At the weary parent’s bedside…
At the bedside of the parent –
Tired of years and lifetime…
Such a son couldn’t bring forth
That care even in the solitude’s bosom,
And, only now, over it he muses…
A sincere line contains prayer,
It also contains repentance,
And by God’s will connects
The Past with the Present…
All hail to the Future
Showing respect for mothers –
Tired by years and bothered…



The present flees the existence,
Somewhere else will doze the rise.
We’ll be left just with the future,
And, at last, that’ll open our eyes.

We must grasp the ABC of the world,
We must feel the world’s breath,
And not let the water we’ve bathed in
Wash away our life or death.

Just the superior recognize the comers,
Just the distinguished advance,
And those who are sincere and frank,
Bathe in the rays of the sun.



When pain suffers in our bodies,
Laughs in the death’s face,
And inside us rolls,
This is the road we have to take,
This is the wrinkle of our souls…

When the sharp pain rages in our bodies,
We must escape the split mind,
And make it vanish…
Despair flirts about with the thought.
If we destroy its nest, it’ll perish.

When the sharp pain storms in our bodies,
And seems amused with our vanity,
The life, too, rejoices nearby and breathes,
It craves for the sun, as a sown seed…

When the sharp pain suffers in our bodies,
And reaching the skies is the only wish,
Life itself dwells in that pain,
God’s will is revealed in our anguish…



The world was dozing,
It was tired and worn.
“Man is supported by man,
A fence – by blackthorn! ”
That precept was well-known,
But entirely forgotten…alas!
The death, too, slumbered,
The day was colorless…

The guys remaining chums
By chance,
Had washed away all their talent
And all their heavenly donation,
Women and girls scattered in the streets
Were seized by the shameful passion.

Men wanted to whitewash themselves in solitude,
They craved for solitude, for isolation.
The current – slow, calm, but yet naughty,
Suppressed them… they were tied to the life,
They were tied by the bonds of obligation.

The world was taken ill with despair,
Roar was heard, all was alarmed,
Life was dozing… slumbered the world,
Over the verge of the death
Flew the ladybird.

Hope twinkled on that path,
Cosmic mists brought relief…
And the fables of the Doomsday
Were woven there –
Fate, Future, and Belief.



The thought relaxed next to the thought
Having with it a heart-to heart talk,
The foremost thing is nowadays
The passion of the invisible space.
The moon has shrouded in its beams
The dim veil of the clouds,
And on the aged sky appeared
Stars, weary of sadness and tired…
The web page of our world
Is blocked by the out-dated patterns.
Listen to the tiny bird
Whistling a tune from old marches…
If only God, Our Father,
Helps the humankind full of sorrow
With some other melody or tune,
Pealing from the chest of 'tomorrow.'



O God Almighty, Our Father in Heaven,
Let go with the wind the foe’s threats;
Punish the unwise and the unworthy,
Let them hold their tongues behind the teeth.

O God Almighty, Our Father in Heaven,
Weaken the treacherous men…
They just pretend to be Thy servants,
For their own good, let them lament.

O God Almighty, Our Father in Heaven,
Show mercy to those who serve their land;
Without harming their own country,
Let them breed their descent…

O God Almighty, Our Father in Heaven,
Let us rise – wipe out the feud.
Show mercy, save us, heal our souls,
Let us defeat the fraud…

O God Almighty, Our Father in Heaven,
Let the foe’s threats go with the wind…



One must know
How to get old.
It’s a kind of gift
To be brave and bold.
We must know
How to master ourselves,
How to become
Strong and fearless;
How to be patient,
Gentle and wise,
How to accept
Our fall and rise.
One must know
How to get old:
It’s a kind of gift
Sent down by God;
A gift for mastering
Nerves and muscles,
For getting braver,
For helping others.
One must know
How to get old,
How to bear pains,
How to be bold;
How to bear solitude,
How to reach the space’s heart,
How to grow fearless,
How to be smart…
That is a gift
Encouraged by prayers;
A gift for playing with death,
A gift for defeating the grief.
Let’s not mourn
Over the last breath.



The mystery, the mystery…
The exhausted and tired face…
The breath quivers the string,
And false is the grimace.

The robbed and stripped life
Is thoroughly ruined and smashed,
That fruitless tree, over there, drains
The earth with vaporous wrath.

It tramples down with its roots
The ancient tombs… the tombs grieve.
It crushes even the iron armor,
And barks down with its leaves.
That sapling is so fragrant,
So fragrant is that plant!
But the stink and stench over there
With anger wipe out the scent.

If only the thunderstorm ventured
And killed that fruitless tree,
If only that fragrant plant
Were safe, happy and free!

The fragrant plant must be saved,
For that sapling my soul prays.
One of the tombs, for sure,
Sends out the radiant rays…



Some help you as they choose themselves,
They help you with pride, without grace.
They try to lead you by the hand.
Hands wash each other, both – the face!

The thing is, whose face they wash,
Who is helped, who is assisted…
Who is the helper, and whose purpose is
Acceptable to the Prince of Peace.

Who rejoices over your sorrow,
Who feeds you with arrogance and when…
Who makes you pitiable and dependant,
And prevents you from being a man…

But he, who helps you heartily,
And never, never boasts of it,
He serves the Maker, he is upright,
He is worthy to wash Christ’s feet.



The harmonious “encore” broke down,
The same happened to the burst of applause.
Don’t jump into the boat, it has no mast,
You can’t hoist the sails… it has no oars.

But the lust for power seizes you,
You hate to lose the chance of sitting
Next to the ruler… You hate to wait:
The sense of prestige is a unique feeling.

Look, no one is seen in the boat,
Even the king has left it…
There, he floats away on a raft…
“The boat? ”
“The boat sank! ”

But you still jump in it with fervor,
The sense of prestige is peerless,
And people think: “What a faithful knight
Has sacrificed his life to the tyrant! ”



The contrast

A man loves a woman,
The screen defeats the life,
The passion forces its way,
And the housewife
Flies into rage, looks grim:
She can’t love…
She can’t bear her spouse,
But refuses to lose him…
She storms and rages
Watching others’ passion,
Blooms like a violet,
Flames and rejoices.
She takes the ardor for love,
Can’t heal the sinful desire,
And can’t make out why the nature
Has set her heart on fire…
The screen defeats the life,
Teases it with tricks and temptations,
It rules over the couple by steal,
Storms and rages
With the spectrum of passions.



The woman raising castles in the air
Couldn’t rise to the skies – couldn’t flit…
She resisted the sincere feeling,
And, now, keeps on crying for it…

Love of country is a mask at times,
And a show is a thing that matters.
The tiny babe toddles in that show,
Swells his nostrils by steal, and prattles…

But the verses of the lone poetess
Adorn her fancies with bliss,
The grief, never seized by her granny,
Teaches her to fly in her dreams.



To the deceased Mother Miriam,
the head of the Convent

A monastery on the top of the mountain
Is lit up by the prayers of the nuns,
And Mother Miriam’s thoughts rustle
The green lawn bathing in the sun…

But the tomb-stone of the head of the Convent
Nowhere is seen, nowhere in the lawn…
Her followers, with good intention,
Have used it as a building stone.

Some build the temples up on the hills,
Some – down in the valleys and fields.
Some turn into the Garden the desert,
And some just dream of the deeds.

The gift for building is a blessed gift,
Building of temples – a good deed,
But the invaluable charity is
Not to forget the deceased.



The Lithuanians’ visit (1971)
An essay in a verse

Once, in springtime, in my youth,
I led them through forests and caves,
Tracing the paths of my forefathers,
The paths of my native place.

Two Lithuanians, two “quiet rebels, ”
One – a bit fleshy, the other – lean…
I led them through forests and caves,
And they willingly followed me.

One of them was a true rioter,
Imprisoned not once, not twice…
He was filled with the hate for the “Empire, ”
His heart was turned into ice.

We quietly labored up the hillside,
The curtain of boughs barred the way;
Believers went there stealthily,
But my “debts” I had to pay…

And when we beheld the monastery,
Its yard – a nice green lawn,
We saw our labor was rewarded…
An old woman stood at the door.

She looked at us with respect,
That woman – so pale and wan.
She gave us a hearty welcome,
I told her about those men.

She touched me with her wrinkled hand,
She said she was glad to see the guests.
The woman was aged, very old;
Here is the story she told:

“When I first saw this monastery,
I was only four years old.
Since then, I’ve lived here, my son,
I’ve never sought other abode.

Now I’m hundred, and I still breathe,
But I’m troubled by the only thought:
No one comes to guard this monastery,
Soon it’ll be covered with moss.

She showed us the graves of the sisters,
The tombstones – cherished and old.
She prayed, and told us humbly
She’d done a lot for that House of God.

Then she spoke about Catholicism,
About its teaching and beliefs,
And explained to the Lithuanian guests,
How an Orthodox crosses himself.

The rioter was moved to tears,
His treasured cross to her he gave,
Asked her to bless it, and then
Bowed his proud head with awe…

In her blessed hands shimmered
The icon of the Crucified Christ…
And her fingers, resembling candles,
Had a fragrance of Faith and Trust.



That man openly kept on begging,
Others’ thoughts he tried to seize,
He seized others’ sacred wishes, –
Resembling the dismayed dream…

He played, he trifled with them,
The wish blazed with red at length.
He fluttered into others’ dreams
Losing his vigor and strength.

And the poet’s soul, too,
The moneybox of fancies
Is smashed by someone in wrath,
And that someone fails to count
The loot – the poets wealth…



The powerful “fraction of liberty”
Held a meeting at last:
The two-faced man took his chance,
Betrayed the former times – the past…
The party of “blitz-democracy” was formed…
It was formed… and stood fast…



In the aquarium
Thrown to the shore
Together with the fragments
Of the wrecked ship,
Carelessly swim tiny fish…
They swim quietly,
Without emotion –
Don’t pine for the seas,
Don’t crave for the ocean…



A hut floated on the waves,
A sun-colored crib
Stood at the window.
The hut was smoke-grey,
The window – narrow.
A distant noise was heard,
Distant moans and wails.
The hut floated on the waves.
Peacefully the baby slept,
With bitter tears, the sky wept…

Then the little one felt danger,
Cried out and called his mum,
But she was swimming in blood…
The babe’s cry was heard
Throughout the world,
It turned into a sacred herald…
And at the crumbling hillock,
The robber soundlessly shrieked…

He listened to the whining,
He left his machine-gun,
Stared at the hut
With a heavy heart.
The babe’s cry rang in his ears…
Like a ghost, he made for the river…

He himself was brought up
In such an old hut,
And he remembered the crib,
The sound of rocking.
Once he, too, was sheltered
By his mother’s veil…
Then the ill fate sent him outdoors
Without any pity, without remorse…

And now, as if to save
That baby’s wail,
His heart leapt up to the sky.
Dreams hoisted the sail,
His heart craved for flight,
And he, the slayer,
Turned into a savior…

The baby’s wails
Squeeze juice from the grapes,
And then, peace reigns
In our hearts and souls…
The baby’s cry
Is a herald of God,
Stars have learned about it
Long ago…



An obedient man leads an obedient life,
His ideals are perfect and high,
His pain is killed by the pain…
Long ago the madness of nerves,
The sharp pain, sorrow and torture
Amused him, again and again…

He trusted the man
Who told him once,
That the toothache was worse
Than the hunger for drugs…
But now, fluffy-bearded,
In a monk’s dress,
At the monastery
To God he prays.

He is lead by his spiritual father,
Now he is devoted to Lord,
He prays much, gets little sleep,
And reads the Word of God.

He wakes before dawn,
And ringing the bells
To the monastery space
“A tale he tells.”
And half-asleep,
Startled by doubt,
With the heel of his boot
He scratches the ground.

He adored heroin and morphine,
Was tortured by the lust for drugs,
The beast growled in his soul…
But all that remained in the past.
Today his dignity is valued,
Today he works day and night,
He willingly serves other brothers,
Today he’s worthy and upright.

Training is followed by will,
Flesh is defeated at last!
The fiend can’t harm him any longer,
All that remained in the past.



He was a bull,
No doubt, a true bull…
Immensely huge,
Immensely hasty…
With his ancestors’ wild blood…
With glittering horns,
Elusive like snow-slip,
Shining and black, –
As if dancing and whirling
He rushed out of the shed.

He dug out ten trees,
Ten not very tall trees,
Then dug up the earth
Running up the rise.
He dug up the earth
And with a foaming mouth
Bellowed at the skies.
Men blew into trumpets:
The bull was an offering – a sacrifice…

All at once, he looked
At the scared men lying in ambush…
He bellowed and stood stock-still
For a while… rather anguished.
Nobody had let him
Turn into an ox…
Or else they’d stick
Two candles to his horns…

With his pointed horns
He again dug up the ground…
Without thinking twice,
Rushed up to the old limes…
He failed to bend them,
And again attacked them bravely,
Again assaulted…
The senseless battle
Fatigued him and exhausted…

Then the brave lads
Displayed their valor:
Stole up and lassoed him,
Tied up his legs…
It was disgusting!
The boys, cheered up by wine,
Kicked his huge testicles,
Giggling and laughing…

He wheezed, he staggered,
The pain was bitter,
They had forgotten, those guys,
That he was a bull, a bull to be killed,
A bull to be killed as a sacrifice!
And from the standpoint of a male
He regretted having wasted away,
Like a hot-tempered
And peppery man,
His only wealth –
Energy and strength…



The nudity dived into the mist…
Then it dressed, and came into the world,
In a new attire, with the blazing life,
And strived for taming a bird.

With tiny wings it craves for Heaven,
Loaded with mists and illusions,
With the thoughts, incredible and rare -
A false pyramid of false conclusions.

When the life alters its shape,
And acquires other weight and width,
It gains quite other aims and missions,
And the mind can tame the winds.

The life spread like the rainbow
Is marked by the breath of a child,
And by the burning sweetness of the lips –
Of the image of love and delight.



To the astral image

It can’t caress and fondle you at present,
It is locked up in the bodily prison.
If only it gathered its strength,
And made you share its reasons!

It needs a miracle for your sake,
For your sake, it needs alteration.
At times, we turn into clowns
Abating our wild passions.

But now, it doesn’t care for that,
It refuses to suspect and think
That you cherished someone’s desire,
That you satisfied someone’s thirst.

It needs a miracle for your sake,
For your sake, the ardor it needs.
Time flies and years assault us,
But the heart! The heart never yields!

It needs a marvel for your sake,
For your sake, it needs alterations…
For your sake, it grows more adaptable,
The astral body can cross the oceans…

Believe me, it’ll come, it’ll fondle you
With a dreamlike flutter in the air,
To heal your exhausted spirit,
And support you with tender care.

It needs a wonder for your sake,
For your sake, it needs alteration.
For the hearts “which near each other move”
Breath bears breath and expectation.



He - who prospered thanks to the feud,
Was favored with the title of a henchman,
The false glory became a tombstone
To the wall mouldered by centuries.

Thanks to the free will of his protector,
He adapted himself to the hard times,
His life “inspired” with the evil thoughts
By the court-poets was prized…

They, too, gained profit from that,
Were awarded their cherished “prize”,
Their deceitful souls stormed and raged,
They thought themselves “great and wise.”

The coward called our truth a farce,
The ambiguous thing he said:
“The creator seems your warrantor,
Otherwise, you’d have lost your head…”



The young lass
With her innocent looks
So colorfully
Offered her desire,
That a quiet man – a believer
Started to burn like fire.
Then he trifled with her,
Nowhere else – in his wife’s dream,
And the desire, that wild passion
Thoroughly enslaved him…



A satire with a direct indication

Look out! You think
You’ve wiped out the sin.
But no! Don’t put on airs.
The find still sits beside you,
And you rock him in his chair.

Look out! You think
Your foe you’ve smashed.
But no! You’ve pushed
Your own friend,
And thrown him in the ravine.

Look out! You think
The lovely lass
Like an angel is fair.
But no! With other woman’s man
She has a love affair.

Look out! You think
That a steed
Waits for you
At the door.
But no! A donkey
Stands at the gates,
And when you mount him,
He just brays…



Hundreds of readers have ceased reading,
The ignorant are turned into censors,
The party man’s image is flourished
By the hints and notions of a mentor.
Children and parents cling to the screen.
The dream doesn’t blaze, it’s forsaken…
Once the haughty fled the sparks of verses,
Today frankness is strewed with ashes.
But the dreaming heart never stops,
It beats… it beats, and throbs…



You just die, – you just pass away,
And it’ll be all right, OK…
Your wife will read the Psalms
In a soft voice and prey.
She’ll weep a little and lament,
She’ll wear mourning dresses and fret,
And whisper to the dearest
Daughters and sons:
“My kids, your father
Has turned to dust…”
You just die, – you just depart,
And it’ll be OK… it’ll be all right.
The violets and the snowdrops
Will wipe out the winter,
The tiny bird will weave
Passion with twitter,
And the breeze
Will sing night’s tale to the leaves…
The widow will look in the mirror,
And take a pencil in her hand…
No make-up is needed, you know,
For a rose drooping her head…
She may notice your gaze, –
The zeal heavy with years,
She may see the sham
Mirrored in your eyes…
Then she’ll smile… and shed tears…
You’ll pity her and think
You’d better stay with her,
You’d better look
After the cornfield of your desire…
You’d better work with all your heart,
And reap what you have sown…
And let your beautiful wife
Be a violet to you… or a rose…



Instead of a pamphlet

You look at him,
And he’s a man,
A real knight…
A member of the senate,
Very handsome…
But isn’t upright.
He’s very petty,
Not better than a goat,
A flock of sheep
Which is leading…
That man resembles a man,
But his thoughts are so piddling!

You look at him,
And he’s a man,
A true knight,
But he’s unworthy,
And light.
His mind bears
The stamp of folly,
Vain ideas are drummed
Into his head;
His ideas are out of date,
Worn-out, rusted,
And patched…

You look at him,
And he’s a man,
A real knight,
But he barks
At reason…
Isn’t upright.
He praises
His old master’s fables.
In a nutshell, he’s a fool.
Now you can see
That appearance, at times,
Is very, very deceitful.



You resemble that lonely dweller,
Who near the sacred sounds dwells.
“He’s moaning, ” rages someone,
“He revels, ” chatter the friends.
I have nothing against you, my friends,
I do smile, but I am troubled,
The fearless strain keeps vigil,
And startles us out of slumber.
The verse’s power scratches someone’s soul,
And fills him with anger and distress.
Even the child’s whine strains your heart,
The wind’s blaster, too, strains your nerves.
If the tune of such timbre embitters you,
Mind: that’s a remedy of some kind…
And the chilling tune of the “cold song”
Strengthens our heart and mind.
O verse! You flutter beyond the skies,
Your friends’ support makes you so proud…
Even the deaf feel the planet’s song,
And dream of hearing its sounds.
The power involved in the lines
Is valued by those,
Whose thoughts are deep,
The fearless strain keeps vigil,
And startles us out of sleep.



Desire, wish sincere or

Rush without shore.

Forest need beasts,

Man impressions in passion

If you will perceive the wisdom

in love you will

Get another pleasure

And then you will break in passion

In your mind.




The wild passions fade away,
Years pass, our time flits.
We stubbornly wait for the future,
The future - having no share in the dreams.

The lust for life outweighs the grief,
The heavenly breath – the great woe,
The cherished moment flashes at last.
Life must flourish, flower and flow.

Men is mortal, all men must die.
We fail to master our passions…
We have to be trustful and sincere,
And welcome our alteration…



A muscle is a muscle, and nothing else,
It is armed forces, power and weapon.
And the nerve of the muscle can
Ascend the mounts of reason…
It resists the power of the assault,
And the invader, too, seems exhausted.
Power is power, and force is force…
It ploughs even the mountain slopes.

A muscle is a muscle, and nothing else,
It is weapon, armed forces and power.
The troops of those muscles,
The muscles themselves
Make a very durable armor.
Muscles protect veins –
The current of life and being,
The willpower’s invisible shield.

The muscle of the heart
Is always on duty,
The pendulum of breath
Never tires out,
And the sound nerve
Encourages and inspires
All the virtues and merits
Of the universe…

A muscle is a muscle, nothing else.
The muscular world storms and rages,
And the sensitive wave of blood
Drills even the leaders and sages.
O muscle, keep awake, keep vigil!
Do not put out the fire of reason!
The homeland attired
In the chasuble of nerves
Quivers, rages and frets…

A muscle is a muscle, and nothing else,
It is armed forces, power and weapon,
And the nerve of the muscle can
Ascend the mounts of reason.
The troops of muscles,
The muscles themselves
Make a very durable armor.
Force is force…
It ploughs even the slopes,
And power is power…



Even the love,
Having sent out its roots,
Is not eternal and endless…
We’ve made it up,
We’ve invented it
Just to save ourselves,
And we’re afraid to lose the thing
That hasn’t ever been our wealth.



To the heavenly symbols

Sure enough, you own some rule,
The law you know, that isn’t revealed.
No time to lose! You see yourselves:
With our lives, you aren’t pleased.

We’ve overlooked the sacred thing,
The thought we got before our lives:
How simple is the worldly being.
For our birth we boldly strive.

But the sound of our whining
Makes us skip that thought entirely.
That indolence will wipe us out,
We came into the world blindly.

And when that vagueness starts up,
Some other energy stirs the heart,
And in the field of our smashed souls
A hero shares a pauper’s part.

Sure enough, you own some rule,
The law you know, that isn’t revealed.
No time to lose! You see yourselves:
With our lives, you aren’t pleased.




An old bird is still a bird,
At dawn, he looks so pleased!
He flies and hops about as a birdie,
And twangs the strings to the breeze.

The old bird warbles with all his heart,
Encouraging the first twitter…
The newly feathered birdie romps,
And by that warble is christened…

The old bird doesn’t feel he’s old,
Neither do others, – hearing him chirp…
But he often chirps in a low voice,
And greets the coming dawn in his sleep.



It was forbidden to see dreams…
In the depth of the stage
The streak of light…
Was crossed out.
The orator was proud:
“We shall have
A “dreamless” year this time! ”
He seemed drunk with giggling.
The deafened life
With its eyes put out,
Waved its hands in the hall,
And dozed wriggling…
Under the smiling masks,
In the fruitless womb of the mind,
The greedy stomach lay still,
The orator was swelling with pride:
“We shall have
A “dreamless” year this time! ”
He seemed drunk
With giggles and smiles.



I advise the disappointed and the hopeless
To treat with a song their pain,
To console and comfort their sorrow,
And, singing, create the “life-plain…”

I advise them to follow the world’s breath,
For the birth to crave and strive,
What bliss to be born in fragrant dreams!
Death, too, rejoices at times.

And if into the earth’s bosom
The stubborn grief like honey drips,
Then, the pain, too, will gain the smile.
Smile broadly – the heart beats…



An allegorical ballad

Love bore the tale,
The black-eyed belle.
The prince loved her,
Despite the spell.

He married her,
Became a king.
The girl’s too shy
To be a queen.

She dreamed of dales,
Of sweet carnations.
A bird in her soul –
Her consolation!

The king’s cruel mum
And sisters said:
“We’ve brought you up,
Our dear lad! ”

Then the ocean of pains,
Of quarrels and worries.
The queen grows stubborn,
When the king dies…

The court’s alarmed,
The palace dives in vice,
The skies assault the earth,
Women cry out their eyes.

The old hag raged,
Was absorbed in wrath,
Couldn’t cast a spell,
And met her death.

The widow grew more fearless,
No longer was she a slave.
She could display her smartness,
And the court was filled with awe.

The court prospered and flourished,
Ended the ill-fated years,
The young queen loved her homeland,
That love made her shed tears.

And the spark of beauty – the love
Was born again… it sparked, it flamed,
The knight adored the young queen,
Faithful to her he remained.

Many know that story,
The ballad of glory:
The old tricks and shams
Repeat themselves.

Turned into a brave woman
The humble lass in the past...
She hoisted like sails
Her mourning dress.
The virtue was rewarded… at last.



The verse from the far land –
The sparkling word
Flies in like a bird,
And brings bright colors,
The distant fragrance
Of the distant sky and earth.
In the soul blooms
The rainbow of races,
The voices ring
From the mythical spheres –
From the neo-spaces…



The woman brought in his footprints,
The shameless trace of his glance.
Suspicion tortured her spouse…
At length, her tears soothed him,
But the dweller of the distant house
Who couldn’t slake his thirst,
Couldn’t satisfy his hunger,
Pictured the desired image,
Pictured in his mind that face…
Suspicion was drunk, was fed up
With the stubborn and shameless trace…



The little birdie warbled in the cage,
April flew into its tiny heart.
The very April blazed there like fire.
The little bird can love and admire!

The song flew into the far dream,
And lit up the maiden’s thoughts.
It soothed the maiden, it cheered her up,
And the shyness left her heart.

The maiden walked along the path,
Along the path embroidered with mirth.
She ran into a handsome youth,
And relished his fiery kiss.



The sun daily shows love to us,
Blazing and fiery are its rays.
Even the ice trusts to the sun
Its harmony and hidden pains.

Its great genius is to us
A herald of warmth and light.
It always shows its great love,
Its thoughts are veiled, but bright.

The sun lulls the human spirit,
It lulls the fairy of the earth,
It shows its great love to us,
And guards our mysterious breath.



A satire with lyrical affection

Romantic ideas remain in the past,
The reader is pitiable and wan.
He has no food, no income,
The clubs swarm with other man.

He doted on maxims and proverbs.
(Some enjoy the mission of the learned) .
That woman was in love in those days,
And soon, found herself in his flat.

As luck would have it, he just dreamed,
He just dreamed from dusk to dawn.
The raven cawed down at him,
In his soul dwelt the sweet woe.

His fate played a trick on him,
He couldn’t catch the rhythm of life,
But he never cared a pin for that.
In the street found her shelter his wife.

He became a burden to his family,
He caused them expense and trouble.
The kids trusted just their mother.
A lettered man is thought humble.

The woman sang in the night bar.
Lust for art is a kind of gift.
Men were enchanted with her figure:
A show-woman must run the risk.

And that lettered man died a reader,
Humble was the end of his purpose.
His coffin was made of bookshelves,
His books mourned over the house.



Comprehension of many problems
Has been the object of strife,
And the wisdom of honored fathers
Was strewed like a ripe spike…

The tribe of sinners hurries to the sky,
The plunderer desires a thing veiled…
No one cares for the lost wisdom,
With the bird goes the taste of the grain…



The wind whirled the minute bud,
Warmed it up in the sun’s bosom,
The tiny girl opened into a flower…
And began to bloom and to blossom…

The thought, hung down in the tear
Like treason and miracle,
Joined the waters of the ocean,
And made the waves sparkle…

The foam mounted the steed
Born by the roughness,
Made it lap and swash,
Embraced it with harshness…

All at once, a cold wind blew,
And winter came into sight,
Snowflakes melted on the lips,
Passions gained strength and might.

The wind whirled the minute bud,
Warmed it up in the sun’s bosom,
The tiny girl opened into a flower,
And began to bloom and to blossom…




To the woman
ashamed of her beauty

Many knights kept on singing to you,
Many saw you in their dreams,
And you stay there – in the fairy-lands,
The passion and yearning bark
In the easy life of other maidens.
Many times, you’ve been scratched with claws,
You seem oppressed by your charm,
You look helpless, even when you smile,
The trace of beauty resembles a scar…



Someone calls out: “Let that man alone,
Take away from him your claws! ”
The stubborn thought opens its eyes…
“Let him sing to his land with his verse! ”
With such music and with such rhythm
The mankind perceives the universe.

Not many will be able to wake up:
Only those distinguished and honored,
And that candied wish, that thirst
Is an obstacle to those…
Who bury “for the future”
All the passions and storms…



Just listen to me, you glutton:
The world can’t be sated with verses,
But without a verse will perish
The scent of the world, a clever person.

Pure water has no taste.
I can’t enjoy it,
Neither – my guests!
But the water
With the soil’s flavor
Slakes our thirst

The same with the verse
Forged by the soul.
It brightens up the dull sensations,
And unites hundreds of people,
Adorning the grief with compassion.



A path is a footway, but a road as well…
It’s highly praised and hailed.
It remembers many a man
Who boldly blazed the trail.

His path ended at the summit,
It was a cradle of his feet.
The dream rises to the sky,
Along the divine path it flits.

He failed to give up the earthly lust,
He created the path of his dreams.
The rider (or the wanderer) wasn’t seen,
Neither the hoof-or-foot-prints…

The world is a cornfield – a place
Of everyday desires and fancies,
But the abode of the blessed
Will judge all the human species.



The cloud was raging in the sky,
Rain was falling down from the height.
The skies rejoiced… the star – the herald
Sent out the tiny sparks of light.

The swallow failed to find her nest,
She came across the crown of leaves,
And sang to the hotheaded she-wolf:
“Spring has come! Oh, what bliss! ”

The she-wolf gathered her fluffy cubs
She howled, at the sky she grinned…
Fish strewed their spawn over the stone,
And the water’s deep wound was healed.



The sinful night melts in the sky,
Force bears a deep passion,
Juice is got by squeezing grapes;
Such fall causes ascension.

Then the juice turns into wine,
Into the wine – the source of passion,
And in the end, that very force
Creates love and affection.

Later, hunted by that intrigue,
The willful heirs are brought to birth,
and eyes
lassos, too, are strained…
They, too, stand firmly on the earth…



He stripped off his tight clothes –
The clothes put on him
In his childhood…
They tried to drum into his head:
“You must look brilliant and grand! ”
Then he stripped them off,
Breathed in his bareness.
Followed the sunbeam,
And flew over the earth…



To the distinguished ones
who remain unnoticed

They think they’ve left you out…
Even friends turn away their eyes,
As you carry the future in your soul,
As you come from the lap of the skies.

Don’t be angry with me, my dear.
Sorrow falls on the stars like rain.
You remain a poet in this world,
A tamer of the space you remain.

You’ve fondled the blessed word zealously,
I know, the heavens you’ve reached.
I must confess: there is still something,
That must be improved and achieved.

The daybreak on the path of the nightfall,
Neither wealth nor treasure! No cash!
Prayers with the overflowing chalice,
The grief of the tortured flesh…

The moon enjoying the rustle of thoughts,
The verses, in the heavenly frames…
Your roots are still in the verse,
The moonlight fondles your aims.



The nerve raised its brow,
Like a snow-slip came down.
O God, how many impudent souls
Have already turned into copses…
But virtue not always suppresses vice…
Look at the mercy
Turning into the worm,
And bullying the roots of the vine…

Look at the man you have trusted
He is a traitor now,
Look at your former friend:
He harrows all he had plundered,
He harrows all you had ploughed…
The bud on the branch is on its guard,
With a cartridge in its minute heart.
It will burst in no time, rise in the air,
And blind that traitor and betrayer.

But you still prefer
Spring to winter,
The bud resting on the vine –
The symbol of your country…
Wind embroiders tales
In the evergreen garden
Of sadness and fortune,
And you, too, chased by verses,
Fight against the torture.




According to my son’s drawing

The jester stares at me from the wall,
Seems thoughtful… sadly looks down.
He mourns over the abandoned land,
Though he is a well-known clown…

He amuses the king… at times, the queen,
And with passion smiles at the princess…
She seeks her bridegroom, she sighs…
She sighs in a low voice… with sadness.

The joker jokes, narrates old stories,
And, hinting, tells the truth…
The princess guesses where the boat sails,
With the jokes, the king is amused…

The lass trusts the clown’s inspiration,
She chooses her bridegroom on his advice.
She bursts into laughter with concealed passion,
Then runs away and cries out her eyes.

She has loved that man since her childhood,
That man – very bright and witty,
Who, to adjust the clown’s cap,
Was compelled to become shifty.

He altered his countenance with great effort,
Wiped out all the signs of frankness,
But the tender soul remained with him,
And pierced the heart of the princess…



You nourish your pain with healers;
It’s never satisfied, it just grieves.
It fusses about as it chooses itself,
Gnaws you away, and then leaves…

That curing won’t do you much good…
Soon, the thought of the death appears.
You’re almost robbed of the gift for paying,
And then, you plead for the years…

You still hope… hope for the best,
Keep on pleading for the worthy death.
The pain assaults you, tears your soul,
It’s turned into the tandem of wrath.

You do your best, you do your utmost,
But the pain is hungry, the hope – vain.
You beat your head against the wall,
The pain weighs down the pain…

You recall the verse that cheered you up,
You recall that stunt man – the actor,
Who is amused by hazards and risk,
And always strives for the danger.

Then you can feel the flavor of the life,
You wish to restore the old splendor…
Then you’ll be able to bear the pain,
And the pain, too, will surrender.



I forgive 'the friends' lying in ambush,
Before they put their demands into words,
Before they pitch their camp in the field,
And sharpen their mortal swords.

Look at that creature playing a man,
He skillfully pitches his camp
In the field “of the brave and immortal”,
But the fate will tame him with the bridle,
And dig a grave for the false title…

Don’t cast pearls before swine any longer,
Don’t conceal your strength and passion,
And never show mercy to your enemy…
Such mercy robs your own nation!



Why do your lips quiver?
Why are you so sad and aghast?
Why are you discouraged by despair?
Despair has captured your heart.

The moon is hidden, a monster has come,
The earth quakes, seas reach the skies.
The sun hasn’t set, just stock-still it is,
And the groundless fears rise…

What do you know of winds and showers?
Who asks you why the snowflakes flit?
Who asks you why the breeze blows,
And how it waves those skirts?

The heavenly end of planets,
Earthquakes, floods and winds…
All that is justified and reasoned:
Cod washes away our sins…

Why do your lips quiver?
Why are you so sad and aghast?
Don’t let the cheap doubt defeat you,
Don’t be afraid… take heart!



A satire with literary indication

Heaven never lacks
The glory of the word,
Heaven never lacks
A radiant thought,
But the “rhyme-maker”
Proudly steals others’ lines…
And fails to create
A bright plot.
The time-honored wisdom
Is marked with splendor…
The “rhyme-maker” tries
To alter the reason…
But he can’t perceive
The experience – the wisdom.
He fools just a fool
With such treason.
The “rhyme-maker”
Proudly steals other’s lines,
Gloats over the words
Of the blessed bards.
He – a true robber,
A literary thief,
Tries to instruct us.
He fights against the gifted
With the fierce venom and hate,
Under the mask of virtue,
Under the mask of merit.




The poet’s harbor is his own dream.
Grief fusses about, life’s short-lived…
A sinner always sins with a sinner,
And a skirt waves in the wind.

The lonely string, the single string is torn.
The poet heals his wounds: mourns over the past.
He craves for the future with arduous words,
Tomorrow is his hope and lust.




A kind of humoresque

The blameless virgin craves for love,
Of love she thinks from dusk to dawn,
But the woman of riper years
Needs other love – too deep for tears.

Oh, yes! She was guided by the caprice,
But now, she is alert and wise:
Let him not be a handsome prince,
To her he must be nice.

She wishes him to fondle her,
To kiss her tenderly, with love,
To be reliable and steady,
And to cherish his better half.

She hates to be forsaken…
Yes, she’s virtuous and upright,
But she still prays for love and ardor,
She dreams of thrilling nights.

Abandoned lips can’t hide their dryness…
She tries to smash the fiery passion.
She fails to conceal her lust for love,
But wants to be above suspicion…

The last hope dies and fades away,
Her lips are so dead and alone!
She has to save up her desires,
She dreams from dusk to dawn.



The deceitful life
Weaves gloom and despair.
No one can defeat it
By complaint and fear.
You must take heart,
Cherish your belief.
The dove flies down,
Bringing a leaf –
A card, a message from Heaven…
But you still cherish the skies,
And proudly spit on the ground,
Discarding your fall and rise.
You’d better think of the future,
You’d better build it and trim…
Then, surely, you’ll be rewarded:
You’ll be turned into a beam.



The sacred grief won’t let you age.
The moonlight, too, melts the ice.
You will behold the divine scenes,
There flows the torrent of respite.

The lonely grief won’t let you age,
The call of the soul you’ll hear.
High time you spread like the sails
All that is precious and dear…

The lyrical thought won’t let you age,
At you the moon-maiden smiles.
You’ll embroider the marvelous visions
To brighten up your past times…

You’ll never lock the door of your chamber,
You won’t be defeated by the vice.
Your wishes and your hopes will save you.
The moonlight, too, melts the ice.




The dreamer stumbled and fell…
To reach the peak was his intention.
He fell in the abyss, and grieved,
But didn’t give up the ascension.

The great power dispersed in the abyss,
It found its abode in the break,
The virtue still rooted in the ravine…
But who’d tell about that the peak?

The mount still cherished the virtue,
With its inner light the virtue kindled…
The mount raises to Heaven the earth,
Its soul is lit up like a candle.



Your stern look frightens him,
You burn him with your dismal eyes.
The working girls are snatchers,
They adore taming the guys.

A dog’s dream is seldom revealed…
The pedigree-dog snarls at the mongrel.
You adore just obliging males –
The men you can scold and blame…

He is frightened, but your effort
Turned out very skilful and smart.
To his breast, you pinned the passion -
The magic breath of the lust.

You resemble a bird of prey,
You raise a gamekeeper’s skill.
The kisses of a man not so young
Burn you with passion and thrill.



Too thankless and ungrateful turned out
This obdurate and wolfish world,
And those loaded their guns to kill me,
Who by my fire their hands warmed.
They robbed me of my sacred ideas,
And they rejoiced, stealing my thoughts…
They altered them as they liked,
But failed to alter the plot…

Too thankless and ungrateful turned out
This obdurate and wolfish world,
But the Maker was always with me,
Showed mercy the Lord of Lords.
And told me not to think of them,
Just to think of my mission and views:
“Perfection is the way of the virtuous,
You’ve nothing to do with the wolves.”





Variation for Prologue
"Synopsis of Thesis"

The world, that seems closely studied, but still happens to be unknown... love, homeland, devotion and treachery... frankness, insincerity, a successful "master" of going back on his words... and a patriot punished for his devotion...
"The world was alarmed,
Roar was heard..."
I will not go on with it... each of us has immensely suffered recently...
The disc of my computer keeps the stories of those robberies and of all that mischief described by children... The authors are mostly refugees or the children and relatives of such families. Some of them were just two or three years old, when many Georgians were driven out of their ancient lands - Abkhazia and Samachablo..., and some of them were born after those events... The kids mostly repeat the stories told by their parents and relatives, but their sharp pain is felt while weighing the facts. Pain and suffering of those days torture the memory, heart and soul of a recently "feathered" kid... (The present material was got by a certain NGO, and they asked me to do the editorial works).
While reading the described events, I, unwittingly, was moved to tears. Compared to all the horrors depicted there, my uneasiness referring to the other fact may seem merely unimportant, but I must say, that a certain apparently ordinary and common fact peculiar to the present Georgia, annoyed me utterly.
Some years ago, I visited my native village (my father's house is coming down there at the time being... though those places belong neither to Abkhazia nor to Samachablo). I was eager to have a look at the library situated on the ground floor of the village club. I went there... and was alarmed by what I saw: cattle had defiled all the place... pigs seemed to have succeeded in doing this more than any other domestic animals...
I remember the books lined up on the shelves, - the books with their pages radiating mystery, romantic dreams, and hopes for the future... I witnessed just darkness there. We, of course, may mumble away to ourselves: "Well, what of it! What books, man?" and sigh ambiguously.
In one of my essays, I have mentioned not without pride: "The book has ruled over me like a self-confident and thoughtful parent..." Sure, such an idea might have struck many distinguished readers, and each of them was certain to feel acutely the burning sweetness of the adventure novels safely kept in the mind; the romantic fascination of those novels closely pursues the spiritual life of the humankind as a beautiful dream...
Thus, such pain is preceded by pouring out the evil hidden in one's subconscious world, that is to say, by the fatal change and violence of the degrading people...
Men can create with amazing love and diligence... also destroy with horrible hatred and detestation.
In the beginning, almost everyone cherishes his homeland, but then, many of those people, "the worthy ones" among them, too, are carried away by their own ambition to such an extent, that...
"Who knows where they fight,
Who knows where they stay...
Somewhere else:
To help others, to save them..."
Yes, the Georgians have often suffered from their degraded gene... the men who served other countries, the men trained to be robbers and plunderers (no matter by the ill fate or their own ambition), have not just once destroyed Georgia.
Time flew and their descendants would not remember their origin, but with their blood, with their subconscious or genetic memory they strived for the original source, they forced themselves to recollect it, but failed to do so, and, grown embittered, they tried to display and reveal their advantages.
Here are some far more contemporary and common examples: very often, you'll find the surname of a certain man sound familiar, but the man himself, ruled by greediness and desire for wealth, deliberately starts to degenerate, is ready to rob off the native land and hearth his own countryman...
According to the afore-mentioned, such a mood can steel into our hearts:
"The one who tortured you, who broke you down,
Got your land, your abode now..."
That is why, together with the cultural and educational virtues, the child's mind and soul must be "saturated" with the mood of the national poetry and inspired by it... but such a zeal in the present "immensely pragmatic" being requires proper devotion and fidelity... at times, such a thing, too, takes place:
"He left all he had, he got lost...
He carried just his homeland in his bosom..."
The last foot happens to be a leading idea of one of my novels - "The Herald of Dawn" - written thirty years ago and immediately "favored" with the assaults of the "black" reviewers of those days... and even today its leading idea remains as an essential note of the world... History, as ever, repeats itself, but we must mention that the reasons and motives of such actions are clear and far simpler nowadays...
The sincere poetical standpoint helps us to check-up our feelings and experiences, to rise above the everyday earthly life...
Otherwise, the world outlook of those with narrow views will make you think, that you are lost in the purposeful uproar made by them, and that your persistent devotion does not help you to do your duty to your homeland and nation...
"Forgive me if my homesickness
Has carried me away... too far..."
"That serves you right!" rejoices your enemy, and the Present winks at you like a mischievous kid:"
You just depart, die, pass away,
Then it'll be all right, it'll be OK."
Let us not insist that just matrimonial conditionality is meant here...
By the way, the days of allegory are gone... but all this resembles a reticent paradox... The thing is, that this very author does not die to his family, homeland and mental space, and cries out with joy:
"They have left us out, because
We come from the bosom of the skies..."
The author does not intend to stir up anyone's sympathy, but it is the exact thing, that very often, a certain creator happens to live and work in the rather unsuitable time and space... the one we are speaking about, never reconciled to this very "being left out", though he did not imitate the God's fool... but, against his will, at times, he had to heal himself, and resist severe attacks with "insane" feats and tricks..."
To say "no" to the reason can just the reasonable,
The sacred image is the shelter of the soul.
All hail to the prophet concealing his zeal,
All hail to the Christ's fool!"
At present, he, somehow, is adapted to such tricks... because those who managed to attain success by not noticing and leaving out the fruits of others' work, according to the newly-born circumstances (the show business is a risk, you know), started to leave out each other as well... and most of them, just to fill their stomachs and save their lives, are ready to betray not only their yesterday's friends but the whole world to boot...
"The ripe melon melts away as slobber
In the pregnant woman's dream; why!
The true knight's efforts end in failure,
The kite competes against the eagle in the sky.
The crown of feathers sparkles
In the brains of a political harlot.
A fox giggles at me at the abandoned village:
You cannot help it, man... you cannot..."
Here the author asks the Maker to show mercy to him... he, also, does not betray his own ideas and dreams...
"Dream rejoices and blooms
And flowers in the verse..."
No matter, if he, sometimes, with the zeal peculiar to a man, complains about the life... but he, also, does not conceal his services:
"He, unnoticeably distinguished,
Has built a cosmic house..."
Besides, he knows, that
"A muscle is a muscle and noting else...
The muscular world storms and rages..."
Then, he calls to others and to himself:
"Hold in high respect the virtue bestowed on you,
Respect the inner order and customs..."
Because love may be turned into relief as well as into a trap... Besides the yearning called "passion," there exists a blind love for the worshipped image, which, at times, unites many thousands for good deeds, and sometimes, throws them into an abyss...
In these collected poems, as well as in the prologue of the magazine titled "Image-Bearing Motivations", is often expressed the process of investigation and research: "correlation" between action and reasons; metamorphosis of images and exposure of psychological outlines; merging of thematic motives into digression; forming and opposing ideas; image-bearing patterns of motivation; satirical statements and forcible arguments; prophesy arisen from fancy... and maxims including valor and space of reason...
Let us confess: the author has often hoped that his works - novels, stories, plays and tales would be properly reflected in the cinematography.
In his youth, he longed for mastering the producer's profession and intended to take examinations at the faculty newly opened in Georgia. After a kind of interview, a strictly determined contingent was allowed to take exams. The interview ended by arguing with the professor, and he thought they'd get rid of him... strange to say, his name was entered in the list of those who were to pass their exams, but he learned about it too late...
Despite this, his imagination refused to yield to reality, and he fancied the best poems of his collection as film-novels with striking effects.
Who knows... in spite of the temporal factor, he may succeed in his "debut"... In short, what seemed a rather usual and boring "making" (and not creating) for others, happened to be inaccessible to him... under the circumstances, of course...
"When in my dream
I came across a beautiful town,
I heard a whisper: "You just stay here
And again, you'll fly from now on...
Sing here, this will be your home,
Glory and boundless joy await you here".
But I couldn't do so, because a word
Of devotion was left in this world..."
Just so! Some people regard such devotion as a symbol of failure... but
"Devotion scares even the traitor,
And all the knowledge of the obstinate
Must be shaken out..."
If someone thinks, the above-said has not much to do with poetry, then...
"Take away your claws
From that man", a voice sounds.
"Let his fatherland flourish in his verse!"
The brave thought will open its eyes
In the sunshine and rays...
Humankind will apprehend
The world in that rhythm..."
This is said just to cheer you up... now, we had rather look through the world patterns of the rhythmical structure once again.
As I have mentioned before, the mysteries that help us to apprehend the esoteric wisdom, deserve some warmth and love, as well as the views remained as inactive dogmas, need perfection in the intellectual space and careful arrangement in the active maxims.
All of us know the creator manages to reveal his thoughts to "the image-bearing whiteness" with the help of heavenly forces... such an intellectual mystery is a promising guide to perceive the future...
"All hail to the purple race
Fluttering from beyond the skies..."
God is always with us, he listens to us all the time... Besides, there always existed the invisible unity of "the wise and faithful", and as the sky and the earth - the whole world, in short, is the abode to each of us, we are to refine and improve the skill for co-existence...
"Each man builds his Temple where he can:
Some - on the summit, some - in the vale.
Some flourish the desert in their bodies,
And some knit their dream at the dome..."
The reader may deepen this thought and decide where and how to build his Temple, - to build it with his own hands or just symbolically... it is up to him... Let us do our best to turn our wishes into a part of the kindred souls' intellectual space...
You know, the rational kernel arisen from poetical mysteries is an essential symbol of the very space...
"And if you go on livingIn
this world as a grain
Looking forward to the spring
Among the yellow leaves...
You'll grow, but won't be
Completely right and veracious,
Because the homeland again
Bitterly moans in your verses..."

12-14. 03.2006

Translated from Georgian by Asmat Lekiashvili



Parallelism... Alternative... Literary way …

These verses Janri Gogeshvili in style like ’Haiku ’, ’ Tanka ’, ’ Shayri ’… It is published PoemHunter.com under the Literary pseudonym Gioom Galen

(Poems By Poet Gioom Galen) Janri Gogeshvili

Satire has changed in a metaphor

Free improvisation

And advances with images,

Illusion develops,

That the muse flies over clouds …

Satire has changed in a metaphor,

Plagiarism in a time trouble,

There is nothing to steal,

Race proceeds with an instinct,

False objectivism has seized power …


Auto-suggestion from a pure body …

Fragrance and desire,

Smell of a sweaty body …

The eccentric woman is drawn by a smell

Men from ‘a cave oasis’,

Once, he with an instinct took a great interest

With a fragrance of the newborn child …

I breathe your aroma from my sky, _

Fragrance and desire;

Auto-suggestion from a pure body …


As nectar of wavy feelings…

Your face in me as dream,

As a fragrance of wild flowers …

As a melody of heavenly light,

As nectar of wavy feelings …


The game with hints...

The Puddle has come nearer to a pond,

The lawn has lost a flower,

The ocean dreamt from a stream,

The Mirage has fascinated the Landscape


Breathes in a nape of a rotting body…

The dream disappears from motionless sensation,

Illusion; isolation from an external world,

The fascinated soul Dexterous tricks,

But passion, splinters from a heavenly fog

Breathes in a nape of a rotting body...



Easy and graceful movements;

Active role in tragedies of the favourite;

Relations on specific to manner;

Excitable smile of the philanthropist...


The love hides needles...

Affected person Entices from games,

The ambition is on friendly terms with treason,

The love hides needles,

The crafty practises in feelings…



’Affect’ of an extreme episode of love;

Clamp your thoughts, Clamp desire,

Whispering on magic words about destiny,

The figurative torture in honor of love...


Caressing, without a sound...

On a bosom of the nature, individualistic revolt

Will fall in love with a snake not so difficultly,

To lose fear not always clever,

The snake has bitten; caressing, without a sound...


Crisis signs dared …

Sometimes we shout spontaneously;

Crisis signs dared …

The life plays the hypocrite vulgarly,

The promise has turned to delirium …


In the soul the winter dozed...

Swallow has involved aroma of its verses,

'The spring has come'… she chirped,

Has joyfully flown between stanzas,

But, in the soul of the author the winter dozed;

The deceived birdie has frozen …


Is better reflect spontaneously

’hasten slowly’ To the west

Detour of east roads …

Is better reflect spontaneously,

Than to hoot at irony Gate …


Rescue the mad reader...

Has the claim for thin taste

Contrary to Healthy sense,

Rescue the mad reader;

Rescue in divine to silence …


To dress up strangenesses…

To part from memoirs sometimes conveniently...

Will return friends from the past very difficultly,

To dress up strangenesses it is amusing and it is clever,

From unlucky habits it is possible to unload imperceptibly …


Inaccessible to a look of surrounding …

In the open air,

In 'chains’ creative loneliness,

Where were not doors,

Prohibitive signs …

With the greatest persistence

He has created the anchoretic way of life,

Inaccessible to a look of surrounding …


Fill the emptiness...

'Dwarf' tries to play and has fun,

With covered in squeal, a hymn of 'the big explosion’ …

Press down utility to imaginations,

Do not allow to 'sovereign' to suffer from loneliness;

Fill the emptiness invisible to energy of atom …


She has run out without hat from the house


He was passive, loved humility,

She loved a joyful life,

It caused in him anxiety,

And irritation could not it hidden …

She has wanted to play on a guitar,

The fine lady searched for an adventure,

The husband was disturbed, has begun to smoke a cigar,

Took from bank the big credit …

She has run out without a hat from the house,

Charm of the men, flaring dreams …

The husband 'has revolted', has run in a casino,

He has put all the credit, on colour of her plaid …

The destiny has played, the ‘The passive’ has won,

He became similar to the skilled player …

About habits of the wife, laughed vulgarly,

Though He was 'raised' on red plaid …



For artful masking

In an explanation of love egoism,

In an exotic and fantasy exchange,

In lyricism of human passions

Convention of decencies and ignorance …


‘Deification' intertwined with swindle …

What a pity!

He has turned out to be the hypocrite,

But, hypocrisy attribute, _ of progress …

I am sorry...

He has turned out to be the intriguer,

But, adventurism the inspirer of an agiotage …

'Deification' intertwined with swindle …


Feel, ancient than ethics, a rhythm and music …

Dancing, he came nearer to the stranger and scanned

Unbridled syllables of continuous nonsense …

Involuntarily she has become agitated and whispered

The same syllables with strangenesses …

Both of them were brought up in noble families, _

Feel, ancient than ethics, a rhythm and music …


Illusion tempts doubtful destiny …

The dream, 'to become illustrious', flickers! ! !

Desire, which she has lost in memory,

Sometimes crosses a threshold of illusion,

Opens wrinkled expressiveness, _

Exotic images, mysterious characters …

Illusion tempts doubtful destiny …


Everyday, primitive drama …

Desire has renounced, the love has closed eyes,

But, the dream is not dead, it is not dead!

The duty has forced and pretended to be feelings …

Everyday, primitive drama …


To justify predilection to 'erotic drinks'

Melancholy, _ pleasure anticipation, _

To enjoy in loneliness sensual in the world,

To justify predilection to 'erotic drinks',

To search for love, as rescue, 'in real in the myth'...


Unlucky True...

About love many write,

Many suffer in vain,

Someone has taken pleasure,

From the trustful will squeeze out,

Unlucky True it is especially dangerous …


The self-oblivion cures from illnesses …

'Voluptuousness' and a bluff, 'dreams' freakish;

Desires maneuvers from love, _

Be not irritated the daredevil masks,

The self-oblivion cures from illnesses


The breeze brings...

Dreams blossom your eyes,

The breeze brings a fragrant smell,

But you not the girl, oh the madam!

The boy has fallen in love;

There will be a scandal …


the latent weight...

Enmity diplomacy surpasses a fantasy …

On approaching ecstasy reacts wit,

Feelings deprived sympathy fatal feature,

Loneliness pathology anomalous activity …

Dark substances the latent weight of installed …


The sky, from melancholy…

From verses 'original' images have taken off,

In the sky symmetric dreams were twisted,

Stanzas so strange were, are similar each other,

The sky, from melancholy, has 'reincarnated' in a kaleidoscope...


from sudden magnetism …

...Space wander in itself,

The kernel accepts an image of the eremite …

Banal scenes are put forward by a policy,

Show flares from sudden magnetism …

People perish from the underdeveloped Swindler …


Monotony became decency


He smiles to the destiny …

Monotony became decency,

The wind bluffs,

The breeze pretends 'existence'...

Fidelity, -

Emblem of a joint life …

The eternal volunteer

Silently waits for a fair wind …


Remained hungry, but was rather glad...

For a monkey to ape and steal

This advantage and the 'power'…

But the eremite from a monkey of it waited,

Remained hungry, but was rather glad...

’I fly!’

The birdie chirped on decorative sheet,

In the sky the roar has begun, has gone a downpour,

From fear she became mute...

But air was present such charm,

She has again wanted to fly …

And on wings the wind she has appeared on a cloud,

’I fly!’

She again and again was enticed...




There is no time reflects, _

To calm down, _ it is dangerous, _

Passion will cease...

Actuate! _

'Neither rhyme nor reason'...

And someone mourns...

With playfulness,

Imitative magics will instigate the muse …


Adaptation or Fate…

To squat,

Adaptation or Fate, _

Begin one‘s career and triumph!


All life is remembered by that aroma …

’Look before you jump up’

But the love does not recognize this wisdom, _

The innocent girl has suddenly treated

Kindly an odorous flower of an acacia,

Has intuitively played a flirtation scene …

And the boy who steadfastly looked at it,

All life is remembered by that aroma …


And beholds freakish laughter …

Hasty rhythm and creative scope,

But it is possible to appear in emptiness,

And prank disappears at once,

And the soul freezes in a cold …

But, he laughs loudly from is far, _

The deceptive visual field is dismissed...

She quickens from attracting

And beholds freakish laughter …


And it attractively is jealous …

At top lonely a tree It is shrouded in a fog …

The eremite prays sinking, _ the Jaw and a beard, _

Endlessness... interpretations and Tropes…

But she naked, as the nature,

And it attractively is jealous …

The eremite aspired; he wanted to rescue the world …


And the night blossoms for another

And the dream dies, when you cannot...

And the night blossoms for another,

Wish me while you can,

There in heavens, I in you will fall in love //

...but could not …


And the tempter takes out accusatory verdict!

For many such are game rules:

When the whim will depart, _ starts to be angry,

But she 'in the seventh sky’ imagines, _

And the tempter takes out accusatory verdict!


And, from sand waves carry away ardency …

The dream was enticed ‘in sand’ outlooks,

Where fluctuations excitation it is tempting …

In stanzas flicker amorous intrigues

And, from sand waves carry away ardency …


As you have appeared on passion knees …


Come nearer; do not run in vain,

Will suffice to wander from grief…

Look at me, and you will not notice,

As you have appeared on passion knees …


At to tighten the foot also a neck …

Having satisfied thirst

from breaking up sensations;

Inevitability decay desire and passions …

While there is time,

be not separated from dream;

At to tighten the foot also a neck …

To dress up faces to the rotting world!


Balances your hips, as the oarsman …

At you a boat without the balance weight,

At that the balance weight and a sail,

Be not afraid the pretty girl he nearby, _

Balances your hips, as the oarsman …


Be not afraid, it is speed of love …

To you burnt the wavy kiss,

Be not afraid, it is speed of love …

Parallel gamma tale-teller cognition,

And excitement becomes moon hostage …


Be not lazy will recollect a magic love trick …

Sheets have taken in head to depart against a wind …

Clouds have dared, to block to hurricane road …

We often become victims of 'paralogismos',

Be not lazy will recollect a magic love trick …


Be not sunk whirlpool of love …

Excitable 'hunters' do not miss 'moment',

In the Site take liberties ’Haiku’, ’Tanka’, ’Shayri’ …

Cautiously, with emotions be not damaged,

Be not sunk whirlpool of love …


Becomes the hostage of habits …

The life dances from a prism,

Plays different intrigues …

The peacock rhymes the tail, _

Sings, beholds Mifopoetichesky patterns …

The hypocrite cannot love,

But so strongly plays the hypocrite,

becomes the hostage of habits …

To Someone involves rubber plants,

Though does not penetrate what for …


Blind innocence, _ excitation in the mirage

There, at top,

Lonely poplar sublime in a mirage, _

Naked letters without a metaphor,

The eremite did not notice beauty of a cypress,

And in it there was a pleasure …

Blind innocence, _ excitation in the mirage,

Squeezed out love juice of the moon …


But a paper fasts...

The dream flies up,

But a paper fasts,

Aroma disappears …


But at you and a blouse so to rustle breast

Naked 'Celebrity' not so is attractive...

But at you and a blouse so to rustle breast,

To admire eyes, _ is fascinating,

That somehow reminds a blues...


But singing of birds of Secret do not disclose …

’Love me! ’ _ Irritable shout,

If she did not catch desire of your eyes,

’Love me! ’ _ unintelligible request,

If she has not learnt sweet of your lips, _

But singing of birds of Secret do not disclose …


But, in reflexion…

When he has been in deep meditation,

On a body, in the feelings, female fingers floated;

Playfulness, _ burning breath...

But, in reflexion has been jammed another's caresses


But, there 'the bride' jumps up!

Children invent game,

Adults interpret the childhood;

The trap waited for the stranger...

But, there 'the bride' jumps up!




I click charm of naive eyes,

It is interesting, it entertains …

But without a ”credit card”

I can not please you …


That me have congratulated,

«You are


999,999 th




“Drop a hint”,

Advertising gimmicks …

It is interesting, it entertains …



But without a ”credit card”


Could not fly up …

Mysterious signs and charm …

Instinctive aspiration from 'burning',

Bee could not pacify the self-oblivion, _

to flower nectar so has clung,

Could not fly up …


Desirable 'riddle' …

Your refusal is a bait,

I, and so in yours to a cage,

If you expel, I disappear...

To sing to a smog only in enamoured heart …


Do not advise to them, if good luck not with you …

'With roles' of talented jugglers and conjurers

’Decent ladies’ have a good time,

But for successful flirtation to play from itself the clown,

Do not advise to them, if good luck not with you …


Exotic birdie an emblem of flirtation

Exotic birdie an emblem of flirtation,

'Burning' the love demands risk,

Fishing in Aquarium, there is no sense,

The falcon in the sky does not search rice,

Flight frightens parrot 'L..' _ jumps up Poultry...


Fatal reality …

Natural cheerfulness,

Supports internal equilibrium

And if the happiness smiles,

To you not hunting, to Philosophize …


Feeds up graceful passion...

She slept in caresses of moonlight,

He has gone down to it from an azure dream,

Both charmed aroma of love …

Figurative wishes

Feeds up graceful passion...


Flower kaleidoscopes...

Verbal signals, flower kaleidoscopes,

Wandering in dreams, poetic custom, _

It is amusing, at the worlds end to collect chamomiles

And in verses will try on 'emotional clothes' up …

You are assured, that the patron nearby …

Safety of travel it is guaranteed,

Someone has lost the way in emotions and then,

Indefatigably plays the forgotten record player …


From lonely dream …




The love alphabet …


To look

From the breast sky …

To involve

And to entice,

Will temper longing,

To breathe desire

From lonely dream …

But time hurries,

To row and row …

Do not despond, _

The love alphabet …


From the pictogram to the letter …

The enamored should overcome a way

From the pictogram to the letter …

And on dreams lips

To knot the love …


Has plunged into depth of eyes …

Sight of the enamored

Has got confused her in eyelashes,

Has plunged into depth of eyes …

‘My captive!

At last, you have found a refuge …’

sang Fascinating the flute …


He could not, enjoy that 'gift' …

After occurrence of the comet, three sun,

Day will turn at night …


By combination of the Neptune and uranium,

His name will sparkle …

He will crush progress, will operate the Universe...

Abstract schemes of the astrologist …

As it is good, that foretellers often are mistaken …

His all life will torment not marketed dreams …

Disappointment and scepticism sources …

He could not, enjoy that 'gift',

Which, before a door the destiny has put …


Herds of a wish…

Yellow herds of a wish

The island has reached to uninhabited, _

The investment has revived …


I would add...

Gabriel García Márquez has told:

‘Puritanism that insatiable perversity,

Which is fed own ..........’

Poeticizing intellectual horizons

I would add, _

The person which imitates on the puritan

'It' is similar to 'beard'...

beard - (a person who diverts suspicion from someone (especially a woman who accompanies a male homosexual in order to conceal his homosexuality) .


Illusion is immortal!

Smoking our dreams, the Life plays a trick,

Treats in the inspiring lines the privilege of poets,

Heavenly bodies us secretly accompany…

Illusion is immortal! It is possible to rescue love …


Imitation of poison...

Penetrated in soul

Boomeranged the gaze

Has exposed the cheat and has departed...

'Victim' in furiousness has excreted Imitation of poison,

And bitter taste has driven away doubtful whims …


In metaphors to him not good luck …

There in the sky, cloud lanes and alleys

Your dream wanders the eccentric woman;

On the earth you fool the guy,

In metaphors to him not good luck …

But, cannot forget oblivion of your lips

The life plans perfidy...


Insincerity is shaded ‘from this dungeon’...

The intellectual-lonely

‘The superfluous person’ in revolution, -

For imitators of Marxism-Leninism it is 'axiom'...

Insincerity is shaded ‘from this dungeon...’

But ‘the democracy mask’ has chosen Maxims,

Which were born in loneliness,

In the course of evolution …


Insinuating ritual...

She walked every evening with a dog,

Before the house where the extravagant Man lived …

Expressive gait of the woman of 'juicy age»,

It was attractively reflected in windows of the big house …

Insinuating ritual to a sleeping room of the awkward husband …


is false coda …

Amateurish melody, is false coda …

The poseur bakes philosophical forms …

Likes to coquet the to carry away Imagination,

But being the patient from pathological spinal column...

The end all counterfeit, a farce, _ is false coda …

To the fabulist grieve that _ ‘fantasy’ _ cannot become bride.


Also any narcotic 'philosophy' cannot help!


Love charms nevertheless are very dangerous

Again to ignite the died away passion, _

At the moments of danger or excitation of feelings,

Love charms nevertheless are very dangerous,

'Breeze' is released from habitual complexes

And suddenly runs into love furiousness …


Magical melody, _ 'Idiomatic sounds'...

Magical melody of eternal love …

If you love, she deplore …

The moon smiles, sheets rustle,

And the grass green becomes gentler,

In whims there is no need …

Take pleasure... 'Idiomatic sounds'...

Magical melody of eternal love …


Metaphorical games...

She is 'armament' of verses and likes to play emotions...

If you her in verses search for a refuge,

It is necessary to change a reality,

Metaphorical games were weaved as a web,

Do not allow 'be in captivated' to vanish in vain …


Miracle always nearby …

Parallel love, _

They play on rainbow strings //

In beams reincarnating …

Parallel love, _

Reality and unreality, _

Miracle always nearby …


Motive is not beholding metaphors of the stranger

The voice of an alarm drum rushes,

The parallel passion calls,

Motive is not beholding metaphors of the stranger,

But, to lodging for the night, all the same you will come back …


Nostalgia, _sorrow about a drought …

Sometimes and the thunder brings pleasures,

The downpour and drought has rushed recedes,

But drought-resistant a plant

Exposes itself on display

Nostalgia, _sorrow about a drought …


On a grass dances barefoot …

Take off one‘s shoes!

Very attractively

When decent, but enthusiastic the woman

On a grass dances barefoot …


On allegoric manners

To represent love relations

She has wanted from music,

To learn the unknown through you

She has desired from herself …

On allegoric manners

She was to give oneself the imagination …


Passion in dreams has been 'drowned'…

She attacked him...

Made sober anew has quickened,

From lunar dreams the message has arrived;

Passion in dreams has been 'drowned'…


'Quivering expectation' …

'Poplar lonely' took a great interest in the Beauty of a willow …

But has fallen in love on the charming Woman …

No, it not a miracle, _ this is 'Quivering expectation' …



For them she a riddle,

The dream has lost way heavens,

Among stars and among hearts...

In the end, alter all suddenly

and 'dream' has fascinated …


Romantically excited woman …

Romantically excited woman, _

The self-willed a beauty and riddle,

Entices in a smile from depth of eyes, _

In beams of magic of love, _ it is simple so …

But, for someone it is insidiously …


Sometimes attack’s to you involves

’Poison as well medicines’,

The wise man has told...

Instinct, jeopardy

And the fear leaves outside,

Sometimes attack’s to you involves, _

But, not always `unloading' comes to an end pleasantly...


Specific lines...

For the robber 'stratagem', _

Slaughter and trophy, _

'Strategic' paths and roads, _

Invasion on peace campaigns …

Specific lines of artful 'peacemaker', _

With cowardly vindictiveness to increase booty...


Stars gossip...

The moon behind clouds,

Stars gossip,

The wave is jealous …


Suddenly to 'personify' the hysterics

From love it is possible to fly up highly, highly, _

To lose feel of the gloomy future;

Suddenly to 'personify' the hysterics, _

'Will mutilate' the photo of the incorrect beloved …

With mutter of magic formulas...


Swears to fidelity favorite...

’I your captive …’

Swears to fidelity favorite, _

But captives become also fugitives …


Tempt her, tempt …

When be jealous lifts a tone,

It is enriched love scenes,

The pilgrim is heated up by the Piquancy,

The cactus flower lobbies needles …

Tempt her, tempt …


The ’eunuch’ cannot

the Platonic will fall in love …

Love! _ it not only pleasure,

The love has multiple-valued shape …

The 'eunuch» cannot the Platonic will fall in love …

Euphemism too not pleasure …

Someone torment from defective ’passions …’


The broken off string…

I have recollected that melody!

No, at first give will fall in love,

The broken off string argues...


The passion pretends...

The passion pretends,

The breeze accompanies leaves,

Causing whisper...


The passion puts forward

the cloned scenes …

She lies skillfully

And his fine eyes gracefully inflate,

He moves under the influence of lie, _

Transformation the fascinated hunter,

The passion puts forward the cloned scenes …


The rainbow has flown their hearts:

’The Lion is not so fierce as he is painted.’

The rainbow has flown their hearts:

’A maid that laughs is half taken.’

The soul plays the hypocrite with a body

Speed of an internal current

Has lost feeling of sincerity,

The soul plays the hypocrite with a body, _

With the Favorite of symbolical death …


The sun does not disappear from a sunset...

Learning torture in honor of love,

Dumb, grow torpid from a deceit...

She comes nearer, _ he shivers …

The sun does not disappear from a sunset...


The 'whim' frolics from mercy of 'destiny' …

Interlude from a usual life,

The mask is a character,

She has accepted a this image

Owing to negligence and 'blindness' …

The 'whim' frolics from mercy of 'destiny'…


There the planet in a trance from the vagrant sky

Among nonsense from the Old World, _

The melody sparkles, from the big excitation;

There the planet in a trance from the vagrant sky,

But, here, someone, in verses dances and undresses …


To the traitor overtakes grief …

The deceived girl sits at home,

In thoughts burns love scenes...

Someone creeps on traces to vindictiveness...

And gets 'parallel' caress of the girl, _

To the traitor overtakes grief …


When among others the favorite sings...

Choral singing, it is tempting,

When among others the favorite sings;

Soprano and baritone _ she in the first row...

But, secretly each other singing love...

About it others do not suspect …


Whence a delightful shiver …

Yesterday he has insinuatingly touched to her …

She has been surprised; whence a delightful shivers …

Has suddenly fallen in love on the neighbor,

To which its kind

And «delightful a shiver», _ it is absolutely indifferent …


Whole color a shade to of innocence …

Palette for a make-up, Feeling of beauty, _

The female scent understands from a birth...

Look 'she-devil' directs 'mixer', _

Whole color a shade to of innocence …


With imitations go...

The dear realism perfidiously bites,

It is quite good to think, that it illusion,

But if the destiny smiles, _

With imitations go on a spree in the real...


You look fancifully

You look fancifully,

Doll of the primitive child,

My aura clears your strangeness’s,

And female cunning becomes safe …


You, for yourself play a piano

Pythagoreans treated with music with love,

And 'mutes' was from love,

You, for yourself play a piano,

And, I am Becoming 'mute'...


© The Copyright



Biographical Data

Janri A. Gogeshvili - born in 1946; 31/I. in Nigoiti (a village of Lanchkhuti region).
Parents: father - Avtandil T. Gogeshvili; mother - Anetta O. Kvirkvelia.
He finished Nigoiti secondary school (eight classes) and Tbilisi Technical School of Light Industry; graduated from Tbilisi State Pedagogical Institute, but, he admits that he acquired his essential knowledge by reading fiction and scientific literature, and he thinks erudition a distinguished profession.
In his youth, he tried to display his ideas and emotions by verses and miniatures. Then, he was "carried away" by writing stories and adventure novels.
His story ("Poppies of Meskheti") was published in the regional newspaper "Meskheti Restored" (1968).
In 1974, he took part in the republic seminar of young writers... where Janri Gogeshvili's stories were met with particular approval, and that was mentioned in the press of those days. In the same year, his stories were published in the Georgian magazines and newspapers.
Later, the young writer, inspired by the national zeal and love for freedom, thanks to his works and public speeches, was "favored" with a title of "a mutineer", and the "black reviews" appeared one after another... No wonder he met with difficulties in publishing his first book, though, in 1982, the Publishing House "Merani" prepared for publication his collected stories ("The Refugee from Dreamland").
The list of the books published:
"The Refugee from Dreamland." P. H. "Merani," 1982;"
The Hire." Collected stories. P. H. "Nakaduli", 1984;
"Mimicry." A satirical-comic collection. P. H. "N. B," 1984;
"The Lot of Yours." A drama. "The Methodical Center of the Ministry of Culture," 1984;
"Love Ennobles Us," "Grasshopper Assault." Two plays. 'The Methodical Center of the Ministry of Culture," 1985;
"White Wall" (novel), publishing house "Merani", 1987;
"Playing Yoga." A satirical-comic collection. "N.B." 1990;
"The Herald of Dawn," "The One You Pursue." Two novels. P. H. "Merani," 1991;
"The Crematory of Love." A novel. P. H. "The Cubs will Grow up," 1992;
"Sweet Souls of the Insane." A novel. P. H. "The Cubs will Grow up," 1995;
"Good-for-Nothing." A rhyme. "The Educational-Missionary Fund," 2003;
"Go Ahead!" A play (a sad comedy). "The Educational-Missionary Fund," 2004;
"From Dream into Reality." Collected poems... _ _”been waiting the sponsor…”
Many readers had read and appreciated Janri Gogeshvili's works: stories, novels, plays, tales, humoresques, articles and verses, but the so-called "official criticism" had no intention to acknowledge him. Yes, there were a few "critical assaults" and some spontaneously published articles of approval, but no comments or references from the "acknowledged" writers. Even those, who read his novels with great interest and at heart, sympathized with the heroes of his novels, hated to admit they had heard about the writer's published books... but the sincere reader never refused to express his admiration...
Janri Gogeshvili uses his gift for writing to idealize sympathy, support, homeland, kindness and justice, and to expand the space of invention and foretelling. Many readers have admired his ability of perceiving psychological nuances and generalizing them.
Here is his first book of collected verses. "Look, poetry is another thing", may say someone either with undisguised or with concealed malignant joy while discussing the skill and talent of the prose writer whose name he had not heard before. Just so! Poetry, in general, means fiction, literature... and poems, that is to say, patterns written in verses - in particular... and while speaking about the rhythmical structure of the language, determined by the clearly expressed metrical regularity, - the structure that is distinguished for its phonetic harmony and deep emotions, - to our mind, everything happens to be just comparative...
Here and there prevails emotion, somewhere - harmony, and somewhere else - the rhythmical structure... and all this, in the first place, includes poetry itself.
Janri Gogeshvili had not an easy life, but he still stepped bravely in the 21st century. We think him more an author of the future, a creator, which strives for searching and reflection.
He had lived and worked in various parts of Georgia as well as some European and Asian countries.
Here is a list of his occupations: a soldier of the infantry regiment, an inspector of watchdogs training service, a worker of the topographical group, an engineer of technical safety, of armed forces a head technologist, a station team-leader of the shoe factory, a machinist of the seaport electrical crane, an organizer of the zone of everyday services, a worker at the printing-house, a newspaper correspondent, a club manager, a chief of the museum of regional ethnography, a watchman, an electrician, a chief of the theatrical company, a journal reviewer, an editor-in-chief of the advertising agency, a specialist of computer support and design, a director of the publishing house, a publisher of the Publishing House at the Monastery, a fund president, a chairman of the association...
As we've already mentioned, he, too, like others, wished to try his hand at cinematography... strived for mastering the art of staging (he had directed the amateur company at the village club; collaborated with the vocal-instrumental company; staged A. P. Chekhov's stories and his own sketches... Each performance on the stages of the village clubs and Palaces of Culture was a great success), but his dream did not come true... By the way, we must mention, that nowadays, cinematography has lost that defiant elusiveness it had in the 20th century, and yet, his vain dream makes one think that he did not succeed in the sphere, could not thoroughly realize his creative possibilities...
Janri Gogeshvili has founded the Publishing House - " The Cubs will Grow up", "The Editorial-Missionary Fund", "The Analytical Center of National Consciousness", the magazine "Image-Bearing Motivations" (a publisher and editor Janri Gogeshvili).

best wishes... Representation of the 'The Analytical Center of National Consciousness'www.jvj.20m.com



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