Giorgi Leonidze
Giorgi
Leonidze, the Georgian poet, writer and philologist, was born in the Kakhetian
village Patardzeuli (near Sagarejo, ca. 20 km east of
After
finishing the Clerical Seminarium of Tbilisi he studied Philology at the State
University of Tbilisi. Being member of the symbolistic order “Blue horns”
(from 1918) he, like his colleagues, was engaged in the technical improvement
of the Georgian poetry. At the same time he was the chief-editor of the weekly
newspaper “Bakhtrioni” issued by the above circle.
Though
Giorgi Leonidze paid a big tribute to the modernism in his early years, he is a
very distinctive and deeply national poet who was connected more than his
contemporaries with the ancient Georgian literary roots, existing from the 5th
century A.D. In the opinion of John
Steinbeck, Leonidze was a most original poet, more than anyone else closely bound up
with the mysteries of the language in which he wrote [Boris
Pasternak, in: Nobel Prize Library, By William Faulkner, John Steinbeck, Eugene
O'Neill. 1971, p. 280]. English writers coming to
His
poems bear the tint of an extraordinary merging of the old chivalrous
traditions with the asthetism. Being a very good expert of the Georgian
history, he dedicated many poems to the past of his homeland. One of them, a long poem “Samgori”, where he assigned to
The
more and more heavy interference and compulsion of Soviets in every sphere of
the cultural life beginning from the early thirties put some imprint also on G. Leonidze’s poetry.
Therefore his best poems belong to the preceeding time; e.g. “Vision in the
night” (1915), “Autoportrait” (1921), “Sun tabasta” (1922), “On
the gallows” (1922), “Slaughterhouse of Tiflis” (1923), “Tsitsari”
(1925), “The night of Iori” (1925), “The night of Ninotsminda”
(1926), “The song of the first snow” (1926), “Mating season”
(1928), “An Appointment with Qipchagh” (1928), “Qipchaghian night”
(1928), “Ole” (1931). He created again new masterpieces at the sunset of
his life when the control by authorities had been weakened – among them the
book of short stories “The tree of desire”, an amalgamation of epic
stories with a strong poetic stream. This book was filmed by the film-producer
T. Abuladze with a big success in 1976.
His
closest friends and brothers in poetry, Titsian Tabidze and Paolo Iashvili, as
well as his brother Professor Leon Leonidze (microbiologist), became victims of
Communist repressions of 1937-1938. The fact that G. Leonidze already worked on
the long poem dedicated to Stalin, “Stalin, vol. I:
The childehood and adolescence” (1936), had saved his life from the same
destiny. This long poem describes in reality the nature, history and habits of
Georgia and the Georgians with a great mastery. This was the main reason why
the poet could not fulfil his task to write the second part of the same long
poem dedicated to the revolutionary past of the Soviet leader, though
The
letter written by the Russian poet Boris Pasternak to Nino Tabidze, the wife of
Titsian, is very informative to characterize Giorgi Leonidze’s personality:
“I bow my head before the poet Leonidze and his poetry with the same low bow as
before his wife, his fate and his house. I can even force myself to be more strict: I bow my head before a spark of
childishnessity, skipping through his hands and manuscripts and going down to
his children. And I am speaking not at all about that pseudo-Rafaelistic
imagination of childehood which does not exist in the world, exept on the top of candy
boxes. But I speak about the simplicity, nonsensnence and defencelessnence of a
childe, about its conductivity. About the childe’s ability to create at the
same time a whole world by his toys and the danger to be run over by crossing a
street. About a sight of a childe among a big, far (by that
time) going life, which it manages in a childlike simple, nonsensical,
efficient and defenceless way.” [From
a book: Giorgi Leonidze.
The Selected Poetry. Ed.: G.Margvelashvili. Tbilisi. Publishing House Merani,
1986 (in Russian), pp. 15-16].
Leonidze served as the real prototype of the
Pasternak’s Artist. This Cycle – “The Artist” – is connected with
Pasternak’s visit to the
Giorgi
Leonidze devoted many years of his life to philology. He was doctor of
philological sciences (honoris causa). He wrote many articles and books
about Rustaveli, Sulkhan-Saba Orbeliani, king-poet Vakhtang VI, Josef Tbileli,
David Guramishvili, Antimos Iverianu, Besiki, Sayat-Nova, Mamuka and Nikoloz
Baratashvili, Ilya Chavchavadze, Akaki Tsereteli, Mamia Gurieli, Vaja-Pshavela,
Vasili Barnovi (Barnaveli) etc. He was the chief-editor of “Literary heritage”
and “Literary herald”. Besides he is the founder of the
GIORGI
LEONIDZE’S POEMS
On a mountain-top I
built a
My only faithful helper
Was the poor bull Nicophore.
Over slopes and over cliffs,
Hauling stones and wood galore;
Lord, grant a place in heaven
To poor old Nicophore!
1925
Translated
by Kevin Tuite
THE BLACK OAK BY THE
Lonely,
lonely by the
Stood a
rustling, ancient black oak,
Gaining new
splinters and splittings
With every fiery thunder stroke.
Seabirds with
their raucus chatter
Pestered this relic of old woods.
With beaks
they have draped over him
A tattered, patchwork rainbow hood.
From
the sky their beaks gave dewdrops,
Sunrays
reflected in the sea.
Each new
morning song they chirruped
Brought more
splits in the ancient tree.
By the
Stood the lonely, lonely black oak.
Against his
bare chest, cold, howling
Wind, dense
fog, and frigid waves broke.
The oak
stands its ground, like a tiger,
Angrier than a tiger. With
Each wave the
sea sends to batter
Him, he sinks
new roots in the earth.
1925
Translated by George M. Young
THE GUINEA-FOWL
(Adapted from the Georgian of
Georgi Leonidze)
She took me,
she flung me down
As a Cherkess
warrior flings
His lance –
and away to Kakhetia
On her proud,
white wings!
Away, then,
guinea-fowl, fly!
You stranger, no longer mine:
I’ll praise your wings no longer
When I lift my wine,
And I’ll paint my nails no longer
With saffron and ochre dyes –
Ah, fly to enchant one who dreams
Of your wings, and sighs.
Let him, your lover, feed you
With sweetmeats now, not I:
I shall gather my cloak about me,
I shall not walk by;
I shall live in a Tartar village,
To an old Tari I’ll croon,
And for coat I shall have the rain,
For my hat – the moon.
1925
Translated by John Lehmann
ONCE MORE MEETING THE
KIPCHAK
And
I blew upon my blade
And
touched earth with the tip
Old Folk Poem from Muxrani
Over
the steppe, past Karbada
Where
partridges arise from the kurgans
I wake
up again, resurrected,
Waiting
in ambush outside Muxrani
And
once more I inspect my weapons.
Along
the rivers, Ksani and Aragvi,
Wheat
that grows only in
And
your lips have the sweetness of badagi,
Young
Georgian wine in its first bubbling.
It was
pheasant hunting time when I first saw you,
It was
still then the summer of Rustaveli,
A
summer that was all but over,
And I
wish I had not drunk so much badagi
And I
wish I had not just sharpened my sword.
From
one steppe through another steppe, I chased you
Raising
the dust on all the roads around.
I broke
the locks on the gates of Mtskhetha.
Smashed
temples, with their great candles, down!
But he
who crushes must himself be crushed,
He who
was once incarnate as a Kipchak.
When I
met your husband he was wearing a helmet.
He
split my head with a single chop.
Come,
put your hands on my wound, embrace it.
I can’t
see you, the outflow has emptied me,
Like
blood from beef, steam from the cauldron
Or from
the
Come,
It is I
calling you after a thousand years,
Reduced
to ashes by your body's lightning.
Roses
are opening again – it is our sign –
Our
time has come for another meeting.
1928
Translated by George M. Young
1931
Translated
by George M. Young
I
SING TO MY COUNTRY
The earnest throbbings of my heart
O'erflood this page, then upward fly,
Where my dear country's fame
unfolds
Like
golden banners in the sky.
Deep-rooted in my native soil,
I stand beneath my native sky.
No
other land can give me life
If my abandons me to die.
My country's light shines ever bright,
Beams
flow o'er me like flakes of snow.
I've never wished to live beyond
Her beauty's soil-inspiring glow.
O let
my words of fire ascend
The heavens majestic
song.
Let my rhymes flow in lofty yerse,
And
swell like unchained torrents strong.
The time has come to me to sing,
I gathered all these flowers, see!
With carven ornament I deck
The glory of a new K'art'li.
My heart has found its light at last.
My
eyes see K'art'li glorified;
My bossom thrills for my sweet land,
And
to her do I sing in pride.
1936
Translated by Venera Urushadze
TO
NINA CHAVCHAVADZE
You are
faintly glimmering star, and yet your charm
Sheds
over me a shower of lustre from the skies.
The clay decays, all
things may fade, the world whirls past,
But, beaty true
immortal is and never dies.
You are not dead! Your loneliness inspires the
poet
To sing of love and joy in
melodies of fire.
You were spring's bower where longed-for
dreams all came to life,
The sacred covert for the
soul and heart's desire.
Beyond
your beauty's realm no dawn can e'er exist,
For life receives its life but where your
beauty glows;
Yet on your snow-white breast, the sod in
clogs was cast,
A
breast that none had dared to touch, not even the rose.
A hundred years have passed... I sing your
beauty's praise!
A
thousand more will pass, and still your splendour's light
Will kindle hearts, O hurricane of loveliness,
As even
now mines burns and worships in delight.
1939
Translated
by Venera Urushadze
O Georgian
language
Light and
soft as silk!
I drank you
in
Like children
drink their milk.
Your salt and
honey
Nurtured me –
I met
My adulthood
Prepared for pain and sweat.
Now I am both
Your servant
and your lord;
At times I’m
tortured
By a wayward
word,
As
others,
With cold dew
upon my brow,
I haul them
On my back
I don’t know
how.
O Georgian
language,
You are all
my life,
A vineyard
Which I tend in toil and strife.
You yearn to
sing
In sad and happy times.
Like blood
you flow
Along the veins of rhymes.
Inspiring
Both the
youngster and the sage,
You, like our
people,
Know no end nor age.
How glad am I
To serve you, staunch and true,
To speak and write
In you, of you, for you!
1956
Translated
by Dorian Rottenberg
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