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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