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Poems by Mikho Mosulishvili

Mikho Mosulishvili in 1964


The River Of The Soul

‘By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept.’
– From ‘The Waste Land’ by Thomas Stearns Eliot.

If you,
Weary of the dim,
Harassing life decide to spend some
Of your miserable time at the river,
It will surely bring along your corpse.
But where are you going to be then?
Still on the bank
Or will the Soul River drift you away?

2012

Genres: koan*, philosophical, personality.
* A Koan is a fundamental part of the history and lore of Zen Buddhism. It consists of a story, dialogue, question, or statement, the meaning of which cannot be understood by rational thinking but may be accessible through intuition or lateral thinking.


The Sorrowful Man

When you are killed and buried,
Then on your grave will dance,
What the hell do you do next?
The best revenge is no revenge,
Get up from your grave,
Move on, be happy.
'You're such a maniac...'


A Firefly On The Earring Of The Woman
(Translated from Georgian into English by Manana Matiashvili)

I was looking for you through the seventh heaven,
Then I occurred to be hung on your earring.
Please, don’t push me down like this -
I might not manage to fly again.


For A Day And For Love

Night is a day too that lacks light...
Dislike is love too that lacks You...


A Spontaneous Portrait

'I write only when my soul needs to pray.'
- Revaz Inanishvili (1926 - 1991), a writer

‘I cannot look up into the sky.
I am staring at the ground,
Watching the ants carrying loads -
That are twice the weight of their bodies.’

He smiled the way only he could –
Pleading, but still sadly.
Then he got up very slowly
And walked away,
Bent over his stick and vanished.


Among Us Passed Inanna

When ancient Sumerians saw couples in love, they used the expression: "Among that girl and that guy passed the goddess Inanna."

The past spring will return again
And she will bring your green eyes,
Where it is possible will see away,
How we stand on the banks of that river,
Which originates in our souls...
From the river comes Inanna
And She passes among You and me.
She touched our souls with
Songs of flowering flowers...
Among us passed Inanna,
Which You see too,
But You do not believe her,
Since She exists only into myths, -
You think so, but
I'm unlikely to believe You...
Because this will be repeated eternally:
The past spring will return again...


Suggestive Layers
(As thoughts aloud)

The literary text is a bell.
We read the text -
From a bell, the ring is distributed.
We have stopped to read,
And in a bell as if throughout a ring,
There is an easy buzzing.
And I am assured,
Without such a ring, an easy buzzing
The literary text doesn't exist,
Irrespective of,
Whether the author knows about it or not...


The Mountain Is Always

The mountain is always.
And he observes what we are.
If we are pleasant to him,
only after that he will tell us his story...
And no in any way differently...



I'm Gelsomino, Or, Cito, Longe, Tarde
(A memory of 'Gelsomino in the Country of Liars' by Gianni Rodari)

Total cases of COVID-19 in Italy - 41,035; Deaths - 3,405 (March 20, 2020).

'Cito, longe, tarde...*
Tarde, longe, Cito...'
Where I will run away
Without self-confidence?
Dogs are like cats,
Cats are like dogs.
Cows are like horses,
Horses are like cows...
And they all
Are like humans...
The bakery sells ink,
which call bread.
There is a law:
Whoever doesn't lie,
That is really ill...
'Cito, longe, tarde...
Tarde, longe, Cito...'
Where I will run away
Without self-confidence?
I'm Gelsomino,
Without Romoletta...
I'm Gelsomino,
Without Zoppino...
I'm Gelsomino,
Without Pannocchia...
I'm Gelsomino,
Without Bananito...
I'm Gelsomino,
I'm lonely at all...
'Cito, longe, tarde...
Tarde, longe, Cito...'
Where I will run away
Without self-confidence?
I'm Gelsomino...
I'm Gelsomino...
I'm Gelsomino,
Without medical vaccines
In the Country of
Coronaviruses...

---
* The age-old wisdom of Galen and Hippocrates to ‘fly quickly, go far, return slowly', or in the Latin: 'Cito, longe fugeas et tarde redeas' (Other translation: 'Quick, flee distant and come back late.') was a motto used in Medieval Europe during plagues and epidemics.



Fishing On Our Love Dreams

Sometimes,
During autumn or winter,
From the town of Sighnaghi* -
18th-century fortifications,
The so-called ‘City of Love',
It is already impossible not to look
Either to the vast Alazani Valley,
Or to a panoramic view of
Caucasus snowy mountains...
Pastel houses of the town,
St. George and St. Stephen
Georgian Orthodox churches,
And narrow, cobbled streets,
Located on a steep foggy hill,
Like a port by the sea of
Scotch mists, standing over
The valley of the Alazani River...
Citizens and guests of this
One of the smallest, lovely towns,
Will raise anchors of
Their daily lives and in pairs,
With their yachts of dreams,
Will swim in these scotch mists...
They'll go fishing
On their love dreams...
But they know in advance,
That the best love dream is
The dream that we'll never catch...

* Signagi or Sighnaghi is a town in Georgia's easternmost region of Kakheti and the administrative center of the Signagi Municipality. Although it is one of Georgia's smallest towns, Signagi serves as a popular tourist destination due to its location at the heart of Georgia's wine-growing regions.



I Will Finally Leave Too

I will finally leave too,
Of course, I can't stay here.
How will you cry to me,
I won't be here or there...
but I'm will coming like rain,
I'll be your bad weather.

I'll only ask you one thing,
Do not leave me in your sadness,
Don't leave me with your bad weather,
Don't leave me in your nightmares...
I would like to have places in your dreams
And I would shine
With the gold of the moonlight so...

I will finally leave too,
Of course, I can't stay here.
How will you cry to me,
I won't be here or there...
but I'm will coming like rain,
I'll be your bad weather.


The Way To Yourself

The way to yourself
When you know beforehand,
That you're already dead...
When you know beforehand,
She killed you without pity...
And She killed you
Because of the lack of access to society,
Which you created...

She killed you with that part of itself,
Which you have identified,
Like the woman you loved.
She lived usually in life
And She was living too in your soul.
And that part of this woman,
Who lived in your soul,
Killed you with the words:
'I Don't Love You,
I will never love you! '

The way to yourself
When you know beforehand,
That you're already dead...
You will be meeting
With the head cut off of Holofernes,
Who will tell you,
That he still loves Judith...
And you will understand,
That there is no revenge on this road...

The way to yourself
When you know beforehand,
That you're already dead...
You will never see
The end of this heavy way,
It won't end...
And you will understand:
You should have understood
Her words just the opposite...


The Syndrome Of Holophernes
(Holofernes is sure that his cut-off head pronounces a monologue in Judith's dream)

From my gate of oblivion
To the narrow road of Your love
My wishes go and go again,
Until you finally beheading me.

From my heinous solitude
Until my exile from you
I will go again with an internal gaze,
And then take me wherever you want.

From my game: "I missed you"
I see your smiles again...
Maybe you can help me
And remember what you already forgot.

From my severed head
Before trembling your collarbone
Love forcefully took me,
Until I finally believed in you.

From my well of sadness
To very longing for you,
That made it so difficult for you,
that you didn't wait until after my funeral.

From my terrible removal
Before the loss of your joy,
How will I wake up from this dream,
So I wouldn't look like myself.

From my lonely tent of love
Before your trophy beauty...
How would you come from nowhere,
and can you put as many tears here?

From my gate of oblivion
To the narrow road of Your love
My wishes go and go again,
Until you finally beheading me.


From You To The Sky

The yellow moon will dance in oleanders
At the end of November,
At the beginning of Sagittarius.
And I can no longer count ghosts,
Who came to me with a smile,
Whom I then escorted with pain.

I'll be a ghost soon too,
The ghost of the ghosts,
And I'll lose dreams
From you to the sky.
Only I don't think,
that this shadow will be lost:
When the sun passes of Scorpion,
I'll be followed by your gentle voice.

The old moon will begin to cry in oleanders,
At the end of November,
At the beginning of Sagittarius...

Mikho Mosulishvili in 1973.

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