Bela Chekurishvili – SKYPE INTENSIVE
[11/27/2010 10:37:43 ] bella says:
I’ve put everything out; I’ve spread everything in front of me, and now
I am looking through it.
I’ve emptied shelves, cupboards, boxes, opened all the chests, and small caskets , I’m searching, checking over all the threads, papers, buttons, cloth, pockets and folds; here I mention a mouse, and there bugs, I’m threatening devils with tying them up.
I am looking for expressions, words, names, at least for a couple of them that might remind me that in your yard I used to be a curious pine tree, able to reach your window with the branch, knocking and ensuring you that I could manage to pass the winter there, on the windowsill, if for Christmas you’d only decorated me with tiny bells.
I cannot understand where it’s disappeared, I clearly remember bright colors, and the flavor – as if honey percolated through the cells and from the desire to touch I could feel thousand of ants crawling over me.
Perhaps the skin peeled off it, maybe it dried up, crumbled and spread to dust; or even salt never disappears from the scales of the fish without any trace.
[11/27/2010 10:38:06 ] Sisyphus says:
I’m going to shut the window. It’s already rained,
And I’ll take the net from it, insects have disappeared.
I guess, I’ll spend the winter at the seaside again,
At the villa, or on the yacht, you know, here,
My friends will find for me some nice lodgers
Who are never late to throw away garbage and
Turn off the stove, and keep all the receipts.
Be sure, I’ll be completely calm,
Write me as soon as you find time.
As for the pine tree, I don’t think I can help-
Matthew 6, 5-11
– The teacher was strict
And did not care that I was tired
Mother kept saying that
I was complaining in vein,
Nobody would have pity on me
“When you conquer the best knights’ hearts
With your dance,
Think of me” –
Was her reply to my tears
She would leave me in the mirror hall by myself.
Outside, the sunshine rang on the palm branch
And my feet longed to run away where
Girls were ringing laughter in summer houses
And whispering about knights all the time.
If you want to learn
You have to dance from matins
Your heart should dictate the music
To your feet and arms.
Listen not with ears but with body!
Jingle your bracelets!
Hands are able to say a lot more than lips,
Do not bend your head.
Look straight forward!
Look up the at sky
And if you devote your look to any particular knight
Do not let a smile appear on your face.
The teacher was inaccessible and demanding
And even amused.
“Your body is created to get everything, whatever you wish
Without saying a single word.
And when you grow up
For just one dance
The whole kingdom
Will be spread under your feet like a carpet.
For just a single dance
Thousands of heads will take a bow before you,
And you will choose the only one
That will lead you into infinity.
You have to dance a lot till that day comes.”
Aquarium of Dreams
I had to have the smile of
a split orange,
and you had to discover pink dots on my belly,
I had to be thirteen times thirteen years old
and wait for you with a spider’s patience;
I had to isolate your relations with the present time,
planting jealousy in the clay pots
and filling all the holes of condolence
I had to switch on a red kettle every morning
and every evening yell “why”
to wake up hippos dozing on the cupboard,
I had to tolerate the right pocket of your coat
and never open the twelfth room,
with your naive fiancée hung by her hair;
an aquarium of my dreams had to evaporate drop by drop,
and I had to make your favorite salad from floundering fish.
I don’t care about
your eleventh partner,
you don’t mind my teenage boyfriends,
we have no interest in unstable prices,
we share a key,
an uncomfortable bathroom
and a red kettle,
we are afraid of nights and rains
and in spite of stupid rumors all around us,
because of the cold,
we often sleep under one blanket.
You don’t like soft-boiled eggs
neither brown bread,
I don’t like a subway
or pop music,
we both love the sun
and wandering yachts.
The sea, after rain, is excited like an old man
and wet sand
looks like a rude street boy,
I say that a cigarette makes me nervous,
you keep silence and want me to swear by my orange shoes,
trying to slip under the subject
just as we slip under the wave.
I live in colorful dreams of my son,
you live in sparrows that survived the winter.
We do not live here,
here are just those pine trees and a cottage,
with a number of three hundred and eighteen, I guess,
near those huge bells.
Poets Never Count Their Steps.
They count lines and words in lines and syllables in words.
They count where to stop, rest, take a breath, complain, groan, change.
They count and measure like ancient architects, medieval alchemists, Jewish usuries, Meidani dealers,
insurance agents, tailors.
They count emotions, passions, charismas, suicides, friends, prostitutes, important or unimportant people,
street days, house nights.
They count and measure them as if they were pebbles, cobblestones, carved boulders, marble, granite,
bricks, so that to exactly fit them in to build shelters, temples, castles, there to run away, to hide, to confess.
But sometimes their houses, temples, castles turn out to be a shelter for others as well, and then nobody
remembers that he himself has been used as a building material, has been cut, planed, hewn, welded.
-Definition for all aforementioned, in a school chrestomathy – a poem.