Rainy Day Healing

 

SUCCESSFUL WRITER’S TOUR OF GEORGIA

 

BY POET IN RESIDENCE, TAMAR ZHGHENTI: APRIL 2023

Tamar Zhghenti, the Rainy Day Healing poet in residence, has provided us with two new poems after a successful debut writer’s tour in her homeland Georgia in April 2023.

The tour of her debut poetry collection included a radio interview, two national television broadcasts, two poetry evenings, and an announcement in the list of three selected poetry books at the Tbilisi Book Fair.

Her poetry was presented in the Georgian language, and the English version of two of her poems are presented here. The first poem, “Niqab and Burca, compulsory” was written to support women in Iran after the murder of Mahsa Amini for not wearing a Niqab properly. The second poem, “Brainchild or How to Bear in Mind” is an intensely personal message to self.

  

 

Niqab and Burca, compulsory

(in memory of Mahsa Amini)

You are the dusk.

The arc of the new moon in the night sky

Is the eye-revealing cut in your headscarf,

Piercing the darkness of your cover.

The owner has mercifully left this narrow cut unsealed

So that you remain his shadow

But don’t altogether become

A pillar of uncomfortable gloom.

Or, maybe it’s just a means of control:

To oversee your gazes, to watch who you see and where you look.

*

You sit before me like a bonfire in a deep wood –

Your eyes glow like burning embers,

While from a distance, you look like an onyx brooch

Or a black jet safety pin, worn to ward off the evil eye.

If only you could unfasten and fall off,

Or pierce your owner’s heart with your sharp end!

*

I see you standing on the bridge

Above the bubbling brook and the bright green meadow.

And the folds of your black dress fly like a flock of swallows.

Then the man shouts at you –

In a sleeveless shirt, shorts and sandals, he points at your cover

Asking to fix a fold at your shoulder.

You obey.

Very much enjoying your silence,

He takes a photo-camera and starts shooting you.

Oh, god, is he eager! Desperate to take good shots,

Fervently giving instructions on how to pose.

The heavy contrast between you and the surroundings gratifies him dearly –

He clicks his tongue and the camera button

And praises you

For looking so gorgeous – you, his black orchid,

His beautiful spouse.

You stand there – like an ebony pawn on the final rank

Almost promoted to a queen.

But alas! Just then, the blacks are checkmated.

*

The man keeps shooting you

Beside a palm, holding a rose.

And in these photos, you must seem merry and grateful

For the blessed narrow cut –

Thanks to which, you are still recognisable,

More or less

(At least your nearest can tell it’s you).

Unlike many unlucky women,

Who, by less merciful “photographers”

Are turned into the walking murk, the wingless ravens,

The unidentifiable,

Covered with blackness from head to toe.

And that it is them,

Is known to themselves alone.

You are the dusk, the twilight.

And they are the nightfall.

Their ebony or agony stain darker than yours.

 

 

 

Brainchild or How to Bear in Mind

My dear self, you may never forgive me for

Treating you like a wretched child,

Adopted by a foster parent

But never adequately loved.

So, it happens sometimes –

A mother is barren for years,

And right after she adopts,

She conceives her own.

That is our story, my self.

When we met, you were already born

And needed care and cuddle, so

I took pity on you:

Started rearing you – fed you,

Walked you, washed you, gave pills to soothe,

I dried your tears and cut your hair,

Taught you how to sleep alone.

What else should a parent do?

But then, all out of the blue,

THEY appeared.

They who suddenly seemed to be

So painfully more exciting

Compared to you, my dear self.

They had it, what you lacked – the thrill,

The courage, the whim, the flow.

And I welcomed their supremacy.

The perfection of those strangers

Dazzled me and touched my guts,

I felt flawless beginnings -new embryos of love!

Sweet, delicate movements inside,

Joyous restlessness of mind.

I’d become impregnated with them –

Those handsome, wholesome, awesome ones.

You, constantly put aside, were left to observe

How I collected new

Clothes and toys, new dreams and hopes

Not for you but for someone else.

Oh, how solemnly I prepared

For the births of those conceptions!

How awfully I needed another, and never you,

My ever-present self.

So, I guess, you’ll never forgive me.

But at least you could find some joy

In witnessing my deadly labours.

You can celebrate and cherish

The countless miscarriages, disasters,

Thanks to which you now remain

My only child – my self, thereafter.

 

 

 

Tamar Zhghenti: Facebook

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