Rainy Day Healing

 

WAR HAS A WOMAN’S FACE … and The International Leicester Literary Review

 

BY POET IN RESIDENCE, TAMAR ZHGHENTI: NOVEMBER 2023

The International Leicester Literary Review in the United Kingdom has published the latest poem by our Rainy Day Healing’s Poet in Residence, Georgian poet Tamar Zhghenti.

‘War has a Woman’s Face’ is dedicated to the victims and survivors of Russia’s war crimes in Ukraine and elsewhere.

She attended the launch of The International Leicester Literary Review 2024 at Fox Books in November 2023.

 

     War has a woman’s face
When men commit all the bestialities that can only be committed by men:
Blood will be kneaded with semen,
Soft throats stuffed, baby hymens ripped,
Gentle clover-like members abraded,
Delicate bosoms gashed, tender tummies slit open,
War will then take a woman’s face,
A face of a mad mother.

The wet face, lips chapped, cheeks sunken,
Red eye-sockets, eyelids swollen,
Scratched temples, flushed and dishevelled,
Blank stare nailed on the wall,
Mouth warped with an eerie smile.

War takes a mother’s face, a shaking face.
And with one hand, she holds her child tightly to her chest,
With the other – she opens a vial,
“- just two droplets, my baby, and we’ll go to sleep awhile.”

Then madly covers still chubby cheeks with kisses –
Her dripping tears damp the zephyr-like skin, small fingers.
” – Fear no more, baby,” – She’ll whisper.
And heedless of the innocent questions, will part her child’s lips…

War has exactly a woman’s face, though not at the start, but later –
When men commit all the atrocities that only men are capable of.

*
International organisations,
We, the war mothers, understand your sacred caution,
Your measured support, your rational fears,
And we no longer make pleas for membership of your powerful blocs,
Nor do we request troops or guns,
No more humanitarian aid, no refugee status.
There is but one thing we ask:
Deliver a vial for every household.

So that when they, the bloody-eyed, the muddy-booted,
They who stink of sweat and vodka,
Break into our peaceful homes,
And one of them beats us with buttstock,
Another ties us up and kicks us down,
The third pulls out our fingernails,
The fourth pulls out our teeth,
The fifth unbuckles his belt and others
Loosen their greasy uniforms,
And unzip their pants to make us watch
How zealously they consume
the purest flesh, the weakest bones…
Before soldiers have done all the filth only men are capable of,
Angels must die.

Saintly sitting on mothers’ laps,
Angels must die in their mothers’ arms.
Gently leaned on mothers’ chests,
Mothers’ hands should close their clear eyes.

Therefore, we, the weary mothers of war, implore you,
International organisations, alliances and unions,
Please! Send us the children’s doses of cyanide or arsenic, or
Whatever is at hand,
Only be it the fastest-acting and the deadliest of them all,

Be assured, this is a real help,
Unlike your sanctions or standing ovations.
This will bring the peace.

So we, the moaning mothers, beg you,
Spare the innocents and let us kill our kids,
For the last thing our babies taste
Better be a poison rather than a rancid excrescence.
Please, please!
Give us the millions of poison vials
To rescue our children
From men’s beastly vile.

 

 

 

 

Tamar Zhghenti: Facebook

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