‘The non-digital memory of snow:’ 2 poems by Georgian poet Nene Giorgadze

Nene Giorgadze is a contemporary Georgian poet, writer, and translator. She is the author of two Georgian-language collections: A Triangle (2011), and People and Traffic Lights (2018). Her poems have been translated into English, Italian, Dutch, Russian, Latvian, Romanian, French, Spanish and Icelandic as stand-alone collections, as well as in a number of literary publications in the USA and Europe, including Modern Poetry in Translation, Frontier Poetry, and The Raleigh Review. Giorgadze also translates poetry from English and Russian into Georgian.

Font

The non-digital memory of snow

stores each track,

each point of crossing or incongruity,

each trajectory…

When melting, snow transmits data

to ground, its personal computer.

Soil processes the flow of information,

waits for the right moment

to profitably sell what it holds to the air.

The air—queen of nuances—feels

from where the wind is blowing

and operates flexibly.

When land shares bottom out,

wind roars the last price at auction;

too inexpensive for sale—

each track and trajectory,

each point of intersection or incongruity

is saved by the non-digital memory of snow

in “snowflake” font.

Translation

1.

I take out a small golden key and turn the lock with it.

No one is at home. The hostess probably just left—

a delicious smell lingers in the kitchen.

The diced ingredients are left in bowls.

I pour some soup from the pot and taste it.

I realize: the main dish is ready,

and now it’s time to cook the side dish.

I roll up my sleeves and

mix together the many-colored ingredients.

I receive esthetic pleasure from the process.

Salt and pepper to taste.

I leave the side dish in a pot and clean up the kitchen.

Aroma is the most essential part of any dinner.

The best idea is the one not voiced.

The greatest mystery arises

without touch or sight.

2.

Tiny, key-sized books live just beneath the skin.

If you touch them right in the middle,

the books open and the inside audio turns on—

a Morse code of rain.

Magnetic waves that translate the joy of swinging

on a playground

receive a prestigious “peace” award.

Since cities and people translate each other

like the sexual friction of bodies,

they are blocked on Facebook

by a law against taboo rhetoric.

Children translate a God who hides

inside an elaborate casket full of sweets.

I translate an oddly shaded fear.

Like chewing gum,

it stretches, thins, and splits apart.